Читать книгу Regency Marriages - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 13

‘Lord Aberfield is here to see you, miss,’ said Myles. ‘Shall I show him in here?’

Thea laid down her pen and considered the alternatives. She was in the back parlour, writing a note to accept an invitation to attend a picnic with Diana Fox-Heaton the following week. While being received in there would sting his pride, she hesitated. Somehow the back parlour of Arnsworth House was associated with happy times, with her childhood visiting the house, with Richard teaching her to play chess, with his slightly crooked smile. She did not want Aberfield anywhere within spitting distance of those memories.

‘No. Show his lordship into the drawing room, please, Myles. And, Myles—?’ An inner demon suggested another way she might infuriate Aberfield. ‘Tell his lordship that I will be with him very shortly.’

She heard Aberfield being ushered into the next room, heard Myles offer refreshment, and heard it refused. Deliberately she completed her letter to Diana. And read it over. Then she sealed it, addressed it, rang the bell and waited for Myles.

When he came, she smiled and handed him the note with instructions to have it delivered at once. ‘And bring tea to the drawing room in fifteen minutes, please, Myles.’

Then, feeling that she had made her point, Thea settled her elegant morning gown, tucked a stray curl back into place under her lace cap, assumed an indifferent expression, and strolled through the door connecting the back parlour and drawing room.

‘Good afternoon, my lord. I’ve kept you waiting.’ It could be construed as an apology. Just.

Aberfield turned and glared at her. ‘Where the devil have you been, miss?’ His colour was high, and the faded blue eyes glittered at her.

She granted him her most gracious smile. ‘Finishing a letter, my lord. Do be seated and tell me what I may do for you.’ She sat in a small chair set slightly apart, and waited.

Aberfield didn’t waste time on niceties. ‘You can tell me what the devil you’re playing at with Blakehurst,’ he snarled. ‘Waltzing with him when Dunhaven had honoured you with an invitation to dance!’

So that had got back to him. Lord, he was a fool! Had he learned nothing from the past?

‘Playing at, my lord?’ she queried. ‘Unlike some, I play no games. Mr Blakehurst asked me to dance with him—’

‘Asked you after Dunhaven asked you!’ snapped Aberfield.

‘Not at all,’ she said sweetly. ‘He had asked me earlier.’

Aberfield looked her over. ‘Think you can get him up to scratch, do you?’ He snorted. ‘I doubt it! Too high in the instep the Blakehursts, even if his brother has made a fool of himself.’

Thea froze and Aberfield continued, his voice contemptuous. ‘Knew Almeria Arnsworth would try her damnedest to marry you to him, but he’s dodged every other heiress she’s found. Some of ‘em a damn sight wealthier than you!’ His lip curled. ‘And they weren’t some other man’s leavings.’

Words, meaningless words. They can’t hurt unless I permit it …

Something Richard had said about Dunhaven slid through her mind, displacing her father’s barb: He’s so desperate … it’s a wonder he hasn’t found a young enough widow with a couple of brats to her credit … What had Aberfield told Dunhaven? She didn’t really believe it, not quite. But if she trailed the lure …

‘One wonders,’ she mused, ‘what can possibly have induced Lord Dunhaven to relax his standards.’

The fish rose. ‘Dunhaven needs an heir,’ he told her. ‘For a wealthy bride he knows can breed a brat, he’s willing to overlook things.’

‘I have no “brat”, as you put it.’

Just aching grief and guilt over the death of a nameless child she had neither seen nor held, and the opium-hazed memory of a newborn wail.

Aberfield opened his mouth and shut it again. His gaze shifted and then he shrugged. ‘Even if the whelp died, you still went full term,’ he said.

Bile rose, choking and sour.

‘More than his first wife ever did,’ he continued. ‘For that assurance and your fortune, it’s worth it to him.’

She swallowed the bile, reaching for control. ‘I’m sure it is,’ she said. ‘But tell me, my lord—was it not rather a risk for you, confiding so much in Dunhaven?’

‘Why should he talk about his bride?’ Cold triumph gleamed. ‘No reason for him to talk if you’re married. And he’s willing to marry you.’

‘But if I don’t marry him—?’

Aberfield’s fists clenched. ‘You’ll marry him, or I’ll … I’ll—!’

‘You’ll what, my lord?’ The time for dissembling was past. She stood up, casting aside caution. ‘You really have no power left, sir. Do you?’ She smiled. ‘You may cast me off, but in two and a half months I turn twenty-five and will have two hundred pounds a year. A pittance to you, I am sure, but I will manage very well. And just think of the gossip if you cut off my allowance now.’

Aberfield had risen as well, his face mottled. ‘And this is the gratitude I receive for protecting you from your folly eight years ago!’

Thea rang the bell. ‘I think there is nothing more to be said, my lord.’

‘I’ll see you don’t get a penny of the money!’ he blustered.

She laughed. ‘You can’t. Under the terms of the will, once I turn twenty-five there is nothing you can do to block the two hundred a year. With that I will be independent and can do as I please.’

Aberfield’s colour deepened to an alarming purple. ‘You mean to have Blakehurst, then?’

‘That, my lord, is not your concern.’

His teeth clenched, he said, ‘Make sure he understands you’ll not see a penny more than the two hundred before your thirtieth birthday.’

The door opened to admit the butler.

‘Ah, Myles. His lordship was just leaving.’

His face stiff with fury, Aberfield stalked out of the room without another word.

As the door closed, Thea sank on to the sofa, all the cold fury ebbing to leave her drained and shaking. But she had done it! Stood up to Aberfield and forced him to realise that he had no power over her any longer. That there was nothing he could do to force her marriage or control her actions. That knowledge had fuelled his anger. His parting shot about only receiving the two hundred per annum until she turned thirty suggested that he accepted that she would not marry Dunhaven. Which left her free to contemplate the sort of life she wanted for herself.

The future stretched out before her, not golden, but peaceful. Or it would be if she could only rid herself of the guilt and pain—the child had been an innocent, blameless of any wrongdoing. Had her actions been responsible for its death? At the very least she had been partly responsible for its unmourned, unmarked grave. It. That sounded so cold. So uncaring. Like Aberfield’s reference to the child as a brat or whelp. As though its very life hadn’t mattered. It again. She had no other way to think of her lost baby. A shudder racked her as she stared blindly into the empty fireplace. She was vaguely aware that the doorbell had rung. An annoyed voice echoed in the front hall, followed by the slam of the front door. It wasn’t important. Her vision blurred. She didn’t even know if her baby had been a boy or a girl … they had refused to tell her.

For the first time in seven years someone had spoken of her dead baby—as proof of her fertility. Her hands clenched into fists until the nails dug into her palms as she looked back at the mess her younger self had made of everything. If only she had known … had realised in time … She swallowed hard. She could see now what she should have done … and it was far, far too late. She felt cold, cold all over, as though a void inside her had been filled with ice.

The door opened and she looked round. ‘Yes, Myles?’

‘Your tea, miss.’ The old man looked at her kindly. ‘If I may say so, Miss Thea, you look as though a nap wouldn’t go astray. Why don’t you go on up and I’ll send one of the maids to help you?’

Heat pricked at her eyes at the kindness in his voice. What a fool she was to feel like crying because of a simple expression of kindness when her father’s callous actions merely left her cold with fury.

‘Thank you, Myles,’ she said, forcing words past the choking lump in her throat. ‘I’ll do that.’ She went over to the door. ‘I’ll leave the tea for now. I’m sorry to waste your time.’

He shook his head. ‘Not to worry, Miss Thea.’ He hesitated. ‘Lord Dunhaven called. Just after Lord Aberfield left.’

So that was who had owned the loud, blustering voice.

‘You denied me?’

Myles’s mouth flickered into what in a less well-trained butler might have been a smile. ‘No, Miss Thea, although her ladyship had instructed me to do so.’ The smile escaped its bonds. ‘Mr Blakehurst beat me to it.’

Warmth eased the aching chill within her.

‘I am never at home to Lord Dunhaven,’ she told him. ‘Nor …’ she drew a deep breath ‘ … to Lord Aberfield, unless I have informed you of a prior appointment.’

‘Very good, Miss Thea.’

She nodded and left the room.

The maid answered her summons and helped her out of her gown and stays. Clad only in her shift, Thea snuggled down under the bedclothes and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again the shadows in the room had moved. She yawned and stretched. She felt better, although she didn’t think she had slept for terribly long. A glance at the clock on the mantel confirmed this. She hadn’t slept for more than an hour and a half. But she felt refreshed, in spirit as much as body.

It was as though facing her father had drained a poison from her, its passage leaving her cleansed. She was a long way from happy, but there was no longer the sapping despair. Her gaze fell on a carved wooden box beside the armoire. Now there was a task she had been putting off—sorting out her collection of … of what? Rubbish? Tangible memories? Ever since she was a little girl she had kept cherished mementoes in that box. Reminders of past joy. Birthday party invitations, tickets to Astley’s Amphitheatre, courtesy of a generous impulse on the part of Richard when she was ten, letters, even a few from her mother after she had been banished to Aunt Maria, despite Aberfield’s orders to the contrary. David’s letters. And some things that had given her pain … like the brief, factual note her father had written informing her of her mother’s illness and death, after the funeral had taken place.

That had been almost the last thing she had put in apart from David’s letters. For the past year or so she had not even dared to look inside, just shoving each letter in and locking the box again.

But now … now she had things to put in it again. Invitations. Notes from Diana—telling her that friendship could endure. There was a little pile of papers down in the drawer of the escritoire in the drawing room. She would take the box down there and sort it out. When she had glanced into it before leaving Yorkshire it had been a terrible mess. It was time to sort it all out. She rang for a maid to help her with her stays.

She found the drawing room occupied.

His back to the door, Richard was sitting near the window in one of Almeria’s prized Egyptian chairs, complete with gilt crocodile arms. Not odd in itself, but the chair was placed squarely in the middle of a raft of newspaper sheets. A faint scraping sound gave her the clue, and she understood; Richard was carving. He had the tea table beside him, and on it she could see several knives, a cloth and several small wooden objects on more spread newspaper.

Silent laughter welled up. He hadn’t changed at all. Except that he obviously thought of the newspaper for himself now, rather than after Lady Arnsworth scolded him for making a mess.

She cleared her throat and he glanced round, frowning.

‘Ah.’ The frown disappeared. ‘Ring the bell.’

She did so, and then asked, ‘Why?’

‘Myles will bring some tea now you are awake. Did you sleep well?’

She nodded. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

‘Idiot. What have you got there?’

A blush heated her cheeks. ‘My collection, for want of a better word.’ Heavens! He’d think all this rubbish … well, rubbish!

‘Collection?’ He looked curious. ‘I had no idea you collected something. What is it? Sea shells? Roman coins? Max and I used to find them around Blakeney when we were boys.’

‘Nothing so exciting,’ she told him, and explained.

To her complete surprise he wasn’t in the least dismissive. ‘When you’re an old, old woman, your grandchildren will find that fascinating. It will tell them something about how you lived.’

She set the box down on the escritoire, and said dubiously, ‘I suppose so.’ Perhaps David’s grandchildren.

He laughed. ‘Would you believe the British Museum has an extensive collection of ephemera, courtesy of old Miss Banks?’

‘Miss Banks?’ She lifted the lid of the box.

‘Sir Joseph Banks, the naturalist’s, sister. After she died a few years ago her entire collection came to the museum.’ He paused. ‘All nineteen thousand items of it.’

Thea dropped the lid with a bang. ‘Ninetee—! Good God!’

‘Quite,’ said Richard with a chuckle. ‘Visiting cards, invitations, admission tickets, you name it—she kept it.’

Thea looked at her own collection. ‘I think I need a new box.’ She opened the lid again and lifted out some of the contents.

His husky laugh warmed her. ‘I’ll make one for you.’

‘Would you?’ The warmth spread, and she reached into the box again. Her fingers felt something small and hard, irregularly shaped, at the bottom. Curious she delved and drew it out—’Ohh …’

In her hand lay a small wooden bird, rather crudely carved, its beak open, wings half-spread. Richard had made it for her, and all these years it had lain forgotten in the box, the unheard song stilled. She had thought it left behind when she went to Yorkshire.

‘What have you got there?’

Blinking hard, she turned and held out the little bird on the palm of her hand.

For a moment he seemed not to understand. Then, ‘You’ve kept it all these years?’ There was an odd note in his voice.

Scarlet, she said, ‘I had forgotten all about it.’ Desperate to change the subject, she asked, ‘What … what are you making now?’

‘Something to hang over the cradle for my godson or goddaughter,’ he answered. ‘Max and Verity’s child. Tell me what you think.’

She went over to the table and a gasp of delight escaped her. Five gaily painted little wooden horses, in various attitudes, pranced there. A sixth, as yet unpainted was in his hand. ‘Not very exciting,’ he said. ‘I did think of dragons, but these pieces of wood insisted on being ponies. I’m just doing the finishing touches to this one before painting it.’

‘They are lovely,’ she said softly. ‘And I think your godchild will treasure them.’ She reached out and stroked the nose of one pony with her forefinger. ‘They’re like my box of clutter—one day your great-nephews and nieces will look at these and think of you.’ Perhaps even his great-great nephews and nieces. And so on until the children no longer knew anything about the man who had carved these dancing ponies so long ago. But they would know the toy had been made with love.

Just as she had remembered the wooden bird.

Very softly, she said, ‘I shall like to think of you making something like this for your own children one day, Richard.’

He went very still as her words fell into a deep silence within him.

Until a year ago he had assumed that one day he would marry. There was no reason not to, but marriage had never been compelling. He had been busy, satisfied with his life, and his role as Max’s steward. Indeed, that role was still his. But ever since Max’s marriage he had been increasingly aware that something was missing in his life, and that it was time to fill the void.

‘Thea—’ Unsure what he was going to say, only knowing that words were there, he reached for her hand.

The door opened without warning.

He slewed around in his chair.

‘Damn it, Myles! What the devil do you want now?’

Myles looked severely shaken. ‘Mr Richard—there … there is a magistrate in the front hall—’

There came a sharp gasp from Thea. Richard reached out and took her hand, enveloping it in his, shocked to feel her trembling.

‘A what?’ Surely Myles hadn’t said—

‘A magistrate, sir. Sir Giles Mason. From Bow Street. Requesting an interview with Miss Winslow.’ Myles swallowed. ‘I know her ladyship will not like it, but, sir, perhaps you—since her ladyship isn’t here?’

Her ladyship would probably have apoplexy when she found out, reflected Richard, but he couldn’t see any alternative. Thea’s hand, still lost in his, was trembling, although when he looked up at her, she appeared perfectly calm.

‘I’d better see him, I think,’ she said. Her voice was perfectly calm too. Turning to the butler, she continued, ‘Tell Sir Giles that I will see him in the dining—’

‘Show Sir Giles up, Myles,’ said Richard, cutting straight across Thea. He eyed her in flat-out challenge. ‘If you think for one moment that I am going to permit you to see a magistrate alone, you have some more thinking to do.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing,’ he interrupted. ‘Call me a coward, but I have no intention of admitting to Almeria that I let you face this alone!’

The door shut behind Myles.

‘Thea …’ he caught her other hand, holding them both in a gentle clasp ‘ … do you have any idea what this might be about?’

She shook her head, and her eyes met his unflinchingly, but a deep, slow blush mantled her cheeks … He swore mentally and let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

‘I hope,’ he said grimly, ‘that you can lie a great deal more convincingly for Sir Giles’s benefit.’

Sir Giles was a tall, grizzled man with a slight stoop. In his late fifties, Richard judged. Shrewd green eyes looked over the top of half-moon spectacles and flickered down to a sheaf of papers he had produced from a small case.

Polite greetings over, he got straight down to business.

‘Miss Winslow, I am sure this must be a shock for you, and I am very glad that you have a responsible friend to support you in this. Painful though it must be for you, I must ask you some questions about your late, er, betrothed, Mr Nigel Lallerton.’

Shock jolted through Richard. He stole a sideways glance at Thea. There was not the least hint of surprise, manufactured or otherwise.

‘Yes, sir.’

Sir Giles looked at her closely. ‘That doesn’t surprise you?’

‘Your being here at all is a surprise, Sir Giles.’

The magistrate cleared his throat. ‘No doubt. Now—did anyone dislike Mr Lallerton? Have a quarrel with him?’

She hesitated, then said, ‘I am sure there were many, sir.’

‘Many?’

‘No one is universally popular,’ she said, her hands shifting restlessly in her lap, pleating her skirts.

Richard reached out and took possession of one hand; instantly the other lay utterly still.

‘Hmm. I meant,’ said Sir Giles, ‘was there anyone in particular who might have had a grudge against Mr Laller—?’

‘Would you mind informing Miss Winslow of the reason for these questions, Sir Giles?’ said Richard.

The older man’s mouth tightened. ‘We have received information, sir, that, far from dying in a shooting accident when his gun misfired, Mr Lallerton was murdered.’

‘Information? From whom?’ asked Richard.

‘As to that,’ said Sir Giles, ‘the information was anonymous.’ Richard froze, but said nothing. Sir Giles continued. ‘We have made some enquiries into the matter, and it would appear that further investigation is in order.’

‘You take notice of anonymous information?’

Sir Giles shrugged. ‘Information is information, sir. Naturally we would not hang a man on the basis of an anonymous submission, but as a starting point for investigation, it is perfectly normal. Now, Miss Winslow—on the subject of your betrothed’s popularity—did you know of anyone who might have wished him ill?’

‘I know of no one who wished him dead,’ said Thea in a low voice. She met his eyes squarely, her face pale.

‘I see. And your own feelings …’ Sir Giles shifted in his seat ‘ … were you on good terms with Mr Lallerton? Happy about your coming marriage?’

Faint colour rose in Thea’s cheeks as she said, ‘I was counting the days, Sir Giles.’ Her hand in Richard’s shook.

‘And tell me, Miss Winslow—where were you when Mr Lallerton died?’

‘I was at my father’s principal seat in Hampshire. My mother was giving a house party.’

‘At which Mr Lallerton had been a guest. I understand he left rather precipitately and returned to London?’

‘That is correct, sir.’

‘And he had an accident in which his gun discharged and hit him in the leg, so that he bled to death?’

The pink deepened to crimson. ‘So I was told, sir.’

The green eyes were steady on her. ‘You can tell me nothing more, Miss Winslow?’

‘No, sir.’

The magistrate nodded. ‘Very well. If you should think of anything, please send a message to Bow Street. And I must warn you that I may question you again as the investigation proceeds.’ He rose. ‘I’ll bid you good day, Miss Winslow.’

His mind reeling, Richard saw Sir Giles out, accepting his repeated apologies for the intrusion.

Closing the front door, he faced the inescapable fact that Thea had not been in the least bit surprised by the direction of Sir Giles’s questioning. Which of itself suggested that there was something to find out, despite her neatness at sidestepping questions. He did not for one moment doubt that Sir Giles would return.

His mouth set grimly as he went back up to the drawing room. Hell’s teeth! If Nigel Lallerton had been murdered, how had it been covered up? Good God! Surely his family would have noticed if there had been anything suspicious about his death? And how the devil was he meant to protect Thea from this if she wouldn’t confide in him?

His jaw set in a state of considerable rigidity, he stalked into the drawing room, only to find that the bird had flown. Thea had taken her box and gone. Probably to her bedchamber. Well, if she thought that was going to stop him—from below came the sound of the front door opening … then,

‘Who called?’

Almeria’s outraged shriek came up to him in perfect clarity. He swore. Invading Thea’s bedchamber and forcing some answers from her was no longer an option. Hearing the sound of hurrying feet on the stairs, Richard braced himself, pushing to the back of his mind the realisation that of all the questions to which he wanted answers, the most pressing was not directly connected to Lallerton’s death.

He dearly wanted to know exactly what Thea had meant when she told Sir Giles that she was counting the days until her wedding.

‘Richard!’ Almeria hurried into the drawing room. ‘What is this that Myles tells me? What were you thinking of to permit such a thing?’

‘That admitting Mason was preferable to having him summon Thea to Bow Street,’ he told her.

‘But, surely …’ Almeria’s voice trailed away. ‘Good God! A pretty thing that would be!’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Richard.

Almeria sat down, frowning. ‘It might be worse. Myles assures me that none of the other servants is aware of Sir Giles’s identity, and of course he won’t gossip. As long as that is the end of it.’ She eyed Richard in blatant speculation. ‘I understood from Myles that you remained with Dorothea—thank you, Richard. I am most grateful.’

‘Not at all, Almeria.’ Damn. Now she was extrapolating all sorts of things from his intervention.

‘I will be attending Lady Heathcote’s assembly with Dorothea this evening,’ she informed him. ‘After a dinner at the Rutherfords. Will you—?’

‘I will join you there, if you wish it,’ he assured her. He could see absolutely no need to acquaint Almeria with the fact that he had already been planning to attend whatever entertainment Thea might be gracing that evening. That would only serve to encourage her.

Breathing with careful concentration, Thea forced her hands to steady enough to remove the stopper from her ink bottle and dip the quill. Then she stared blindly at the blank paper. What should she write? If she were quick, she had enough time before she needed to bathe and dress for the dinner and assembly she was attending with Lady Arnsworth that evening.

Dearest David—a magistrate from Bow Street questioned me this afternoon and I lied faster than a fox can trot?

Or perhaps:

Dearest David—Bow Street is asking questions about Nigel Lallerton’s death …

A dry little sob escaped her. There was nothing she could write that might not be construed as a warning, suspicious in itself, unless … Her quill hovered above the paper and common sense finally broke through the fog of panic. What a ninnyhammer she was being!

She wrote quickly:

Dearest David—Sir Giles Mason, a magistrate, called this afternoon. He asked some very odd questions about Nigel Lallerton’s death. You will understand that I found it most distressing. I would like very much to discuss it with you at the earliest opportunity. I will not be home this evening; we are to attend Lady Heathcote’s assembly.

Your loving sister,

Thea

Quite unexceptionable, really. After all, there was nothing unusual in a sister asking her brother’s advice on such a matter. Ringing the bell, she summoned a footman and asked him to deliver the note to Jermyn Street immediately.

She could do nothing further.

To her relief, David approached her within ten minutes of her arrival at Lady Heathcote’s assembly. He came up and greeted them politely, chatting on general topics for a few moments. Then, ‘Lady Arnsworth, I wonder if I might steal my sister away from your side for a little?’

Lady Arnsworth looked a little dubious, but said, ‘Of course, Mr Winslow.’

He smiled and bowed, then led Thea away, saying in a low voice, ‘I received your note. We had better talk.’

‘Is there somewhere we may be private?’ she asked, just as softly.

‘Come with me.’

He took her to a small parlour on the next floor. Closing the door, he turned to her. ‘Very well—tell me.’

She did so, leaving out nothing.

He listened in shocked silence, his eyes hard. ‘Hell and damnation!’ he muttered. ‘Where the devil did that come from?’

‘David—what if you are arrested? You might hang!’ That fear had been tearing at her with black claws all afternoon until she could think of nothing else.

He looked up, obviously surprised. ‘Hang? Me?’ He took one look at the distress in her face and gave her a swift hug. ‘Don’t be a peagoose! It was a duel, not murder, and the only reason it was hushed up was to prevent your name coming into it. If it had become known that I had fought a duel with my sister’s betrothed, the next question would have been—what caused it? Someone would have worked it out.’ His mouth twisted cynically. ‘Even old Chasewater didn’t want that—some of the mud would have stuck to them as well.’

‘But—’

‘Thea, even if it comes out, I’m in no real danger. There are enough witnesses to prove that it was a fair duel. Yes, I might have to face a trial, but they would be unlikely to convict me. I’m safe enough, even if there is a bit of gossip.’ His mouth flattened. ‘What is of concern is the danger to you. You’re the one who will be ruined if this—’

‘I don’t care about that!’ said Thea.

‘Well, I do!’ he informed her. ‘You said Richard Blakehurst was there—what did you tell him?’

The world rocked. ‘Nothing,’ said Thea.

He sighed. ‘You’ll have to tell him in the end, you know.’

‘No,’ said Thea. ‘I won’t.’

David’s mouth tightened. ‘I think Richard Blakehurst is a better man than you give him credit for.’

Thea turned away and closed her eyes. He was. And that was precisely the problem.

Richard found Almeria almost as soon as he arrived. She was seated on a chaise longue, chatting to Lady Jersey, making frequent use of her fan in the stuffy, overheated salon. Full battle regalia, he noted. The famous Arnsworth diamonds blazed and dripped from every conceivable vantage point. Thea was nowhere to be seen.

His stomach clenched. Walking up to Almeria in front of Sally Jersey and demanding to know where Thea might be had as much appeal as strolling naked along Piccadilly. Sally Jersey might never stop talking, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t as shrewd as she could hold together …

He looked round again, and saw Thea slip into the salon with Winslow. David Winslow looked calm enough, but Richard could see him scanning the room, as though looking for someone in particular. He leaned down and murmured something to Thea, who frowned and looked straight across at him.

What the devil was she frowning at him for?

‘Evening, Ricky.’

He looked around. Braybrook stood at his elbow.

‘Julian.’

‘Something bothering you?’

Not for the first time, Richard cursed the blessing of a friend who knew you too damn well.

‘You might say that.’

‘I did,’ said Braybrook drily. ‘Ah, here comes Winslow with his sister.’

Sure enough, Winslow was escorting Thea straight towards them. Tall and slender, in the poppy-red muslin with gold trim.

He waited for them with Braybrook.

‘Blakehurst.’ Winslow greeted Richard with a quick handshake. ‘Can I trouble you to escort Thea back to Lady Arnsworth? I need a word with Braybrook.’

‘Of course. It’s no trouble at all.’ He smiled at Thea and offered his arm. Hesitantly, she took it. The light touch of her gloved hand, despite two layers of cloth, jolted through him like a lightning bolt. Some soft summery perfume laced with the sweet temptation of woman wreathed him.

And she only had her hand on his arm. He shuddered to think what the effect would be if he waltzed with her. He found himself wondering if this became less incapacitating with custom, if, after they were married, his reaction to her sheer proximity might be more manageable. Given that Max could function in a reasonably normal fashion now with Verity around, he had to assume that—shock hit him. Apparently he’d made his decision about offering for Thea without his mind being involved anywhere in the process.

‘I’ve told David what happened,’ she said.

That focused his mind very effectively. ‘What did he say?’

‘That I ought not to worry about it too much.’

Good God! Was Winslow insane? A ripple like this could overturn a woman’s reputation in a flash. And Thea, damn it, looked as though at least part of the load was off her mind.

He flung a glance after Winslow and Julian. The pair of them were standing by themselves, conversing with their heads close. Winslow looked taut, almost feral as he gesticulated. Whatever he might have said to reassure Thea, plainly it hadn’t convinced him. As he watched, the two of them were joined by Fox-Heaton, who looked as though he’d swallowed something unpleasant. The three of them made for the door.

He looked back at Thea. Her gaze followed Winslow and the other two as they left the room. The combination did not seem to surprise her one whit. Which was more than could be said for himself. While Winslow taking Julian into his confidence might come as no surprise, what the devil did Fox-Heaton have to do with it?

Memory supplied an unwelcome suggestion—Sir Francis had been a very close friend of Nigel Lallerton’s … if Lallerton’s death had not been an accident … Icy foreboding crawled up and down Richard’s spine. Fox-Heaton was exactly the sort of fellow who would ask some very awkward questions if any rumours began to circulate. This had all the makings of a scandal extraordinaire.

A surge of protective fury roared through him. No matter what it took, he was going to keep Thea safe from whatever folly her brother had committed …

‘Richard?’ Thea’s fingers tightened on his arm. ‘It’s Lady Chasewater.’

‘Confound it!’ muttered Richard, as he saw the Dowager Countess of Chasewater heading straight for them. ‘Don’t tell her about it. Not here.’ She turned dazed eyes on him, and he laid his hand on hers, squeezing it in reassurance. ‘Keep your chin up, and we’ll get through.’

Arranging a polite smile on his face, he said, ‘Good evening, Lady Chasewater.’

She gave him a distracted look. ‘Mr Blakehurst.’ She turned at once to Thea.

‘Dear Dorothea! Such a dreadful thing! I must tell you before someone else does!’

Hell and the devil! Surely not?

‘A magistrate, Sir Giles Mason, called on me to ask about poor Nigel,’ said Lady Chasewater in tones calculated to turn heads.

Several heads did turn, but she continued regardless. ‘It seems they are not after all quite happy about the way he died. There has been some suggestion that it might have been murder!’

Richard swore under his breath. No one nearby was making even a pretence of not listening, as her ladyship went on, ‘Can you imagine it? Who could possibly have wanted to kill my poor boy? Why! ‘Tis unthinkable!’

Not any more it wasn’t. The blasted female had just made sure the entire ton would be thinking about it by breakfast time.

Thea’s chin lifted. ‘Yes, a very dreadful thing.’

‘And so distressing for you, my dear!’ went on Lady Chasewater, apparently oblivious to the fact that by now at least fifty people had drawn closer the better to hear what she was saying.

Richard gritted his teeth. The cat had its head out of the bag now—how the hell could he shut her up before the whole beast escaped? ‘Ma’am, perhaps you would like to speak to Miss Winslow a little more privately? You might—’

‘And I understand he plans to call on you, my dearest Dorothea.’ She caught at Thea’s wrist. ‘Why, whatever would you be able to tell him?’

Shocked murmurs rippled outwards.

In a steady voice, Thea said, ‘Very little, ma’am, I am afraid. Sir Giles called this afternoon.’

‘Oh, my dear! You must let me know if I can be of the least help,’ she told Thea, clutching her wrist convulsively.

Keeping your tongue still would have been a start! It was far too late now. The cat was right out of the bag and scurrying around the room, leaving murmurs and exclamations of astonishment in its wake.

Fury sang in every fibre. Damn the blasted woman! Dimly he could feel pity for her; she had lost her son, and this must be upsetting for her, but didn’t she know better than to reveal the whole affair like this? Had she no discretion? All he could think was that the shock must have addled her wits.

By the time Richard left the assembly, scarcely anything else was being spoken of save the shocking news that Nigel Lallerton had apparently been brutally murdered.

‘Slaughtered, they say, my dear!’

He ignored several offers for snug games of cards and a bottle of brandy and walked home.

Hell’s own broth was brewing around him, and he had no idea how to get out of it. And getting out didn’t matter a damn beside the far more pressing need to protect Thea.

He wasn’t her brother, curse it! Winslow was the one with the right to defend her, but it seemed that Winslow was leaving it to him. Aside from her brother, there was Aberfield … Richard dismissed that idea. Any father who could view Dunhaven as a suitable husband for his daughter was worse than useless. And as for Dunhaven, who had been hovering all evening—Richard’s teeth ground savagely as he trod up the steps of Arnsworth House.

The only way to circumvent Dunhaven’s plans was for Thea to be married, or at the very least, betrothed. To someone else.

Someone like himself …

His latch key missed the keyhole.

He tried again, this time managing to unlock the door. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier? A simple solution was often the best, and the simplest way to protect Thea from the attentions of Dunhaven, and her father’s machinations, was to offer for her himself. Immediately. Otherwise, his power was limited. At least if they were betrothed he could deflect much of the inevitable gossip. And there was another thing—once they were betrothed, Thea might confide whatever she knew about Lallerton’s death to him, which would mean he could help her.

Closing the door, he acknowledged that there were other things motivating him. He liked Thea—more than liked. He cared about her. About the woman who had kept that badly carved little bird all these years. About the woman whose eyes spoke sometimes of a pain he could only guess at. And who could wipe him off a chessboard. He smiled as he picked up a candle from the hall table and lit it from a taper. It was the only candle there so Almeria and Thea must be in already. He blew out the taper.

Yes, the more he thought about the idea of marrying Thea, the more right it seemed. Once he could get past the idea of facing Almeria’s smug gloat. No point cutting off your nose to spite your face. There would probably be a certain air of well-fed-cat-picking-its-teeth-with-yellow-feathers about Braybrook too. Not even that had the power to bother him.

Not beside the anticipated delight of Thea as his wife, his bride, his lover … Desire kicked sharply as he trod up the stairs. If they were married, instead of passing her room with every muscle, nerve and sinew straining at the leash, he would be opening the door and stripping quietly, before sliding into bed with her … to hold her, love her gently … His blood burned and he realised to his horror that he had actually stopped at the door.

He took a shuddering breath. Tomorrow morning he was going to propose to Thea Winslow. It might be the only way to retain his sanity.