Chapter Nine

It had been an awkward trek back to Sutton House, with Glory trying to hide her distress while the duchess prattled on as though rattled, making Glory wonder just what the older woman had seen when she’d entered the attic. Her face flaming, Glory had been unable to look at the duchess and responded to her chatter with monosyllables.

Once inside the residence, Glory was relieved to part with the older woman, who hurried off in search of Mr Pettit, while she secluded herself in the library. Earlier, Glory had been studying some of the materials to be found there and she opened a thick volume, hoping to gain an escape from her own thoughts.

But she could not so easily forget that she had been kissed—and by whom. Glory bent her face over the pages, unseeing, as she attempted to sort it all out. When had she gone from fearing the duke as a powerful adversary to welcoming his…advances? Glory shook her head. Lately, she had come to admire the man; their conversations, whether over supper or upon walks or in the attic, had become less antagonistic and more congenial. But that hardly explained her shocking lapse in behaviour.

Glory lifted both hands to her cheeks as she remembered the way he had looked at her, something sparking in his unfathomable dark eyes, and then the thrill of his touch and his mouth upon her own… Girlish nonsense. That’s all it was, Glory told herself. She had been taken with Westfield’s good looks from the very first sight of him; later, she was dazzled by his manners, when they were in evidence, a heady combination for someone who had never known any man’s attentions.

Perhaps a more experienced young woman would have been able to avoid the situation, Glory thought, wishing for some feminine advice. But she dared not write to friends in London, and here there was only her family.

Glory shook her head again. Thad’s increasing devotion to all things ducal might lead him to excuse the nobleman’s behaviour, but should he take offence, Glory did not want another bout of fisticuffs—or worse—between the two males. And though Glory longed to confide in another woman, if she told Phillida about the incident, her aunt would start planning the nuptials.

Glory choked back a laugh at the very thought, for the man certainly was not courting her. And why would he? She was not a suitable match for a duke and needed to remember that, as well as the tenuous position of an unwed female of any rank. The thought was a sobering one and enough to make Glory rue her lapse, no matter how much she might secretly long for a re-occurrence.

Dropping her hands from her face, Glory frowned. Today she had played with fire and escaped without being burned, but she could not be as reckless again. What had she once told herself? It was well and good to like Westfield, as long as she did not like him too much.

Kissing the man was definitely too much.

Oberon stood by the window in the library at Sutton House, looking blindly out upon the afternoon and trying to quell his restlessness. In London he spent most of his time indoors, so there was no reason for his sudden ennui, but he was accomplishing nothing here except keeping watch over Miss Sutton, who was safe enough in Pettit’s home. Yet he could not seem to bring himself to leave.

‘There are a lot of references to Dr Dee in here.’

At the sound of her voice, Oberon turned towards Miss Sutton’s dark head, bent over the books and papers that littered the table. ‘That old mystic?’ he said.

‘What do you know of him?’

‘A scholar, a visionary, a genius, a fool,’ Oberon said. ‘I believe that all could be applied, for while his accomplishments were many, he was drawn to the occult.’

‘He was one of Elizabeth’s advisers and attended her here,’ Miss Sutton said.

‘Interesting,’ Oberon said, though he did not see how that information was going to help him solve the problems that plagued Queen’s Well. And since Pearson had found no evidence of plans for a rival spa, he was fresh out of ideas. Perhaps it was that knowledge that irked him, but Oberon suspected his frustration sprang from something far more insidious.

As if to prove his theory, Oberon watched Miss Sutton reach for a thick volume, his attention drawn to the slender length of her fingers, and he was immediately struck with a fierce yearning for her touch. Loosing a harsh breath, Oberon wondered if the famed air outside would do him good, though he assumed there was only one way to assuage his restlessness. Frowning, he glanced away from Miss Sutton towards the doorway, only to see his mother appear.

‘Come, you two,’ she said, pulling on her gloves. ‘You have been working in the library far too much and cannot be expected to remain inside on such a beautiful day. I insist that you join me for a walk.’

‘Take Miss Bamford with you,’ Oberon suggested.

‘She is not here. Neither is Thad, and Mr Pettit is unfit. So I shall brook no refusals,’ she said.

Since he was not accomplishing anything here but an excess of brooding, Oberon inclined his head in agreement, then, inevitably, he looked to Miss Sutton.

‘Perhaps you could walk me to the Pump Room,’ she said, stirring from her chair.

‘Nonsense,’ the duchess said. ‘You have done enough work for one day; this afternoon we are headed elsewhere.’

In the face of his mother’s formidable resolve, even Miss Sutton could do little, and they were soon following her along paths that led above the village, part of the spa regimen to improve one’s health and appreciate nature.

‘There is nothing to compare with the crags in summer. Your father and I used to take this very route,’ his mother said. With a misty smile, she waved them on. ‘I’ll catch up with you in a moment.’

Although Miss Sutton looked as though she would rather remain with his mother, Oberon shook his head subtly. ‘I think she is sunk deep in nostalgia,’ he said, once they were out of his mother’s hearing, ‘and memories of her younger days.’

Miss Sutton nodded. ‘How long has your father been gone?’

‘Too long,’ Oberon said. Although he always cut short any such discussions, he found himself speaking haltingly of the man whose life had ended too soon. And as they climbed higher, he was reminded of the walks they had taken, not here, but at home.

‘We used to go on rambles around Westfield for hours,’ Oberon said. He shook his head at a sudden realisation. ‘I don’t think I’ve walked the land there since.’ It made him feel ashamed somehow, although the estate, and all the family properties, ran well without him, and his duty lay in London.

‘Why is that?’ Miss Sutton asked. ‘Are the memories too painful?’

‘At first,’ Oberon admitted, though he had spoken of that time to no one. He paused. ‘I was young and heartbroken and easy prey for those who would use me and my rank for their own ends.’

Miss Sutton appeared shocked and Oberon gave her a tight smile. ‘There are always those who seek the influence of the titled to gain their own power or positions.’ Even now, he could not go into the details, but for a while he had felt lost, betrayed, alone. And then Portland had approached him, offering him the chance to take advantage of his situation, to encourage those who would curry favor and others, far worse. To do his part…

It had been a godsend at the time, and Oberon had accepted both the work and the persona gratefully. And if the cost was what was left of his family, Oberon had been more than willing to shut down all emotion and function without the distractions—and pain—that came with them. But now, as he took in the stricken look on Miss Sutton’s expression, he wondered how much of himself was left.

As if to shake off the odd mood, Oberon hurried round a bend in the path, only to halt at the striking vista ahead. This was rugged country, far different than the rolling hills to be found at Westfield, yet with its own appeal. Below stretched lush pastures, wooded dales and moorlands of heather and peat, and above, the ground rose into rocky peaks.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Miss Sutton whispered from beside him. ‘If prospective guests could see this, we would surely be inundated.’

Small copper-coloured butterflies flashed by, searching out clumps of bright pink flowers. The quiet was broken only by the faint rustle of bracken in the wind and the scurrying of a mountain hare. How long had it been since he’d noticed such things? Oberon wondered. For years, his observations had been limited to people, ferreting out their secrets, gauging their words, testing their loyalties. Now he considered how much he had missed—and not only scenery.

Although they had stopped to admire the view, Oberon soon found himself admiring his companion. Her cheeks were flushed and wisps of dark hair had escaped to caress her face in a way that invited him to do the same. Oberon felt a familiar jolt, and the memory of that moment in the cottage attic came rushing back.

Oberon didn’t know whether his contemplation drew her attention, but Miss Sutton turned towards him. And, as if she, too, recalled their kiss, her eyes widened, her lips parting, perhaps in anticipation of another.

A full minute stretched by while they stood silent and still, Oberon struggling against a temptation that he knew well not to indulge. When a puff of breeze sent a stray bit of heather towards him, Miss Sutton finally moved, stepping forwards to brush it away—along with the last vestiges of his restraint. Despite his best intentions, Oberon covered her hand with his own, his heart pounding beneath her fingers.

But above that rapid beating, he heard the cackle of a grouse, a warning to intruders that meant the bird had been disturbed by animal or man. Loosing Miss Sutton’s hand, Oberon turned the way they had come, expecting to see his mother, yet the path remained empty. And before he could swing back around, Oberon felt Miss Sutton slam into him, sending them both sprawling into a patch of Jacob’s ladder to the tune of a thundering too loud to be his heart.

Realising the noise was that of falling rock, Oberon rolled Miss Sutton beneath him and wedged them under a small outcropping. There they lay while a boulder of some size, followed by smaller ones, struck the place where they had stood. Only now did he realise how far out they had been on one of the edges, as the locals called them, that dropped away into the valley below.

Oberon’s heart slammed again, this time with the thought of what might have been: Miss Sutton injured, or worse, falling to her death. He held her more tightly, fear for her knifing through him, along with rage that he could do nothing except lie prone as silence descended once more—for he was certain that this was no accident.

Was their attacker lying in wait further up the path, or had he scrambled up on to the crags above to send stones raining down upon them? Had he dislodged the rocks and fled, or was he, even now, searching them out to complete his work? Oberon had a clear view of their immediate area, but he did not know these paths. Nor could he leave Miss Sutton in order to give chase.

‘Do you have your pistol?’ Oberon whispered against her ear. She nodded. Oberon had the knife in his boot, but if there was more than one assailant, he wanted Miss Sutton armed.

‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Can you reach it?’

Again she nodded, wiggling a bit in order to access her reticule. Then they both lay still, barely breathing as the long, tense minutes dragged by, until, finally, Oberon heard light footfalls. Perhaps their foe had come to view his handiwork. Oberon reached for his knife.

‘Oberon? I thought I heard something…’

The sound of his mother’s voice forced Oberon to move. If he warned her away, she might well meet some mishap herself, so they would have to chance their escape. ‘Duck, Mother, and watch for falling rocks,’ Oberon said as he rolled from his position. She paled when she saw him appear from beneath the outcropping, dragging Miss Sutton along with him.

Although he could discern nothing from above, Oberon did not linger. ‘Hurry,’ he said, urging them around the bend in the path and down, away from the precipitous edges that now seemed more deadly than picturesque. And all the while, he was alert for any sounds other than their own progress as they stumbled, hunched over and clinging to the growth that lined their way.

When they finally reached an open area, Oberon looked in all directions, but saw no one behind or ahead. Whoever was responsible had either fled earlier or remained well hidden, a possibility that prevented them from lingering any longer than to catch their breath. In fact, his mother was gasping and clutching her side after their race to safety, but she waved him away when he expressed concern. In her own way, she was as formidable as Miss Sutton.

Oberon turned towards the woman whose quick actions had made all the difference. ‘How did you know?’

She turned her head, her gaze travelling upwards, as if searching for signs of life among the cliffs. ‘I felt them as I so often have since coming here. Eyes upon me. Watching,’ she whispered, and Oberon heard his mother’s gasp.

‘What happened?’ she asked, in a voice pitched higher than normal.

Miss Sutton did not answer, but looked down at the pistol she was still clutching and slipped it back into her reticule, making his mother eye him in alarm.

‘Miss Sutton saved my life,’ Oberon said, though he was sure he was not the intended victim.

‘What?’ His mother clutched at her throat.

With a nod, Oberon grimly scanned the area once more. ‘It seems that our villain has upped the stakes of the game,’ he said. ‘From vandalism and house breaking to attempted murder.’

Dazed, Glory let the duke and his mother lead her to Sutton House and deposit her in a comfortable chair in the library. A maid brought some wine and the duke urged Glory and his mother to take some, but Glory knew that no drink could cure what ailed her. In fact, she was too stunned to do much except blink, and it was not the attempt upon her life that was responsible for her confusion.

Her deadly encounter was shocking enough, but more startling was the realisation that came to her in that moment. For when she heard the rumbling, her first thought was not for herself, but the man beside her. The suspicions she had once had, as well as her mixed feelings about working with him—his tendency to run roughshod over her wishes, and his unwelcome effect upon her—were all gone in an instant. And Glory realised the truth.

She was in love with Westfield.

It was ridiculous, of course. Glory had never even believed in love, at least not the kind of romantic nonsense that the poets wrote about. In her younger years she might have harboured hopes for a nice, companionable union with a gentleman of similar means and a houseful of children. But as she grew older, Glory realised that she did not care to cede control of everything—herself, her fortunes, her family—to just anyone, not that anyone was interested.

And she had been interested in no one—until Westfield. She had dismissed her pulse-pounding reactions to the man as the awakening of passions that had long been neglected. She was female, after all, and just as susceptible to a handsome and elegant nobleman as any other. The kiss she could not dismiss as easily, but surely there could be no harm in just a taste of what she would never know? However, it was not ardour that made her throw herself at the man, knocking him out of the path of whatever was coming towards them.

She was in love with Westfield.

‘Here, dear, drink some more brandy,’ the duchess urged, putting another glass into her hand. But Glory did not want to cloud her errant thoughts, and she put the glass aside. She looked up at the duke, only to glance away, afraid that her feelings might show. Then she reached again for the wine, took a large swallow and tried to regain her composure.

Phillida and Mr Pettit arrived, and for once, Glory’s aunt did not swoon at the ill news of this latest calamity. She sank into a chair, fanning herself, presumably in an effort not to faint, but she seemed more concerned about her niece than her own health.

‘And what of Thad? Where is Thad?’ Phillida asked, her voice rising in alarm.

‘He was not with us,’ the duchess said.

‘I sent a servant to find him,’ Westfield said. ‘If he is at the Pump Room, he will arrive shortly.’

Indeed, the duke had barely spoken when Thad appeared in the doorway. ‘What is so important that I must leave our customers?’ he asked, glaring sullenly at Glory.

Glory might have scolded him for his attitude, but for the bruise on his face. ‘What happened to you?’ Glory asked, imagining the worst. Had Thad been set upon, as well?

He shrugged off the question. ‘Just a little disagreement with another fellow.’

‘Over what?’

‘His manners,’ Thad muttered.

Glory didn’t know what to say to that. The past year had brought radical changes in the boy she had raised as he faced all the challenges of growing into a man. But an argument over manners? Glory couldn’t help wondering if he was hiding something from her.

‘You’re sure the incident had nothing to do with Queen’s Well?’ she asked.

‘Not everything has to do with your precious spa,’ Thad answered in a tone with which Glory was familiar. However, the duke and duchess had not been treated to it before, and Westfield did not look pleased.

‘Perhaps you will forgive us for our interest,’ the duke said. ‘Your sister and I were just nearly killed in what cannot be deemed an accident.’

Thad’s face flamed, and his eyes widened as Westfield related their deadly encounter.

‘The locals warned us to be careful where we went,’ Thad said. ‘They claimed the walks around here can be dangerous and that some who went out to view the crags never come back.’

‘I think perhaps they were being overly dramatic,’ Mr Pettit said. ‘All newcomers are advised to watch what they are about when treading those paths, but there is a difference between a misstep and murder.’

The word hung in the air, casting a pall over the company, and Glory summoned the will to say the words she’d never thought to utter. ‘Perhaps we should close the Pump Room, temporarily.’

‘Oh, surely not,’ the duchess said.

‘That’s what they want, isn’t it?’ Thad said. ‘You’d be playing right into their hands.’

‘We are assuming that’s the motive behind these incidents, but I’m more worried about keeping your sister safe,’ Westfield said. He turned towards Glory. ‘I would advise you not to go out until we know more.’

Glory blinked at this pronouncement. Once, she would have protested on the grounds that he had no right to order her life and that she would not be locked into Sutton House. Now, she had other concerns. ‘What about you?’

Westfield shook his head. ‘I think we can all agree that you were the intended victim.’

‘But what if they would be rid of the magistrate, as well?’ Glory asked, worry for him making her grip her glass tightly.

‘I can take care of myself, should the need arise,’ Westfield said, dismissing her concern as he rose to his feet. ‘But perhaps I’ll brush up my boxing skills upon you, Thad, if you would be so kind as to oblige me.’

Thad sputtered his eager assent. ‘Uh, of course! I’ll just go and change.’

Her brother rushed from the library, as though to avoid any objections from Glory, and she swallowed her protests. She still thought fisticuffs a dangerous activity, but if it would give Thad an advantage over their enemies, she would not stand in his way. After all those years raising a boy, Glory sometimes forgot that Thad now was a young man.

As though sharing her thoughts, Phillida sighed deeply. ‘I hope he has not got himself into any more trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ Westfield asked.

‘Just the usual temptations every young man in London faces,’ Glory said. Since she had been careful to keep Thad’s escapades from their aunt, she wasn’t quite sure what Phillida was talking about. Nor did she care to discuss her brother’s past in public.

But Phillida had no such qualms. ‘I did not like the look of his friends,’ she said, with a sniff. ‘Low sorts, who did not seem trustworthy. And, make no mistake, they were leading him astray!’

‘Thankfully, there are none like that here in Philtwell,’ Glory said. In an effort to put an end to the conversation, she rose to her feet and walked towards the table littered with the journals they had found, along with various references. ‘I’ll return to looking for something among these records that may prove useful.’

‘Of course,’ the duchess said. ‘Shall we repair to the parlour?’

Soon, everyone had filed out of the library, except for Westfield, which wasn’t quite what Glory had in mind. The last thing she wanted right now was to converse privately with him. What if he could see just how she felt? She deliberately eyed the book before her.

‘It is your decision whether or not to keep the Pump Room open, but I worry about the waters,’ he said.

Glory looked up at him blankly, unable to form a thought except for the terrifying knowledge that she loved him. It coursed through her blood, sending warmth and life to every part of her body.

‘If someone would manage to put something into the well itself or the pump or even into some of the glasses, you might be faced with real illness or death, rather than rumoured ones, as the newspaper story implied,’ he said.

Glory’s heart skipped a beat that had nothing to do with her feelings for the duke. ‘You don’t think someone would…poison the waters?’

Westfield stepped forwards, as though to reach out for her, but then turned aside. ‘I think after what happened today, we should take every precaution.’

Glory didn’t want to disappoint Thad, who finally had shown an interest in the Pump Room, but she could not endanger her patrons. And even the slightest outbreak of illness could spell their ruin. ‘Perhaps it would be best to shut its doors for a while.’

‘I think that would be wise,’ Westfield said. He inclined his head politely, then turned to go.

For a moment, Glory wanted to call him back. But what would she do? Or say? The only thing that had changed between them was her own feelings. He was still Westfield, a duke of the realm, and there was little chance of him pursuing her for anything except a dalliance.

Glory flushed, but it was a truth she would do well to remember. These feelings of hers could only lead to more trouble, and she had enough problems with Queen’s Well. She drew in a deep breath at the thought of her beloved spa, which would still be here when Westfield was long gone. It was all she had ever wanted.

And it would have to be enough.

Lifting her chin, Glory took her seat at the table and reached for the books in front of her. Earlier, she had been reading an old manuscript, in hopes of discovering more about the Queen’s Gift in order to satisfy Thad’s curiosity. But instead of trying to make her way through the difficult, old-fashioned language, she put it aside to study the most recent ledgers that they had found in the trunk.

Although Westfield had suggested such records might hold a clue as to ‘past enmities’, Glory hadn’t paid him much heed. After all, Queen’s Well had been closed for a generation and had been successful for much of its history, operating for centuries until the fire… Glory paused as a sudden, dark suspicion seized her and she wondered whether the spa’s ultimate destruction was deliberate, an act of arson.

Frowning, Glory shook her head. Even had someone set the fire, it was unlikely that the same person could be responsible for the problems that plagued the Suttons now. Too many years had passed. And yet Glory knew that some of the villagers had not welcomed the family’s return. She remembered the sensation of being watched by unfriendly eyes and shivered. Then she bent over the books.

But it was tedious work, and soon a noise from outside drew her attention away from the pages. Setting aside the heavy volume, she rose to her feet and wandered to the tall doors that faced the rear of the property. She could see nothing except the old walled garden, but she heard a shout, and concern drove her out on to the gravel path. She hurried around the corner, to where the formal gardens began, only to halt in her tracks.

She’d forgotten that Westfield had planned to box with her brother. But even if she had remembered, Glory certainly wouldn’t have expected this. The two males were facing each other, shifting from foot to foot, their fists poised in front of them. But it wasn’t what they were doing that made Glory gape; it was the way they were dressed.

Apparently, they had become too warm from their exertions and had stripped off their shirts. Glory might had scolded Thad for that unseemly behaviour, especially when he was not at home, but she could not find her voice. The sight of Westfield robbed her of even her breath.

Wide shoulders and a solid chest two shades darker than Thad’s pale back glistened in the sun, strong muscles undulating beneath the smooth surface. He sported no bruises or scars or imperfections of any kind, the only interruption in the expanse of skin being a patch of dark hair that narrowed until it disappeared into the waistband of his breeches.

Glory swallowed hard and forced her gaze upwards to where his dark hair fell across a throat free of high collar and neckcloth. Moving with a lithe and silent grace, the man kicked out suddenly, then smiled as Thad dodged his foot. Glory realised that for once Westfield was not wearing his usual impenetrable expression. His handsome features hinted at concentration, but also a kind of joy, perhaps of his physical freedom.

Her heart thundering, Glory knew she should turn and go, but she couldn’t wrest her attention away from him. Then, as though aware of her scrutiny, he glanced in her direction and she saw something in his face that made her sway upon her feet. Passion flickered in his dark gaze, so heated that Glory felt as though he had stripped away her own clothing with one look, leaving both of them naked and wanting.

Gasping at her wayward thoughts, Glory turned and fled, back into the house and the relative safety of the library, where she pressed hands to her burning cheeks and took great gulps of breath. Dangerous. Westfield was dangerous, just as she always suspected, for the giddiness she had dismissed as romantic nonsense had turned into something else entirely. And like a smouldering ash, all it needed was one spark to flare and burn out of control.