Page 43 of A Landscape of Love

10th March 1850, Hardacre Hall, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

Harris greeted Hart with a deferential tug of his cap as Hart surveyed the progress made in his absence. There were one or two details his critical eye fell on as needing work, but all in all, he admitted himself impressed.

“You’ve done an admirable job,” he told Harris as the fellow flushed with pride.

“Well, it’s easy enough when you’ve chapter and verse laid out before you,” Harris replied with a rueful grin. “’Twas almost like you’d never left us.”

“Cheeky bugger,” Hart replied with a huff of laughter, though he knew he tended towards belt and braces when it came to his detailed notes and design drawings and what he wanted done. “Have you tried the water pressure on the fountains?”

“We have and it’s just as you predicted. A sure, powerful jet of water. Perfect, it was. It will be a sight to see when all’s said and done.”

Hart smiled, relieved, though he’d not really doubted it. “I’m pleased, and you should be proud of yourself, the men too. It’s taking shape nicely.”

“Aye, that it is. I can’t wait to see it this time next year,” Harris agreed with obvious pleasure. “It’ll be the finest garden anywhere in the country, there’s no doubt of that. In the whole of England, I reckon.”

Hart nodded, a pang of regret stabbing at him as he realised he’d never see it completed, not now. He said nothing to Harris about his premature departure for the moment. He would leave further instructions for the men and a personal letter for Harris, apologising for leaving them in the lurch. It was the best he could do. All he could hope was the duke wasn’t vindictive enough to cut off his nose to spite his face and would allow the men to finish the job. At least the garden would be here whatever happened, proof of Hart’s design, even if the associated scandal would forever tarnish his name.

Clapping Harris on the back, he excused himself and hurried back to the cottage, there was a great deal to do, and not much time in which to do it. He’d barely stepped through the door when there was a peremptory knock and Alex barged in.

“Where the devil have you been?” the boy exclaimed, his face flushed.

Hart regarded him with disfavour. “That’s none of your business, and what do you mean by barging in here, you young scapegrace? Have you no manners?”

Alex flushed but put up his chin. “Never mind all that. I know everything. Fidelia told me, and she’s been beside herself waiting for you to return. Why didn’t you reply to her letter?”

“Because it wouldn’t have arrived much before I did, and what exactly could I write in it?” Hart demanded irritably, studying the boy with a critical eye. “And what is it you think you know?”

“I know about Ambrose,” he said, lowering his voice, as if there might be spies in the woodwork of the cottage. “I know that you went to find him, and I know Fidelia needs to get out of here at once. She can’t marry Malmsey. She just can’t, sir, I’ve heard tales about him and… and…”

“All right, all right, calm yourself,” Hart said, moving to the lad and laying a hand on his shoulder. “Take a breath.”

Alex glared at him but did as he was told.

“I know about Malmsey too,” Hart replied grimly, having heard the worst of it from Kathy, who had confirmed the words of Fidelia’s fears. It appeared everyone knew the man was a brute. No one with an ounce of decency would have handed a dog into his care, let alone a woman. Unconsciously, Hart’s hand strayed to his coat pocket, feeling for the folded paper he’d put there as a mingled flood of anticipation and terror washed through him. “Don’t worry. I’ve been making arrangements for your sister. That’s why it’s taken me a while to get back here. It’s all in hand,” he said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.

Alex let out a breath, some of the tension leaving his narrow shoulders. “You’ll get her away from here?”

“I will,” Hart agreed. “But I need to speak to her, Alex. Can you tell her to meet me in the place where we had our picnic? This evening if she can, before it gets dark.”

Alex nodded. “She’s been taking her meals in her room since Richmond and Malmsey turned up. She’s frightened of them. I don’t blame her, either.”

Fury erupted in Hart’s blood at the words.

The idea of Malmsey so much as touching Fidelia made something inside Hart grow cold and calculating, and he found himself assailed by a desire to dismember his lordship… slowly. “I’ll kill the bastard. Has he…?”

Alex shook his head. “I’ve not left her alone with him, not for a moment, but I don’t trust either of them. You must get her away at once, and I need to get back to her. I don’t like leaving her for long.”

Hart nodded, the boy’s face was too grave not to be taken seriously. He believed Fidelia was at risk and Hart wasn’t about to take a chance that Alex was overreacting. “Tonight then,” he said grimly.

“She said we could depend on you,” Alex said, his eyes shining with gratitude. “Not that I doubted it, really,” he added ingenuously.

Hart looked away and rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the worshipful look in the boy’s eyes. Alex and his sister were depending on him to make everything right and he could only pray he was up to it. The Duke of Beresford was a powerful man, and not one he wished to make an enemy of, but the die was cast, his fate sealed.

Fidelia needed him, and he would not back out now. He had always known Lady Fidelia would bring trouble down upon his head, now he need only discover just how devastating that trouble would be.

Fidelia stood by the window in the library and scanned the horizon, looking for Alex and praying every moment that she would see him riding back to the house. He had left the moment they’d heard of Hart’s return, promising to discover what the plan was and return to her with news of Ambrose. Yet the minutes had dragged interminably from the moment he’d left, and Fidelia was beside herself with impatience.

“All alone, pretty one?”