She had not played fair—Lady Barclay, that was, not Mrs. Ferby. He had told her the whole of his story, even to the pulling down of his breeches for his spanking. She had told him only part of hers. A chunk of it, the key part of it, had been omitted. And it was the very part that he suspected would explain everything.
He had no right to know. He had had no right to ask in the first place. He had only more or less tricked her into telling her story by offering his own in exchange. And he did not want to know what she had withheld. He had cringed even from what she had told him. He had the feeling—no, he knew—that the missing details would be unbearable.
He always avoided what was unbearable.
She had spent three years at Penderris Hall. And she was not mended even now. Far from it. It was not simple grieving that kept her broken.
He did not want to know.
He did not usually pry into other people’s lives. He was not usually curious about what was of no personal concern to him, especially if it promised something painful.
Lady Barclay was not of any personal concern to him. She was not in any way at all the type of woman to attract him. Indeed, she was all that would normally repel him.
What was abnormal about his dealings with her, then?
Devil take it, he thought abruptly, he needed to leave. Not just the beach, though he turned to stride back up it anyway, leaving Hector to catch up to him. Hardford Hall. Cornwall. He needed to put them behind him, forget about them, send a decent steward down to manage the estate and content himself with the knowledge that he had done his duty by coming and setting things in order. He needed to get back to his own life, to his friends and his family.
He needed to forget Imogen Hayes, Lady Barclay—and she would surely be only too delighted to be forgotten. She would not have to hide out so much in the dower house with him gone.
He would definitely leave, he decided as he scrambled up the path to the top, out of breath but unwilling to slow down. Today. Or at worst first thing in the morning. He would get Watkins to pack his belongings and would send word to Mimms in the stables. But he would not have to wait for either of them. He could ride his horse home as he had ridden it here.
He would leave today.
He would send an excuse to the Quentins.
He was feeling purposeful, even cheerful, as he pushed through a gap in the gorse bushes without quite murdering his boots, and then strode across the lawn toward the house. The only decision that remained was whether he would take Hector with him—not running beside his horse, of course, but in the carriage. Watkins might well abandon stoicism and hand in his notice. And Percy would be the laughingstock of London. But who cared?
He would be many miles on his way before darkness. His spirits were buoyed by the thought and his stride lengthened at the pleasant prospect of going home—and never coming back.
There was no one in the hall when he let himself into the house. But there were two letters on a silver tray on the table facing him. Percy looked down at them, hoping they were for anyone but him, as they probably were. No one had written since he came here.
He recognized the writing on both—that of Higgins, his man of business in London, on the one and . . . his mother’s on the other.
11
Percy frowned at the letters. He could have done without this distraction when he was all set to march upstairs and ring for Watkins before his purpose cooled.
Perhaps Higgins had found someone to take on the job of steward. Now that would be well-timed news—and fast too. But how the devil did his mother know he was here? He had been very neglectful and not written since he came here. Perhaps Cousin Cyril had passed the word on. And then his frown deepened as he cast his mind back. Had he written to her himself? That night before he set off for Cornwall after writing to warn Ratchett that he was coming here and to suggest that the cobwebs be swept off the rafters before he arrived? Devil take it, had he really added that to the letter? That was what came of setting pen to paper when one was inebriated. Had he written to his mother too? And if so, what the deuce had he said?
He broke the seal and opened the single sheet. His eyes scanned the closely spaced lines of her small, neat handwriting.
Yes, she had indeed received his letter from London, and she was delighted that he was at last doing his duty by going down to his Cornish estate. However, she was deeply disturbed to learn how unhappy he was with his life and how lonely . . .
He would swear off liquor from this moment on. Not a single drop would ever again pass his lips. What sort of sentimental, self-pitying drivel had he written in that letter? To his mother?
He read on.
Perhaps taking up his responsibilities at Hardford Hall would be the making of him, and it would not surprise her at all if his neighbors were welcoming him with open arms after two long years of waiting. He would surely discover purpose and friendship there—and perhaps even a special someone?