Page 140 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘Yes, well …’ Pip hesitated. ‘Thing is, we need to lay low for a while, anyway. After he gave his assistance with Mr Villars, there have been some mutterings …’

‘Nothing serious!’ Pip added hastily, seeing the look upon Lydia’s face, ‘more about undue influence than anything else – but better to be safe than sorry and all that rot.’

‘You cannot see each other?’

He shook his head. ‘Not for a while.

‘Can you write?’

‘I cannot,’ Pip said. ‘Miss Phillippa Higglepiff, however …’

He gave a theatrical waggle of his eyebrows, an obvious attempt to amuse her that would, ordinarily, have worked – but Lydia was not easily amused, these days.

‘I am sorry,’ she said heavily.

‘It is not ideal,’ he said, ‘but all is not dark. Simmons intends to visit family in Harrogate later in the summer … and by then, things will be easier.’

He looked down to Lydia. ‘For both of us,’ he added.

Lydia threw her arms round his waist, more relieved than she could say that she would not have to do this alone. She had a chance, now, to make the best of whatever came next.

At the very least, the company might offer some respite from the relentless return of her thoughts, over and over again, to the front steps of Hawkscroft, and the cold morning light on Ashford’s face.

31

Ashford spent a long while watching after her carriage. He had forgotten quite how abhorrent it was. The stripes, dear lord. Garish yellow clashing so violently against the sickening green. Where had she sourced such a vehicle? Visions of Lydia – of Miss Hanworth, he corrected himself forcibly – brandishing a paint brush, swam irrepressibly to mind, and he might have laughed, had he not felt so very hollow.

He stood there until the freshness of the morning air began to warm upon his face. Only then did he turn his back upon the empty drive, to make his way back inside. The entrance hall was already thick with activity, maids bustling with brooms and feather dusters, while the gardener’s boy dismantled the vast floral arrangement at the base of the stairs.

By the end of the day, Hawkscroft would be set entirely to rights. All evidence of last night’s festivities and dramatics swept and brushed and polished away, and everything back to normal. Ashford could only wish that setting his own self to rights could be achieved so swiftly.

‘Such efficiency,’ Ashford noted, as he passed Reeves in the corridor, supervising with a critical eye.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘Are you … well?’ Ashford asked, pausing his feet for a moment. ‘Last night’s events were rather unsettling.’

He, at least, had been able to retreat to his bedchambers after the … after everything with Miss Hanworth – the household staff would not have been granted that luxury.

‘Indeed,’ Reeves agreed crisply – and for a moment, Ashford thought this was all he would elicit from the butler. But then, more to himself than to Ashford, he murmured: ‘The future, however, does look a little brighter now.’

‘For her ladyship,’ he added hastily. ‘Who is taking breakfast in her parlour.’

Reeves caught Ashford’s eye, meaningfully.

‘I shall join her, I think,’ Ashford said.

‘Very good, my lord.’

No one looking at Lady Phoebe, that morning, would suspect her of undergoing such distress as she had the night previous, for she was characteristically arranged in the highest kick of fashion, in a white morning dress of finest jaconet muslin finished at the bottom by a double flounce of pointed lace. She, much like her house, recovered quickly – or appeared to, anyway.

She extended a hand towards him. ‘Sit with me?’

There were rolls, preserves and crockery on the table sufficient for two, as if she had been expecting him, though there was no maid waiting upon her. He was struck, suddenly, by how rare it was to find his cousin alone.

‘How are you?’ he said, taking the seat opposite her.

‘Oh, just wonderful,’ she said, reaching for the coffee pot. ‘Not staring into the abyss of the unknown in the least.’