From the parlor window, she saw Sirius trot past in the late afternoon light. Nerves set her pulse racing. If Sirius appeared, Richard couldn’t be far behind.
She’d picked up her embroidery, but the sight of her elephant peony made her want to cry, so instead she stared moodily outside. Hecuba curled beside her, as out of sorts as her mistress. Autumn drew to a close. Since her last meeting with Richard, Genevieve had felt cold to the bone. Although that wasn’t altogether the season’s fault.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the stylish phaeton turned into the back lane. When she saw Richard, bundled into a caped coat, his hat at a jaunty angle, her heart hiccupped. As he passed, she caught a flash of his face. His features were set and determined. He looked more like the man who had rescued her from Lord Neville than the man who had mocked her inept stitchery.
“Who is that, dear?” her aunt asked from her chair near the fire.
“Sir Richard,” she said without turning. The carriage disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“That’s nice.”
Curious, Genevieve glanced at Aunt Lucy. She sounded remarkably calm about the famous beau’s visit. A distinct contrast to her excitement when Genevieve had told her that Christopher Evans was really the fabulously wealthy baronet Richard Harmsworth. Genevieve had taken her cue from Sedgemoor and repeated the story about Richard guarding the Harmsworth Jewel from Lord Neville. Lord Neville who had killed himself a fortnight ago to escape prosecution for theft.
“You don’t seem surprised,” she said flatly.
Her aunt laid aside her knitting and shot her a withering look. “Of course he’s come back, Genevieve. Don’t be a henwit.”
Well, that put her in her place, she thought, flopping back against the window embrasure. She hadn’t been nearly so certain she’d see him again. After all, she hadn’t heard from Richard since their quarrel.
Unexpectedly it was Sedgemoor who had sent her a couple of notes informing her of developments. The inquest into Lord Neville’s death had brought in a verdict of suicide. No alternate theories had arisen. Greengrass, named as a person of interest, had vanished without trace.
Thanks to Lord Hillbrook, the world now knew the scope of Lord Neville’s criminal activities. No wonder the man had lived in the country where he could display his ill-gotten gains without questions. No suspicion in Lord Neville’s suicide had fallen on either Richard Harmsworth or Camden Rothermere. As far as Genevieve knew, her name was never mentioned.
She’d pored over the London papers, seeking details of the brouhaha that engulfed the Fairbrothers, reaching as high as Lord Neville’s top-lofty nephew, the Marquess of Leath. Actually if truth were told, she’d searched like a love-struck adolescent for the merest mention of Richard Harmsworth. Every time she saw his name, in connection with the Fair
brother scandal or detailing his appearance at some glamorous event, their hours together receded further into the realm of fantasy.
She couldn’t imagine a man who hobnobbed with the king telling her that he loved her. She couldn’t imagine such a man returning to wrench her from the melancholy limbo that had gripped her since his departure.
If she’d ever felt herself above the common run of her sex, she felt that no longer. She was as capable of making a fool of herself over a man as any naïve dairymaid or giggly miss at Almack’s. She couldn’t even find comfort anymore in her dreams of scholarly acclaim.
Richard had made no promises, no plans for the future. She couldn’t accuse him of raising false hopes. But she loved him. Hope, false or real, had become the breath of life. With every day of her lover’s absence, that breath became fainter. Until she’d convinced herself that everything was over between them. Even worse, they’d parted in rancor.
Yet here he was, rolling along in his carriage as though he hadn’t left her to lonely torment for fourteen whole days. Was he here to convince her to publish her article? Or out of politeness? After all, he’d deceived everyone in Little Derrick. His scruples must insist upon apologizing to the Barretts for his falsehoods.
If he apologized to her, she honestly thought she’d brain him with her sewing box.
Dorcas appeared. She looked like someone had struck her with a cricket bat. “Sir Richard Harmsworth, missus.”
“Please send him in,” Aunt Lucy said before Genevieve could respond.
Dorcas performed a shaky curtsy and held the door open. Richard strolled into the tiny parlor and Genevieve understood why Dorcas acted like she’d witnessed a heavenly apparition. For all her turmoil, Genevieve felt rather that way herself.
“Mrs. Warren, your servant.” He swept off his hat and bowed to Aunt Lucy with an elegance that contrasted sharply with this rundown room. He turned to Genevieve. “Miss Barrett, a pleasure to meet you again.”
“Yes,” she said faintly, standing and feeling completely inadequate to handling this resplendent creature.
He wore a royal blue coat, and a gray-and-white-striped waistcoat that fitted him within an inch. His faun breeches displayed not a wrinkle and his boots were so shiny that she’d see her face more clearly in their black leather than in her mirror upstairs. A gold fob glinted in his pocket and a sapphire pin the color of his eyes adorned his impossibly complex neck cloth.
If this was what he usually looked like, she could understand his shock when she’d accused him of overdressing as Christopher Evans. The man who stared at her with a quizzical light in his beautiful eyes belonged in a painting by Raeburn or Lawrence. Hecuba sprang down with more spirit than she’d displayed in a fortnight and twined around his long legs.
“Sir Richard, how good of you to call.” Her aunt rose to lift the purring cat and shot Genevieve an annoyed glance, wordlessly insisting that she gather herself. “Would you like tea?”
“How kind,” he responded smoothly.
Genevieve supposed he’d always possessed this effortless assurance. When he’d first arrived at the vicarage, she remembered wanting to puncture his conceit. Today he looked as out of place in their untidy parlor as she would dancing on-stage at the Theatre Royal.
A silence descended and he sent Genevieve a questioning look. Her aunt struggled to restrain a wriggling Hecuba.