Читать книгу The Regency Season: Shameful Secrets: From Ruin to Riches / Scandal's Virgin - Louise Allen - Страница 10

Chapter Two

Midsummer’s Eve, 1814— King’s Acre Estate, Oxfordshire

The nightingale stopped her. How long had she been running? Four days...five? She had lost count... Her feet took her up the curve of the ornamental bridge, beyond pain now, the blisters just part of the general misery, and, as she reached the top the liquid beauty poured itself into the moonlight.

Peace. No people, no noise, no fear of pursuit. Simply the moon on the still water of the lake, the dark masses of woodland, the little brown bird creating magic on the warm night air.

Julia pulled off her bonnet and turned slowly around. Where was she now? How far had she come? Too late now to regret not staying to face the music, to try to explain that it had been an accident, self-defence.

How had she escaped? She still wasn’t sure. She remembered screaming, screaming as she backed away from the horror at her feet. When people burst into the room she’d retreated behind the screen to hide her near-nudity, hide from the blood. They didn’t seem to notice her as they gathered round the body.

And there behind the screen were her clothes and water. She had washed her hands and dressed so that when she stepped out to face them she would be decent. Somehow, that had seemed important. She’d had no idea of trying to run away from what she had done so unwittingly.

Jonathan’s pocketbook lay on top of his coat. It must have been blind instinct that made her stuff it into her reticule. Then, when she had made herself come out and face the inevitable, the room was packed and people were jostling in the doorway trying to see inside.

No one paid any regard to the young woman in the plain grey cloak and straw bonnet. Had anyone even glimpsed her when they burst in? Perhaps she had reached the screen before the door opened. Now she must have appeared to be just another onlooker, a guest attracted by the noise, white-faced and trembling because of what she had seen.

The instinct to flee, the cunning of the hunted animal, sent her down the back stairs, into the yard to hide amidst the sacks loaded on a farm cart. As dawn broke she had slipped unseen from the back of it into the midst of utterly unfamiliar countryside. And it felt as though she had been walking and hiding and stealing rides ever since.

If she could just sit for a while and absorb this peace, this blissful lack of people to lie to, to hide from. If she could just forget the fear for a few moments until she found a little strength to carry on.

* * *

The tall column of grey shimmered, moon-lit, in the centre of the narrow stone bridge. Long dark hair lifted and stirred in the night breeze: a woman. Impossible. Now he was seeing things.

Will strained every sense. Silence. And then the night was pierced again by the three long-held notes that signalled the start of the nightingale’s torrent of languid music, so beautiful, so painful, that he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again he expected to find himself alone. But the figure was still there. A very persistent hallucination then. As he watched, it turned, its face a pale oval. A ghost? Ridiculous to feel that superstitious shudder when he was edging so close to the spirit world himself. I do not believe in ghosts. I refuse to. Things were bad enough without fearing that he would come back to haunt this place himself, forced to watch its disintegration in Henry’s careless, spendthrift hands.

No, it was a real woman of course, a flesh-and-blood woman, the paleness of her face thrown into strong relief by the dark hair that crowned her uncovered head. Will moved into the deeper shadows that bordered the Lake Walk and eased closer. What was she doing, this trespasser far into the parkland that surrounded King’s Acre? She must be almost a mile from the back road that led to the turnpike between Thame and Aylesbury.

Her long grey cloak swung back from her shoulders and he saw that she was tall. She leaned over the parapet of the bridge, staring down as though the dark waters beneath held some secret. Everything in the way she moved spoke of weariness, he thought, then stiffened as she shifted to hitch one hip on to the edge of the stonework.

‘No!’ Cursing his uncooperative, traitorous body, Will forced his legs to move, stumbled to the foot of the bridge and clutched the finial at the end of the balustrade. ‘No...don’t jump! Don’t give up...whatever it is...’ His legs gave way and he fell to his knees, coughing.

For a moment he thought he had so startled her that she would jump, then the ghost-woman slid down from the parapet and ran to kneel at his side.

‘Sir, you are hurt!’

Her arm went around his shoulders and she caught him against herself in a firm embrace. Will closed his eyes for a moment. The temptation to surrender to the simple comfort of a human touch was almost too much.

‘Not hurt. Sick. Not contagious,’ he added as she gave a little gasp. ‘Don’t...worry.’

‘I am not worried for myself,’ she said with a briskness that bordered on impatience. She shifted her position so he fell back on her shoulder and then laid a cool palm on his forehead. Will bit back a sigh of pure pleasure. ‘You have a fever.’

‘Always do, this time of night.’ He fought to control his breathing. ‘I feared you were about to jump.’

‘Oh, no.’ He felt the vehement shake of her head. ‘I cannot imagine ever being desperate enough to do that. Drowning must be such a terror. Besides, there is always some hope. Always.’ Her voice was low and slightly husky, as if she had perhaps been weeping recently, but he sensed that it would always be mellow, despite its certainty. ‘I was resting, looking at the moonlight on the water. It is beautiful and calm and the nightingale was singing so exquisitely. I felt some need for calm and beauty,’ she added, with a brave attempt at a rueful laugh that cracked badly.

Something was wrong. He could feel the tension and the exhaustion coming off her in waves. If he was not careful, she would bolt. Or perhaps not, she seemed determined to look after him. As if he was dealing with a wounded animal he made himself relax and follow her lead. ‘That is why I come down here when the moon is full,’ he confessed. ‘And Midsummer’s Eve adds a certain enchantment. You could believe almost anything in the moonlight.’ Believe that I am whole again... ‘I thought you a ghost at first sight.’

‘Oh, no,’ she repeated, this time with a faint edge of genuine amusement that appeared to surprise her. ‘I am far too solid for a ghost.’

Every fibre in his body, a body that he believed had given up its interest in the opposite sex long months ago, stirred in protest. She felt wonderful: soft and curved and yet firm where she still held him cradled against her shoulder. He managed not to grumble in protest as she released him and got to her feet.

‘What am I thinking about, lingering here talking of ghosts and nightingales? I must get help for you. Which direction would be quickest?’

‘No need. House is just—’ His breath gave out and Will waved a hand in the general direction. ‘If you can help me up.’ It was humiliating to have to ask, but he had learned to hide the damage to his pride after long months discovering the hard way that fighting got him nowhere. She needed help, but he couldn’t give it to her sprawled here.

‘Stay there, then. I will go and get help.’

‘No.’ He could still command when he had to: she turned back to him with obvious reluctance, but she turned. Will held up his right hand. ‘If you will just steady me.’

She wanted to argue, he could sense it, but she closed her lips tight—he fantasised that they were lush, framing a wide, generous mouth, although he could not be certain in that light—and took his hand in a capable grip.

‘I suppose,’ she said, as he got to his feet, ‘that you would say you are old enough to know what is good for you, but I have to tell you plainly, sir, that wandering about in the moonlight when you have a fever is the height of foolishness. You will catch your death.’

‘Do not concern yourself.’ Will got a grip on the stone ledge and made himself stand steady and straight. She was tall, his ghost-lady, she only had to tilt her head back a little to look him in the face. Now he could see the frown on a countenance that the moonlight had bleached into ivory and shadow. He could not judge her age or see detail but, yes, her mouth was generous and curved, although just now it was pursed with disapproval. It seemed she liked being argued with as little as he did. ‘I have caught my death already.’

He saw her take his meaning immediately and waited for the protests and the embarrassment that people invariably displayed when he told them the truth. But she simply said, ‘I am so very sorry.’ Of course, she would be able to see in the moonlight just what a wreck he was, so perhaps it was no surprise to her. It was a miracle that the appearance of a walking skeleton had not frightened her into the lake. ‘I am trespassing on your land, I assume. I am sorry for that also.’

‘You are welcome. Welcome to King’s Acre. Will you accompany me back to the house and take some refreshment? Then I will have my coachman drive you onwards to wherever you are staying.’ She bit her lip and her gaze slid away from his. It seemed he was not as harmless in her eyes as he felt. ‘There will be whatever chaperonage you might require, I assure you. I have a most respectable housekeeper.’

His reassurances provoked a smile, as well they might, he supposed. He was deluding himself if he thought she had taken him for his regiment’s most dangerous ladies’ man, as his reputation had once been. Even the most nervous damsel would need only one glance to realise that the possibility of him ravishing them was slight.

‘Sir, the question of chaperonage is the least of my concerns at the moment.’ There was a bitter undertone to her voice that made no sense. ‘But I cannot trouble you and your household at this time of night.’

His breathing had steadied and with it, Will realised, his wits. Respectable young ladies—and his companion was certainly a lady, if not a very young one—did not materialise in the moonlight sans baggage or escort without good reason.

‘The hour is of no consequence—my staff are used to my penchant for late nights. But your luggage, ma’am? And your maid? I shall have someone fetch them to you.’

‘I have neither, sir.’ She turned her head away and the effort to steady her voice was palpable. ‘I am...somewhat adrift.’

* * *

She could not tell him the truth, Julia knew that, although the temptation to simply burst into tears, throw herself into the arms of this elderly man and pour out her story was shockingly strong. He was probably a magistrate and, even if he was not, he would be duty-bound to hand her over to the law. But she had been tramping across country, hiding in barns, spending a few coppers here and there on bread and cheese and thin ale, and she was exhausted, lost and desperate. Something of the truth would have to suffice and she must take the risk that she would prove to be a good liar.

‘I will be frank with you, sir,’ Julia said, grateful for the protection of the shadows. She wished she could see his eyes. ‘I ran away from home. Several days ago.’

‘May I ask why?’ His voice, strangely young for one advanced in years, was as studiously non-judgemental as his haggard face.

‘My cousin, on whom I am totally dependent, schemed to give me to a man who wanted only my...undoing. Running seemed the only way out, although I am just as effectively ruined as a result, I realise that now. I am sure you would not wish to entertain me under the circumstances. Your wife—’

‘I do not have one,’ he said, his voice cool. ‘And I have no objection, only a regret on your behalf, ma’am, that you find yourself in such a predicament.’

He should not be talking. Julia had no doubt that he meant exactly what he said about his health: the man was desperately ill. His body when she had supported it had felt like bones and sinew contained in skin and expensive superfine. He was tall, over six foot, and in his youth must have been well muscled and powerful. Now his breathing was ragged and his forehead under her palm had been damp with fever.

He had come to her aid when he thought she was going to cast herself into the lake and he had not insulted her when she told him a little of her disastrous misjudgement. Now the very least she could do was to assist him home and risk the slight chance that the description of a wanted murderess had reached them here. Surely she was safe for a night? The authorities could not know her name and Jonathan’s card case was with his pocketbook in her reticule—the local constable would have a nameless body to deal with, as well as a nameless fugitive.

This was no time to be scrupulous about accepting help. ‘Come, sir. If you will not allow me to go for assistance, at least take my arm. I am certain you should not be out here tiring yourself.’

‘You sound remarkably like Jervis, my valet,’ the man said with an edge of asperity. For a moment she thought stubborn pride would win out over common sense, but then he let her put her forearm under his and take a little of his weight.

‘This way, I think you said, sir?’ She made her sore feet move, trying not to limp in case he noticed and refused her help.

‘My name is William Hadfield,’ he said after a few steps. ‘Just so you know whom you are rescuing. Baron Dereham.’

She did not know the name, but then she was adrift more than a hundred miles from home and her family, although gentry, did not mix with titled society. ‘My name is—’

‘There is no need to tell me.’ He was breathing hard. Julia slowed her pace a little, glad of the excuse to do so. She was tired and sore and almost more exhausted by fear than from physical exertion.

‘It is no matter, my lord. I am Julia Prior. Miss,’ she added bleakly. Live or die, she was never going to be anything else now. And then she realised that she had given her real name. Foolish, she chided herself. But it was too late now and it was common enough.

‘Left here, Miss Prior.’ Obedient, she took the path he indicated. To her consternation the ground began to slope upwards. How was Lord Dereham going to manage this with only her feeble help? As if he read her mind he said, ‘Here is the cavalry, you need not carry me any further.’

Julia opened her mouth to protest that she was merely steadying him, then shut it again. There was enough edge in his voice for her to know the baron was not resigned to his condition and would bitterly resent any attempt to jolly him along. He must have been arrogant and self-assured in his prime, she concluded, to resent his decline so fiercely now.

‘My lord!’ Two men hurried down the slope from where a gig stood waiting. One, when he got closer, could have been identified as a valet at a glance: neat, dapper and immaculate, he was making clucking sounds under his breath. The other, in boots and frieze coat, was just as obviously a groom.

‘Jervis, help this lady into the gig.’ Her arm was released and Julia found herself being ushered into the humble vehicle as if she was a duchess and it a state coach. Behind, she could hear a low-voiced exchange that ended abruptly with a snapped command from the baron as he took the seat opposite her.

The groom went to the horse’s head and led it on, the valet followed on foot. After a few minutes passed in silence they emerged on to a great sweep of lawn and then crunched across a gravelled drive.

‘But it is a castle!’ Startled out of her circling thoughts, Julia blinked up at crenellations, a turret, arrow slits, all preposterously Gothic and romantic in the silvery light.

‘A very small one, I assure you. And disappointingly modern inside to anyone of a romantic nature. The moat is dry, the cellars full of wine bottles. The portcullis has long since rusted through and we rarely pour boiling oil on to anyone these days.’ He sounded as though he regretted that.

‘Fetch Mrs Morley to Miss Prior,’ Lord Dereham ordered as the groom helped her to descend. Her legs, she discovered as she stumbled, were almost too tired to support her. ‘Tell her to place the Chinese bedchamber at Miss Prior’s disposal and then have Cook send up a hot supper to the library.’

‘But, my lord, it must be midnight at least—’ He should not be worrying about feeding her at this hour, let alone housing her.

‘I will not have you wandering about the countryside or going to bed hungry, Miss Prior,’ he said as he climbed down, leaning on the groom in his turn. Here under the bulk of the building it was almost dark and she could not see his face at all, only judge his mood by the autocratic orders. ‘You will oblige me by spending the night and tomorrow we can see what may be done.’

He will not have it, indeed! A forceful old gentleman, the baron, whatever his health, Julia decided. But it is rather beyond his powers to find a solution to this problem. A new dawn will not make matters any better.

‘Thank you, my lord. I should not trouble you, I know, but I will not deny that your offer is most welcome.’ She had thought she could never trust another man, not after Jonathan. But the baron was advanced in years and could be no threat to her. Or her to him, provided he had no idea who he was sheltering.

‘I will see you in the library then, Miss Prior, when you are ready,’ he said behind her as she followed the valet into the hall.

* * *

‘Just down the main stairs and the door to the left, Miss Prior.’ The housekeeper stood aside as Julia murmured a word of thanks and left the warmth and comfort of the bedchamber for the shadowy panelled corridor.

The woman had shown no surprise at the state of her travel-worn clothes, although she had tutted in sympathy over the state of Julia’s feet and had produced copious hot water, linen for dressings and salves. Now, clad in some borrowed undergarments beneath her brushed and sponged walking dress, Julia felt a new surge of courage. She had heard that prisoners were more easily broken if they were kept dirty and unkempt and now she could well believe it. She had felt her strength and will ebb along with her self-respect.

The house had been decorated a few years ago, she judged as she negotiated the broad sweep of an old oak staircase. All was in good repair with an intriguing glimpse of ancient baronial castle here and there beneath the modern comfort. Yet there was an impersonal air about it as though efficient staff kept it running, but the driving force behind it, the spirit that made it a home, had vanished.

It had happened at the Grange after her father had died and she had not had the strength to simply carry on as before. It had only lasted a few weeks, then she had made herself take up the reins again. Pride, and the refusal to let her cousin and his wife find the slightest thing to criticise when they came to claim their inheritance, had dried her tears and stiffened her will. Here, with the master dying, the staff were obviously doing the best they could, which argued loyalty and efficiency.

The heavy panelled door swung open on to a room that was all warmth: a fire in the grate despite the season, crimson damask curtains at the windows, the soft glow of old waxed bookshelves. The man in the chair beside the hearth began to get to his feet as she came in and the hound at his feet sprang up, her teeth bared as she ranged herself in front of her master.

‘Down, Bess! Friend.’

‘My lord, please—there is no need to stand.’ Julia took three hasty steps across the carpet, dodged around the dog and caught the baron’s arm to press him back into the seat. She found herself breast to breast with him, the light from the fire and the candelabra on the side table full on his face.

This was the man from the lakeside? The man she had held in her arms, the one she thought elderly and harmless? ‘Oh!’ She found herself transfixed by amber eyes, the eyes of a predator, and blurted out the first thing that came into her head. ‘How old are you?’