Читать книгу The Return of Lord Conistone - Lucy Ashford, Lucy Ashford - Страница 12

Jack Sheldon was dead. And there was no body to bury, either. They were told he’d been exploring the snow-covered peaks on Portugal’s Spanish border when he fell into a raging mountain river and was swept away downstream, never to be found. Verena had been grief-stricken and, more than that, desperately afraid. She honestly did not see how they could go on.

The Earl of Stancliffe was in Bath when the news arrived, taking the waters for his health; they heard nothing from him, and after his insults Verena did not expect to. Then Lucas wrote to her, to send his condolences. She was horrified by his duplicity. She didn’t understand how he could pretend to care. She’d secretly fallen in love with a gallant hero, who’d asked her to trust him, when all the time he’d been planning to leave the army, and must also have betrayed her infatuation with him to his grandfather.

Of course she burned Lucas’s letter and did not reply. He wrote again. This time she did not even read it before destroying it.

Verena had her father’s letters for consolation. He was a compulsive writer, and as she leafed through them, with their vivid descriptions of the wild hills of his mother’s country where he’d felt so at home, she could almost hear Jack Sheldon’s loud voice, almost see his dancing dark eyes, which had glittered exultantly as he confided to her, on the night just before he left for the last time, that summer two years ago, that he had discovered a great secret, something that would make them all rich.

Oh, Papa. She hadn’t believed him. But how she missed him: his stories, and his zest, and his unquenchable optimism—and how secretly fearful she was as she faced life without him, under a mountain of burgeoning debt.

Lady Frances Sheldon was still determined to marry off her daughters, and wanted to take Verena and Deb to London as soon as the minimum period of mourning was over. Verena told her mother that they simply could not afford the expense of a London Season; Pippa, usually Verena’s staunch ally, was by then expecting her twins, so Verena took on the full brunt of her mother’s anger.

‘I would hate to think you are jealous of Deb’s prettiness, my dear,’ said Lady Frances.

‘Jealousy, piffle! I am not going to London, Mama!’ declared Verena. ‘And you should not either!’

But Lady Frances had insisted on taking Deb to London that autumn, for an extended stay with a rather foolish friend of hers, Lady Willoughby. Verena remained at Wycherley, trying to hold the estate together and to fend off their mounting debts. She was startled one afternoon to see a hired chaise rattling into the courtyard; when she’d hurried to see who it was, Deb and Lady Frances were climbing out.

‘Deb! Mama!’ Verena had cried. ‘I had not expected you back so soon!’

Lady Frances, hurrying towards the house, waved her hand dismissively. ‘The disappointments, Verena! Lady Willoughby is no true friend, and I’ve decided that I’ve had enough of her! Pray have tea sent up to my room while I recover from the journey!’

Deb, her pretty face clouded with ill humour, was about to follow, but Verena had barred her way. ‘Deb. What on earth’s happened?’

Deb had burst into tears.

Oh, Lord, Verena had thought, ordering the staring Turley to unload the luggage. ‘Deb. Come inside. Tell me everything’.

But Verena had rather wished she’d been spared at least some of the details when Deb told her in the parlour, between fits of tears and outbursts of anger, how she’d met Viscount Conistone at one of Lady Willoughby’s parties and that he had made severely improper advances.

Verena had been stunned. ‘No!’

Deb had started crying again. ‘Oh, yes! I thought I would be safe with Lucas! After all, last September you used to ride around the countryside with him, didn’t you, Verena? Often with only one of us for company, and no one said a thing! He—he took me into a side room, and gave me wine to drink—and then he attempted to kiss me, and murmured that we must meet, later! Oh, I would die if anyone else knew of my shame!’

Until then, there had always been the faint hope in Verena’s beleaguered heart that the stories she heard about Lucas were somehow false, and that the Earl’s comment that Lucas had called her a silly fortune-hunter was a wicked concoction.

But—this? For a start, what was Lucas doing at one of Lady Willoughby’s entertainments? He was part of the Carlton House set—he would never normally attend such a shabby affair! And—what did it matter? Any last hope had died within her. She’d felt cold, alone and afraid. ‘Deb. Deb, listen to me. Maybe Lord Conistone had been drinking—’

‘Oh, you would say that! You are jealous; I might have known!’

Verena bit her lip and tried again. ‘I’m only trying to say that you must pretend it never happened. Lucas—Lord Conistone—will say nothing either, if he has any sense of honour. Does Mama know anything of this?’

‘Mama? No, of course not! She insisted that we leave London because she fell out with Lady Willoughby over some petty business of who should pay for the theatre or some such thing. And some unpleasant people were starting to say that I should not be appearing at parties and routs, since I was not properly out…. But, Verena, listen. You don’t think—’ Deb had lifted her pretty, petulant face enquiringly ‘—that Lucas might perhaps really care for me? That if I’d stayed in London, he might have continued his attentions in a more proper fashion?’

‘I don’t,’ Verena had said flatly. ‘No gentleman of Lord Conistone’s standing initiates a serious courtship in such a way’.

Deb had burst into tears again. ‘I hate you, Verena! You are jealous, and spiteful, because I am so much prettier than you!’

‘Deb, please—’

But her sister, still sobbing, had flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Verena had still refused to believe that Lucas had resigned from the army out of fear. But she was forced to believe everything else she heard about him, because the stories spread throughout the following winter and into the spring of Lucas’s high living amongst the Prince’s set, of the gambling and the parties that lasted for days and nights on end in London, Brighton and even the Channel Isles—for, like many of his aristocratic companions, he had his own sea-going yacht.

Captain Alec Stewart, his services in the Light Dragoons clearly minimal, was often his companion in these outbursts of revelry. Their female conquests were legendary; that spring, the rumour had spread that Lucas was about to announce his betrothal to one of the diamonds of the Season, Lady Jasmine Rowley.

True or not, Lucas had betrayed Wycherley. And had shattered her stupid heart.

Now, suddenly, on the day their fast-disintegrating fortunes were put on public display, Lucas was back in her life again. And she wouldn’t accept any of his offers of help, for she could not believe a word he said.

Yet the trouble was that not a night had gone by, since that magical autumn, without her thinking of him. Missing him. Wanting him so badly that it was as if her life was broken without him.

It was nine o’clock and the ordeal of the dispersal sale was almost over. The chaises and carts had departed along the Chichester road, piled high with items that had been in Wycherley Hall for centuries. Verena, feeling tired and alone, set off down the stairs. At least Lord Conistone and Captain Stewart would have gone by now.

But the day was not over yet. As she entered the great hall, that this morning had been piled with furniture and ornaments and was now almost bare, she saw Turley, looking hot and distressed.

‘Turley, what on earth’s the matter?’ Not Lucas again, causing trouble, please…..

Turley rushed towards her. ‘There’s bad doings down a Ragg’s Cove, Miss Verena! The militia, they’re roundin’ up some local men who’ve bin fishing!’

‘The militia? Fishing? Why on earth—?’

‘They’re saying our men are in league with French spies, Miss Verena! And they’re plannin’ on taking them off to Chichester gaol!’

‘This is ridiculous! French spies? I will deal with this!’

Now Turley’s kind old face was truly tight with alarm. ‘You mustn’t go down there, miss! You know as well as I there’s been strange things goin’ on around here lately! Oh, I wish I’d never told you…’.

‘This is Wycherley business,’ she replied crisply, ‘and you did quite right to tell me, Turley. Believe me, I’ll be back before anyone’s even missed me. No need to make matters worse with a general hue and cry!’

Ignoring Turley’s protests, she went to put on her cloak, glad that at least it had stopped raining, and the thunderstorm was past. It would take her very little time to hurry through the gardens and down the steep track that she knew so well to Ragg’s Cove. French spies? Martin Bryant was always muttering about them, but no one else took the notion in the least bit seriously. She would vouch for the local men and get rid of the interfering militia. And then this dreadful day would be—almost—at an end.

Waving Turley aside, she found a lantern and headed out into the darkness, towards the cliff path.

And did not see, in the black shadows beyond her lantern’s glow, the figures moving behind the trees, following her