Читать книгу Unmasking Miss Lacey - Isabelle Goddard - Страница 7

‘Stand and deliver!’

The command shattered the stillness of the autumn evening and bounced from tree to tree in a slowly diminishing echo. Even as he struggled awake, the door of the carriage was being wrenched opened.

‘Stand and deliver!’

He was looking down the barrel of a duelling pistol. An odd choice of weapon, his mind registered, but fleetingly, for the pistol was ominously close and waving him to descend. He rose from the padded leather very slowly, the mists of sleep still clouding his vision. They were in a rare open space amidst the thick canopy of forest and a black cloaked-and-booted figure astride a chestnut horse filled the aperture. The moon was riding high and flooding the clearing, glinting across the gloss of the mare’s coat and lighting the silver braid of the man’s three-cornered hat. In its ghostly white gaze he saw that his attacker was unusually slight, hardly a match for the gruff voice issuing from behind a silk handkerchief. He calculated his chances of foiling this blatant piracy and decided they were good enough, despite the risk of the cocked pistol. He was carrying a substantial sum of money and had no wish to see it fall into the pockets of a gentleman of the road.

The chestnut was becoming restive, bucking and prancing at the side of the carriage, the white blaze between its eyes shifting in and out of the moonlight. With luck the mare’s antics would distract its rider, for the one pistol must cover two men. He made as though to descend as he’d been ordered, but then at the last moment shot his arm forwards and grasped his assailant’s wrist in a punishing grip. The wrist, as he suspected, was as slender as the form and crushed beneath his iron grip. The pistol faltered, drooped and fell with a thud onto the turf. He looked at the eyes behind the mask and saw them dark with dismay. The arm was pulled violently and suddenly from his grasp and the sharp tear of cambric filled the silent glade as the attacker’s sleeve ripped apart. Then in a breath the highwayman had backed his horse, turned and was riding into the distance as though all the demons of hell were on his heels.

And so they should be, he thought grimly. The scourge of ambush had all but disappeared from England’s roads but not, it seemed, from the deeps of Sussex. He picked up the discarded weapon and a scrap of lace which lay nearby, the remains of a torn ruffle, then looked closely at the abandoned pistol. It confirmed his earlier impression that it was a strange choice for a robbery. The gun was beautifully balanced, intricately decorated and evidently expensive. Hardly a toy for a highwayman!

He slipped both pistol and lace into the capacious pocket of his travelling coat and called to his coachman.

‘It’s all right, Fielding, it’s quite safe to come down.’

The man arrived at his side in seconds, breathing hard and looking downcast. ‘My lord, I had no choice but to stop.’ His voice quavered slightly. ‘He was threatening to shoot the horses—and then me.’

‘He was indeed a desperado.’ The tone was quietly ironic and there was a pause before his master continued, ‘Although my guess would be a local youth out on the spree or intent on winning a wager.’

‘I don’t know about that, my lord,’ Fielding puffed at the implication. ‘He looked the real thing to me.’

‘He would hardly win his wager if he had not.’

‘Whatever he was, he has cut the traces,’ the coachman remarked with something like a note of triumph.

His master strode to the horses’ heads and retrieved the trailing leather. Before he had been jolted thoroughly awake, he remembered hearing in the muffled distance the jangle of harness.

‘An intelligent move for a callow youth.’

‘Yes, my lord, we’re good and stranded.’

‘You are stranded, Fielding,’ his employer corrected gently, as he unhooked the broken traces from one of the leaders. ‘I shall ride this expensive beast to the nearest inn and hire whatever transport they can offer.’

The coachman sighed, but his master affected not to notice. ‘Tomorrow you will seek out the nearest saddler and arrange for the traces to be replaced. In the meantime we must find a home for the carriage and horses.’

The coachman sighed again a little more loudly, and his master added in a kindly fashion, ‘As soon as I find a hostelry, I will give instructions for your rescue.’

Lucinda rode at breakneck speed hunched low over the mare’s neck. She lost time in threading a complicated path through the trees, but she needed to be sure that she had shaken any likely pursuit. Now she was out of the forest and hurtling down the rutted lane she had traversed so hopefully only an hour earlier. She must put as many leagues as possible between herself and her nemesis.

Her plan had gone abysmally wrong. The man in the coach was not supposed to attack her. She was the assailant: she issued the commands and he was meant to deliver. Instead she had found herself temporarily mesmerised by his powerful figure and urged into action only when he’d grabbed her with such paralysing force that she had dropped the gun and fled the scene. Even now her left wrist throbbed sickeningly, and she was barely able to touch the reins without a shudder of pain. She thanked heaven that Red knew her way home and would take her there safely.

Only gradually did she slow her headlong gallop. A thicket of trees appeared in the distance, small but dense, climbing its way up the shallow hillside as though each set of roots was planted atop the trees beneath. Within their branches lay a secret, vital to her plans if she were to accomplish the task she had set herself.

But would she? Tonight had been a disaster and she could not afford another. It was only by the quickest of thinking that she had galloped free, a split-second decision to abandon the pistol and run. If she had not had the forethought to cut the traces first … it did not bear thinking of.

The man would have picked up the gun, she was sure, but he would not know to whom it belonged. It was most unlikely that he would ever trace its owner. And if by the very worst of luck he did, what would he find—a young man left to rot in a verminous London gaol. Certainly no highwayman free and riding the road. Her brother! She could weep when she thought how badly she had let him down. There would be no escape for him now; he would remain, as she had seen him just days ago, thin and ill, surrounded by every kind of dirt and disease.

She slid from the saddle and walked towards a wall of greenery. Coaxing Red forwards, she lifted the intertwined branches one by one to reveal a rough, wooden entrance built into the hillside. She tugged on the iron handle and the door swung smoothly back. She was safe, but, thanks to her bungling, Rupert was still in danger.

Assuming the guise of a highwayman had been a crazy idea. but since her visit to Newgate she had been unable to keep it from her mind. She had been struck by one of Rupert’s fellow prisoners, a giant of a man with shaggy, black bristles and laughing black eyes. He’d smiled at her saucily as the turnkey escorted her to her brother’s miserable cell and she’d been compelled to ask his name.

‘Black Jack Collins,’ the gaoler had said, as though she should know. And then when she’d continued to look blank, he’d added helpfully, ‘A gentleman of the road so called, who’ll hang before the week is out.’

Despite this grim prediction, the image of Black Jack Collins had stayed with her. A gentleman of the road did not sound as brutal as a robber, particularly if the victim was stupidly wealthy and emerged unhurt. If she became a highwayman for just one night, she might rescue her brother. The idea held and she’d thrown herself into the adventure, relieved to be doing something, anything, to aid Rupert. All it would take was one successful theft. She would choose a wealthy traveller, a man who would hardly miss the money he’d be forced to surrender. It wouldn’t be simple, it would need careful devising, but it was possible.

She had bubbled with excitement at the audacity of the plan and been filled with hope for its success. The black suit had been her brother’s, a little baggy, but with Molly’s quick needle, it fitted well enough. Molly’s mother, a chambermaid at the Four Feathers, had found the tricorne at the back of a dusty cupboard, no doubt abandoned long ago by its nefarious owner. And the weapon had been simple—Rupert’s duelling pistols had pride of place on his bedroom wall. She had taken one and prayed that she would not have to use it.

Meticulous planning, but all for nothing! The adventure had started well enough: the coachman had been cowed by the sight of the pistol, his horses obediently still, but the man she had been tipped to rob had not been as obedient. He had not read the same script as she and her wonderful scheme had crumbled before her.

A little ahead and at a point where the narrow stone passage branched in opposite directions, a dimly glowing lamp was being held high in the air. Red gave a gentle whinny at the sight of the waiting figure.

‘Miss Lucy, thank goodness! You’re here at last.’ A young girl rushed forwards. ‘I thought you would be returned an age ago.’

‘There was some trouble, Molly, and I had to take the long way home.’

‘Trouble, miss?’ The maid’s eyes held worry. ‘Then you didn’t …’

‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘I have returned with nothing.’

‘But you found the coach—the one Mother told us of?’

‘Yes, I found the coach.’ Her mistress’s voice was faint with weariness. ‘I even brought it to a halt. But its passenger was too strong for me and …’ she stumbled on her words ‘… I was nearly caught.’

The maid took a sharp intake of breath.

‘You must not worry.’ Lucinda gave her a quick hug. ‘Red spirited me from the scene and, as you see, I’m safe and well.’

‘Thank the lord, Miss Lucy, you’re home. I’ve been that anxious. But …’

‘But?’

‘There’s trouble brewing. Your uncle is fair beside himself.’

‘Uncle Francis? What ails him?’ Surely her uncle could not have got wind of this exploit.

‘I don’t rightly know, miss, but he’s been demanding to see you this past hour. I said you were laid down with the headache. But he fell into such a tantrum that I’m afeared he’ll be banging on your door before long and demanding to come in.’

‘Then I must make sure I’m behind it when he arrives,’ her mistress said with a brightness she was far from feeling. And before her maid had turned to lead the horse away, she was racing along the opposite passage, making for the concealed staircase.

She had barely struggled out of the incriminating clothes and into her wrapper before there was a peremptory knock and her uncle strode into the room. She tried to compose her face into one of suffering and hoped that her cheeks were not glowing too pinkly from the night-time gallop. Francis Devereux planted his plump figure firmly by the window embrasure and stared at his niece.

‘I understand from your maid that you have been indisposed. Did you not think to tell me? I waited dinner for at least half an hour.’

She should have thought. Her uncle’s mealtimes were sacrosanct and an attack on his food was an attack on him. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. Molly was busy attending me, else I would have sent her much earlier with a message.’

He harrumphed irritably. ‘I trust her ministrations were successful. You are recovered?’

Lucinda thought she had better be recovered. Even in candlelight, she was looking far too healthy.

‘She brewed me a wonderful concoction of her mother’s—Mrs Tindall is a genius— and since I have rested, the headache has vanished.’

Her uncle’s small blue eyes peered at her short-sightedly. ‘I’m glad to hear it. You certainly look well enough and it is most important that you do so.’

He began to pace up and down the room, the wooden floor occasionally creaking beneath his considerable weight. After a few minutes he stopped to face his niece and saw her puzzled expression. ‘I wish you to look your very best.’

As an explanation it fell far short. She was beginning to think that perhaps her uncle had imbibed rather too heavily at dinner when he startled her by saying, ‘In the event it is fortunate that he has not yet arrived—although I must say that I do not understand the delay.’ His tone was pettish and there was a frown on his face. ‘I trust that he will be with us tomorrow at the latest.’

‘Who?’

‘Do you never listen, Lucinda?’

She tried to look contrite, but it was difficult. She had no idea to whom her uncle referred nor any memory of a likely guest. Guests at Verney Towers were as rare as hen’s teeth. She seldom had time for her uncle’s little schemes and tonight even less. Tonight she had almost been caught and the spectre of the gallows wavered in the shadows of her mind. She shuddered as she thought of Black Jack’s fate. She had risked that same terrifying destiny, but only to fail. Her beloved twin was still imprisoned, still liable to succumb to illness or worse.

But she tried to school her face to one of complacence, for her uncle must not suspect for one minute what she had been at. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Francis, you must have spoken of this some time ago and it has completely gone from my memory.’

She must humour him sufficiently that he would go away. Reaction to her wild adventure was setting in and every limb felt leaden. Her wrist was throbbing ever more painfully and her whole being felt as though weighted by iron. All she wanted was sleep.

Her guardian shifted impatiently and when he spoke his tone was part irritation and part indulgence. ‘I shall never understand how women can remember the precise shade of a ribbon, but ask them to remember something of importance and it is all hay with them.’

She felt indignation rising. Long ago she had come to the conclusion that her uncle was one of the most tiresome men she would ever meet: a combination of foolish pride and moral rectitude was not a happy one. But she needed to be rid of him and she forced herself to sound agreeable. ‘Please remind me, Uncle.’

‘The Earl of Frensham is to visit us!’ Francis Devereux said this with the air of a ringmaster about to produce his most celebrated lion.

‘I see.’ She knew her response was inadequate, but her uncle appeared too absorbed by his own cleverness to remark on it.

He had resumed his pacing, the squeak of new boots now joining with the creaking floorboards in rampant disharmony. ‘I did not mention earlier that a message had come from the earl, for I had no wish to unsettle you unnecessarily.’

You thought it best not to put me on my guard, she translated inwardly, but why he had been so reticent, she had no idea.

‘The Earl of Frensham!’ Sir Francis exclaimed again. ‘Think of that. Such a splendid prize! It has taken a deal of time and persuasion to get him here, you know.’

Her head was buzzing; her uncle’s self-satisfaction was hardly new, but what had this earl to do with her?

Sir Francis stopped walking and drew near. ‘I won’t hide the fact, Lucinda, that on occasions I have not been entirely certain that it was the right path to pursue. I’ve had my doubts. Disquieting rumours from time to time, but they have turned out to be nothing but spiteful gossip—the usual scurrilous talk of the ton—and I was right to dismiss it. All froth and no substance, my girl!’ he finished triumphantly.

‘So the earl is coming,’ she ventured, hoping that he would get off his chest what he needed to say, and leave her in peace.

‘He is. He is coming to meet you, my dear.’

‘But he does not even know me.’

Her uncle looked at her as if she were slightly feeble minded. ‘Naturally he does not. That is why he is coming to Verney Towers, to make your acquaintance.’

‘I am most flattered,’ she managed, ‘but why me?’

‘Surely, Lucinda, you remember that much. His grandfather and my father made a promise to one another.’

She recalled hearing some such nonsense at the breakfast table one morning of late, but she had dismissed it as unworthy of notice. Her uncle was not of the same mind.

‘If the old Earl of Frensham—that is the second earl—if he were to have a grandson and my father a granddaughter, they were to make a match of it.’

She stared in astonishment. ‘But why?’

‘It was their dearest wish that the two families should be joined. They were the very best of friends for all their lives.’

‘It seems a little odd to be making plans for your grandchildren.’ More than a little odd, she thought. ‘What about their own children—surely they would have fulfilled the family wishes much sooner?’

Her uncle looked fixedly at the floor. ‘It pains me, as you well know, to talk of your mother. I believe the old earl’s son proved similarly unreliable.’

‘I’m sorry, Uncle Francis, but I still don’t see what this has to do with me.’

Her uncle lifted his gaze. ‘You are the granddaughter, of course.’ He spoke slowly and emphatically, as though by intensifying every word, any objections would be blown away. ‘I hope very much to see you marry into the Frensham family.’

‘You wish me to marry an unknown man, years older than myself?’ Truly her uncle had run mad.

‘He is not old, foolish girl. He is the third earl and inherited the title and considerable estates when he was a very young man. He can be little more than thirty.’

‘But I do not know him.’ She realised that she was repeating herself but felt too dazed to argue coherently.

‘This is your opportunity to become acquainted. I consider it a blessing that you have not previously met. Your unspoilt charm will come as a delightful surprise, for he has been on the town for many years and has suffered every kind of lure.’

She was too appalled to respond, but it hardly mattered. Francis was in full flow. ‘The earl is a very wealthy man,’ he sounded inordinately proud of the fact, ‘and has been much courted. I understand that he has grown tired of the attentions shown him. You have never mixed in high society and so will be the perfect antidote. His sisters—all three of them charming creatures—are as convinced as I that you will make an ideal couple.’

And what about me, she wanted to scream. I have no wish to marry; indeed, I loathe the very notion. But if I am to be forced into wedding, how ideal will a man ten years older than me, one I have never met, a man who has scandal trailing his coat tails, exactly how ideal will he be for me? But she knew it would be useless to argue: when Francis Devereux alighted on an idea, it would not be dislodged by even the mightiest earthquake.

Her uncle took her bowed head as acquiescence. ‘I will not force you into any marriage you do not wish to make, Lucinda,’ he said more amenably, ‘but I will expect that you treat with courtesy a man who has travelled here to make your acquaintance.’

The door shut behind him and she sunk on to the bed, numbed by the disasters that had befallen her. Cherished hopes had been shattered, a terrifying escape endured, and now the threat of a husband had appeared out of nowhere, filling the air with a black poison. Her uncle had said that he would not force her into an arranged marriage, but she was not stupid. She would be pressured, that was for sure, in all kinds of subtle ways. A man did not travel from London to be given a polite brush off. He would expect an answer and in the affirmative.

‘Is everything all right, Miss Lucy?’ Molly had returned from the stables and was peering anxiously around the bedroom door.

‘No,’ she answered bluntly. ‘My uncle wishes me to know that he has a guest arriving very shortly, a man I have never met, but one I am forced to greet with complaisance.’

‘Does he come as a suitor?’ the maid ventured.

‘He may choose to call himself such. I do not. The idea is preposterous.’

‘You may like him,’ Molly said hopefully.

Lucinda was well aware of the romantic notions embedded in her maid’s breast and tried to let her down gently. ‘That is most unlikely. He will be as the rest of his tribe—wealthy, idle and overindulged. From what Uncle Francis let slip, he may even be immoral.’

‘Sir Francis would never ask you to meet anyone disreputable.’

‘No, you’re right. My uncle is a puritan and if he has vetted and approved this man, he will be whiter than white and no doubt tedious beyond words. He will be prosy and dull. I shall probably fall asleep even as he talks to me.’

Before her mistress had stopped speaking, a sharp rap summoned Molly to the door. When she returned, it was to stammer, ‘Your uncle has sent a message, miss. The gentleman has arrived.’

‘Now! At this hour! What kind of person arrives at past ten in the evening?’

‘I couldn’t say for sure, but Sir Francis wants you dressed and downstairs immediately.’ She opened a closet door as she spoke and considered the array of garments within.

‘Shall I lay out the cream silk, miss? That complements your skin beautifully. And we can do your hair à la Meduse—little ringlets, like so.’ And she made a few passing feints in the air. ‘I’ve been practising these past weeks and it shouldn’t take long.’

Lucinda glared at her, shaking herself free of the depression which had begun to lap insidiously at her spirits.

‘Lay out the drabbest gown you can find, Molly,’ she commanded imperiously, ‘and search for that dreadful shawl the vicar’s wife gave me. I wish to look a complete dowdy! That should send him beetling back to London in a hurry, for he will want his money and title to buy something a great deal better.’

When she saw who stood in the flagged hallway below, Lucinda almost turned tail for the sanctuary of her room. She faltered on the final two stairs and, but for her uncle’s intervention, might have fallen. A state of frozen horror engulfed her. At this very moment she stood facing the man she had attempted to rob! She was incredulous, dumbfounded.

‘Allow me to present my niece to you, Lord Frensham—Miss Lucinda Lacey.’ Francis Devereux danced fussily around them. ‘Lucinda, this is the Earl of Frensham.’

‘Jack Beaufort,’ he said, bowing low over her hand.

‘My lord.’

Her tone was coldly formal and the curtsy she bobbed perfunctory. She was forcing herself to present an indifferent face, but it was a titanic struggle. To maintain composure when her mind was besieged by terrors! Had he recognised her? Was it possible that he saw, in the badly dressed girl before him, the highwayman of a few hours ago? Please, no, she prayed. She had recognised him immediately.

Slowly she emerged from the first sickening sense of shock and, under cover of her uncle’s monologue, snatched a covert glance. He wasn’t what she’d expected. Nor, she was sure, what her uncle had expected. The man appeared completely at his ease, his air of confidence pervading the vast hall and metaphorically rattling the suits of armour which punctuated its panelled walls in dreary sequence. His dress was elegance incarnate, down to the last burnished tassel swinging from his gleaming Hessians, and, if not precisely handsome, he made a striking figure. A small scar punctured his left cheek and the way that a lock of dark hair fell across his brow almost meeting it, gave him the look of a pirate. He needed only the eye patch and he would be complete. She could see why he had overpowered her so easily for, though tall, he was solidly built. His form told of many hours of punishing sport and she thought he would revel in it. Even his name—Jack Beaufort—had a piratical tang.

‘We are delighted that you were able to visit, your lordship,’ Francis Devereux oozed, his plump cheeks puffed with pride.

‘I am delighted to be at Verney Towers and to make your acquaintance.’ The words were right, but the man’s expression suggested otherwise. His was a smile of false pleasure, Lucinda decided.

‘It is a great honour to welcome you to our house, Lord Frensham, no matter what the hour.’

Sir Francis, she noted, was unable to resist a rebuke even to his prize guest, but the earl seemed not to notice. ‘I regret the necessity of arriving so late,’ he said smoothly, ‘but I was forced to hire a conveyance from the Four Feathers, an inn a few miles from here.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Devereux said eagerly. ‘We know the Feathers well. But why did you not continue the journey in your own carriage? I would have been more than glad to house your cattle.’

‘That is most kind, Sir Francis, but unhappily it was not possible.’ She saw a small smile appear at the corners of the earl’s mouth and knew that he was enjoying himself. ‘You see, I was set upon by a robber, a gentleman of the road as I believe they call themselves. He cut the traces and made it impossible for me to continue. I was forced to ride to the inn to secure help.’

‘But that is dreadful.’ Francis Devereux’s face was stricken. ‘Quite dreadful. A highwayman, you say. But we have not had highwaymen in Sussex for many a year.’

‘You have now,’ the earl remarked laconically.

‘But where did this dreadful event occur? Were you or your company hurt? What valuables were you forced to hand over?’

The questions rained down and she could see their guest exercising severe restraint to stop himself from laughing aloud. The ambush had disturbed her uncle acutely and he had forgotten his society manners in the clamour to know every last detail.

‘Please do not concern yourself. Nothing was taken and neither of us was hurt.’

‘Neither?’ Sir Francis looked puzzled.

‘I was travelling alone except for my coachman.’

‘Only a coachman!’ This seemed to exercise Sir Francis even more than the attempted robbery. ‘But my dear sir how could you be so imprudent?’

‘Lynton, my valet, will follow in a few days.’

Francis appeared to be working himself into a small paroxysm. ‘This robbery …’ he began for the third or fourth time.

‘Nothing was taken,’ the earl reminded him.

‘But it could have ended in disaster. We cannot have such a thing happening again, not in our quiet Sussex lanes.’

‘In fact, a quiet Sussex forest,’ Jack interjected, evidently hoping to annoy.

Sir Francis began to wring his hands. ‘But to have this threat on our very doorstep …’

She could almost see Jack Beaufort sigh inwardly. His host was not going to forget. She was sure that he had mentioned his adventure to see its effect, no doubt a small amusement in a vale of tedium. And now he had seen it and amusement was not the first word that sprang to mind.

In an attempt to deflect his host, he said, ‘I could always call in the Runners if you are seriously concerned. I have some small influence at Bow Street.’

The older man leapt upon the suggestion. ‘Yes, Bow Street. That’s the thing. I should be most grateful if you would do so, my lord.’

At these words, Lucinda felt her body stiffen. It was involuntary, the smallest of movements, and she prayed that her adversary had not noticed her recoil. She turned her head very slightly and met a pair of the deepest brown eyes. They wore a mere whisper of curiosity, but they were fixed intently on her. He had noticed, she thought, with misgiving, but what would he make of it?

It was clear that the girl had not liked the suggestion of a Runner. He could not imagine why that might be, but he hoped it might provoke her into speech. She had hardly said a word, standing mute and expressionless, beside her uncle. He was unused to such cavalier treatment, especially from a nondescript provincial. She was small and drab, but what else had he expected. She appeared to be dressed in a brown sack for that was all he could call it: a shapeless, mud-coloured garment that looked as though it had been worn to clean the scullery. Beneath his fascinated gaze, she had pulled a shawl of the vilest magenta stripes more closely around her shoulders.

She appeared nervous, too, or so he had at first thought. That was hardly surprising, ill dressed as she was and no doubt unused to company. She had almost tripped as she came down the stairs towards him. But straightening up from his bow, he’d been met by a pair of mutinous blue eyes. In the sparse candlelight of the bleak hall, they were pure sapphire. This was no shy ingénue, made uneasy by their meeting. Intrigued, he’d looked more intently at her. In response she’d averted her glance and quite deliberately looked through him. He was taken aback. He had no intention of making her or anyone else an offer of marriage, but she could not know that. She would imagine that he had come with courtship in mind and she was behaving as though he were the last man in the world she wanted to see. Miss Lacey was an enigma, but there was something, too, that was strangely familiar about her. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

Not that he wanted to, for he was already cursing himself for having embarked on this journey. He must have been mad to agree to his sisters’ suggestion. He’d risked robbery tonight—possibly worse—in order to visit a man he’d taken in immediate dislike and a girl who radiated disdain. Rescue could not come quickly enough. A fervid image floated in the air before him: Fielding racing his team of greys up the gravelled drive and pulling the coach to a welcome halt. He could almost smell the cloud of dust.

He’d had to get out of town: that was clear enough. London was getting just a little too hot for him, the duel a step too far. And the constant scolding of his sisters had become intolerable. At the time it seemed a clever ploy, disappearing from London society for a few weeks to allow the gossip to quieten, while at the same time fulfilling his family’s wishes. But now it no longer seemed quite so clever. In fact, it was quite possibly one of the worst decisions he had ever made. The sooner he was on his way to Merry’s and the congenial shooting party that awaited him, the better.

Verney Towers! The house was a barrack of a place, grandiose and uncomfortable in equal measure. Why had he allowed himself to be persuaded here? The scandal with Celia Burrage would have died a death soon enough. Ton gossip had a short life and, after all, he had done no more than many. His was not the first duel to be fought over an errant wife, nor would it be the last. But in future he would eschew the married ladies of his acquaintance, accommodating though they were, and find his fun elsewhere. That shouldn’t be too difficult. There were plenty of chère amies to keep the boredom at bay, barques of frailty more than willing to spend his money. As for his three taskmasters—he should be immune to his sisters’ reproaches by now. That they should imagine he would honour some insane pledge of their grandfather’s had seemed ridiculous when they’d told him. Now it left him speechless.

They might be rendered speechless, too, if they saw for themselves the bride they were proposing. It wasn’t that she was bad looking. Indeed, he imagined that those eyes could be fascinating when they weren’t so evidently affronted and the straw-blonde locks entrancing when not scraped into the most unbecoming bun he had ever seen. But they were of a piece with the rest of her appearance: she made no attempt to attract, no attempt to interest or entice. Nothing, in short, that would persuade him to stay a minute longer than he needed. As soon as his travelling coach was once more roadworthy, he would make his escape.