reached out and took her hand. ‘Tomorrow, give your driver a later time.’
She looked like a frightened deer.
He did not wish her to bolt. ‘Do not distress yourself,’ he spoke in a soothing voice. ‘You know what I want, but do not let that keep you from coming back and gambling. You need not answer me now. I am a patient man.’
She stared at him, but finally said, ‘I will think about it.’
It was not the answer he had hoped for, but he contented himself that it was not a definite no.
‘Do not think.’ He touched her cheek. ‘Feel.’
She made a sound deep in her throat, before turning away from him and hurrying towards the door.
‘Celia,’ he called to her.
She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him.
‘You forgot your mask.’ He picked up the piece of white silk and crossed the room to her. ‘Stay still. I will put it on you,’ he said.
Her breath accelerated as he affixed the mask to her face and tied the ribbons that held it in place.
‘There you go,’ he murmured.
She stepped away, but turned and gave him a long glance.
He opened the door. ‘I will walk you to your coach.’
As they left the room he kept his distance, but walked at her side down the stairs to the hall where Cummings quickly retrieved her shawl. She put it on herself carelessly, but as soon as they were out the door, he wrapped her in it to protect her from the misty night’s chill. Almost immediately the sound of her coach reached their ears even before it became visible.
She stepped forwards so her coachman could see her. He stopped the horses and Rhys lowered the steps. He squeezed her hand as he helped her into the coach.
He watched her face in the window as the coach started off, disappearing into the mist as if only a dream.
The next day Rhys sounded the knocker at the Westleigh town house. It was time to confront Westleigh. He’d had enough of the man, especially after what he’d learned from Celia.
He was ready to drop the whole bargain with the Westleighs, but Celia wished her revenge and Rhys would not deny her it. He would, however, push along his own dealings with the Westleighs and be done with them.
A footman opened the door.
‘Mr Rhysdale to see Lord Westleigh.’ Rhys handed the footman his card.
The footman stepped aside and gestured for him to enter the hall. ‘Wait here a moment.’
The last time Rhys called at this house, he’d been escorted into the drawing room. Why not now?
Likely Westleigh had left instructions to treat him like a tradesman.
The footman disappeared towards the back of the house.
Rhys gazed at the marble-tiled floors and swirling staircase. Such grandeur in contrast to the set of rooms in which he and his mother had lived. Or how he had lived after her death.
Gazing at it all, Rhys realised this was not what he wanted in life. Yes, he wanted comfort, but comfort would be enough. More than anything, he wanted to build something. A business. A factory. Something useful. He wanted not to be like his father, who had wasted his life and squandered his fortune.
He did not give a fig about being acknowledged as Westleigh’s bastard son. In fact, he’d just as soon not be known to have the connection. He’d go through with it, though, only because it was his revenge against Westleigh. He would make the man do what he would detest the most, what he ought to have done when Rhys was born—to declare openly that Rhys was his son.
This bargain with the Westleighs had become like a game of cards. Westleigh behaved as if he held all the trumps, but he was bluffing. It was time to up the ante and win the hand.
It was a gamble. Everything in life was a gamble. Westleigh could choose poverty over admitting Rhys was his son, but how likely was that? Rhys knew a good bet when he saw one.
A servant who could only have been the butler entered the hall. He lifted his nose at Rhys. ‘Do you have an appointment with his lordship?’
Rhys glared at the man and used the voice he’d once used to command men in his regiment. ‘I do not need an appointment. Announce me to Lord Westleigh.’
The butler shrank back and quickly ascended the stairs. Rhys’s eyes followed him. Westleigh would show himself promptly or Rhys would go in search of him.
A huge allegorical painting hung in the hall. Rhys turned to examine it. The painting depicted Minerva, representing wisdom, pushing Mars, the god of war, away from the goddess of peace. He chuckled to himself. Would Minerva prevail with Westleigh? Or would he and Westleigh engage in battle?
A woman’s voice said, ‘Ned! I thought you had gone.’
He turned to see a finely dressed woman descending the stairs.
She looked startled. ‘I beg your pardon. I thought you were my son.’
He recognised her from the times he’d glimpsed her in his old village, an older but still beautiful Lady Westleigh.
He bowed. ‘Allow me to present myself, my lady. I am Mr Rhysdale, here to speak with your husband.’
Her eyes flickered at the mention of his name. Did she know of him? Did she remember that poor woman who’d once been in her service so many years ago?
‘Mr Rhysdale.’ Her voice tightened. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why you call upon my husband.’
‘I have no objection to doing so, ma’am, although perhaps Lord Westleigh ought to be present.’ He inclined his head. ‘As a courtesy.’
She swept across the hall. ‘Come into the drawing room. I will ring for tea.’
It was the same room where he had spoken to Ned and Hugh. She pulled a bell cord and the butler appeared.
‘Some tea, Mason,’ Lady Westleigh ordered. ‘Do sit, Mr Rhysdale.’
He waited for her to lower herself into a chair and chose one a distance from her that she might consider comfortable.
She could not look at him.
Rhys took pity on her. She was merely one more person who had been ill-used by Lord Westleigh. ‘I surmise you know who I am, my lady.’
She glanced at him and gathered some pluck. ‘Why would you show your face here, after all this time?’
He spoke gently. ‘Your sons involved me …’ he paused, trying to think how to say it ‘… in a business matter.’
Her mouth opened in surprise. ‘Ned and Hugh?’
‘Yes.’
