Page 65 of A Landscape of Love

“Women,” Ashton growled in disgust.

“I think what you mean to say is… woman,” Leo replied carefully. “As in singular.”

“Oh, she’s very singular, I’ll give you that,” Ashton brooded, gazing down at the fire in the hearth. “She looks like a china doll: porcelain skin, eyes so wide and blue you’d think they were made of glass, tumbled golden curls. The picture of a perfect English rose,” he added savagely.

“Christ,” Leo said in disgust, despite knowing better than to rile his friend. “You don’t mean the pocket Venus everyone is raving about? The duke’s angel? The diamond? Not that pretty little ninny that has the male half of the ton in a fever. Surely not? She’s hardly your type, besides you’ve got more sense than—”

Ash sent him a volcanic look that made Leo clear his throat.

“Ah,” he said. “I see.”

“No, you don’t,” Ash said gloomily. “It’s all a front. She’s not a ninny, not by a long chalk, and she’s not half so sweet as she looks either. She's… She’s…” Ash threw up his hands before throwing himself into the nearest chair and putting his head in his hands. “Damn her to Hades,” he muttered furiously.

“Oh, lord,” Leo said, suddenly feeling a good deal of sympathy and fellow feeling for Ashton. “You need a drink.”

Ashton looked up, his expression grim. “What I need is a one-way trip to Bedlam, it’s where I belong, Leo. I mean, I ask you. Narcissa Ponsonby, of all women? That stuck-up little princess deserves to marry some ancient, moth-eaten duke, perhaps then she’ll be satisfied. I need my head examined, Leo. Not that I’d have a head if I laid a finger on her, Beresford would see to that. He loathes me, obviously, not being quite the right colour for his taste.” Ash let out a sigh. “I came here to get her out of my mind but it’s not working. Lord, but I’m an idiot.”

“It’s not the most sensible thing you’ve ever done, and it’s got some stiff competition,” Leo said gravely, pouring them both a very large measure, although it was not yet midday. Some things were too painful to get through without the bolster of a good deal of intoxicating drink.

Leo had just handed the glasses over when there was a knock at the door and Pip’s butler appeared. “The post has arrived, Mr Hunt, Mr Anson.”

Leo leapt for it, searching through the pile as the butler discreetly disappeared. He found one letter from his sister and another from his mother, but not the one he was hoping for. He sighed morosely, picked up the remained letter and handed it to Ash.

“For you.”

Ash stared at it with a frown before snatching it from Leo’s hand and tearing it open. His expression changed as he read, moving through several emotions before it became carefully blank.

“Oh, the devil,” Leo said in disgust. “It’s from her, isn’t it?”

Ash tucked the letter away in his pocket and said nothing, just downed his drink in one large swallow and headed to the door.

“Ash, where are you going?” Leo demanded, hurrying after him.

“I’m leaving,” Ash said, not turning as he strode to the stairs.

“Why? What for? Oh, you great lunatic, you’re going to do something ridiculous, aren’t you?” Leo shouted after him.

Ash paused on the stairs, regarding Leo with an enigmatic smile. “Quite possibly,” he said, and carried on his way.

12th March 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

“Darling! Fidelia, love, wake up!”

Hart’s chest was tight with fear, even though he knew Larkin was right and she had only swooned. Women swooned all the time, he told himself, except he had never experienced this. His mother and sister were more likely to swear like sailors and demand a stiff brandy if they were experiencing powerful emotions. Fidelia was a high-born lady, though, and she’d been through a great deal. It was quite normal in the circumstances. His brain refused to accept this as fact, however, until she sighed, opened her eyes, and gazed up at him. For a moment her expression was blank, then she made a choked sound and threw her arms about his neck, pressing her face against his shoulder and sobbing.

“Oh, H-Hart,” she wept.

“What is it?” he asked in alarm. “You know this girl?”

Fidelia nodded, her gaze straying to Larkin, who looked just as stricken as she did. “His sister,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Hart needed no clarification as to whose sister she must have been. It seemed the girl had more backbone and honour than her blackguard of a brother.

“She was just a girl, Hart, only eighteen, and… and she must have ruined herself for the sake of my boy.”

“If the boy is really your son,” Larkin said stubbornly, apparently not yet ready to believe it. “Then that is precisely what she’s done.”

“She’s still at Gillmont?” Hart asked, needing to clarify that much. Whilst he paid his contributions and wholeheartedly endorsed the work his friends did for the women’s refuge, he took no active role in the place. Unlike Larkin, who virtually lived there despite their warnings that he should keep his distance.