Читать книгу Scandal And Miss Markham - Janice Preston - Страница 11

Thea tried so hard to hold back her tears, but she simply could not. She dropped her chin into her chest, hand pressed against her lips as her sight blurred. To her horror a single tear plopped on to her bodice, leaving a damp splodge as the fabric absorbed it. Then another tear fell, and another. A large handkerchief was pressed into her hands. She dabbed at her eyes and forced herself to look up. The sympathy in Vernon’s green eyes almost set her off again, but she gritted her teeth and cleared her throat.

‘I am sorry. I was just thinking...if only I had paid more attention...’

‘You must not blame yourself.’

Thea swallowed her bitter laugh. Blame herself? She had done nothing but blame herself for the past six years.

‘Where is he?’ The words burst from her. ‘Why has he not even wr-written?’ Her voice choked in her throat, and she buried her head in her hands. ‘I fear the worst...’ A sob broke free. Then another. ‘B-but I must know. I c-cannot bear this...this ignorance. I f-feel so...so alone.’

Two arms wrapped around her and her head was pressed to a strong chest, the thud of his heart steady and reassuring in her ear. He held her, and stroked her hair, and she gave way to the storm of tears she had dammed up ever since the morning she had discovered that Daniel had failed to come home.

Finally the tears slowed, leaving empty shame at having succumbed to such womanly weakness. What must he think of her? Her breath hitched as she battled for control.

‘Do not despair, Miss Markham.’ Vernon’s deep voice rumbled into the ear pressed against his chest, reverberating through her entire body. Words he had spoken before but somehow, this time, of even more comfort. ‘You no longer carry this burden alone.’

Thankfulness and hope floated into her heart. Her need to confide, to have somebody on her side, was so strong it almost overwhelmed her innate caution. She felt torn: she wanted so much to believe him...to follow the instincts that told her she could trust him, but...he was a stranger. She could not be certain of what was in his heart.

As she grew calm again a single thought clarified in her mind. She cared not how she managed it but—if Vernon was going to search for Daniel—she was going, too.

‘I am sorry,’ she said, mopping her eyes again with his handkerchief, as she wriggled free of his arms. She blew her nose. ‘I am not normally given to such displays.’

She crossed to the table near the window to finish off her glass of Madeira, then squared her shoulders and turned to face Vernon. It was time to stop moping and take action.

‘Shall we discuss strategy?’

‘Strategy, Miss Markham?’

The laughter lines at the corner of his eyes deepened although his lips remained perfectly straight. Thea scowled at this spoilt lord who clearly found her an object of fun.

‘I have no need of strategy. With this information...’ he picked up the discarded note from the desk, folded it and tucked it inside his jacket ‘...and a quick chat with your grooms, I have everything I need.’

He swung around and strode for the study door and panic swamped Thea.

What have I done?

‘Wait!’

She had handed this stranger information that might help him trace Daniel, but could she trust him? What if he meant Daniel harm? This was happening too quickly. He might have decided he needed no strategy, but she needed time to think. To plan.

Above all, she needed reassurance that this man was precisely what he appeared to be: a charming, cultured gentleman. She recalled her fanciful notion that she had glimpsed a wolf beneath his surface: a wolf that watched and waited. What if he had a hidden agenda? What if he was like Jasper Connor who, for months on end, had duped Thea and her entire family into thinking he was something he was not?

Vernon had halted at her command and he slowly rotated to face her. He raised a brow, the epitome of aristocratic arrogance. An idea started to form in Thea’s brain. If she could but delay his departure a short while...

‘You will stay and have luncheon before you set out?’

‘I thought time was of the essence?’

‘It is. But a few hours will not make much difference. You must eat.’

Doubt—and masculinity—radiated from the man: his booted feet planted a yard apart, his arms folded tight across his chest, his lips compressed.

Inspiration struck. ‘You cannot go to the Nag’s Head dressed as you are.’

He glowered. ‘What is wrong with the way I am dressed?’ He unfolded his arms and took a pace towards her. ‘I’ll have you know this coat is by Weston. It is—’

‘It proclaims you for what you are,’ Thea said. She stepped closer, and held his gaze. ‘A wealthy gentleman. Places such as the Nag’s Head are not patronised by members of the aristocracy, but by ordinary men: businessmen, tradesmen, farmers. They will not speak openly to a man of your ilk. A stranger.

‘Why don’t you go to the stables and speak to the grooms,’ she went on, ‘and by the time you return to the house there will be food ready for you to eat and, after that, I shall find you something appropriate of Daniel’s to wear.’ She looked him up and down. ‘You are of a similar height and build to him. His clothes will help you to blend in.’

That should buy her time to put her plans into place.

‘Very well.’ Vernon paused as he was about to leave the study. ‘I just wish I could be certain Daniel’s disappearance is connected to Henry Manning. If the two things are coincidental, I might end up on a wild goose chase.’

And that proves I am right to be cautious. If the two enquiries lead in different directions, I make no doubt Lord Vernon Beauchamp will go chasing after his cousin and consign poor Daniel to the Devil.

Vernon strode back to the house half an hour later, not much wiser about how he might discover what had happened to Daniel Markham. The grooms could not tell him who or what was Willingdale and nor did the initials R.H. mean anything. None of them had ever accompanied Daniel on his more recent daily excursions—although they confirmed Dorothea’s story that her brother had been troubled—and nor could they offer any reason for this change in Daniel’s behaviour. They were frustrated that they had been stopped from making enquiries—and Vernon had learned that was mainly due to Dorothea’s concern that any worries about Daniel’s welfare would damage confidence in Stour Crystal—and they had scoffed at the notion that Daniel had run up gaming debts.

‘Mr Daniel ain’t never been a one for gambling, sir,’ the head man, Pritchard, had said. ‘Not since his papa lost all their money. Both Mr Daniel and Miss Thea have worked too hard to save the business to put it at risk again.’

Mr Markham senior would not be the first man to gamble away a fortune, but Vernon’s comment along those lines had resulted in a fierce denial that the money had been lost at the gaming tables. Pritchard had then clammed up, refusing to elaborate further.

Vernon had not pressed Pritchard, but had caught Bickling’s eye and given him the nod before returning to the house, confident his trusty groom would winkle out the truth and pass the information on to Vernon later.

Dorothea—Miss Thea, Pritchard had called her, which was much less of a mouthful—must have been watching for him, because she appeared at a side door and beckoned him inside. He followed her along a passageway, eyeing her neat figure with appreciation, the smell of roses and summer teasing at his senses.

‘I have laid out some clothes for you to change into,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘and there is food for you in here.’

She threw open a door that led into a shabby but homely parlour, the table laid with cold cuts, meat pies, bread, cheese and fruit, reminding Vernon of his hunger. The decor would have been the height of fashion a decade ago—in stark contrast with the ostentatious entrance hall and its grand staircase and even the more subdued but still luxurious furnishings in the study. Vernon recalled his initial scathing assessment of the well-tended surrounds of Stourwell Court as he had driven up the carriageway. The house—relatively newly built, with no passing architectural fashion left unsampled—had screamed new money to one familiar with the sprawling ancient Beauchamp family seat of Cheriton Abbey in the County of Devonshire.

Having learned of the family’s financial loss and subsequent struggle, Vernon was unsurprised by the tactic he had seen many times in the past: a family on its uppers, putting what money they could spare into the public rooms where visitors were entertained in order to keep up appearances.

‘Did you discover anything new?’

Thea came straight to the point as she closed the door behind them. Vernon was unsurprised—she had already impressed him with her directness, as well as her quick understanding.

‘Only the names of some of Daniel’s friends who drink at the Nag’s Head.’ He had no intention of revealing that the grooms had spoken of her family’s past financial difficulties. ‘Pritchard was of the opinion that Daniel had spent much of his time in Birmingham in the days before he went missing. He also reckons your brother called in at the Nag’s Head most nights on his way home. So that will definitely be my first port of call.’

‘Will you drive your curricle, or ride?’

‘I had not thought that far ahead,’ Vernon admitted. ‘If, as you say, my clothing would excite interest, then no doubt my curricle and pair will as well.’

‘A top-of-the-tree rig such as yours? I should say so,’ she said, gravely, but with a twinkle in her eye. When she wasn’t scowling she was an attractive woman. ‘You may take one of Daniel’s horses. They are perfectly decent animals, suitable for a gentleman of your standing.’

Vernon grinned. ‘I am delighted to hear it. A man of my consequence cannot be too careful.’

He might as well pander to her opinion of him as a spoilt aristocrat.

‘We had better eat.’ Thea crossed the room to the table and picked up a plate. ‘It will be more practical to go on horseback. We can take shortcuts across country—’

‘We?’ Vernon strode forward, grasped her arm and tugged her round to face him. ‘What...? Oh, no. No, no, no! Definitely not. You are not coming with me.’

Thea’s tawny brows snapped together, meeting across the bridge of her freckled nose as she drew herself up to her full height. Which was short.

‘You cannot stop me. Daniel is my brother. I want to come.’

Vernon stared down at her mutinous expression and heaved a silent sigh. He was hungry and he was anxious to set off, now he had a definite idea of where to start with his search. First he must deal with this hissing, spitting kitten.

Thea shrugged out of his hold, replaced her plate on the table with a crack that made Vernon wince and folded her arms.

‘You cannot tell me what to do. I am going.’

Vernon squared his shoulders. ‘Not with me you are not.’

‘You cannot stop me.’

‘You are correct. I cannot stop you going anywhere or doing anything you wish. But I tell you here and now...you will not do it with me. I shall return to London and you may never discover what has happened to your brother.’

Her eyes widened.

Good. That has shaken her.

‘You would not do that.’ Her voice lacked conviction.

Vernon lowered his own voice, injecting a silky menace into his tone. ‘If you put me to the test, Miss Markham, I think you will find that I do not make empty threats either.’

Her lips thinned as she glared at him. ‘What about your cousin?’

Vernon shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I shall pay an investigator to track him down and report to me in London. What you choose to forget, Miss Markham, is that I have neither desire nor need to remain here in Worcestershire, or to embark upon a search for a man I have never met. I offered my services because it is unsafe for you, as a female, to go into the places on that list. Which, incidentally, is the exact reason you cannot come with me: it is not safe. I admit to some curiosity as to my cousin’s involvement, but I shall not lose any sleep over it and you will do well to remember that.’

She hung her head, her eyes downcast. Vernon felt like an out-and-out brute, but knew he must not show any weakness for he had no doubt she would quickly seize upon it and, despite what he said, he really was curious to find out what had happened to Daniel Markham.

‘So, are we agreed? I shall leave after I have eaten and changed my clothing and you, Miss Markham, will wave me goodbye.’

‘Very well. I shall not insist on leaving with you.’

Her mouth drooped and he wondered if she were about to cry again. He had been certain that earlier bout was uncharacteristic. He could not abide women who cried at the slightest provocation, using tears as a weapon to get their own way. But, despite that, he still felt sympathy and also a little guilty, knowing how worried she was about her brother. He reached out and nudged one finger beneath her chin, tilting her face to his. Respect for her crept through him: she was dry-eyed and he was relieved at this proof she was prepared to listen to and accept his reasoning.

‘Miss Markham, you must also understand that, quite apart from it being unsafe, it would also be entirely improper for you to accompany me. Your reputation would be in tatters.’

A gleam lit those huge hazel orbs and Vernon was disconcerted by the undeniable kick of his pulse and his sudden impulse to kiss her,

His awareness of her as an attractive woman rattled him into speaking more bluntly than he should.

‘We have no idea what has happened to Daniel, but I know you are aware he could have met with foul play. It would be wholly irresponsible for me to allow you to be exposed to possible danger.’

She blinked and her cheeks paled, causing the freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks to stand out in contrast. Vernon felt a brute all over again, as though he had kicked a puppy. Or—perhaps more fitting in Thea’s case, given his earlier fanciful thoughts—a kitten. He released her chin and clasped her upper arms, bending his knees to look directly into her eyes.

‘I apologise. I did not mean to shock you.’

Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. He had upset her, but she was struggling to conceal her emotions and his respect grew at the way she handled herself in such a horrible situation.

‘Do not lose hope, Miss Markham.’ He gently rubbed her arms, trying to buoy her spirits. ‘There could still be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Daniel’s disappearance.’

She huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head, her curls bouncing. ‘Such as? No, I cannot be hopeful. He would have written to us. He would not stay away without a word.’

Vernon released her and stepped back from the temptation of taking her into his arms again to offer comfort.

‘He might be too ill to write,’ he said. ‘Or he has lost his memory. Or maybe he has written and the letter has been lost en route?’ He paced the room and then returned to come to a halt in front of her. ‘Whatever the reason, I shall discover it, but you must leave this to me. Do you understand?’

‘I understand. Now, if you will excuse me, there are matters requiring my attention.’

‘You will not join me?’

‘I find I no longer have an appetite. Enjoy your luncheon, sir. Ring for George when you have finished eating and he will show you to Daniel’s bedchamber to change your clothing. I shall see you before you leave.’ She left him with a brisk step, leaving the scent of roses lingering in her wake.

After Vernon had eaten his fill, he was shown upstairs by George.

‘I shall leave as soon as I have changed,’ Vernon told the footman. ‘Could you inform Miss Markham that I will see her downstairs in, shall we say, fifteen minutes?’

He wondered if Thea would come to see him off, or if she would stay away, sulking. No, he decided. Sulking was not Miss Markham’s style.

George bowed and left. Vernon wasted no time in changing into the clothing that would help him to blend in. He donned the fawn-coloured breeches and the respectable linen shirt and neckcloth left on the bed. The boots, however, were too small. He eyed his Hessian boots and their mirror shine with regret as he realised there was nothing for it but to smear them with soil when he went outside, to dull the shine. A moleskin waistcoat and a brown jacket completed Vernon’s transformation from a man of fashion into a respectable country squire.

He ducked to peer into the dressing-table mirror and ruffled his fingers through his hair. At least he would not present himself all neatly barbered at the Nag’s Head and wherever else his enquiries might lead. His hair had needed a trim before he left London, but he had decided to leave it until his return. It was a touch long and unruly, but the less well-groomed his appearance, the less notice he would attract.

He rotated, studying the room: Daniel’s room. Quashing down any guilt—he was trying to help, not snoop—he quickly searched through drawers and cupboards. Nothing. He must hope that someone at the Nag’s Head could either throw some light on the reason Daniel had been riding to Birmingham on a regular basis—if, that is, Pritchard was correct that Daniel had been visiting the city—or that they might solve the mystery of what, or who, Willingdale and R.H. were.

A battered saddlebag had been left on the bed. Inside was a clean shirt and neckcloth, reminding Vernon that this mission might take several days. He slung the bag over one shoulder and, with one last look around, he strode from the room.

In the entrance hall, he waited. The scrunch of hooves on the gravel outside told him that his horse had arrived. He went out to find Bickling holding a dependable-looking bay hunter and sent him running back to the stables to retrieve Vernon’s shaving kit and other personal necessities from his valise in his curricle. When Bickling returned, Vernon stowed the articles in the saddlebag as his groom filled him in on what he’d discovered about Mr Markham’s lost fortune.

‘Seems he raised funds against his business and invested them all in some non-existent scheme through this swindler who befriended the family and then vanished with their money,’ he said. ‘The stress caused Markham senior’s stroke and, although Pritchard clammed up when I tried to get more from him, it seems this fraudster also had something to do with Miss Markham.’

‘In what way?’

Bickling shrugged. ‘The man’s very loyal to Miss Markham. He wouldn’t say more than the bastard took Miss Markham in, too, and that she’s never forgiven herself. Blames herself for her father’s stroke.’

Had he courted her? Had she fallen in love with him? That’s what it sounded like to Vernon. ‘Thank you, Bickling.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come along with you, milord?’

‘There is no need, I can take care of myself and, besides, you’ll be on edge the entire time if you have to leave my blacks in anyone else’s care.’

Bickling was even fussier about Vernon’s horses than he was, if that were possible. And he knew that Bickling would be forever saying ‘milord’, and that would mean no chance of staying discreet.

‘I could always take one of the men from here, but they appear short-staffed already. I will be fine going alone, do not worry.’

‘Very well, milord.’ Bickling’s glum face said it all.

Vernon glanced at the front door. Still no sign of Thea. He did not want to leave without saying goodbye so he went back inside. Immediately he heard hurried footsteps approaching from the nether regions of the house. Thea soon appeared, slightly breathless.

‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘There is something you need to see.’