‘He declares he has fallen in love with the charm of the place and intends to make a stay of some months, capturing it all on canvas.’
‘An artist,’ said Amethyst weakly. So he wasn’t trying to conceal everything about himself.
‘Oh, you need not be alarmed. Mr Brown is quite the gentleman. He has taken a lease on old Murdoch’s place.’
‘Indeed?’
Amethyst’s brain finally emerged from the state of shock that seeing Nathan standing in the aisle of St Gregory’s had induced, and started coming up with questions. Why had he hired such a massive old mausoleum? How had he been able to afford it? And why was he going by the name of Brown?
And, more importantly, why was he here?
Her heart skipped a beat. Monsieur Le Brun had declared that he would have followed Fenella to England, to continue courting her. Was this what Nathan was doing?
Or was she clutching at straws?
‘How...how long have you been here?’ It was the one question she could safely ask. The kind of thing one stranger might say to another upon their first introduction. For if he was going by the name of Brown, and getting Mrs Podmore to introduce him to her, then he clearly didn’t want anyone to guess they already knew each other.
‘Almost a month, now,’ said Nathan.
A month? That meant he must have left Paris almost immediately after she’d turned down his proposal. No wonder he hadn’t called on her. He’d been on his way here.
But why? Not that she could ask him that, not here.
Nor could she sit staring at him like this. It wasn’t seemly.
‘If you will excuse me,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I really must be getting home.’
‘Perhaps you will do me the honour of permitting me to call on you some time,’ said Nathan. And then, with a swift sideways glance at Mrs Podmore, continued, ‘You have a very interesting face. I should like to paint you.’
‘And I have told him that if anyone in this town is likely to be able to afford such an extravagance, it is you, Miss Dalby. From what I hear,’ said Mrs Podmore with a twitch of her brows.
Her stomach roiled in reaction. The whole town had buzzed with the tale of her father fighting the lawyer over her inheritance. And though nobody knew for sure how much was at stake, they’d definitely overheard him prophesying she’d fritter her entire fortune away within a twelvemonth and have to crawl back to him for forgiveness. Because he’d done so in the voice he normally employed for booming hellfire sermons from the pulpit.
‘And I am sure you will agree that we should do what we can to support burgeoning talent, the kind that Mr Brown possesses.’ Mrs Podmore leaned forwards and confided, ‘He is a most interesting addition to our town, my dear. Quite the gentleman. Much more preferable as a tenant of the Murdoch place than some we might be unfortunate enough to get.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said, making for the door as fast as she could.
She didn’t feel as if she could breathe properly, even once she’d got outside. She wasn’t going to let Mrs Podmore’s assumptions spoil whatever chance there might be with Nathan. He couldn’t have known about her wealth before he’d come here. He’d come here because he’d meant what he said.
He had.
And anyway, even if he had since found out about her money, hadn’t she already decided she didn’t care? If Nathan had come here to try to win her, then she wasn’t going to let any consideration keep them apart. She’d just spent the most miserable weeks of her life berating herself for not accepting any of his proposals. She most certainly wasn’t going to turn down any more.
If he’d really come here to propose again.
Yet why else would he be here, if not to offer for her hand again?
A cold, suspicious voice, that sounded very much like her aunt, whispered, He could be planning to blackmail you.
She bowed her head into the sleet, which had started some time during the service, and marched doggedly on, though every breath she took made her chest ache, it had gone so cold.
No—she wasn’t going to believe Nathan would do such a thing. Why, he’d had her portrait, which he could have used to attempt to coerce her into marriage, or even blackmail her for money, but he hadn’t. He’d just handed it over without making any demands at all.
He’d had the chance to blacken her name ten years ago, too, and hadn’t taken it. He was too decent.
Nathan Harcourt? The man whose career was punctuated by scandal and failure?
Yes, him. He was a decent man. Deep down, where it mattered. He’d had good reasons for acting so badly. He’d been devastated by the lies they’d told him. He’d drifted into a career he hadn’t wanted and a marriage that had been like a prison. No wonder he’d broken free the only way he could.
You’re making excuses for him.
Perhaps she was. And perhaps that made her a foolish, lovestruck woman.
But she didn’t care. She was done with assuming the worst of everyone.
She would wait until he’d called, before deciding anything. Hear what he had to say, and then...
Then what?
She didn’t know, God help her. She’d just spent the week deciding how she was going to cope without him. Made all sorts of resolutions about striking out in a new direction.
If he really was here to make her another offer, she would gladly toss every single one of her plans out of the window.
And if he wasn’t...
If he wasn’t, then she’d just have to deal with it.
* * *
She barely slept a wink that night.
And it took her an age to dress the following morning. She’d never found her choice of clothing so important before. Pride wouldn’t let her wear something that would make her look too eager, just in case he hadn’t come here to propose again. But she didn’t want to dress so soberly that he would take one look at her and think she was going to turn him down, again, either.
In the end, she donned the gown she’d bought for Fenella’s wedding. Since he had never seen her in it, it wouldn’t have any associations which might put ideas into his head. And it was both suitable for the current weather, being made of fine merino wool, and having long sleeves, yet pretty enough, with its scalloped hem and embroidered detail round the neckline, to make her seem approachable. She hoped.
* * *
She had barely nibbled on her toast at the breakfast table, yet she’d managed to bite her nails to the quick by the time Adams came to her study—where she’d been pacing up and down rather than making even a token pretence at shuffling papers round her desk—to inform her that she had a visitor.
‘A
