You never ask Farnham anything. He always declined politely to remove his boots from the stairwell, to not hold drunken parties, to stop fraternising with coachmen. He simply curls his lip and laughs at you.’
‘You could try. People do change. You have.’ Diana regarded her brother with his expensive frock coat and well-tied neckcloth, the very image of a prosperous landowner. ‘You are no longer a student at Cambridge with little consequence. You do have a name and standing in Northumberland. You have a reputation for innovation and resourcefulness. The earl will listen to reason in time. You are under no obligation to sell that parcel of land.’
‘I hope you are right, sister.’ Simon’s face closed down. ‘Is there a method you would like to suggest?’
‘Yes, wait and see.’ Diana popped the final bit of toast into the terrier’s mouth. ‘Time has a way of solving problems.’
Brett paced the library of Ladywell Park, sidestepping the boxes of books that needed to be re-shelved and the portraits of Cuthbert Biddlestone’s ancestors that needed to be sent on their way. The Beauty of the road invaded his thoughts, preventing him from learning more about the estate and how mismanaged it was, from planning his new house overlooking the Tyne, one which would be free of damp and mismatched rooms. He had had plans drawn for one years ago, something he had promised himself when he finally succeeded in restoring the family’s fortune. And the outlook here was perfect. Biddlestone had been correct about that.
Who was she? Her eyes haunted him. Blue speckled with green, fringed with dark lashes. He had seen them before. He idly took down a book. ‘Finch, Finch. Should I know the name?’
‘You won’t find songbirds there, begging your pardon, sir,’ Hunt, the butler, put down the tray of port. ‘Birds and natural history have always been kept at the other end of library. Shall I fetch you a book on the subject?’
‘Songbirds?’ Brett snapped the book and turned to face his new butler. ‘Admirable insight, Hunt. You must tell me how you do it some time. Songbirds, indeed.’
‘I do try, my lord.’
Brett waved a hand, dismissing the butler. Then in the stillness of the room, he poured a glass of port from the decanter and swirled the ruby-red liquid.
Songbird. Finch. Algernon Finch. Son of Hubert Finch, Viscount Whittonstall. He’d died in the duel. That dreadfully pointless duel over a disputed Cyprian. How could he have forgotten the name of Bagshott’s opponent? The man who had unwittingly changed Brett’s best friend’s life and his own. A stupid boorish man who’d got everything he’d deserved.
It bothered Brett that the detail of Songbird’s name had slipped away. He had been so sure that he would remember everything. The mud, the mist and the absolute horror of a life ended in such a way. Bagshott had already been up to his neck in debt, but it had not stopped him from quarrelling with Songbird. Standing on the dock after he’d bundled Bagshott into a ship, Brett had vowed that he would make a new start, that he would succeed and would restore his family’s fortune. That he would not waste his talent, waste his life; but would use it wisely. But he had forgotten Finch’s first name. And that of the man’s fiancée.
How much else had he forgotten? Brett pressed his knuckles into his forehead.
Now all he had to do was remember her name, and why she was off limits to him.
* * *
‘A man approaches,’ Rose said the next morning as Diana sat re-trimming her straw bonnet in the dining room. ‘He is driving one of the smartest carriages I have ever seen.’
‘Since when were you interested in carriages, Rose?’
‘I have an eye for a well-turned carriage, same as the next woman. My uncle used to work at Tattersalls. You should have seen them come in their carriages.’ Diana’s maid gave a loud sniff. ‘Which admirer of yours drives such a thing?’
‘I have no admirers, as you well know.’ Diana bent her head and concentrated on the bonnet. A large silk rose now hid the mudstain and the ribbons were a deep chocolate brown instead of hunting green. More sombre. Less noticeable. By following her rules, her life was returning to its well-ordered pattern. ‘It will be someone coming to see Simon.’
‘The master is at the colliery. Where he always is these days. Why would a man not call there?’
Diana stood and went to stand by Rose. Her breath stopped. Lord Coltonby neatly jumped down from the high-perch phaeton and handed the ribbons to his servant. Diana drew back from the window as his intense gaze met hers. Her heart skipped a beat, but ruthlessly she suppressed it. She began to pace the drawing room. ‘Lord Coltonby, Rose. He has come to call. What has Simon gone and done now? I told him to wait.’
‘Shall I inform his lordship that both you and the master are not at home, Miss Diana?’ Jenkins asked, coming into the dining room.
‘No, no, Jenkins. I will see him. I want to know why he is here. I can only hope that Simon has not done anything rash.’ Diana’s hands smoothed her gown and adjusted her cap so it sat squarely on her head. Although some might have argued that at twenty-two she was far too young for a cap, Diana had worn it ever since that dreadful day in London when she had received news of Algernon’s death. There was a safety of sorts in caps. ‘You may show him into the drawing room if he asks to see either one of us. Else you can take his card if he asks to see Simon.’
‘Should I stay with you, Miss Diana?’
‘That won’t be necessary, Rose. I believe I have the measure of the man,’ Diana dismissed the maid. The last thing she wanted was some subtle interference from Rose.
Diana forced herself to wait calmly and to rearrange the various vases on the mantelpiece as she strained to hear the conversation between Jenkins and Lord Coltonby. Why had he appeared today and what would he say when he realised who she was? Diana gave a wry smile. She doubted that he would call her Beauty any more. She would be proper and hold her temper—the very picture of a spinster, an ape-leader.
Brett followed the butler into the Clares’ drawing room. The house exuded new money, rather than old. The drawing room, with its multitude of alabaster lamps, Egyptian-style chairs and green-and-gold striped walls, was the height of fashionable elegance, even though the colours were enough to make a grown man wince in pain. He could well remember Clare revelling in his wealth at university, always going on about his latest acquisition or his father’s newest business. A man who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. A man without bottom. He had not changed.
‘I wish to speak with…’ Brett arched an eyebrow as his gaze took in Diana Clare. Even her badly fitting dress in a green that rivalled the chocolate brown she had worn the other day for sheer horror and the oversized cap with ribbons did little to diminish her memorable eyes. Their almond shape and the curve of her mouth had plagued his dreams last night. Clare’s sister. And a woman with a delectable bottom. ‘How pleasant to renew your acquaintance, Miss Clare. I believe we once had correspondence on a less happy occasion.’
‘I thought you had no recollection…’ Miss Clare’s pale cheeks flushed.
Brett inclined his head. ‘I regret that it took me a while to connect you with Songbird’s demise. I had quite forgotten that his fiancée was from Northumberland. Forgive me.’
He watched her intently. The aftermath of that day lived with him still. His determination to do more than simply chase skirts and play at gaming tables stemmed from the moment he’d seen Finch breathe his last. He had seen how quickly the dead and the departed were forgotten, not even a ripple on time.
‘Songbird?’ A puzzled frown appeared between her brows, marring her perfect skin. ‘I am afraid that you are now the one who holds the advantage, Lord Coltonby.’
‘Algernon Finch, as was. I only recalled him by his nickname, more’s the pity. I had thought every detail to be emblazoned on my mind and now find that certain details had slipped from my grasp. A thousand pardons.’ Brett tightened