Читать книгу Dangerous Lord, Seductive Miss - Mary Brendan, Mary Brendan - Страница 12

‘I’ve brought a guest home today, Mama.’

Julia Woodville had been tackling a Gothic tale with some apathy so was happy to hear someone novel might brighten her mundane routine.

Usually she spent the mornings at her sewing and taking a constitutional in the garden. The weather was now too fresh to spend a lengthy time outdoors so today she’d limited her stroll to the paths on the southern side. The spare time till luncheon had been whiled away at her writing desk. She liked to keep in touch with her friends in London. She better liked having their replies to learn what was going on in the beau monde, although their gay news always made her sadly yearn to be a part of it.

The afternoons were customarily employed in reading. She enjoyed scanning the ladies’ journals and appreciated a good book. But the romance Deborah had got her from the circulating library this week was not one to hold her interest. Julia Woodville gladly let it drop to her lap. Myopically she squinted at her daughter and at the fellow stationed behind her.

Deborah approached her mother’s chair positioned close to the log fire. Having removed her straw bonnet, she tossed it to the sofa and combed a few fingers through her tangled flaxen locks to try to bring some order to them. She was conscious she probably looked unattractively dishevelled after the thundering pace Randolph had set on the short ride to Woodville Place. Her other chilly digits were held out to the glow in the grate. It was a gloriously bright yet invigorating day in mid-October. Draughts were stirring the curtains at the casements, making warmth from the flames very welcome within the parlour’s solid stone walls.

‘Who is it, dear?’ Julia hissed in an undertone. ‘Is the vicar again come for tea?’ Julia Woodville’s failing eyesight allowed her to see little more than a gentleman’s silhouette. Yet she could read the print in her books very well. She peered past her daughter again, feeling a mite deflated. The vicar was a nice enough chap, but his sister was better company and this fellow seemed to be alone.

‘No, it is not Gerard. It is an acquaintance from London. He is presently in Sussex on business.’

Julia’s interest re-ignited with the information. It was her constant wish that they might return to the metropolis and live a mean approximation of the wonderful life they’d once known. She’d accepted that they could never recapture the sumptuous existence her first husband had provided for them both, but a small neat villa on the fashionable outskirts would suffice, she’d told Deborah. Unfortunately their funds would not suffice, Deborah constantly told her, even for that modest dream to be realised.

Now that the visitor had come closer Julia could see that it was indeed not the vicar. Gerard Davenport was nowhere near as tall and broad as this gentleman seemed to be. But she couldn’t fathom his identity. His features were still indistinct, although he seemed to have a good head of light-coloured hair.

‘It is Mr Chadwicke. I expect you must remember him. He is a friend of the Earl of Gresham.’ Debbie introduced him rather breathily. ‘I expect you remember that when we lived in London with Papa he would sometimes visit us with Marcus.’ Deborah knew that mention of the Earl of Gresham was likely to disgruntle her mother. Julia Woodville had never quite come to terms with the fact that her daughter had spurned an earl. Even knowing that Marcus had been as keen as Deborah to end their betrothal had remained a minor setback to a grand match in Julia’s mind.

‘Yes, I do remember him,’ Julia whispered after a long pause. She picked up her book rather agitatedly, then put it back in her lap. It was opened once again.

Deborah turned and gave Randolph a rather apologetic smile. She knew her mother tended to suffer with her nerves depending on her mood, but that didn’t excuse this rather rude reception. When they’d lived in town Randolph had been a visitor to their Upper Brook Street mansion. At times he’d arrive alone, but more usually he’d call with his friend, Marcus. She could only recall her mother greeting Randolph charmingly in the past. Surely he could have done nothing in the interim to upset her?

‘How are you, Mrs Woodville?’ Seemingly unperturbed by her inhospitable welcome, Randolph approached Julia’s chair to courteously offer her a hand, ‘I’m well enough, thank you, sir.’ Having given a limp shake to his firm fingers, Julia drew her shawl closer about her. ‘You are back, then, from foreign lands.’

‘I am,’ Randolph concurred. ‘It is good to be home.’

‘And that brother of yours? Is he home too?’ Julia once more looked agitated and the book was picked at with fidgeting fingers.

‘Sebastian is dead, Mrs Woodville.’ The information was given tonelessly.

That news caused Julia to look thoughtful. ‘Must we remember to address you as Lord Buckland? Or did your brother get himself a son?’

‘I have a nephew and a niece,’ Randolph informed her in the same neutral, polite way.

‘So you ended up with nothing at all, then …’ Julia appeared not to require a response to that. She flicked pages in her book as though hunting for an interesting excerpt.

Deborah had listened to this exchange with her jaw dropping in astonishment. Her mother seemed to be acting very oddly this afternoon. But it was not just her mother’s unfathomably churlish attitude that had startled her. In just a few short minutes she’d learned a good deal about Randolph’s relations that had come as a shock.

When they had been close friends years ago, Randolph had been happier to speak about his sister than his brother. At the time Emilia Chadwicke had been a schoolgirl of about ten. Deborah guessed that she now would be about seventeen and preparing for her début. His father had long been deceased but, as far as she was aware, his mother was still alive and living in Suffolk with her daughter.

As for Randolph’s older brother, she’d heard rumours that Sebastian Chadwicke constantly caused trouble for his family. Randolph had confirmed his brother existed and was a nuisance, but Deborah had discovered very little else about him—Randolph had always seemed reluctant to discuss him. Deborah’s friend, Jemma, was married to Randolph’s friend, Marcus, so little snippets had come her way over the years to add to her suspicion that the fellow must be a very bad sort. In contrast to his errant sibling, Randolph had always been sought after in society and had been known as a personable gentleman. Debbie could recall feeling glad that Randolph had not been unfairly treated because of his brother’s notoriety. Yet now it seemed her mother was doing just that.

The news that Sebastian Chadwicke had died had not come her way, neither had she been aware that the fellow had at some time married and produced children. But then, after seven years apart, she no longer had any right or reason to make enquiries through their mutual friends about Randolph’s life or his kin. Neither had it been very right of her mother to pry. But having done so, at least she should have offered a brief condolence on learning of Randolph’s loss, no matter that the deceased was rumoured to have been a rogue. It was very out of character for her mother to overlook etiquette.

‘I bumped into Lottie in the vestibule and asked her to bring some tea, Mama,’ Deborah brightly announced to break the quiet. ‘And Mr Chadwicke has kindly agreed to stay and dine with us later.’

‘Yes, indeed he must,’ Julia agreed, as though feeling a little guilty over her previous lack of manners. In a quite sprightly manner she got up from her chair and smoothed her pearl-grey gown. ‘It is nice to see people from the old days. Sometimes I think I should love to have a chat with a friend about Almack’s or the latest rage drawing audiences at Drury Lane. Such wonderful parties we would attend! Vauxhall! Now there was a treat! Although it could be a little … scandalous.’ She gave a meaningful nod, her features momentarily animated by mischief. ‘Did you enjoy visiting the pleasure gardens, Mr Chadwicke?’

‘I did, Mrs Woodville. I remember having a very enjoyable evening there with you all.’

‘Indeed, we did have a good time!’ Julia corroborated. ‘Of course, your chum, Marcus, didn’t accompany us when he should have done. He was newly engaged to Deborah at the time,’ she remarked with a faraway smile at the fire. ‘But you were kind enough to take his place and escort us on that occasion.’

‘It was my pleasure to do so, ma’am,’ Randolph said, his eyes gliding to Deborah and lingering there.

‘It was bad of Marcus to stay away—’

‘You cannot blame him for that, Mama,’ Deborah interrupted on a constrained laugh. ‘At the time he was falling in love all over again with his future wife,’ she softly reminisced, very aware of a pair of predatory eyes on her.

‘At the time you were his future wife,’ Julia reminded her daughter pithily.

‘But I was glad that he didn’t want me!’ Deborah’s tone was sharpened by impatience, as usual, on hearing her mother snapping at her for having turned down the chance to be the Countess of Gresham. Her eyes darted to Randolph and for a moment were engulfed by a warm, honeyed look.

Lottie appeared, bearing the tea things. The young maid slid the tray on to polished mahogany and looked expectantly at Deborah. A small gesture from Deborah indicated that the girl was not needed to carry out the ritual of pouring.

‘Have you lately been in London, Mr Chadwicke?’ Julia asked, her tone bright with anticipation. She enjoyed hearing the newest on dits.

‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Woodville,’ he answered.

‘Oh …’ Julia murmured with patent disappointment. ‘Well, never mind. After you have had tea you must take Mr Chadwicke to see the gardens, Deborah,’ she said. ‘We have a sunken garden, you know, sir. My late husband, Mr George Woodville, was a keen gardener. He knew the names of every shrub and there are acres of them to choose from. There is a pond, too, with a fountain and fish the size of pheasants.’

‘Are you not having tea, Mama?’ Deborah watched as her mother continued past her to the door.

‘I shan’t; I had some tea and seed cake not long before you arrived home and I don’t want to spoil my appetite. We must give our guest a good dinner this evening. I shall go and see what our Mrs Field has got in the still room.’ She paused. ‘I believe Basham was out shooting earlier this week. There should be plenty of game if the beef is all gone.’

Had Deborah cared to take a look into the corridor whence her mother had just disappeared, she would have seen the woman heading for the stairs rather than the kitchens. But she was too conscious of Randolph’s overpowering presence, and the apology owed to him for her mother’s bizarre behaviour, to follow her parent and find out what on earth was troubling her this afternoon.

‘I … I’m sorry my mother seemed a little unwelcoming at first,’ Deborah blurted as soon as the door had closed on Julia Woodville’s departing figure. ‘I assure you she doesn’t mean to give offence.’

A crooked smile acknowledged Deborah’s plea on behalf of her mother. Randolph had his own suspicions why the woman might not want him around without his friend, the Earl of Gresham, rendering him acceptable.

People of Julia Woodville’s age knew that the Chad-wickes had for generations regularly turned out a few reprobates. She knew, and no doubt her first husband, Viscount Cleveland, had also known, that a number of his paternal ancestors had been to blame for passing bad blood on to his brother, Sebastian. Had his great-great grandfather not been such a scoundrel, the barony, and the thousands of Suffolk acres that came with it, would have stayed with the crown.

‘You will have some tea, sir? Oh … and there are some cinnamon biscuits, too,’ Deborah said, spotting that Lottie had had the foresight to include them. Having received Randolph’s wordless assurance that her mother’s attitude had not bothered him, Deborah approached the tray and occupied her nervous hands with cups and saucers.

‘Thank you,’ Randolph said. He approached the fire and held out his palms.

‘Oh … please sit down if you would like to, Mr Chad-wicke.’ Deborah pointed a silver teaspoon at the twin fireside chairs. Once he had settled his large frame in one of them she handed him his steaming tea. Solicitously she moved a small circular table closer so she might put the plate of biscuits within his easy reach.

She took the chair that her mother had vacated opposite him, so that the fire was between them. Having taken a sip of her tea, and a nibble at a biscuit, she placed both down in a rattle of crockery. It was a good while until the hour to dine. Usually she and her mother would eat dinner at eight o’clock and it was not yet five. On those days they were not particularly hungry they might ask Mrs Field to simply prepare a buffet supper to be set out in the cosy parlour.

Deborah turned her face to the mellow autumnal light filtering through the glass, thus escaping a gaze that was as relentless as midsummer heat. ‘Would you like to take a stroll in the gardens after tea, sir?’ she asked politely whilst watching a blackbird on a branch cocking his head at her.

‘I’d like you to stop calling me sir and Mr Chadwicke,’ Randolph said softly. ‘Have you forgotten my name, Deborah?’

‘Indeed I have not, sir,’ Debbie returned coolly as she turned to look at him. ‘Neither have I forgotten that using it would imply a closeness that we no longer have. Many years have passed since we were friends.’

‘I’d like us to again be friends.’ When his gentle remark made Deborah appear to resume her interest in the garden, he continued suggestively, ‘I remember very well the last time we met. It was at Marcus and Jemma’s wedding.’

Deborah picked up her teacup and took a gulp from it. Oh, she knew very well what was on his mind. He was remembering how she’d shamelessly clung to his neck and had revelled in being kissed and caressed into insensibility behind a marble pillar. Perhaps he imagined that for old time’s sake she might again be persuaded to allow him to take a few liberties whilst he was in the vicinity.

To jerk her mind away from arousing memories she focused on the incident that had coupled them together far more recently. The business with the Luckhursts was in its own way equally disturbing to her peace of mind. Because of it there was much she still had to say to him. Her thanks and apologies were overdue. He had saved her from coming to harm, yet she had accepted his escort home, and his protection, with very bad grace.

She knew, too, that she ought to offer her condolences on his brother’s demise. But she would skirt about mentioning their past or when he would be leaving the area. She had been in his company for only an hour or so after many years spent apart yet, oddly, she knew how easy it might be for her to again feel his absence. That silly thought was chased away; in its place she firmly put a reasonable explanation for such mawkishness. Naturally his presence had thrust to the forefront of her mind her salad days when, as a débutante of eighteen, and believing herself in love with Randolph Chadwicke, she’d had a scintillating life as the pampered, popular daughter of Viscount Cleveland.

‘I have not properly thanked you for your assistance this afternoon,’ Debbie briskly rattled off. ‘I also must say sorry for having been rather … prickly towards you. It was a great surprise to see you and I … well … I did not intend to seem churlish. My mother, too, was probably similarly flustered by being confronted with a ghost from the past.’ It was a paltry effort and she inwardly winced on acknowledging it. Hastily she picked up her tea and took a sip.

‘Was the last impression I made on you so bad?’ Randolph asked huskily. ‘My understanding was that we parted on reasonably good terms.’

She could sense the smile in his words as he dared her to recall their exciting tryst in Marcus’s hallway. Reasonably good terms hardly did justice to describing the passion they’d shared away from prying eyes.

‘My understanding was that your absence abroad would be reasonably short.’ A languid hand attempted to make light of her spontaneous retort. Again she’d not managed to control her lingering hurt and anger over it all. ‘It seems at the time we both were under a misconception.’ Idly she twirled a flaxen curl about a finger. ‘It was a long time ago and is now unimportant.’ Before he could respond she fluidly changed the subject. ‘I must convey my condolences on the loss of your brother. Did he pass away recently? Had he been ill?’

‘It was a few months ago. He had been suffering a malaise for a considerable time,’ Randolph added carefully.

‘Did living in a hot climate contribute to his poor health?’ Debbie asked, her voice resonating with sympathy.

‘It did him no good at all to go there,’ Randolph answered bluntly. ‘Twice he suffered bouts of malaria.’

‘I’m very sorry he died. He must have been still quite a young man.’

‘He had just turned forty-one.’

‘Your poor mother; she must be very sad. I imagine she was worried about you, too, whilst you were in the Indies.’

‘I escaped any major illness,’ was Randolph’s succinct reply.

‘I know your brother was reputed to be a roguish character, but nevertheless he was a son and a brother. You have a nephew and niece, so his wife and children must be missing him too.’

‘I also must offer you my condolences.’ Smoothly Randolph altered the course of their conversation so it focused on her. ‘You mentioned earlier today that your fiancé was killed by the smugglers.’

Deborah nodded, a frown creasing her smooth, ivory brow. ‘It occurred more than two years ago. Edmund was on coast watch. There was an affray between the dragoons and a gang of smugglers in a lane leading to the coast.’

‘Was the culprit brought to justice?’

‘It was reported that a fellow nicknamed Snowy fired off the gun that fatally wounded Edmund.’ A glaze appeared in Deborah’s eyes as she recalled the awful time. ‘Snowy was later murdered,’ she resumed huskily. ‘The smugglers would sooner kill one of their own than have the dragoons snooping about in the villages looking for a suspect.’ She sighed. ‘There was no proper trial … save the one his colleagues put on. One cannot be sure that it was Snowy who was responsible for Edmund’s death.’

‘Did you meet your fiancé in London?’

Deborah shook her head. For a moment she remained silent, for she was tempted to tell him to mind his own business. But if she divulged a little of what had occurred to her in the intervening years, perhaps he might tell her what he had been doing; she knew she had a curiosity to know it. ‘My stepfather was a sociable sort of chap. When the militia were billeted close by he would offer hospitality. Occasionally he would hold small parties for neighbours and the officers. It was at such an event that Edmund and I were introduced.’ Her voice tailed away and she looked at him. ‘And you, sir?’ she asked with an admirably neutral tone. ‘Have you a fiancée or a wife and children?’

‘No …’ Randolph said quietly. ‘Once I thought I had met the right woman, but I was mistaken. Now I’m happy to remain a bachelor.’

‘I see,’ Deborah said in a stifled little voice. ‘How very sad for you.’

‘Indeed, I’m deserving of your pity … let’s talk about something more cheerful,’ he suggested silkily. ‘I had the impression that your mother would like to visit town.’ Randolph had placed down his cup and saucer. He relaxed back in to his chair and a booted foot was raised to rest atop a buff-breeched knee. Idly he splayed long brown fingers on a Hessian’s dusty leather. ‘Do you go to London very often?’

‘Unfortunately not. But you’re right; my mama would love to frequently visit town,’ Deborah answered him automatically, although her mind was in turmoil. She knew very well what he’d hinted at. Once he’d believed he’d wanted to marry her, but then he’d gone away and discovered that he’d found it easy to forget her. A burning indignation roared in her chest. Yet of what could she accuse him? He’d never told her he loved her, neither had he promised to marry her. And he certainly hadn’t forced her to kiss him. She’d been a very willing participant in that! The most she’d had from him were compliments and complaints that she was a seductive little miss who could drive him wild with desire. It was probable she’d had a lucky escape. Had he not gone away when he did she might have let him properly seduce her. The consequences of that didn’t bear thinking about. But she was determined not to let him know that any of it bothered her.

‘It is my mama’s greatest wish that we return to town to live.’ Her voice sounded shrill despite her attempt to keep it light and level.

‘Are you also keen to return there to live?’

‘I certainly miss the gaiety and the friends I had there,’ Deborah answered, more composed.

‘If you returned to London, you’d avoid the necessity of living amongst the likes of the Luckhursts.’

‘I shan’t allow them to drive us away,’ Deborah retorted with a defiance that made him cock a dark brow at her. Had he told her he found her attitude immature he could not have made his opinion plainer. ‘We have some friends here,’ she continued doggedly. ‘Harriet and her brother are nice people. So are Mr and Mrs Pattinson. Not everybody hereabouts is in league with the smugglers. Evil will triumph if good people are too cowardly to combat it.’

‘Certainly,’ he agreed drily. ‘But a lot of decent folk don’t consider contraband a bad thing, but a benefit.’

A defeated little grimace was Deborah’s acknowledgement of the truth in that statement. Her stepfather had been a good man, yet he had happily paid to have his cellars stocked illicitly.

‘Why do you not return to London to live?’ Randolph asked. A few brown fingers curled to rest close to his narrow mouth as he waited for her reply. After a silent moment he prodded, ‘Is there more to it than a battle of wills with the smugglers?’

Deborah got to her feet and collected the cups to put on the tray. She spun about to face him, feeling an odd unwillingness to admit that she—once an heiress with a magnificent dowry—now could not afford to live in London. Yet she had nothing to be ashamed of. She had not squandered her inheritance; it had been taken from her. Again she had an inclination to tell him that he had no right to ask. But then that would imply that she cared what he thought. And she didn’t.

‘When Papa died the whole estate was entailed on the next male heir. I have no brother, as you know. There was no close relative on the paternal side who might have felt morally obliged to treat us generously. A distant cousin—a gentleman we haven’t met who resides in a castle in Scotland—took the title and estate. Mama was very well provided for in my father’s will, and my inheritance was held in trust. Unfortunately it was one that could be breached.’ She shrugged, clattering crockery.

‘When your mother remarried her assets became Mr Woodville’s,’ Randolph guessed.

‘Indeed,’ Debbie muttered, her fingers tightening on the edge of the table until the knuckles showed bone. ‘And Mr Woodville had a son and a strong belief in primogeniture.’

A silence ensued and whilst Debbie stared fiercely through the window Randolph watched her.

‘You have enough to live on?’ he eventually asked quietly.

‘Oh, yes. Mr Woodville left Mama enough to carry on living here comfortably, if we are careful. When she has passed away the house and estate will go to his son, Norman. In order that I would not be left destitute, he also left me a bequest of a few thousand pounds to tempt a prospective husband. It is not quite the sixty that my father had wanted me to have.’ She turned with a smile on her lips. ‘Well, as we have finished tea, sir, shall we now take a stroll in the gardens?’