Knowing he was right made it hard for Rosalind to be angry with him, but still she was loath to admit herself in the wrong.
‘There is no reason for Mr Boyton to make the connection between us and Lady Helena Caldicot, even if they do meet in London,’ she said. ‘She knows not to speak of us or to mention running away from Sir Peter. And he will not make a fuss. It can be of no advantage to him to harm Nell’s reputation.’
‘Let us hope that you are correct, Sister.’
Freddie left the room, snapping the door shut behind him.
Leo waited until he could speak to his cousin in private. After dinner that evening, the other two men disappeared in the direction of the billiards room, Vernon having challenged Stanton to a rematch following his defeat the night before. Leo and Lascelles lingered over their port in the dining room, where the table had already been cleared.
Leo pushed his chair back and stretched his legs out under the table. Lascelles eyed him through a haze of cigar smoke.
‘Such a shame you missed most of the chase today,’ he said. ‘I do hope you contrived to amuse yourself.’
Leo shrugged. ‘There is always another hunt, if not this season then next.’
‘There should be another opportunity before we leave here.’ Lascelles leaned forward to stub out his cigar, then fixed Leo with a narrow stare. ‘Something on your mind, Coz?’
Leo raised his brandy glass to his lips and swallowed, savouring the fire of the spirit as it slid down his throat, before answering.
‘There is. I understand you did not stay with the hunt the entire day, either.’
A fleeting smirk crossed Lascelles’s countenance. ‘My mare was unable to stand the pace. I decided to retire. To save her for another day, don’t you know?’
A memory surfaced, of Stanton haranguing Lascelles about his treatment of his horse after their first outing with the hunt. The day they met Rosalind.
‘I am pleased to find you have your animal’s welfare at heart. Did you spend an enjoyable afternoon?’
Lascelles shrugged. ‘It was agreeable enough. I decided to familiarise myself with the neighbourhood and to make the acquaintance of some of my new neighbours.’ The smirk returned as Lascelles locked eyes with Leo. His look suggested there was more to his news than one objectionable visit to Frederick Allen. For the first time, Leo wondered if his cousin was aware of his own activities that afternoon.
‘I heard you called upon Mr Allen.’
‘Allen? Allen? Do I recall...? Oh, yes, indeed. The cripple. His name...somehow...slipped my mind.’
Distaste at his cousin’s sneer clawed at Leo. He would not continue to tiptoe around, guest or not.
‘You are aware, of course, that Mr Allen is the brother of Mrs Pryce?’
Lascelles’s dark eyes widened, mockingly innocent. ‘No, is he, Coz? Well, I shall bow to your superior knowledge of the Delectable Dorcas.’
His use of the nickname they had bestowed upon Rosalind—‘Dorcas’ after Shakespeare’s shepherdess in The Winter’s Tale—irritated Leo, but he held his temper in check. Lascelles was a complex and difficult man, a fact that was becoming more apparent by the day. It behoved Leo to tread carefully around this subject, even though his instinct as head of the family was to lay down the law.
‘You are unused to the customs here and of the behaviour expected of a gentleman.’ He rose to his feet and paced around the room. ‘You do wish to fit in here? You want to be accepted in society?’
Lascelles remained sprawled on his chair, but his eyes were watchful. ‘The widow and her crippled brother are hardly prominent members of society. Why, if you came across them in town, my dearest Coz, you would not even deign to notice them, they are so far beneath your touch.’
Again, Leo reined in his temper, distracting himself by examining a model of a Chinese pagoda displayed on a side table. It was exquisite, the ivory carved in intricate detail.
‘Ming,’ Lascelles said. ‘The Prince has one very similar, I am told. Now, that is the mark of a gentleman.’
Leo crossed to the fireplace, and settled his left shoulder against the mantelshelf, folding his arms.
‘You are mistaken. The mark of a gentleman has nothing to do with money or with fine possessions. Birth is, of course, important but it is manners that mark the true gentleman. Manners and the treatment of others and, in particular, the treatment of those of lower birth. If you do not understand that, Anthony—and believe it—you will never earn your place in society.’
Even as he spoke the words, Leo questioned whether Lascelles could ever be a true gentleman. It was not something that could be learned but was, in Leo’s opinion, something intrinsic in a man’s character. Looking at his cousin, at his insolent sprawl, he doubted Lascelles possessed that trait. Rather, he was more than ever convinced there was something rotten at the man’s core...something more than just bitterness over his illegitimacy. Stanton had been right: Uncle Claude—Fourth Duke of Cheriton—had been right not to wed Lascelles’s mother, and not only because of her profession. She would have made a terrifyingly unsuitable duchess with that temperament of hers. Leo still could not help feeling some guilt, however, and it was that guilt that had prompted him to accept Lascelles’s invitation to Halsdon Manor, to find out if their relationship could somehow be redeemed.
It seemed not.
He pushed away from the mantel. ‘I am going to see how Vernon fares in his revenge on Stan.’ He paused by Lascelles’s chair, steeling himself against the urge to wipe the mocking sneer from his face. No matter his aversion to Lascelles, he was family and he was also, for now, Leo’s host. ‘Will you accompany me?’
There was a pause. ‘Not for the moment, Coz. I shall join you directly.’
As he strode in the direction of the billiard room, his muscles tight with anger, Leo knew he should leave Halsdon and go back to London before he and Lascelles came to blows. It had always been thus between the two men—that constant vying for supremacy. Leo’s hope that his cousin had changed—mellowed—had not been realised: Lascelles was merely an older, more confident version of his younger self. He still knew what he wanted and, it appeared, cared even less about the means by which he got it.
Yes. A wise man would leave now before the antagonism lurking beneath the surface erupted.
A memory swirled and coalesced—bringing to his mind not only her image but the smell of her, the feel and the sound of her voice...low and musical, sending quivers of need chasing across his skin.
Rosalind.
No, he would not, could not leave. Not yet.
He was intrigued. He wanted more, wanted to learn more. And yet...
He paused outside the billiard room, ostensibly to examine a painting hanging on the wall opposite the door. His eyes were looking inward, however. His mind was filled with her. His blood stirred and his heart beat faster. Her desirability—his desire for her—was without question, and yet, beneath that craving lurked a whisper of disquiet.
Lies. Deceit. Secrets.
Could he trust her? He had already caught her out in one lie and he sensed there was something else. A secret. Something important to her that she withheld, cocooning it deep within.
He abhorred lies and deceit. He’d had his fill of those particular traits with Margaret.
When Leo’s father became the Fifth Duke, his health was frail and he had fretted over the continuation of the Beauchamp line. To give his father peace of mind,