side facing onto a small garden. The wall opposite was filled with drawings of the wider family and Eleanor’s gaze fastened instantly on the ones of Cristo Wellingham.
Emerald must have seen her looking. ‘My brother-in-law has recently bought the Graveson property, which lies on the eastern boundary of Falder, and is in the process of having it completely modernised. The house sits near the sea and has always been one of my favourites. I do hope that you might see it some time.’
‘If he was there, I should doubt he would wish me anywhere near him.’ Suddenly Eleanor had had enough of pretence and the interminable drudgery of manners, though surprisingly Emerald laughed.
‘You talk of the fiasco with the kidnapping, I presume. I always wondered why you did not speak out in his defence over that?’
‘Speak out? But my husband sent word to the constabulary ordering his release.’
‘I think it may have been your word Cristo sought, Lady Dromorne.’
Eleanor reddened. Martin had told her Cristo had been relieved to know she did not seek further contact and he had never once tried to see her again, staying out of Bath with all the determination of a man who had long since let go of any other feelings. Even when he had come to offer his condolences and she had squeezed his hand he had merely pulled away while offering shallow words of sympathy.
Not knowing what to do, she placed her teacup on the small side table, taking care not to spill a single drop. ‘I am not quite certain what you mean, your Grace.’
‘Are you not? Perhaps then there is another drawing you might wish to look at.’ She picked up an oval frame from a small table beside her. ‘This is of Cristo when he was a young boy of about five. Beatrice found it amongst some books she kept for him whilst he was away.’
With her hands shaking, Eleanor took the velvet-covered frame.
Florencia’s face appeared from the faded image, her hair longer and the line of her cheek a little more rounded, but every other feature unmistakably similar.
Eleanor turned the portrait over and placed it down beside her cup of tea. The anger in her was sharp.
‘Are you warning me away by showing me this?’
‘Oh, I think you have managed to do that all by yourself, Eleanor. In fact it is quite the opposite effect that I am after.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I want to give Cristo the chance to get to know his daughter.’
Standing, a dizzy horror consumed Eleanor. ‘By taking her from me?’
‘It’s not retribution I am after, but accord. If the ties that hold you to our family must remain a secret to protect Florencia, then so be it, but that does not mean the child should know nothing of her Wellingham ancestry.’
The knowledge that Emerald Wellingham was not implying ruin, but rather some form of compromise, fortified Eleanor. The cards were stacked against her, but she needed to give the woman some sense of what had happened before now. She sat down again and lowered her voice. ‘I was eighteen when I became pregnant, a young and foolish girl who had no capacity for brandy and a great desire for independence. I made a mistake one night five years ago and your brother-in-law has made it very plain that he desires no further communion with me.’
‘Do you love him?’
Eleanor stopped to regroup.
Love. Him.
The ache inside hollowed with the effort of hiding all that she felt and the determination she saw in the Duchess of Carisbrook’s turquoise eyes made her pause. It was not condemnation that Eleanor saw, but strength. ‘If you do, my advice would be to fight for him.’
‘How?’ Her heart raced as she enunciated the single word, because in the query she admitted everything.
‘The house I told you a friend has to the northwest of London may be the place to begin. You are, after all, a sensible widow with the freedom to travel alone wherever you might wish to. Once there, we could contrive a way to have my brother-in-law visit.’
‘Visit?’
‘Make what you want of the word. If it were me, I should be deciding what makes a man stay with a woman and never look further afield.’
A thrill of something forbidden raced through Eleanor’s body. Alone with Cristo and in the countryside with no other distractions—would she have the courage to place her heart in his hands? The sheer boldness of the plan was exhilarating. But what if he did not wish to see her, despite all that Emerald Wellingham was saying? And what of Martin, only a week past being buried? Grief and guilt vied with desire and lost.
‘Is this house available soon?’
‘You just need to say the word and I will send instructions to the housekeeper.’
Cristo paced up and down on the intricate Aus-busson rug in the library at Graveson. It had been almost two weeks since the funeral of Martin Westbury and the anger that ate at him did not seem to be abating in the slightest.
The touch of Eleanor’s gloved fingers had ignited all the emotion that he had thought to have discarded. Hell, she had never once tried to contact him and their daughter was growing by the day.
He wished Ashe and Emerald might depart soon, the dinner long since finished and the hour near to eleven, though the thought made him frown. Not too long ago he would have just been beginning his night, the haunts of Paris better after midnight when the true character of the city was revealed. These days he was tired before the clocks struck eight.
‘I have a plan to breed horses as you will be doing here at Graveson, Cris.’ Emerald stood and fiddled with an ornament on the mantel and a vague sense of disquiet filled Cristo. Something was not quite as it seemed and he had had enough practice in his life to be certain of a veiled purpose.
‘At Falder?’
She turned at that, a look in her eyes that was difficult to interpret. ‘No. At Azziz’s house in High Wycombe. The hills are rolling and the paddocks are filled with clover and he took quickly to the idea.’
‘Sounds ideal.’
Asher laughed. ‘You have not spoken about this to me before, Emmie, but Cris and I can take a look at the place if you want. Would you be up to the task, brother?’
Appreciation wreathed Emerald’s face, giving the impression that the subject had been closed to her satisfaction, but Cristo, on his part, watched Ashe. Could he not see that his wife was up to something or was he in on the scheme as well? Lord, trust was something that had to be fostered. He downed the brandy in his hand and the scepticism that had dogged him since he was a youth receded a little.
‘I saw Eleanor Westbury a week ago by the way, Cristo. She came to our London town house with that lovely little daughter of hers to look at the puppies.’ The glass he was about to carefully place on the table landed with a jolt.
‘I thought as a family we had decided she should be avoided at all costs, Emmie?’ Ashe’s question had a thread of irritation in it, heartening Cristo. ‘We certainly don’t want that whole business
