There was something at the bottom of it all, he was sure—but what? Had she changed her mind, reconsidered what it would mean to live in greatly reduced circumstances? Had an unknown suitor cunningly turned her against him with evil words? Was there something in the Byzantine society code that he had infringed and thereby earned her contempt?
He would hear it from her own lips—by confronting her when next she rode on the moor. Shameless bribery of the stable-hands would ensure the time and place.
Kydd heard her arrive. Skulking at the end of the line of horseboxes he listened to her cool voice greet the groom and dismiss her carriage. Her firm steps on the cobblestones approached and Kydd stepped out.
She was on her own, dressed in her usual immaculate fashion, and looked at him in shock. Recovering quickly, she said politely, "Mr Kydd, what a surprise! You—I hadn't thought to see you here."
"Why, Miss Lockwood, I did so enjoy our ride together before— do you mind if I join you?"
"I—I do not believe you should, sir."
Kydd felt the warmth of a flush rising to his face and said huskily, "Then I should ride alone?"
"As you will, sir. It can be no concern of mine." She took the reins and prepared to mount.
"P-Persephone!" Kydd blurted. "W-Why?"
She paused, then looked away suddenly. Then, turning to the groom, she ordered, "Garvey, I shall walk on ahead for a space. Do you follow on discreetly, if you please."
Without waiting for Kydd she began to walk rapidly out towards the moor. Kydd hurried until they were side by side, not daring to speak.
"You will have received my regrets for your interesting evening." She did not look at him.
"I understand, Miss Lockwood."
It won him a glance. They walked on in silence, the pace not slowing. "I do hope it goes well for you, Mr Kydd," she said eventually, in a neutral manner.
"I—we shall fin' someone else t' entertain us, I'm sure," he said stiffly, his hands in his pockets so she would not see that the fists were clenched.
She said nothing but, after a few moments, slowed. "Mr Kydd," she said, turning to him, "I don't think I ever mentioned my friend to you."
Confused, Kydd muttered something and let her continue. "She's quite like me in a way," she said lightly, stooping to pick a furze flower. "The same age, as it were."
"Oh?" he managed.
"But at the moment she has a problem," she said, in a light tone. "Which she seems to have resolved, I believe."
Kydd said nothing, guessing where this was leading and dreading the outcome. "You see, she met an amiable enough gentleman who might have been considered as a possible—consort. However, her condition of life is such that her family felt he did not answer their expectations, his connections being decidedly beneath her own."
She flicked at an errant stalk of furze with her ivory whip and went on, "She foolishly allowed her feelings to lead her to behave in an unseemly manner and was taken to task by her mother, who forbade her to continue the association."
"Then you—she—"
"She loves her mama and would not go against her, Mr Kydd. That you must believe," she said, looking at him seriously.
His gut tightened. "Can y' say to me—is there another man payin' his addresses to—t' your friend?"
She replied instantly; "There is none of any consequence who may stand against him."
Kydd swallowed. "Then you'll let me say, Miss Lockwood, that I think your friend is—is a shab indeed, if she had said t' him afore that she'd not be wed t' any except she cares for him!"
She stopped, her face white, and rounded on him. "Mr Kydd, you cannot know what you are saying. Do not speak so."
"An' if she puts the comforts o' life before her heart's—"
"Be silent, sir! I will not have it said—"
"Persephone, I—"
She took a deep breath and held it for a long moment, then continued sadly, "Mr Kydd. She—she loves her mother and would not grieve her, but this is not the issue." She turned away from his gaze and went on softly, "Mama is right, but not in the way she intends. Shall we suppose they marry, even that her parents are reconciled? Can you conceive what it must cost as she divides her social acquaintances between her own—when she will be constantly in need of explanation for the lack of his own connections at the highest level—and his, where daily he must find excuse for her airs, her manner? She could not bear to see him put upon so."
"Oh! Nicholas, it's you. I—I expected Thomas. Er, is he out?" Cecilia, however, unlaced her bonnet and gave every indication of wanting to stay, though that was contrary to the rules of polite society, which frowned on unmarried young ladies attending on gentlemen unaccompanied.
"Good evening, Miss Kydd," Renzi said quietly, rising but remaining by his chair.
"I see. Then you have my sincere regrets, sir, should any now think you to be so far in want of conduct as to entertain the female sex alone . . ." But it brought no returning smile and Cecilia paused, concerned.
"May I sit, Mr Renzi?" she asked formally.
"If it is your brother you are intending to visit, then I have to tell you that he has not set foot ashore for the last three days, and the vessel due to sail on Monday."
"He—"
"Is in a state of despondency."
"Poor Thomas." Cecilia sighed, twisting a ribbon. "It did seem so possible, did it not?"
Renzi resumed his chair and blinked. "I rather think now it was not a deed of kindness to encourage him to believe there could be any favourable conclusion to the affair. His lack of connections damns him in her mother's eyes—an ambitious creature, I believe."
"Persephone Lockwood is much attached to him," Cecilia said thoughtfully. "They would make a fine pair together—if only . . ."
She stood up and paced about the room. "She will not go against her mother's wishes, that much is sure. Therefore this is the problem we must address."
"I can only agree in the heartiest manner with your observations on such a match but it is not to be. Do you not consider that, perhaps with some reluctance, you should cease from matchmaking in his case?"
"Why, Mr Renzi, I do believe you have no romantic inclinations whatsoever."
Renzi held still, his eyes opaque.
"I shall certainly do what is needful to assist Thomas to a blissful destiny—if I can think of any such," Cecilia said, with spirit, and picked up her bonnet, settling it thoughtfully. Then she stopped. "There is . . . but this will require that the gods of chance do favour us in the timing and that, when asked, a certain person will grant us a particular kindness . . ." She frowned prettily, and left.
A footman entered noiselessly with a note on a silver tray. The admiral at breakfast was often irascible, and the man spoke diffidently. "For your immediate attention, sir."
"What? Oh, give it here, then, damnit!"
Lady Lockwood sighed and continued her criticism of her daughter's needlework but at her husband's snort of interest she looked up. "What is it, dear?"
"Well, now, and you'll clear your engagements for tonight, m' love! It seems the Marquess of Bloomsbury is giving me the favour of an At Home. Didn't know he was in Plymouth. You remember? I managed an introduction for you at court a year or so back."
"Oh!" Lady Lockwood said, in sudden understanding. "The Marquess of Bloomsbury—this is interesting, Reginald. Isn't he high in the diplomatic line, as I recall?"
"Yes, indeed. Discreet sort of cove, gets all about the world but likes to do his work in the strictest confidence. Now, I happen to know he has the ear of Billy Pitt himself—and I don't have to tell you, my love, that if I'm to get a sea command he's the kind of man I need to keep well in with."
"Yes, you must, Reginald. Wasn't he married to the Earl of Arundel's eldest? Charlotte? I must look it up."