Читать книгу An Innocent Deceit - Gail Whitiker, Gail Whitiker - Страница 7

A suffocating yellow fog had descended upon London, blanketing the City, all but immobilising the steady flow of traffic through the already crowded streets. It hung in the night air like a shroud; stinging the eyes of those foolhardy enough to venture outside without suitable covering and making it nearly impossible for anyone to see more than two feet in front of them.

Standing before the drawing-room window of the elegant house in Park Lane, Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Carlyle, stared out into the murky darkness of the night and felt as though the cursed fog had penetrated into the very room in which he stood. Its silence was oppressive; its heaviness permeating into even the most far-flung corners of the house, causing his head to ache, and his already sagging spirits to plummet like a stone.

God, how he hated this house. Hated the unhappy memories associated with it and the wretched way it made him feel. He grew increasingly restless when forced to reside in it for any length of time; assailed by a boredom that was totally out of keeping with his normally ebullient spirits—which was why he endeavoured to spend as much of his time away from it as possible.

But even that did him no good of late, for the moment he stepped through the front door, he felt the familiar malaise begin to return, settling on him much the same way the cursed fog had settled on London. And the most frustrating part of all was that he had absolutely no idea how to go about ridding himself of it.

Turning away from the window, Sebastian walked towards the elegant sideboard situated between the pink and white marble fireplace and the ornate boule cabinet, and poured himself a generous glass of brandy. He swirled the golden liquid in the bowl, impressed neither by the quality of the Venetian crystal nor by the excellent vintage of the wine. These things he took for granted, as he did everything else about the elegant town house in which he lived; a house which meant so little to him, yet which had meant everything to his late wife; the beautiful and desirable Violet, Countess of Carlyle.

At the thought of the woman to whom he had been married, Sebastian tilted the glass to his lips and drank deeply, feeling the fiery spirit burn a path down his throat. Violet. It was hard to believe that she had been dead over two years. At times, he felt like she was still here, her spirit lingering on in the dark corridors of the vast house like a physical presence.

And why would it not linger? Sebastian acknowledged wryly. There was far more of her here than there was of him. The Ming bowls and the other priceless knick-knacks she had been so fond of collecting—indeed, the house itself, with its Italian marble, and its magnificent crystal chandeliers—meant nothing to him. As Sebastian glanced around the opulent drawing room which had been embellished with nearly as much chinoiserie as the Regent’s pavilion in Brighton, all he could see were the suffocating crowds Violet had filled it with in her endless quest to become London’s most popular and accomplished hostess.

And eventually, she had. But at what cost to him, and to their marriage?

Still, all that was of little consequence now. Sebastian had married the beautiful, but shallow, Lady Violet Pelham, and had elevated her upon his father’s death to the exalted rank of Countess, whereupon she had set out to more than make up for the lack of regard her husband seemed to have for the title. And, in doing so, she had lost him.

Perhaps that’s what this was all about, he reflected sadly. Perhaps regret was the cause of this…malaise which plagued him; dogging his steps, and causing the mouth which had once moved so easily to laughter to twist so cynically. God knew, he had been living a lie for more years than he cared to admit. A lie which had begun shortly after his marriage…and a marriage which had died shortly after it had begun…

‘My lord?’

Sebastian raised the glass to his lips, but he did not turn around. ‘What is it, Royce?’

‘Mr Bingham asks if you might be able to see him.’

Sebastian’s brow furrowed in annoyance. Damn. He wasn’t in a mood to see anyone right now, and certainly not the steward of Ashdean. The man knew him too well. He was one of the few people who could see beyond the barricades Sebastian erected, and who could touch on areas, on emotions, that were best left undiscovered.

Unfortunately, Sebastian also knew that there was little to be gained by putting the man off. The business of the estate went on, no matter what his own particular frame of mind. ‘Very well.’ He downed the rest of the brandy in one mouthful. ‘Show him up.’

The butler bowed, and in a few moments, returned with the late-night caller. ‘Mr Bingham, my lord.’

‘Come in, Paddy.’ Sebastian’s tone was brusque as he turned to address the steward by name—one of the few people who warranted such treatment. ‘Will you have a drink?’

Padrick Douglas Bingham, steward of Ashdean, shook his head as he advanced into the room. He was an ordinary-looking man; tall, with rugged features, a thatch of thick, sandy-coloured hair that styled after no fashion but its own, and green eyes that seemed to sparkle with perpetual mirth. Certainly there was nothing to distinguish him from the hundreds of other men who worked for the Earl.

But there was a difference. Paddy Bingham was one of the few men with whom Carlyle felt truly at ease. He was one of the fewer still who had earned Sebastian’s trust.

‘Sorry to be stopping by so late, my lord,’ Bingham said now as he set a handful of letters on the desk.

Sebastian dismissed the apology with a casual wave of his hand. ‘The fault is not yours. No doubt you called earlier and did not find me at home.’

‘I would have been surprised if I had.’ A knowing smile briefly touched the older man’s face. ‘You’re a very popular gentleman about Town these days.’

Sebastian’s face relaxed, as it did when in the company of people he genuinely cared about. ‘So I have heard, though for the life of me I cannot think why. My own company is beginning to bore me dreadfully. Sure I cannot tempt you to join me?’ he offered, holding up the decanter of brandy again.

‘Thank you, my lord, but I stopped at the Crown and Anchor on my way in.’

‘The Crown and Anchor.’ Sebastian poured himself another brandy. ‘Is the fair Mariette still waiting tables there?’

‘Aye. With a face that could melt a sailor’s heart, and a tongue that could put him to the blush.’ Bingham winked knowingly. ‘She was asking about you.’

Sebastian smiled but made no reply. He was not surprised that Mariette remembered him. He had spent many a night in her bed since Violet’s death, losing himself in the softness of her body and in the forgiving warmth of her arms. But of late, even that had failed to eradicate the blackness which had taken possession of his soul.

He gestured for the steward to sit down. ‘So, what brings you out on such a foul night, Paddy? Matters of grave importance?’

‘Hardly grave, my lord, though not without some import. I believe I have found a suitable master for the Lady Clara.’

Sebastian stared at him blankly. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘A riding master. You asked me to hire one for your daughter.’

Abruptly aware that his latest undertaking had all but slipped his mind, Sebastian’s mouth tightened. ‘Yes, of course. What have you to tell me?’

‘That I received a number of letters in response to the advertisement, and after whittling out the unsuitable ones, I was left with two possibilities.’

‘Good God, only two? What was wrong with the rest of them?’

‘Any number of things. Dubious work background, not enough experience, suspect reasons for prior dismissals. It doesn’t pay to be too careful when it comes to the well-being of the Lady Clara, my lord.’

Sebastian glanced at his man sharply, not sure whether Bingham wasn’t bamming him. But one look at the steward’s face was enough to assure him that his doubts were both unworthy and unnecessary. Paddy Bingham genuinely cared for the child—which was more than many were willing to say for him, Sebastian reflected guiltily. ‘Go on, Paddy, you said you had it down to two gentlemen.’

‘Yes, a Mr Henry Huddlesworth and a Mr Tony Davlin. I have both their letters here.’

Sebastian glanced at the letters, but made no move to read them. ‘Have you a recommendation?’

‘Of the two it would appear that Mr Huddlesworth has more experience in teaching young men and women the skills of riding. However, he is at present living with his ailing mother in Yorkshire.’

Sebastian frowned. ‘Rather a long way to come for work, isn’t it?’

‘It seems that Mr Huddlesworth is quite prepared to move,’ Bingham said, ‘but I admit I had some concerns as to how often he might need to return to Yorkshire to see to the old lady’s health.’

‘A valid concern,’ Sebastian acknowledged. ‘What of Mr Davlin?’

‘While Mr Davlin does not seem to have had as much actual teaching experience, I get the impression that he enjoys working with young children a good deal more than does Mr Huddlesworth. And he certainly knows his horses.’

Sebastian glanced at his steward in amusement. ‘You gleaned all of that from a letter, Paddy? Upon my word, you are even more astute than I gave you credit for. Very well, this Mr…Davlin,’ Sebastian said, wondering why the name should sound vaguely familiar to him. ‘Where does he live?’

‘In the area,’ Bingham informed the Earl. ‘He mentions the use of a cottage on Lord Shand’s estate.’

‘I see. And how would you like to proceed?’

‘With your permission, I would like to bring both gentlemen to Ashdean, and have them spend some time with Lady Clara. Once I see how they handle themselves with the little girl, I shall be able to give you a more accurate recommendation.’

‘As you will, Paddy. When can they start?’

‘Whenever is convenient for you, my lord.’ Bingham duly retrieved the letters. ‘Neither gentleman is currently employed.’

Sebastian briefly inclined his head, as though weary of the conversation. ‘Fine. Make the arrangements. Whichever one you choose may commence as soon as possible.’

Bingham glanced at the Earl in surprise. ‘You will not wish to interview them yourself?’

‘I hardly think it necessary. Your judgement in matters concerning the estate has always been faultless, Paddy. I am sure that whichever man you choose will be fine with me.’

Bingham flushed at the unexpected compliment. ‘It is good of you to say so, my lord.’

‘In any event, I have no doubt that I shall see Mr Huddlesworth or Mr Davlin eventually,’ Sebastian said carelessly. ‘I think it is time that I went down to the country for a while.’

It was difficult to tell who was the more surprised by the unexpected announcement: Mr Bingham upon hearing it, or Sebastian upon uttering it. For, in truth, he had not known that he was even contemplating such an idea until he had heard the words leave his lips. But, once said, the idea began to take hold in his mind.

Yes, perhaps a sojourn in the country was just what he needed. It certainly couldn’t be any worse than remaining in Town, Sebastian reflected dimly. And he had always loved Ashdean, the rambling Elizabethan house set in the gently rolling countryside of Kent. Indeed, some of his fondest memories were of growing up in that house. As a child, he had ridden over every hill and explored every valley, coming to love the land which had belonged to his family for centuries. He had even taken his new bride there in the early weeks of their marriage.

Granted, Violet had complained bitterly nearly the entire time they were there until, guilt-ridden, he had dutifully driven her back to Town, but at least there were no memories of bitter fights and long cold silences. Those had come later.

But there was one memory at Ashdean which Sebastian would never be able to forget.

Clara.

Sebastian closed his eyes as he dropped his head forward and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. Good God, was it really a year since he had last visited his daughter? It must be. She had been approaching her sixth birthday at the time, and only two days ago, Bingham had informed him that her seventh birthday was fast approaching. Where had the time gone?

Of course, it wasn’t just the time, Sebastian admitted guiltily. He had stayed away, not because he had been reluctant to see Clara, but for reasons which none but himself knew. Reasons which even Paddy had not been privy to. Added to that was the fact that he simply didn’t know how to behave around the child. He was not used to children of any age, let alone a six-year-old. Very few of his friends had offspring Clara’s age, and those who did were more than happy to leave them to the care of their mothers or nannies.

It was ironic really. For all his adeptness at court, Sebastian found himself painfully at a loss when it came to dealing with the wide-eyed stare of his own child. But then, was it any wonder? He’d had no brothers or sisters of his own, and he had seen Clara less than ten times since she had been born, due mainly to Violet’s outright refusal to share the child with him in the early years of her life. She had begun to smother Clara, perhaps in a pathetic attempt to make up for the love that had been missing in her own relationship. It had grown so bad that just the sight of her father was enough to make Clara burst into tears.

Hardly the kind of welcome any new father looked for.

For that reason, and for…others, Sebastian had had virtually nothing to do with the child. After Violet’s death, he had seen to it that the nursery at Ashdean had been luxuriously appointed, and had even hired a governess to look after her. But beyond that, the best Sebastian had been able to do was send Clara expensive toys for her birthday and a special box at Christmas; presents usually chosen by Bingham, and sent from an unknown man who called himself her father…

‘Yes, I shall go down to the country. Just for a few days, mind,’ Sebastian added, aware of a tightness in his throat which had nothing to do with the brandy. ‘You may expect me…within the week.’

Taking care to conceal his surprise, Bingham nodded and slowly got to his feet. ‘Very good, my lord. I shall inform the household of your impending arrival. And I shall contact Mr Huddlesworth and Mr Davlin to set up interviews.’ He paused to glance at the averted face of his employer. ‘You are quite sure you do not wish to meet with either of them?’

‘Quite sure. There will be many other pressing concerns to which I must address myself.’

‘As you wish, my lord. Will there be anything else?’

Sebastian shook his head, his mind already on other matters. ‘I think not. Goodnight, Paddy.’

‘Goodnight, my lord.’

Alone again, Sebastian sat down at the writing table and stared at the neat pile of papers which dotted its top. A trip to the country? He must be mad. No one travelled to the country when there were still so many things to do in London. And yet, what exactly was there for him to do in London? When was the last time he had actually looked forward to going to a ball, or to spending an evening at the theatre? When had he ever anticipated an afternoon filled with nothing more exciting than going aimlessly from one at-home to the next?

What was there in London that he was truly going to miss?

Nothing. And as the reality of that hit home, Sebastian’s mouth began to curve in the first real smile he had experienced in weeks. There was absolutely nothing in London that he was going to miss. In fact, the mere thought of getting out of it for a few days was enough to lift him out of the dismals. He summoned Royce and informed him of his intentions.

Sebastian did not miss the nearly imperceptible quirk of his servant’s left eyebrow. Nor did he fail to recognise that Royce was almost as surprised as Bingham had been. That, if anything, served to convince Sebastian that his actions were long overdue. He had been living the life of a man about Town for too long. It was time he found something else upon which to focus his attention; time he tried to develop some kind of relationship with that little girl in the country—even if he was late in getting started.

He may have failed miserably as a husband, but that did not mean he had to fail at being a father as well! He only hoped that he hadn’t left it too late.

‘Toni, you did it!’ Catherine joyously waved a piece of paper over her head as Antonia walked into the yellow saloon at Shand Hall a few days later. ‘The Earl of Carlyle wishes to see you!’

Antonia blanched, and her hand went immediately to her heart. ‘He does? Oh, dear! I really had not expected that he would.’

‘Well, he does,’ Catherine exclaimed, handing her the letter. ‘Here. Read it for yourself.’

Antonia set her reticule down on the table and reached for the piece of heavy cream parchment which boldly displayed the Carlyle crest at the top of it, and held it between hands that were visibly shaking.

The letter—which had come to Shand Hall at Antonia’s request—was from Carlyle’s steward, Mr Bingham, and it informed Tony Davlin that the Earl of Carlyle would be pleased to consider him for the position of riding master to his daughter, the Lady Clara. It further instructed Mr Davlin to be at the stables at Ashdean at two o’clock the following Monday afternoon.

‘La, Toni, I can scarce believe it,’ Catherine said breathlessly. ‘I never thought that you would actually get it.’

Antonia shook her head in wonderment. ‘No, nor did I, Kitty.’

Her ‘perfectly splendid idea’ had been to apply for the position, not as Miss Antonia Hadley, but as Mr Tony Davlin. As she had explained to Catherine, she was not telling a complete lie by using the masculine form of address. If she shortened her first name to Tony, and employed her mother’s maiden name of Davlin, she was, for all intents and purposes, Tony Davlin.

And because it was hardly to be expected that Lord Carlyle would entertain a query from a young woman, Antonia felt sure that by representing herself as the highly competent Mr Tony Davlin, she would at least have a chance to meet with the steward and to plead her case. And if she could do that with any degree of competency, was he not then far more likely to recommend her for the position than anyone else?

It certainly seemed so. Because here, in her hands, was the proof that she did indeed possess the qualifications the Earl was looking for.

‘Nor have I been granted it yet,’ Antonia reminded her friend. ‘While the letter does not mention my being interviewed by Lord Carlyle himself, it does say that I shall be required to meet with his steward, Mr Bingham.’

‘Do you know this Mr Bingham?’

‘We have not actually met, but I have seen him when I have gone to visit Clara at Ashdean. Surprisingly, he and Clara seem to be fast friends.’

‘Well, I suppose it was too much to hope that you could be hired without having been seen by anyone,’ Catherine acknowledged, ‘but how will you go on at the meeting itself, Toni? It is all very well to fool someone on paper, but there is no disguising the fact that you are a young lady when it comes time for the interview. What do you think Mr Bingham will say when he discovers who…or rather what you are?’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Antonia answered truthfully as she tapped the letter against her chin. ‘I suppose it depends on what his feelings are as regards hiring a woman.’

‘His feelings may have no bearing on the matter, given Lord Carlyle’s antipathy towards women,’ Catherine pointed out. ‘Still, I suppose there is nothing you can do now but go and give it your best. The fact that you received a reply at all indicates that they were impressed with your qualifications.’

The girls lapsed into silence, each intent upon their own thoughts. For Antonia, the letter’s arrival had put her in a definite quandary. To know that she had a genuine chance at the position, solely as a result of her experience with horses and her desire to do the job, was extremely encouraging.

To know that she might lose the position, for no other reason than that she was a woman, was sobering to say the least.

By Friday, Antonia had still not come up with a plan for either avoiding or deceiving Mr Bingham. She had toyed with the idea of dressing up as a man, and had even gone so far as to mention it to Catherine, who had naturally thought it a foolish and outlandish idea. But, friend that she was, Catherine had managed to sneak some of her brother’s clothes out of his room for Antonia to try on.

It had soon become apparent, however, that dressing up in a boy’s clothes simply wasn’t going to work. There was no disguising the feminine curves of Antonia’s figure, nor the shapeliness of her legs in the skin-tight pantaloons and tall boots she would be required to wear. Then there was the problem of her face. It was simply…too pretty. The long curving lashes fanning out over soft grey-green eyes could never have belonged to a man, nor could the high, prominent cheekbones or the decidedly feminine mouth.

As Catherine pointed out as they stared at Antonia’s reflection in the looking glass in her bedroom, if she and Mr Bingham were to stand at thirty paces and meet by the light of the moon, there might be a slight chance of accomplishing the deceit. But during a face-to-face confrontation in the glaring light of day, there was simply no mistaking Antonia for anything but the lady she was.

‘I shall just have to explain the situation to Mr Bingham as best I can,’ said Antonia, as she and Catherine shopped for fabric in the village on the following Monday morning. ‘It is unlikely that he will not have heard Eva or one of the other servants mention my affection for Lady Clara. Perhaps I can use that as justification for my wishing to secure the post.’

Catherine sighed as she turned her attention towards a particularly fine length of Italian silk. ‘You may be able to explain them to Mr Bingham, Toni, but will he be able to explain them to the Earl? And even if you are able to avoid meeting the Earl at the initial interview, no doubt you will be forced into an encounter at some time in the not-too-distant future.’

The timing of Catherine’s statement could not have been more propitious. As the girls concluded their shopping and made their way along the street, they were stayed by the unmistakable sound of a carriage approaching. And when an impressive looking coach-and-four rounded the corner and drew to a halt in front of the very shop before which they were standing, Antonia’s eyes widened in horror.

Carlyle! There could be no mistaking the elaborate coat of arms emblazoned on the coach door or the quality of the four black horses which drew it. Nor could she question that the man who flung open the door and climbed down moments later could be anyone but the omnipotent Earl of Carlyle himself!

‘La, Toni, it’s him!’ Catherine squeaked. ‘The Earl of Carlyle! Oh, upon my word, Cynthia was right. He is handsome!’

For once, Antonia was forced to agree with an assessment made by someone whose opinion she would normally have paid scant attention to. Lord Carlyle was handsome; as handsome as any gentleman she had ever seen. Tall and commanding of stature, his features were classically perfect. A slim, aquiline nose was set above an unsmiling mouth that topped a chin that was firm and slightly square, while dark brows drew together under a shock of even blacker hair. He sported a multi-layered cape over a jacket of dark blue superfine and smooth-fitting buff pantaloons, below which Antonia could see the gleam of highly polished Hessians. He wore no jewellery save a signet ring on the ring finger of his right hand.

Not surprisingly, the arrival of the Carlyle coach and the appearance of the dashing Earl were sufficient to cause quite a stir in the tiny main street of Upper Tipping. A small cluster of girls stood giggling together across the street, while some of the more daring ladies began to cast frankly longing glances in Lord Carlyle’s direction. But it was not until the town’s leading prattle box, Lady Dalrymple, rushed from the mercer’s shop opposite and made a beeline for the three of them, that Antonia knew it was too late for her to try to escape.

‘Lord Carlyle!’ Lady Dalrymple hailed him imperiously. ‘My lord, a moment, pray.’

The gentleman glanced up, clearly nonplussed by the sight of a large and bedizened matron steaming towards him at full charge, and did not smile as he doffed his glistening black beaver. ‘Madam?’

‘Lord Carlyle, how delighted I am to see you home again.’ Lady Dalrymple, winded by the short run across the road, took a few deep breaths before turning the full force of her countenance upon him. ‘I had heard rumours that you were…returning to Upper Tipping, of course, but I had feared them little more than that. One hears so much chatter about Town these days.’

The Earl inclined his head in a gesture that was polite, but nothing more. ‘As you can see, they are rumours no longer.’

‘No, indeed, and how pleased I am that they are not,’ Lady Dalrymple professed heartily. She smiled up into his face—expectantly, it seemed to Antonia—and when no light of recognition dawned in his eyes, added quickly, ‘But surely you remember me, Lord Carlyle? Your dear mother and I were the closest of friends.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, though with no noticeable increase in warmth.

‘Oh, yes. Though I was not in London as frequently as I might have liked, we used to spend a great deal of time together whenever she was at Ashdean.’

Still nothing. Lord Carlyle continued to regard the woman with the utmost civility, but with no more insight into who she was than he had upon her arrival. ‘Madam, I pray you will forgive me, but—’

‘Lady Dalrymple, my lord!’

This last bit of information was delivered, to Antonia’s way of thinking, with more than a hint of desperation, and its response awaited with equal trepidation. It was clear from the expression on Lady Dalrymple’s face that the interview was not turning out at all as she had expected.

Fortunately, it seemed that Lord Carlyle was nothing if not a gentleman. The merest shadow of a smile touched his lips before he bowed to her and said, ‘But of course, Lady… Dalrymple. How remiss of me. Mother spoke of you…often.’

Lady Dalrymple’s anxiety vanished like a puff of wind. Oblivious to the slight note of sarcasm in the Earl’s voice, she beamed her delight and blissfully furthered her perjury. ‘Oh, yes, we were the closest of friends, she and I. And as such, I am so very glad that I am the one to be on hand to welcome you back.’

‘Thank you, Lady Dalrymple. I must say, I had not expected such an…enthusiastic welcome before even reaching my own door,’ Lord Carlyle drawled.

Fortunately, Lady Dalrymple was both slow to take offence and quick to take advantage of an opportunity. As the mother of two unmarried daughters, she could ill afford to be otherwise. ‘Yes, well, as I said, it is truly fortunate that I happened to be so close. Am I to hope that you will be staying with us for a while, Lord Carlyle?’

‘My stay is of an undecided duration,’ Lord Carlyle remarked carefully, ‘since there are a number of things which I hope to accomplish while I am here.’

‘But, that is wonderful,’ Lady Dalrymple enthused, convinced by the Earl’s carefully worded statement that he must be looking for a new wife. ‘I was only telling my girls yesterday—lovely girls, both of them unwed—that it would be such a pleasure to see a Carlyle in permanent residence again.’

‘And so you shall. Eventually,’ he was quick to point out when he saw the unmistakable look of hope which appeared on her face. ‘Though I do not know whether it will be in the near future or not. And now, if you will excuse me, I fear I must be—’

Sebastian broke off in mid-sentence, having turned and found himself staring into one of the loveliest faces he had ever had the pleasure of seeing. A pair of unusual grey-green eyes stared back at him from a face of alabaster perfection, while rose-kissed lips and a delightfully retroussé nose completed the charming visage. The lady’s rich, honey-coloured hair had been drawn softly up and back, allowing a few wispy tendrils to escape from beneath the brim of the charming straw bonnet to frame her face. She was wearing a simple gown of pale lemon muslin trimmed with white lace, over which she wore a spencer of a deeper yellow hue. Neither were styled in the first stare of fashion, but there was no denying that the modest outfit more than flattered the feminine curves of its owner.

The young woman standing beside her was also very pretty, but as Sebastian waited for the introductions to be made, he felt his gaze drawn back towards the young lady with the beautiful eyes.

‘Lady Dalrymple, perhaps you would be so good as to introduce us,’ he said politely, when at length it seemed that no such courtesy was to be extended.

‘Hmm? Oh, yes, of course, my lord, forgive me.’ Lady Dalrymple quickly made the introductions, taking care to conceal the fact that she wished to do anything but.

Both girls curtsied, as was expected. Lord Carlyle bowed first towards Catherine, as was her due, and then turned to address Antonia. ‘Hadley,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Did I hear that correctly?’

Antonia straightened slowly. She was not surprised that the Earl had asked for clarification of her name. Lady Dalrymple had uttered it so quickly as to render it almost unrecognisable. ‘You did, my lord.’

‘Then…could it be that you are also…Mr Peter Hadley’s daughter, and as such, a neighbour of mine?’

Antonia was astonished that he would remember, but took care not to let it show. ‘Our property adjoins yours to the south, yes.’

‘How strange that we have never met, Miss Hadley.’

‘On the contrary, given that I spend so little time in London, and you so little in Kent, it is not surprising at all.’

‘Perhaps that is a shortcoming I can remedy by offering to call upon your mother and father at the earliest opportunity.’

Antonia stiffened, and her eyes grew cold. ‘My mother died two years ago this November, my lord. Only my father and I reside at Buntings Hill now. I thought you might have heard.’

Beside her, Lady Dalrymple made a faint choking sound but Antonia did not care. The fact that Lord Carlyle was not even aware that her mother—a woman who, by his own admission, was one of his closest neighbours—had passed away that long ago made her exceedingly angry. While he might not choose to live in the country, the very least he could have done was to keep abreast of the lives of the families who did.

There was a brief silence as Lord Carlyle gazed down into her face. ‘Forgive me, Miss Hadley, I was not aware of your mother’s passing. Living in London has left me somewhat…out of touch. I can only say that I shall endeavour to set that to rights by paying a call upon you and your father at the earliest opportunity, in order that I might express my condolences to you both.’

It was a genuinely offered sentiment and, aware that Lady Dalrymple was listening to every word, Antonia managed a small nod of assent. She did not wish news to travel back to her father that she had been rude to the Earl—whether he was deserving of it or not. But she could not bring herself to be any warmer towards him than that.

‘Now I hope I am not rushing my fences, Lord Carlyle,’ Lady Dalrymple said, anxious to regain control of the conversation, ‘but I wonder whether you might consider joining us on Friday evening, for a small intimate dinner to welcome you back to Upper Tipping.’

The Earl reluctantly returned his attention to the speaker. ‘Thank you, Lady Dalrymple, but I fear I must decline your kind invitation, simply because I do not know how long I intend to remain in the area. However,’ he said, observing the crestfallen expression on the woman’s face—and aware that Miss Hadley was watching him closely, ‘if I am still in the vicinity and not otherwise engaged, I would be…pleased to dine with you.’

It was all the lady needed to hear. ‘How very good of you to say so, Lord Carlyle. I know how busy you must be, and I shall only say that we would be delighted if you were able to join us at, shall we say, half past five?’

Lord Carlyle winced and knowing the reason why, Antonia turned away to hide a smile. In London, she doubted that the Earl ever sat down to dine before eight. But this was the country, and here, half past five was the accepted time.

‘Thank you, Lady Dalrymple, I shall…endeavour to attend,’ he said finally. ‘But if circumstances warrant a change, I shall send a note round at the earliest opportunity.’

‘I hope there will be no need for such a note, my lord. However, if you are unable to join us, I know that it will only be as the result of a matter of extreme urgency,’ Lady Dalrymple said, not wishing to appear too desperate. ‘And now, I must be off. I did promise my girls that I would pick up a few items for them. La, there are just that many things to do when one has young, eligible daughters,’ she trilled.

Again, Antonia took pains to hide her amusement. Lady Dalrymple was no more likely to buy lace for her daughters than a hare was to sit next to a fox. No doubt the errand she intended to set out upon was the informing of as many of the female residents of the neighbourhood as possible that the handsome and eminently eligible Earl of Carlyle had returned to Upper Tipping and of her good fortune in being the first to secure him to dine.

‘Interesting woman,’ Lord Carlyle remarked carefully as Lady Dalrymple took herself off, her feathered bonnet bristling with excitement. ‘Is she always so excitable?’

‘I think she was somewhat…overwhelmed by your arrival,’ Antonia informed him drily.

She knew that her tone was somewhat sarcastic, and was not at all surprised when he addressed his next remark to Catherine. ‘Forgive me, Miss Shand, but I fear my arrival has prevented you from going about your business. May I, perhaps, offer you and Miss Hadley a ride somewhere?’

At the unexpectedly kind gesture, Catherine blushed and promptly forget where they had been going. Antonia, who was far more in control of the situation—and bothered with an entirely new concern—gave him a polite but dismissive smile. ‘Thank you, Lord Carlyle, but our carriage is waiting just there.’

Carlyle stared at her for a moment with eyes that were sharp and assessing. Antonia knew that she had sounded as unimpressed by his arrival—and by him—as Lady Dalrymple had been overwhelmed by it. But whether as a result of breeding—or simply a complete lack of interest as to what she thought—Lord Carlyle merely smiled and offered them a polite bow. ‘Then I shall detain you no longer. I bid you good day, ladies.’ With that, he walked into the merchant’s behind them and disappeared from view.

As the door swung closed behind him, Antonia closed her eyes in relief, aware that her body was trembling all over. Beside her, Catherine merely let out a long, ecstatic sigh. ‘La, is he not the most handsome of gentlemen, Toni? And so very gallant. He does not seem at all like a rake to me. Does he to you, Toni? Toni!’

‘Hmm? Oh, no, I suppose he does not,’ Antonia muttered. ‘But I cannot believe what bad luck our running into him like this is.’

‘Bad luck!’ Catherine turned to regard her best friend in astonishment. ‘Antonia, have you windmills in your head? We have just been amongst the first to be introduced to the Earl of Carlyle upon his return, and you say that it is bad luck?’

‘Goose! Of course it is! Have you forgotten that I have an interview with Mr Bingham this very afternoon? As Tony Davlin? What if the Earl should decide to attend?’

Catherine gasped in dismay. ‘Oh, dear, yes, I had forgotten! But what on earth could have induced Lord Carlyle to come down to the country so early? The Season is not yet over.’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Antonia said thoughtfully as the girls made their way back to Catherine’s curricle. ‘All I know is that he has chosen an exceedingly awkward time to make his obligatory visit to Ashdean—as if things were not awkward enough before!’