She had never before run from anything or anyone—but what she felt for Harry was not something she could fight.
Her heart thumping uncomfortably, she watched, eyes wide, as he sat back, laid his head against the squabs and stretched his long legs before him, crossing his booted ankles. He closed his eyes. “Lester Hall.”
“Lester Hall?” Lucinda blinked—not Lestershall, his own house, but Lester Hall, his family home.
Harry nodded, settling his chin in his cravat.
“Why?”
“Because that’s where you’ve been since yesterday. You left town in your carriage and drove there, with your maid and coachman. I followed several hours later in my curricle. Em and Heather will be following in Em’s carriage this morning—Em was indisposed yesterday. That’s why they didn’t accompany you.”
Lucinda blinked again. “Why did I go and leave them behind?”
“Because my father was expecting you last night and you didn’t want to disappoint him.”
“Oh.” After a moment’s hesitation, Lucinda asked, “Is he expecting me?”
Harry opened one eye, studied the delightful picture she made in her blue cambric carriage dress, her hair neatly caught in a chignon, her bonnet framing her face—the whole made distinctly more entrancing by the uncertainty he could see in her misty blue eyes and her slightly stunned expression—then closed his eye again. “He’ll be delighted to see you.”
Lucinda thought long and hard about that. “Where’s your curricle?” she eventually asked.
“Dawlish drove it back last night with a message for Em. You needn’t worry—she’ll be there by the time we arrive.”
There didn’t seem anything more to say. Lucinda sat back—and tried to make sense of what she’d learned.
Some miles later, Harry broke the silence. “Tell me about Mortimer Babbacombe.”
Hauled from deep contemplation, Lucinda frowned. “Why do you want to know about him?”
“Is he a cousin of your late husband’s?”
“No—he’s Charles’s nephew. He inherited the Grange and the entailed estate when Charles died.”
Eyes still closed, Harry frowned. “Tell me about the Grange.”
Lucinda shrugged. “It’s a small property as such things go. Just the house and enough fields to support it. Charles’s wealth derived from the Babbacombe Inns, which he’d bought with the fortune he’d inherited from his maternal grandfather.”
Half a mile had passed before Harry asked, “Was Mortimer Babbacombe familiar with the Grange?”
“No.” Lucinda let her gaze wander over the lush fields through which they were passing. “It was one of the things I found particularly strange—that having barely set foot in the place—I believe he had visited for a day the year before Charles and I married—he was so very keen to take up residence.”
Another long silence ensued; again, Harry broke it. “Do you know if Mortimer was aware of Charles’s wealth?”
Lucinda frowned. It was some moments before she answered. “If you mean did he know Charles was personally wealthy, then yes, I think he must have known. Although he didn’t visit while I lived at the Grange, he did appeal to Charles for financial relief. Basically on an annual basis. Charles used to look on it as a pension for his heir, but the sums were often quite large. The last two were for two and three thousand pounds. However…” Lucinda paused to draw breath. She glanced at Harry. His eyes were now open, narrowed and fixed on the carriage seat opposite as he pondered her words. “If you mean did Mortimer know the details of Charles’s fortune, then I can’t be sure he did. Certainly, in the past ten years, Charles made no effort to communicate such matters.” She shrugged. “They were, after all, none of Mortimer’s business.”
“So he might not have known that Charles’s money did not derive from the estate itself?”
Lucinda humphed. “I would have thought any fool could have seen that the Grange could not possibly generate anything like the amounts Charles regularly sent to Mortimer.”
Not from London. And they had no guarantee that Mortimer Babbacombe was not, in fact, just such a fool. But Harry kept such observations to himself. He closed his eyes and listened to the rumble of the wheels as his mind juggled the facts. Someone, he was now convinced, was taking an unwarranted interest in Lucinda’s affairs—but to what end he couldn’t fathom. Mischief, pure and simple, was impossible to rule out, yet instinct warned him that alone was insufficient reason. On the face of it, Mortimer Babbacombe seemed the most likely candidate, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that he was not Lucinda’s heir—her aunt in Yorkshire stood nearest in line. And anyway, why send her to Asterley?
Who could possibly benefit by her enjoying a discreet liaison?
Harry inwardly shook his head—and let the matter slide. Time enough to bend his mind to it when they headed back to London. Until then, she was going to be under his eye every minute of the day—and very close, and safe, every minute of the night. Lester Hall and its surrounding acres were the safest place on earth for a Lester bride.
Her eyes on the greenery sliding past the windows, Lucinda decided that she should feel reassured, not only by Harry’s manner, but by his efforts to protect her name. She cast a sideways glance at him; he appeared to be asleep. Recalling how he had spent the night, she could hardly feel surprise. She was physically tired herself but too keyed up to relax.
But as the wheels went around and the miles rumbled past and she had more time to dwell on their state, it occurred to her that she had no guarantee Harry had actually altered his stance.