Читать книгу Dishonourable Intent - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 6
ОглавлениеHE STOOD at the long mullioned windows of the library, watching the desultory stream of visitors making their way towards the exit. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, of course, but their reluctance to leave seemed evident enough. And, after all, the garden and grounds of Lingard Abbey were fast becoming one of the most popular tourist attractions in Yorkshire, the steady influx of cash the visitors provided slowly enabling him to restore the surroundings of the old house to their former glory.
At least he could now pay the gardeners a living wage, he thought wryly, raising one narrow hand to rest it against the scarred frame. At this time of the year, particularly, the terraces and water gardens were a riot of colour; even the lake, glittering in the rays of the lowering sun, reflected the colours of the trees and shrubs that surrounded it.
Of course, it would take more than the income from an unspecified number of tourists to make any serious assault on the house. Dampness, crumbling stonework, and the tendency to shriek like a banshee when the wind invaded the cracks in the woodwork, had made parts of the Abbey virtually uninhabitable. Which was why he was considering his grandmother’s suggestion that he get married again. A wealthy wife, who wouldn’t demand too much from him beyond his title, and the only way he could hope to retain his home.
He scowled, and turned away from the window. It was archaic, he thought irritably. Imagine marrying someone in this day and age simply to restore the family fortunes. It was all very well for his grandmother to declare that it had been an accepted practice when she was young. It was nearly the start of the new millennium, for God’s sake! If he did marry again, it ought to be to someone he cared about, at least.
Yet... His scowl deepened. Marrying someone he had cared about hadn’t worked before, so why should he assume it would work now? He’d been crazy about Francesca, and she’d walked all over him. Was he really in the market to make that same mistake again?
The answer was a resounding no. Even the thought of embarking on another disastrous relationship caused a bitter churning in his gut. Perhaps his grandmother was right; perhaps it was better to be the one who was loved rather than the other way about. He’d loved Francesca, and suffered all the pains of hell when it was over...
A tentative tap on the heavy panels of the door halted his morbid introspection. ‘Come in,’ he called brusquely, pausing on the worn rug that lay before the impressive hearth, and moments later the angular figure of Watkins, the elderly butler, appeared in the aperture.
‘Good evening, my lord,’ Watkins greeted him politely. ‘Um—Mrs Harvey was wondering if you’d be in to supper,’ he explained, with a diffident air. ‘And O’Brien asked me to inform you that a pair of electric shears are missing. He left them in the knot garden, but they were not there when he went to fetch them.’
His employer’s lips thinned. ‘What the hell was O’Brien thinking of, leaving the shears unattended in the first place?’ he demanded, and then stifled any further comment at the troubled look on Watkins’ face. ‘Oh, never mind.’ he muttered. ‘I’ll speak to O’Brien myself in the morning. And, no, I won’t be in for supper. I’m dining with Lady Rosemary at Mulberry Court.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Watkins glanced hopefully about him. ‘Can I get you a drink before I leave?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ The younger man managed a civil rejoinder. ‘Thank you, Watkins. I shan’t be needing anything else tonight.’
‘No, my lord.’ Watkins backed somewhat unevenly towards the door, and, alone again, he reflected that the old man really ought to be retired. He had to be seventy, if he was a day, and had worked for the family since he was a boy. But without his job at the Abbey it was difficult to think how Watkins would survive.
A huge mahogany desk occupied a central position by the windows, and, flinging himself into the worn leather chair behind it, he stared somewhat broodingly into space. Here he was, William Henry Robert Gervaise Quentin, 9th Earl of Lingard, and he couldn’t even afford to give his staff a decent pension.
An hour later, bathed and shaved, and with his too long dark hair brushed smoothly behind his ears, he drove the short distance between Lingard Abbey and his grandmother’s country home at Mulberry Court. He was trying hard to feel more optimistic, but the thought of the evening ahead was putting a definite strain on his temper. It was all very well to acknowledge his limitations in the comparative anonymity of the Abbey, and quite another to consider the alternative with his grandmother’s matchmaking in prospect.
Mulberry Court glowed in the amber light of the summer evening. An attractive manor house, with its origins dating from the sixteenth century, the house and its extensive grounds had been entailed upon his aunt’s eldest son. Unfortunately, his cousin Edward had died of leukaemia when he was in his teens, and in consequence the entail was now endowed upon a distant relative of his late grandfather.
It had always been a source of great disappointment to Lady Rosemary that her favourite grandchild was not in line to inherit the estate. The monies devolved from the properties and the like would have enabled him to restore the Abbey without having to resort to a form of legal prostitution, and the old lady did everything in her power to make his life less fraught.
Except when it came to marriage, and the provision of the next Earl of Lingard, he reflected wryly as he parked his estate car to the right of the front door. In Lady Rosemary’s opinion, nothing could compensate for the lack of a wife and family, and she was hopeful that with the right woman he could achieve both ends in one.
A housemaid opened the door at his approach, and he guessed his grandmother had been watching for him. She and her guests were enjoying pre-supper drinks in the orangery, and the pleasant scent of citrus was in the air.
“Will!’ His grandmother came to meet him as he halted in the doorway, reaching up to brush dry, papery lips across his newly shaved cheek. ‘My dear,’ she said approvingly, ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were coming. Emma and her parents are waiting eagerly to meet you.’
He could feel his features tightening into a polite mask, and he made an effort to relax again. ‘Hello, Rosie,’ he teased softly. ‘Don’t waste any time, will you? Are you afraid I might do a bolt if I’m not hooked?’
Lady Rosemary’s smile weakened. ‘I do hope you’re going to behave yourself, Will,’ she countered severely, speaking in an undertone, so that the four other people dotted about the glass-covered verandah were unable to hear. ‘Emma is not at all like Francesca Goddard, and I won’t have you behaving as if she is.’
He sighed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He paused. ‘And by the way, Francesca still calls herself Francesca Quentin.’
‘She would.’ The old lady almost snorted the words.
‘You know why, of course: she finds it useful. I’m surprised she hasn’t attempted to retain the title, as well.’
She was scathing, and Will knew a moment’s regret that this was so. He wondered if his parents, had they still been alive, would have regarded Francesca’s behaviour with less censure. But they’d died in a freak boating accident when he was barely a teenager, and from then on his grandmother had been his guardian.
And from the beginning her attitude towards Francesca had always been vaguely hostile. He knew the old lady had never really considered Francesca good enough for him, and in any case she had had another, more socially and financially suitable candidate in mind. Unfortunately, he had been thinking with his heart and not his head in those days. He’d been crazy about Francesca; he’d wanted her; he’d wanted to marry her, and as far as he was concerned that had been that.
‘Anyway, come along,’ declared Lady Rosemary now, tucking her arm through his and turning to face her guests. ‘Here he is, everyone. This is my grandson, William Quentin. Will, allow me to introduce Sir George and Lady Merritt, and their youngest daughter, Emma.’
Will had met people like the Merritts before. Sir George was a self-made man, a latter-day baronet, whose life peerage owed more to the worthy causes he supported than to any particular quality he possessed. He was several inches shorter than Will, with the rotund belly of a serious drinker, while his wife was thin to the point of emaciation, and obviously subscribed to the maxim that one couldn’t be too thin or too rich.
Their daughter, he saw thankfully, was something else. Of all the young women his grandmother had produced for his inspection, Emma Merritt was by far the most attractive to date. Slim—without her mother’s angularity—with straight silvery blonde hair that curved almost confidingly under her jawline, and wide blue eyes, she was quite startlingly good-looking, and he was impressed.
He caught his grandmother’s eye on him at that moment, and he could almost see what the old lady was thinking. Lady Rosemary would take great pleasure in seeing her grandson married again, and introducing Emma as the new Countess of Lingard would restore her faith in her own beliefs. She wanted to see him settled; she wanted to know he had a family. Will guessed she was already considering how she could sponsor the children their union would produce.
Children?
Will’s lips twisted with sudden cynicism, and Sir George Merritt regarded him with a certain amount of dismay. ‘It’s a great pleasure to meet you, my lord!’ he exclaimed hastily, and Will struggled to regain his equanimity before disclaiming the older man’s form of address.
‘Quentin will do, Sir George,’ he amended smoothly, earning a relieved smile for his trouble. ‘Or Lingard, if you prefer. I seldom use my title among friends.’
Lady Merritt preened at the compliment, even as she protested his magnanimity. ‘But you should,’ she said coyly. Though we are flattered to be here.’ And Will wondered with unwilling irony whether she was protecting his interests or her daughter’s.
‘My grandson has always been a law unto himself,’ put in Lady Rosemary swiftly, perhaps aware of Will’s response. ‘When he was at college, he called himself Will Quentin, and no one knew his background.’ She exchanged a speaking look with him again. ‘I keep reminding him he has responsibilities he can’t ignore.’
‘To do with his rank, you mean,’ Lady Merritt agreed, nodding. ‘But, of course, we all have our particular crosses to bear. Take George, for instance: you can’t imagine how often his services are called upon. There’s always some charity dinner or benefit in the offing. He’s become quite a popular after-dinner speaker.’
‘I don’t think that’s what Lady Rosemary was talking about,’ Emma interposed then, with a knowing smile. ‘Perhaps—he—’ she refrained from using either of the alternatives ‘—would rather people accepted him for himself,’ she ventured, in an attractively breathy tone. ‘I’d hate it if I thought my friends only cultivated me because I was your daughter, Daddy.’
Will had to smile at her audacity. In a couple of sentences, she had defused all their arguments, without causing any offence to anyone. She was obviously not as dumb as her appearance might have suggested, and he felt a little more optimistic about the evening ahead.
‘Oh—well—’ Sir George was the first to answer her. ‘If you put it like that, my dear, I suppose I have to see your point.’ He put an approving hand on her shoulder. ‘Aren’t I a lucky man—er—Lingard? A daughter with brains as well as beauty.’
‘An unusual combination,’ murmured Will drily, though after meeting Emma’s artful gaze they weren’t quite the sentiments he’d have chosen. Nevertheless, she was amusing, and far more interesting than some of the vapid débutante types he had had to deal with in the past.
The housemaid who had admitted him now reappeared carrying a tray of cocktails, but Will managed to avoid accepting one of his grandmother’s concoctions. Instead, he sidled over to the table and helped himself to a measure of vintage Scotch, surveying his fellow guests over the rim of his glass.
He saw now that Archie Rossiter, one of his grandmother’s elderly admirers, was dozing in a cane chair beside the winter cactus. Archie had been Lady Rosemary’s doctor until he retired a couple of years ago, and he could always be relied upon to even the numbers, if required. He was a pleasant old man, if inclined to be a little forgetful these days. There was a whisky glass beside his chair, too, and Will guessed he’d been imbibing long before anyone else arrived. His lips twitched. Good old Archie! They might have had their differences at times, but he felt a certain amount of affection for the old man.
‘Are we that boring?’
The voice came from close at hand, and he realised that while he had been studying Archie Rossiter Emma had left her parents talking to his grandmother, and come to join him.
‘Boring?’ he echoed, aware of her meaning but giving himself time to think. ‘Why should you think that, Miss Merritt? The evening’s hardly begun.’
‘Oh, I know that.’ She regarded the cocktail she was holding for a moment, and then tilted her head to give him the full benefit of her wide-eyed gaze. ‘And my name’s Emma, not Miss Merritt. That sounds almost as dull as you probably think we are.’
Will arched one dark brow. ‘You don’t know what I think.’
‘Don’t I?’ Clearly, she thought she did. ‘You probably didn’t want to join us for dinner, did you?’
‘Why should you think that?’
It wasn’t a denial, and he could tell from her expression that she knew it. ‘Because Daddy was so insistent that he needed a few days in the country. You can never get him out of the office when we’re at home.’
Will endeavoured to follow her conversation. ‘And where is that?’ he asked politely. ‘Home, I mean? You’re not from this area, I gather.’
‘Hardly,’ said Emma flatly. ‘Or we wouldn’t be staying at Mulberry Court. No, actually, we live in Cambridge. My father has business interests there.’
‘Does he?’
Will forbore to ask what those business interests might be. He seemed to recall his grandmother mentioning something about microchip technology, and the uses to which it could be put in mobile phones and fax machines. According to Lady Rosemary—and this was the important thing so far as she was concerned—Sir George was incredibly wealthy, and eager to acquire for his youngest daughter the kind of pedigree money couldn’t buy.
‘Lady Rosemary told us you studied at Cambridge,’ Emma continued, and he wondered exactly how much she knew of the unholy alliance to which her father aspired. ‘Unfortunately, I wasn’t clever enough to go to university,’ she added. ‘So Daddy sent me to a finishing school in Switzerland instead.’
Will’s mouth flattened. ‘I can’t believe you couldn’t have found a place at university if you’d really wanted to,’ he remarked drily, and was rewarded by a mischievous glance out of the corner of her eye.
‘Well, who wants to spend hours studying stuffy old books when one could be out riding or swimming or watching polo?’ she declared smugly. ‘It was so much more fun in Lausanne. You wouldn’t believe the things we got up to.’
Will thought he probably could, but he didn’t comment, and presently she began to talk about the history of Mulberry Court and how much she enjoyed exploring old buildings. After what she’d said about the stuffiness of books and study, Will doubted she had any real interest in the subject—not in an objective way, at least. But he knew what was expected of him, and politely suggested she might like to visit the Abbey while she was here, and he knew from the enthusiasm of her acceptance that he was right.
By the time Mrs Baxter, his grandmother’s housekeeper, came to announce that supper was ready, he felt he knew virtually all there was to know about Emma’s life up to that point. He knew the schools she’d attended, the subjects she’d enjoyed most, and her tentative plans for the future. The fact that she was keen to fall in love and get married, and subsequently have a large family, had been relayed to him in that attractively breathy tone, and he doubted few men would remain immune to such appealing candour.
Somewhat to his relief, he found Archie Rossiter on his left at supper. The heavy table, which had once occupied a central position in the dining hall, was now used as a sideboard, and the table they ate from was of a much more manageable size. Acting on his grandmother’s instructions, he was sure, Mrs Baxter had placed Will beside Emma Merritt, thus enabling Lady Rosemary to have Sir George and his daughter on either hand.
It was obvious the old lady intended to keep a sharp eye on the young woman she was hoping might become her grandson’s wife, but it suited Will’s purposes very well. He could parry any awkward questions by talking to the old man, and with Lady Merritt sitting opposite this was no small advantage.
And yet he wasn’t totally opposed to being scrutinised in his turn, and whenever his grandmother caught his eye he turned a tolerant smile in her direction. He had invited Emma to Lingard; he would see how things developed from there. He was making no impetuous promises he couldn’t keep.
He ate sparingly, finding the cook’s reliance on garlic and rich Mediterranean sauces hard to stomach. But Luisa was Italian, and didn’t take kindly to being criticised, and his grandmother was afraid to offend her in case she left. It wasn’t easy keeping staff in Yorkshire, when the lure of London and higher wages was so attractive. But Luisa had family in the neighbourhood, and the fact that Lady Rosemary spent the early part of the year in London anyway enabled her to enjoy the best of both worlds.
Besides, as his grandmother was known to argue, what was wrong with pasta and tomatoes? They were both good, wholesome ingredients, and far better for you than stodgy pies and puddings. He looked down at his plate, his lips tightening, as he remembered sharing a joke with Francesca about Luisa’s temperamental nature. His ex-wife had expressed the view that if Luisa produced pasta pies and puddings Lady Rosemary wouldn’t say a word against them.
“I understand you spent some time on our home territory,’ Lady Merritt interrupted him now, and for a moment Will didn’t know what she meant. ‘At Cambridge,’ she added pointedly. ‘Wasn’t that where you took your degree?’
Will drew a breath. ‘Oh—Cambridge.’ he said politely. ‘Yes. That’s right. But it’s some years ago now. I’ve almost forgotten my college days.’
‘Not that long ago,’ inserted Lady Rosemary, proving she was not above eavesdropping herself if she felt it was needed. ‘You’re only thirty-four, Will. You talk as if it was the dim and distant past.’ She paused, and then added with rather more asperity, ‘I can imagine there are aspects of that time that are rather—disagreeable to you. But don’t dismiss your education.’ She glanced around to include the whole table in her next words. ‘It’s so important, don’t you think?’
‘Welt—’
Lady Merritt was less positive on this subject, and Emma took the opportunity to explain why. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been quite a disappointment in that department, Lady Rosemary. I have to admit, I couldn’t wait to leave school.’
‘But she had extremely good marks while she was there—’ began her mother, only to be overridden again in her turn.
‘I was talking about my grandson,’ said Lady Rosemary, managing to modify her comments without giving offence. She bestowed a brilliant smile on Emma, and then continued, ‘I wouldn’t want another bluestocking for a granddaughter-in-law, my dear. Believe me, one was quite enough.’
She had gone too far. Will knew she had sensed her mistake long before she encountered her grandson’s cool grey stare. Which was why she hurried on to another topic, asking Sir George what he thought of the local golf club where he had played a round that afternoon.
‘Was your wife very clever?’ enquired Emma artlessly, and, although her questions had amused him before, now he felt a sense of impatience.
‘Not particularly,’ he answered shortly, taking refuge in his glass of wine. Though the truth was that Francesca had been rather clever—too clever for her own good, he thought bitterly, refilling his glass.
‘I hear your man’s had some success with his fuchsias this year,’ Archic Rossiter remarked amiably, jolting Will out of his darkening mood, and he turned gratefully towards the old man.
‘I’m pleased to hear he’s had some success with something,’ he said forcefully. ‘He lost a pair of electric shears this afternoon. He’s always leaving his tools lying about, and then expressing surprise when they disappear.’
Archie chuckled. ‘He’s getting old, Will. We all are. Your grandmother included, only she’d never admit it.’
‘Is that her excuse?’ queried Will wryly, and Archie pulled a sympathetic face.
‘Probably. Though, as I said, she’d be the last to say so.’
‘To say what?’ demanded Lady Rosemary, overhearing them, but then subsided again when she met her grandson’s eyes. ‘Oh, well,’ she muttered, pressing her palms together and surveying her other guests with determined brightness. ‘Shall we adjourn to the drawing room for coffee?’
Will made his escape soon after nine-thirty.
His taste for conspiracy had palled somewhat, and although he had agreed to pick Emma and her parents up the following morning and bring them back to the Abbey for lunch he was more than ready to relinquish their company tonight.
It was still light as he drove back to the Abbey, and the scents of wild blossom and newly mown hay were a balm to his restless spirit. He was tempted to call at the pub in Lingard village and enjoy a pint of beer with the landlord, but the knowledge that he would have to drive back to the Abbey afterwards deterred him. He’d already drunk more than enough this evening, and with the prospect of playing host tomorrow ahead of him he decided he would be advised to be temperate.
The outline of the Abbey was visible long before he reached the park gates. Its grey stone walls were clearly silhouetted against the amber sky, and he knew a momentary sense of pride that his ancestors had lived here for more than two hundred years. There had actually been a monastery on the site for much longer than that, but that had been destroyed during the dissolution that had taken place in the sixteenth century. The present building owed its origins to the early part of the seventeenth century, with successive occupants making additions and alterations to its ivy-hung faade. Although it was by no means a luxurious residence, certain comforts such as central heating had made the old place infinitely more habitable. It would be a shame, he thought ruefully, if it was allowed to deteriorate even more. He owed it to himself, and to Lingard, to do everything in his power to prevent that from happening.
He frowned when he saw the small sports car parked on the gravelled sweep in front of the house. He wasn’t expecting any visitors, and none of the servants owned such a vehicle. It was possible that it was some relative of theirs who was visiting, but he couldn’t imagine Watkins allowing anyone to park in front of the building.
He certainly wasn’t in the mood to be sociable with anyone, and, jamming on the brakes, he brought the Range Rover to a halt beside the offending car. Whoever it was had better have a bloody good excuse, he thought aggressively, vaulting out of his seat. Slamming the door, he strode towards the house. The forecourt wasn’t a car park, after all.
The heavy door opened to his hand, proving that Watkins had not yet got around to locking up. Inside, the stone floor of the vestibule threw up a chill after the warmth of the air outside, but he scarcely noticed the difference as he pressed on into the vaulted hall.
Here, worn Persian rugs helped to mitigate the chill that emanated from the thick walls. The walls themselves were hung with fading tapestries, which offered little in the way of warmth or comfort, but they were familiar, and Will was loath to part with them. He had already sold everything of any real value in his efforts to keep the old place going, and the threadbare hangings were an integral part of his heritage.
He had halted in the doorway to the small family parlour, and was scowling at the fact that in his absence someone had taken the liberty of lighting a fire in the grate, when he heard Watkins’ wheezing breath behind him.
‘Oh, my lord!’ he exclaimed, and it was obvious from his expression that he knew what to expect. ‘You’re back!’
‘It would appear so,’ remarked Will, with forced cordiality. ‘Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’
Watkins patted his chest with his gnarled fist, as if by doing so he could relieve the congestion that had gathered there, and offered his employer an appealing look. ‘You’ve—er—you’ve got a visitor, my lord,’ he said hoarsely. ‘She—she arrived just after you’d left.’
‘She?’
For the life of him, Will couldn’t think of any female who might turn up on his doorstep unannounced, but before Watkins could marshal his explanations a disturbingly familiar voice interrupted them. ‘Hello, Will,’ he heard with unbelieving ears. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I made myself at home.’
