Page 99 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘I shan’t tell anyone,’ he promised easily. Then, obeying his curiosity, prompted: ‘She was a household maid?’

‘She began in the scullery, then the house, before becoming a lady’s maid.’ Miss Hanworth pronounced this last title with the same pride others announced knighthoods. ‘Which is very difficult, you know.’

Ashford could not pretend he had spent much time considering this, but he tried, now. ‘I imagine it would be. How did she – ah – adapt, to her new position?’

Was position even the correct word? After all the missteps and assumptions she had observed in him, thus far, he did not wish to offend any further. As strange as it was, he found he wanted her to think well of him.

‘I do not think she changed at all,’ Miss Hanworth reflected. ‘None of it mattered to her, really. She loved Grandfather so greatly that it would not have signified to her if he had been a pauper.’ She titled her head backwards to look directly at him under her hat. ‘That is the better legacy, I think.’

Ashford did not think he had ever heard anyone speak in such a way. In his circles, one did not openly discuss one’s family, voicing their complexities and oddities. It was too vulnerable, too soft – and yet hearing her do so now was having rather the opposite effect. It made him feel brave.

‘My mother felt very similarly,’ he began. ‘I—’

‘Ho!’ a bellow from up ahead interrupted him, and they looked up the path ahead to see the rest of the party clustered together at the next gate, waiting for them.

‘What were you going to say?’ Miss Hanworth prompted, for they were still a hundred yards away.

But the moment was lost and he felt momentarily dizzy at how close he’d been to divulging far more than was wise. ‘It’s getting warm, isn’t it?’ he said and spurred his horse onwards.

What had he been thinking, sharing such things with her? He was at risk of turning into von Prett – or even his father, speaking endlessly of his own feelings as if the whole world shared in his own fascination …

The party reached Melford soon after and drew to a halt outside the inn where they were to partake of refreshment, relieved, for the heat was building progressively as the hour neared midday.

‘We ought to have left hours earlier,’ Ashford overheard Sir Waldo muttering to Lady Phoebe. ‘It is far too hot for such a long excursion – this was a very foolish idea of yours.’

Ashford clenched his jaw as Phoebe blushed, but Sir Waldo was not alone in his antipathy. After some discussion inside the inn, they decided to cut the expedition short.

‘No castle is worth such discomfort,’ Sir Waldo declared with finality, as they remounted their horses and turned for home. ‘Come along!’

‘Where is Brandon?’ Lady Phoebe said.

‘I’m coming!’ Brandon called. He was hurrying outside the inn, carrying a bowl of water.

‘What are you doing,’ Sir Waldo demanded irritably. ‘Come on, sir, we are waiting for you.’

Mr Brandon placed the bowl in front of a stray dog taking shade under a nearby tree.

‘Charitable,’ Mr Hanworth muttered, from a little way behind Ashford. ‘Unlikely sort to conspire against a maid.’ There was a pause. ‘Unless that’s what he wants us to think …’

Ashford threw him a quizzical look. What on earth was he talking about?

‘My apologies for the delay,’ Brandon said, hastening over to them.

‘Oh, do not apologize,’ Miss Hesse breathed. ‘It is so kind of you.’

She stared at Brandon with new, admiring eyes – and well, well. Brandon’s star was on the rise at last.

‘A noble hound,’ Prett said, heaving a great sight. ‘She does so remind me of my Cassie. She would have accompanied me over every distant sea, every wilderness, mountain and valley.’

‘Oh, that is so wonderful,’ Miss Hesse said, turning shining eyes back towards Prett. Mr Brandon’s face fell.

By the time they turned back into the gates of Hawkscroft, all were looking distinctly worse for wear, bearing the distinct and inelegant evidence of perspiration.

‘I should think we will all be very glad for some more lemonade!’ Sir Waldo announced, looking – by now – as if he had had a rather long and fully clothed swim in the lake. He pulled to a stop and began to swing his leg over the saddle. ‘I really do feel—’

But whatever Sir Waldo really did feel, they would never know, for just at that moment, Brutus the Pekinese came running across the yard, barking his high-pitched salute, and Sir Waldo’s horse pranced away in surprise. Sir Waldo – mid thigh sweep – was in too precarious a position to bring his mount under control. He slipped and crashed to the ground, landing in a dishevelled heap at his horse’s feet – a fall only cushioned by his own derriere.

‘Waldo, are you all right?’ Lady Phoebe scrambled to dismount from her own steed.