Читать книгу Secrets in the Regency Ballroom - Joanna Fulford - Страница 10

For a moment George stared at him dumbfounded before the implications of the words struck home.

‘Greville?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dear Lord, Marcus, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I read about his death in The Times, but the piece said he’d had a riding accident.’

‘The matter was hushed up and the story fabricated. The authorities didn’t want the truth made public. Greville was a government agent working under the alias of David Gifford.’

‘Ye gods.’ George sat down while he tried to marshal his scattered wits. ‘The news of his death made quite an impact in these parts, what with Netherclough Hall being virtually on the doorstep.’

‘I can imagine. It rocked London, too. Greville was well known in diplomatic circles. Besides which he left no male heir, only a young daughter.’

‘Then the title and the estate pass to you.’

‘Yes. Behold the new Viscount Destermere.’ Marcus accompanied the words with a humourless smile. ‘It is a role I never thought to have.’

‘But one you will perform well nevertheless.’

‘Thank you for that vote of confidence. I’ll do my best, though I never wanted to step into my brother’s shoes. He was always welcome to them, for it seemed to me that my destiny lay elsewhere.’

‘Circumstances have a habit of changing our plans, do they not?’ said George.

‘As you say.’

‘So what now?’

‘Officially I’m not back from India yet, but I shall have to put in an appearance soon.’

‘And what of your niece?’

‘Lucy is now my ward. At present she is being cared for by an elderly aunt in Essex. Hardly a suitable state of affairs. I shall bring the child to live here in Yorkshire. After all, Netherclough is her ancestral home.’

‘I see.’

‘After that I shall pursue my investigations.’ He paused. ‘The house is ideally situated for the purpose, being right in the heart of things.’

‘You can’t be serious. These men are dangerous, Marcus. They’ve murdered Greville and tried to kill you. I know they had no idea of your true identity but, even so, if they got wind of your real purpose here…’

‘Let’s hope they don’t. But come what may I shall find out who killed my brother. It is a matter of family honour that the culprit be brought to justice. That is the very least I can do for his daughter.’ He paused. ‘Besides, I owe it to his memory.’

George nodded reluctantly. ‘I can’t blame you for wanting to discover the truth, but have a care, I beg you.’

‘I’ll be careful. As soon as I’m able I shall leave for London and Mark Eden can disappear for a while. Give it out that he went back to his family to convalesce.’

‘Very well.’

‘How much have you told your sister and Miss Davenport?’

‘They don’t know your real identity. Apart from that I stuck as close to the truth as possible.’

‘Good. I regret the necessity for deception.’

‘So do I. Ellen and I are very close and I should not like to impose on Miss Davenport.’

‘When the time is right they will be informed. I owe them that much at least. In the meantime I take it I can rely on your discretion.’

‘Need you ask?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Marcus sighed. ‘That was unpardonably rude after all you’ve done.’

‘Just promise me you won’t leave until you’re strong enough.’

‘You have my word. Besides, at this moment the thought of a journey to London fills me with dread.’ He ran a hand over his chin. ‘In the meantime I need to bathe and shave. I’m beginning to feel like a pirate.’

Having spent over two weeks abed, Marcus was determined to get up and, as George provided no opposition to the idea, he did so the very next day. Though still weaker than he would have wished, the pain of the wound had almost gone and provided he made no sudden movement it felt almost normal. Somewhat reluctantly he submitted to wearing a sling for a few days, but felt it a small price to pay, all things considered. A message had been sent to his lodgings and his things were duly sent round. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Marcus smiled wryly. The best that could be said was that the clothes were clean and serviceable and they fitted. They were hardly in the first stare of fashion. Just for a moment he saw his brother’s face in the glass and it wore a pained expression. Almost he could hear his voice:

‘Good Lord! What ragbag did you get those out of, Bro?’

Marcus grinned. A ragbag indeed, by Greville’s standards anyway. His brother had always been both extravagant and elegant in his dress. They hadn’t met since Marcus had been packed off to India ten years before. Now they would never meet again, or not in this life anyway. His jaw tightened. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would find the men responsible for that.

He finished dressing and made his way downstairs to the parlour. When he entered he discovered he was not the first there. A girl was sitting by the window, bent over the open sketchbook in her lap. For a moment he checked in surprise, sweeping her with a comprehensive gaze from the dusky curls to the toe of a small slipper peeping from beneath the hem of a primrose yellow morning gown. She looked familiar somehow. Then he remembered.

‘Ah, Miss Davenport. Good morning.’

The pencil hovered in mid-air as she looked up. Claire had been so absorbed in her task that she had not heard him come in. For a moment she was rooted to the spot and could only stare. She had forgotten just how imposing a presence he was. In addition to that she was only too aware of the scene that had taken place in the sickroom earlier. Did he remember any of it?

If he was discomposed by her scrutiny it was not evident. Indeed, the cool grey eyes met and held her gaze. His expression gave nothing away. Recollecting herself quickly, she returned the greeting.

‘Mr Eden, I am glad to see you so far recovered.’

‘If I am, it is in no small part due to you.’

‘I did very little, sir.’

‘George tells me you have been a most excellent nurse. An unusual role for a young lady.’

‘I…it was the least I could do.’

‘It is my profound regret that I have no recollection of it.’

Claire’s spirits rose in an instant. ‘I’m so glad.’ Then, seeing his eyebrow lift, ‘I mean, so glad that I was able to help—in some small way.’ Knowing herself to be on dangerous ground, and growing warm besides, she changed the subject. ‘Please, won’t you sit? You should avoid tiring yourself unduly.’

His lips curved in a satirical smile. Ordinarily he would have treated such advice as presumption and responded with a pithy set down, but on this occasion he said nothing. Having taken the suggestion, he watched her resume her seat. As she did so he let his gaze rest on her, quietly appraising. The sprigged muslin gown was a simple and elegant garment, but it revealed her figure to perfection. A most becoming figure, he noted. Moreover the primrose yellow colour suited her, enhancing her warm colouring and dark curls.

‘What are you drawing?’

‘It’s just a sketch that I wanted to finish.’

‘May I see it?’

‘If you like, but I wouldn’t want to excite your anticipation.’

She rose and handed him the book, watching as he leafed through it, wishing she were not so aware of his nearness, wishing she could divine the thoughts behind that impassive expression.

‘You are too modest, Miss Davenport. These landscapes are very fine. You have a real eye for line and form.’

‘You are kind, sir.’

‘I speak as I find.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Who taught you to draw?’

‘My mother, mostly. She was a talented artist. And Miss Greystoke taught me a great deal.’

‘Miss Greystoke?’

Claire was silent for a moment, conscious of having given away more than she had intended. Then she upbraided herself silently. It was a trivial detail and could make no possible difference.

‘Yes. She was once my governess.’

‘I see.’

Marcus was intrigued, for suddenly another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. However, he had not missed her earlier hesitation either. Why should she wish to hide the fact? Unwilling to antagonise her, but not wishing for the conversation to finish just yet, he continued to leaf casually through the book.

‘These are all local views, are they not?’

‘That’s right. The countryside hereabouts is an artist’s dream. It’s so wild and beautiful.’

‘And dangerous,’ he replied.

Claire’s cheeks grew hot as the recollections of their first encounter returned with force. It angered her that he should allude to it again for he must know it was painful in every way. However, it seemed she was wide of the mark for Eden gestured to the newspaper lying on the occasional table beside him.

‘Another mill has been attacked by a mob and another loom destroyed, and all in the space of a fortnight.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Recovering her composure, she followed his gaze to the paper. ‘Men fear for their livelihoods. So many have been laid off and those who are still in work have seen their wages cut.’

‘Does that excuse murder?’

‘No, of course not, but it does explain why people are so angry. It is well nigh impossible to feed a family on eight shillings a week.’

‘You say that with some authority.’

‘I have been with Miss Greystoke to visit several families in the town. She and her brother do what they can to help, but…’ The hazel eyes met and held his. ‘It is no pleasant thing to see children starving.’

‘No, it is not.’

‘You must have seen much poverty in India.’

‘Yes.’

‘Ironic, is it not, that it should exist in England too, a country we think more civilised in every way?’

There could be no mistaking the earnest tone or the sincerity in her face and he was surprised by both. In his experience young ladies of good family were usually preoccupied with balls and pretty dresses, not the problems of the poor. Would she prove to be one of those worthy but tiresome females eternally devoted to good causes?

‘True,’ he replied, ‘but the war with France has been much to blame. Until trade can be resumed at its normal levels the situation is unlikely to change.’

‘And in the meantime the mill owners lay off more men. The introduction of the steam looms only exacerbates the situation.’

‘Progress cannot be resisted for ever. The wreckers will be brought to a strict accounting eventually.’

She heard the harsh note in his voice and met it with a sympathetic look. After his recent experience it was not surprising that he should be angry.

‘Have you any idea who was responsible for shooting you?’ she asked.

‘No, but I do intend to find out.’

‘You will put yourself in great danger.’

‘So I apprehend.’

‘I wish you would not.’

‘Why?’

Again the grey gaze met hers and it was she who looked away first.

‘Because I would not see you killed. There has been enough bloodshed of late.’

‘I am grateful for your concern, but if bloodshed is to be prevented in future the men responsible must be brought to justice. I mean to see that they are.’

The tone, though quiet, was implacable, and for a moment there was an expression in the grey eyes that sent a shiver along her spine. Then it was gone.

‘But these are disagreeable subjects,’ he said. ‘Let us speak of other things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Tell me about yourself.’

‘It would hardly make for interesting conversation.’

‘On the contrary,’ he replied. ‘I find myself curious.’

Her heart missed a beat. ‘About what?’

‘About why a young lady like yourself should bury herself in a place like this.’

‘I am not buried here.’

‘No?’

Ignoring the provocative tone, she lifted her chin.

‘Certainly not. I have good friends and am kept busy enough.’

‘And what do you do for your own amusement? When you are not about your good works?’

‘I sketch, Mr Eden.’

‘Touché!’

Claire’s cheeks flushed a little, not least because she suspected he was the one in control of this situation. It was too dangerous to let it continue so, before he could question her further, she seized the initiative.

‘And what of you, sir?’

In spite of himself he was amused. ‘What of me?’

‘Doctor Greystoke said that you and he are old friends. From your days in India.’

‘That’s right.’

He was glad George had told a partial truth even if he could not divulge his friend’s real name. It made things easier. Anyway, he didn’t want to lie to her.

‘He said you were based in the same barracks at Mandrapore.’

‘Did he also tell you he saved my life?’

The hazel eyes widened. ‘No, he did not.’ She paused. ‘Won’t you tell me how?’

‘My men and I were ambushed by bandits and there was a fierce fight. Many of the force were killed and the rest of us left for dead. Fortunately, another contingent of soldiers happened along and took the survivors to the company barracks at Mandrapore. George Greystoke was the doctor in residence. It was thanks to his efforts that I pulled through. While I was convalescing we played a lot of chess and the friendship developed from there.’

‘He said only that you and he met as a result of his work.’

‘True enough, but also far too modest. Typical of George.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, I believe it is. He is a good and kind man in every way. You must have been glad to see him again after so many years.’

‘It was a welcome surprise, believe me. I had no idea he was here. Last time we spoke of such things his family was living in Richmond.’

‘Miss Greystoke told me that he removed here after their father died.’

‘I remember George left India to take care of the family’s affairs at that time.’

‘He was subsequently offered a position in Helmshaw,’ she explained. ‘When the previous doctor retired.’

‘And you, Miss Davenport?’ he asked. ‘How came you to be in Yorkshire?’

‘I told you, I came to visit Miss Greystoke.’

‘Your parents permitted you to travel alone?’

The pink colour deepened in her face, but she forced herself to meet his gaze.

‘My parents had no say in the matter since they are both dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, so am I.’

He heard the note of bitterness beneath the words and was surprised since it was at variance with her normally cheerful demeanour.

‘Then whom do you live with now?’

‘With my father’s relations.’

‘And when do you return to them?’

‘I… I have no set plans.’

For a moment there was a heart-thumping silence. She had told as much of the truth as possible and hoped now that he would let the subject drop. Much to her relief he seemed to accept it and merely nodded. Then he handed her the sketchbook.

‘I look forward to seeing the finished picture, Miss Davenport.’

She took it thankfully and retired to her seat by the window to continue the task. For a moment or two he watched and Claire, conscious of that penetrating gaze, had to force herself to ignore it. It was with relief that she heard the rustle of paper as he picked up the news sheets And began to read.

In fact, Marcus barely scanned the page in front of him. His mind was otherwise engaged. Far from accepting her words at face value he found his curiosity roused to a degree she would have found alarming. For all that she tried to pretend that there was nothing unusual in journeying alone to so remote a place as Helmshaw, he was quite undeceived. Ordinarily no respectable young woman would do so. And yet there was nothing in her that he found disreputable. Everything in her manners and appearance spoke of a gentle upbringing. She was no minx; naïve perhaps, but not of doubtful virtue. God knew, he’d had enough experience to judge. And she had spirit, enough anyway to stand up to Jed Stone. Recalling the incident and the perpetrators, Marcus felt only contempt. It was fortunate that he’d been there to intervene. She would have had no chance against such scum as those and he could no more stand by and see a woman assaulted than he could fly. Her self-control had been impressive. Most young women would have been reduced to hysterics by what had happened. Though much shaken, she had not treated him to a fit of the vapours nor even cried, though he could see she had wanted to. It was unexpected and oddly touching, serving to underline her vulnerability. At least he hadn’t come too late that time.

Disturbed by his own train of thought, Marcus laid aside the paper and glanced once more at Claire who, apparently, was engrossed in her drawing. Then he rose and, having excused himself politely, left the room. Claire watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. With a conscious effort she forced her attention back to what she was doing.

Marcus stood by the garden wall, looking out at the view. The scenery was beautiful and it was pleasant to feel the sun on his face once more. The enjoyment of the moment was enhanced by the knowledge that but for good fortune and expert doctoring he might never have done so again. His health was improving daily and he would soon be able to dispense with the sling. The inaction of the past few days was beginning to chafe now. Besides, there were several matters requiring his attention. Foremost of these was the need to return to Netherclough and take up the reins of government there.

When he had left it all those years ago he had little thought to see the place again. Who could have foreseen the circumstances that would demand his return? His father would be turning in his grave if he knew that his scapegrace son was now Viscount Destermere. Not without reason either. Thinking of the wild days of his youth and the reckless pranks he had embarked upon, he knew his father had had much to bear. Perhaps if they had been closer… Marcus grimaced inwardly. After their mother’s death, he and Greville were left to a succession of tutors before being packed off to school. They had seen little of their parent. It was Greville that he looked to for advice and guidance, not his father. Their last words together had been spoken in anger and yet, paradoxically, the old man might have been pleased with his son’s performance since. India suited Marcus down to the ground; it provided a disciplined environment but also enough scope for an adventurous spirit. He had loved its diversity, its colour, its vibrant life. Once he had thought to see out his days there. Now fate had decreed otherwise. He had responsibilities and he must fulfil them. It was time to face down the ghosts of the past and go home.

Having come to that decision, he imparted it to his friend when they met a little later. Greystoke heard him in silence and then nodded.

‘If that is what you wish to do then I will support you in any way I can.’

‘Thank you. There is one more thing, George. Before I go, your sister and Miss Davenport must be told of my real identity.’

‘If that is what you want.’

‘I owe them that much.’

‘Ellen will never breathe a word, and I believe that Miss Davenport is both sensible and discreet.’

Marcus nodded. ‘It has sat ill with me to dissemble to those who have done so much towards my recovery. It’s time they knew the truth.’

‘Do you wish me to speak to Ellen?’

‘Yes, as soon as may be. I will see Miss Davenport myself.’

He was waiting by the garden gate when Claire returned from her afternoon walk. At first she did not notice him, her attention on the steep track that led down off the hill, and her heart leapt to see the tall figure standing there. Suddenly she was conscious of her rumpled gown and windblown hair and of the fact that she was carrying her bonnet, not wearing it.

However, if he found anything amiss it was not apparent in his expression. He opened the gate to let her pass and then, offering her his arm, led her across the garden.

‘Will you spare me five minutes of your time?’ he asked. ‘I should like to speak to you.’

‘Of course.’

He found a convenient bench for them to sit on and, having seen her comfortably ensconced, favoured her with an explanation of recent events and of his identity. Claire heard him without interruption. More than anything else she was conscious of things falling into place: so many questions about this man had just been answered. Listening now, she wondered how she could have mistaken Marcus Edenbridge for anything other than the aristocrat he was. Everything about that tall commanding presence proclaimed it, from his physical appearance to his gentlemanly behaviour in championing her cause against Jed Stone and his cronies. It came as no surprise that he should seek out the men who killed his brother, even at the risk of his own life.

‘I apologise for the deception,’ he went on, ‘and I ask for your discretion now. The true identity of Mark Eden must not become generally known.’

‘You may be assured of my silence, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

She paused, dreading to ask the next question, but needing to know the answer. ‘May I ask when you intend to leave for London?’

‘In three days’ time.’

‘I see.’ Her spirits sank. It was hard to visualise this place without him somehow and she knew that his absence would leave a yawning gap.

‘It is a necessary stage in my plans.’

‘So you can announce the return of Viscount Destermere?’

‘Exactly. London will be thin of company at present, but word will get round all the same.’

‘Will you remain there, sir?’

‘No. I shall travel into Essex and collect my ward before returning to Yorkshire.’

Her hand clenched around the ribbons of her bonnet. He was coming back! Then she registered the remainder of what he had just said.

‘Your ward?’

‘Yes, my brother’s child, Lucy. She is six or thereabouts.’

‘Have you never seen her before, then?’

‘No, though, of course, I knew of her existence from Greville’s letters.’

‘Of course.’

‘Her mother died when Lucy was born.’

‘Poor little girl. She has lost a great deal in her short life. Six is too young to be orphaned.’

For a moment he regarded her shrewdly. ‘Yes, you are right.’

‘There is never a right time to lose one’s parents, but children are so vulnerable.’

‘Indeed they are.’

‘I am sure she will welcome some stability after all the disruption she has endured.’

‘In any event, I shall give her a home for as long as she needs it.’ He smiled and for a moment the grey eyes warmed. ‘When I return to Netherclough Hall I hope to have the honour of receiving you there, Miss Davenport, along with Dr and Miss Greystoke.’

At those words, Claire felt her heart miss a beat. She would see him again after all. Almost immediately she told herself not to be so foolish as to refine upon it. He was merely being polite. He owed the Greystokes such an invitation. If she was included, it was because good manners demanded that he did not slight their friend. Once honour was satisfied they would have nothing more to do with each other. The man she had known as Mark Eden was gone, replaced by Viscount Destermere, one who was so far her social superior as to make even the thought of such a connection truly laughable. That was reality. He belonged to another world, a world of wealth, position and power. One day in the not-too-distant future he would marry—a young woman of his own class who would provide the heirs to continue his line. That too was reality and she acknowledged it. All that had happened here would one day be relegated to the back of his memory and she with it. It was an oddly dispiriting thought.