Читать книгу An Impulsive Debutante - Michelle Styles - Страница 7

Chapter One

1847 Haydon Bridge, Northumberland

‘I kept my promise, Father.’ Tristan Dyvelston, the new Lord Thorngrafton, placed his hand on his father’s grave and his fingers touched the smooth black marble, tracing his father’s name. He glanced down at the weed-infested grave.

‘Your brother has died,’ he said solemnly, repeating the vow he had made on this very spot ten years ago. ‘I have returned to take the title. I will be above reproach now. But while my uncle was alive I wanted him to think the worst about me and to fear for the future of his beloved title.’

He bowed his head and stepped back from the grave. One part of his oath was complete.

The late morning sunlight broke through the cloud and illuminated the ruins for a single glorious moment, making it seem like he had stepped into one of John Martin’s more evocative paintings. Tristan tightened his grip on his cane. Here was no picture to be admired. The scene showed how much had to be done. How much would be done.

He was under no illusion about the enormity of his task. His parents’ graves lay under a tangled mass of nettles and brambles. In the ten years since he had last been here, the entire churchyard had fallen into decay, echoing the state of Gortner Hall, some fifteen miles away. He would put that right, eventually. His uncle was no longer there to object.

He traced the lettering on his mother’s grave. How would the county greet the return of the black sheep? He had heard the tales his uncle had spread—the gossip, the scandal and the plain twisting of the facts. His uncle had sought to deny him everything but the title and the entailed estate, a dry husk, long starved of any funds. Tristan took great pleasure in confounding his expectations.

The clicking of a gate caused him to turn. Irritated.

A blonde woman with a determined expression on her face tiptoed into the churchyard, glanced furtively about and raised a shining object into the air. The sunlight glinted on it, sending a beam of light to dance on the yew trees. Tristan relaxed slightly. She was not someone he had ever encountered before and therefore was unlikely to recognise him. But there was something about the way the petite woman held her head that intrigued him.

Why would anyone come here?

She wrinkled her nose, fiddled with the object again and finally gave a huge sigh of satisfaction. ‘I told Cousin Frances that a moonlight aspect would work better than a Gilpin tint, and I was correct. She will have to retract her scornful words. The church could be romantic in the moonlight. One would have to imagine the hooting owl, but it could be done. It could be painted.’

Tristan jumped and considered how best to respond to the statement. Then he gave an irritated frown as he realised that the woman was not speaking to him. He regarded her for another instant as she peered intently at the object in her hand. He gave a wry smile as he realised the object’s identity—a Claude glass, a mirror that prettified the landscape and allowed the viewer to see it at different times of the year, or hours of the day, simply through changing the tinted glass. It all made sense. She had come in search of landscapes.

If he was lucky, it would be just the Claude glass and a few ladies to coo and ahh at the ruins. If he was unlucky, they would have brought their watercolour paints, brushes and easels, the better to capture the romantic ruins. He lifted his eyes towards heaven. God preserve him from ladies wielding Claude glasses, their pursuit of culture and their self-righteous indignation that others should not share their same view of the world, interrupting his first chance to pay his respects to his parents. Tristan frowned. Not if he acted first.

‘Precisely how many more of you are there?’ he asked, making sure his voice carried across the disused churchyard. ‘How many more are there in the horde?’

The woman spun around, her mouth forming an O. She had one of those fashionable china-doll faces—blue eyes and pink cheeked in a porcelain oval. The lightness of her complexion was highlighted against the darkness of the yew hedge, giving her almost an angelic appearance, but there was a sensuousness about her mouth, a hint of slumbering passion in her eyes. Her well-cut walking dress hinted at her rounded curves as well as revealing her tiny waist. A temptress rather than a blue stocking.

‘You are not supposed to be here,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips and gesturing with her Claude glass. ‘Nobody ever comes here. Cousin Frances told me emphatically— Haydon Church is always deserted.’

‘Your cousin was obviously mistaken. I am here.’

‘My cousin dislikes admitting mistakes, but she will be forced to concede this time.’ The woman hid her mouth behind her hand and gave a little laugh. ‘She much prefers to think that since she has her nose in a book all the time, she knows rather more than me. But she can be blind to the world around her, the little details that make life so interesting and pleasant.’

‘And you are not? Looking at the world through a mirror can give a distorted view.’

‘I am using both my eyes now.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Are you up to no good? Cousin Frances says that often you meet the nefarious sort in churchyards. It says so in all the novels she reads. It is why she refused to visit.’

‘But she thinks it deserted.’

‘Except for the desperate. Are you desperate?’

‘I am visiting my parents’ graves.’

‘You are an orphan!’ The woman clasped her gloved hands together. ‘How thrilling. I mean, it’s perfectly tragic and all that, but rather romantic. What is it like not to have family considerations? Or expectations? Is it lonely being an orphan?’ Her face sobered. ‘How silly of me. If it wasn’t lonely, you wouldn’t be visiting your parents and attempting to derive some small amount of comfort from their graves.’

‘There is that.’ Tristan allowed the woman’s words to flow over him, a pleasing sound much like a brook.

She came over and stood by him, peering at the ground. ‘You should tend their graves better. They are swamped in nettles and brambles. It is the right and proper thing to do. An orphan should look after his parents’ graves.’

‘I intend to. I have only recently returned from the continent after a long absence.’ Tristan stared at her with her ridiculous straw bonnet and cupid’s-bow mouth. Right and proper? Who was she to lecture him?

‘That explains the entire situation. You had expectations of another’s help, but that person failed you.’ She gave him a beatific smile. ‘Orphans cannot depend on other people. They can only look to themselves.’

‘How very perceptive of you.’

‘I try. I am interested in people.’ She modestly lowered her lashes.

He straightened his cuffs, drew his mind away from the dark smudges her lashes made against her skin. ‘How many more shall be invading my peace? Ladies with Claude glasses have the annoying habit of travelling in packs, intent on devouring culture and the picturesque.’

Her pink cheeks flamed brighter and she scuffed a toe of her boot along the dirt path. ‘I am the only one. And I have never hunted in a pack. You make society ladies sound like ravening beasts, longing to bring men down when, in fact, they are the ones who provide the niceties of civilisation. They make communities thrive. When I think about the good works—’

‘Only you? Are you sure that is prudent?’ Tristan cut off the discussion on good works with a wave of his hand.

Even though Haydon Bridge was rural Northumberland, the woman did not appear the sort who would be allowed to roam free and unaccompanied. Her pink-and-white- checked gown was too well cut and her straw bonnet too new and finely made. Her accent, although it held faint traces of the north-east, was clear enough to indicate she had been trained from an early age by a succession of governesses.

‘I am able to look after myself. I know the value of a well-sharpened hat pin.’

‘You never know what sort of people you might meet.’

‘It is the country, after all, not London or Newcastle.’ Her cheeks took on a rosy hue and she lowered her tone to a confidential whisper. ‘I am aiding and abetting a proposal. At times like these, positive action is required, even if there is an element of risk.’

‘A proposal?’ Tristan glanced over his shoulder, fully expecting to see some puffed-up dandy or farmer advancing towards them. ‘Tell me where the unfortunate man is and I shall beat a hasty retreat.’

‘Not mine. My cousin’s.’

‘The one who is mistaken about graveyards,’ Tristan said, and struggled to keep his face straight. It made a change to speak about things other than the state of Gortner Hall’s leaking roof, the fallow fields and the other ravages that his uncle had wreaked on the estate.

‘That’s right.’ There was a sort of confidence about the woman, the sort that is easily destroyed later in life. ‘All Frances ever does is read Minerva Press novels and sigh about Mr Shepard’s fine eyes and his gentle manner. What is the good with sighing and not acting positively? She needed some help and advice.’

‘Which you have offered…unasked.’

She held up her hand and her body stilled; an intent expression crossed her face. ‘There, can you hear it?’

The sound of a faint shriek wafted on the breeze. Tristan lifted an eyebrow. ‘It sounds as if someone is strangling a cat. Is this something you are concerned about? Should I investigate?’

‘My cousin Frances, actually. She is busy being rescued from the Cruel Sykes burn.’ She tilted her head, listening and then gave a decided nod. The bow of her mouth tilted upwards. ‘Definitely Cousin Frances. We practised the shriek a dozen times and she still managed to get it wrong. She needed to gently shriek, and to grab his arm, but not to claw it. I do hope she has not pulled him in. That would be insupportable. Truly insupportable.’

‘All this is in aid of?’

‘Her forthcoming marriage to Mr Kent Shepard.’

The woman drew a breath and Tristan noticed the agreeable manner in which she filled out her gingham bodice. But he knew she was also well aware of the picture she created. A minx who should be left alone. Trouble. He would make his excuses and depart before he became ensnared in any of her ill-considered schemes.

‘Cousin Frances has to get engaged. She simply has to. Everything in my life depends on it.’

‘Why should it matter to you?’ His curiosity overcame him.

‘I was unjustly banished.’ The woman wrinkled her nose. ‘It was hardly my fault that Miss Emma Harrison kissed Jack Stanton in a sleigh in full view of any passing stranger.’

‘Jack Stanton is well able to look after himself.’ Tristan gave a laugh. His impression had been correct. She was the sort of woman to stay away from. Trouble with a capital T. ‘I hope your friend was not too inconvenienced, but she picked the wrong man to kiss. Jack is a good friend of mine and not given to observing the niceties of society.’

‘Do you?’

‘When the occasion demands. I was born a gentleman. But Jack…is immune to such stratagems. It is amazing the lengths some women will go to.’

‘It all ended happily as they were married, just before Christmas.’ Her eyes blazed as she drew herself up to her full height. ‘You obviously do not know your friends as well as you think you do.’

‘I have been travelling on the Continent. But if it ended happily, why were you banished?’

‘My brother Henry was furious. He turned a sort of mottled purple and sent me out here to Aunt Alice until I could learn to keep my mouth quiet. “Lottie,” he said, “you have no more sense than a gnat,” which was a severely unkind thing to say.’

‘And have you? Learnt to keep your mouth quiet?’

‘Yes.’ Lottie Charlton looked at the elegantly dressed man lounging against a yew tree with exasperation. Who was he with his dark eyes and frowning mouth to sit judgement on her? He was not her brother or any sort of relation. She snapped the Claude glass shut and took as deep a breath as her stays would allow her. ‘I have, but Henry refuses to answer any of my impassioned pleas. He ignores me. And Mama is being no help at all. She keeps going on about her nerves and how unsettling family disagreements are, but she refuses to do anything.’

‘And you dislike being ignored, forced to the margins.’

Lottie retained a check on her temper—barely. They were not even formally introduced and already this man had picked her character to shreds. ‘This is my best chance, my only chance, to get back to Newcastle this season. I know it is. My dream of a London Season has vanished for the moment, but there are appearances to maintain. And some day I shall visit all the great cities—London, Paris and Rome. I plan to be the toast of them all.’

‘How so? Haydon Bridge is very far from these places.’ The man lifted one eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed with the brilliance of her scheme.

‘I am well aware of geography.’ Lottie pressed her hands together. She had to remain calm. ‘Aunt Alice will have undying gratitude to me if I arrange this marriage between Cousin Frances and Mr Shepard. Mr Shepard has been making sheep’s eyes at Cousin Frances for weeks now, and the only thing Cousin Frances can do is blush and readjust her pince-nez.’

‘And you are an expert in these matters.’ His eyes travelled slowly down her and Lottie fought against the impulse to blush. ‘You look all of seventeen.’

‘Twenty in a month’s time. My sister-in-law sent me the Claude glass for an early birthday present. It is quite the rage, you know.’

‘Nineteen is not a great age.’ A smile tugged at his mouth, transforming his features. Darkly handsome, she believed it was called, like one of those heroes in Cousin Frances’s Minerva Press novels. ‘When you are my age, you will see that.’

‘And your age is?’

‘Thirty-one. Old enough to know interference in matters of the heart brings unforeseen consequences.’ The words were a great finality. Lottie frowned and decided to ignore his remark.

‘I helped to arrange several proposals last season in Newcastle. Proper ones as well, and not the dishonourable sort.’ Lottie resisted the urge to pat her curls. ‘I can number at least seven successful matches that I have helped promote.’

‘Including the one that sent you here.’

‘If you are going to be rude, I shall leave.’ Lottie lifted her skirt slightly and prepared to flounce off. The man made her brilliant stratagem sound like a crime, like she was intent on ruining someone. Newcastle was not London, but at least there remained a chance of meeting someone eligible. It was the most prosperous city in the whole of the British Empire, everyone knew that. ‘You must not say things like that. I have helped. Martha Dresser and her mother showered me with compliments when I brought Major Irons up to snuff.’

‘Don’t mind me. It is one of my more irritating habits.’ A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, making him seem much younger. ‘Your scheme appears to be full of holes. And I doubt you would know the difference between a proposal and a proposition.’

‘I know all about those. One learns these things, if one happens to possess golden curls, a reasonable figure and a small fortune in funds.’

‘I will take your word for the funds. I can clearly see the other two.’ His dark eyes danced. ‘I agree that they can be a heady concoction for some men.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Lottie began ticking off the points. ‘One has to be wary of the inveterates who stammer out marriage proposals at the sight of a well-trimmed ankle, the cads who try to get you into corners and steal a kiss, the let-in-pockets who only have an eye to one’s fortune and clearing their vowels. I have encountered them all. But I am quite determined to be ruthless. Mama wants a title.’

‘A title can be a difficult proposition. What makes you positive that you can snare one? What sort of mantraps do you intend on laying? It can take great skill and cunning to succeed when so many are in pursuit.’

Impossible man. He made it seem like she was some sort of predator. Lottie stuck her chin in the air and prepared to give the coup de grâce. ‘I have rejected Lord Thorngrafton. He positively begged for my hand last November.’

‘Lord Thorngrafton? The elderly Lord Thorngrafton?’ The man went still and something blazed in his eyes. The air about him crackled.

‘Not so very elderly.’ Lottie kept her gaze steady. She refused to be intimidated. As if the only titled men who might be interested in her were on their last legs or blind in both eyes! ‘Around about your age and you are hardly in your dotage.’

‘When did he propose to you?’ The man leant forward, every particle appeared coiled, ready to spring. ‘I would like to know. It is most intriguing. I have been on the Continent until recently and am unaware of certain recent events.’

‘Shortly before Christmas.’ Lottie gave a small shrug and wished she had thought to bring her parasol. She would have liked to have spun it in a disdainful fashion. ‘However, I do not think the proposal genuine as Mama never remarked upon it. I rather fancied it was the sort where the gentleman expects you to fall into his lap like a ripe peach, perfect for the plucking and tasting, but easily forgotten.’

‘You’d be right there.’ The man’s eyes became hooded and his shoulders relaxed. ‘I do not believe Lord Thorngrafton intends to wed any time soon. I should not try any of your tricks with him.’

‘Are you acquainted with Lord Thorngrafton? Is he another of your friends that you have misplaced while you were on the Continent?’ Lottie narrowed her eyes, peering at him more closely. Silently she cursed her wayward tongue. He did look like Lord Thorngrafton, if she half- closed her eyes. But this man had a wilder air about him. She would swear that he moved like a panther that she had once heard about at the Royal Zoological Society in London. ‘You look somewhat similar—dark black hair, same eyes, but he was shorter, more squarely built. He had fat, doughy hands and he spoke with a slight lisp.’

A muscle twitched in the man’s jaw and a cold prickling sensation trickled down the back of Lottie’s neck. What had Lord Thorngrafton ever done to this man?

‘We are acquainted. Relations.’

‘And you are?’ Lottie clutched her reticule tighter to her bosom. She knew the information should make her feel more secure, but somehow, it didn’t. The man knew both Jack Stanton and Lord Thorngrafton, but that did not mean a thing.

‘Tristan Dyvelston,’ he said and his dark eyes flared with something.

Tristan Dyvelston. The name rang in Lottie’s ears. She glanced about her and the giant yews began to press inwards, hemming her in. The notorious Tristan Dyvelston. Cousin Frances, in one of her more expansive moods, had whispered about him and the scandals he had left in his wake. She peered more closely at the weed-choked graves and picked out the Dyvelston name. The tale on balance was true. Why would anyone pretend to be Tristan Dyvelston? Even after ten years, the wisps of scandal clung to his name. A scandal so great that Frances only knew the barest of details.

She made a pretence of straightening her skirt. Life’s little problems were never solved through panic. She had to find a way to retreat in a dignified manner. She doubted if society’s rules and niceties would constrain Tristan Dyvelston. He would take, and pay no regard to the consequences. That was a woman’s job—looking towards the consequences of her actions.

‘But he went to the Continent, pursued by several angry husbands.’ The words slipped out. She wet her lips, drew a deep breath. ‘Are you funning me? Who are you really?’

‘Tristan Dyvelston.’ A faint hint of amusement coloured his dark features. ‘I have returned…from the Continent. It is no longer necessary for me to be there.’

‘But the scandal.’ Lottie made a small gesture. ‘The shame, the dreadful, terrible shame. Those poor women. Cousin Frances was most particular on the shame.’

‘She knew what she was on about, the lady I left with. And I use the word lady lightly.’ Tristan Dyvelston’s mouth turned down and his face took on the appearance of marble. ‘No husband pursued me. I believe he was thankful to get rid of the encumbrance of his wife. The affair cooled before we reached Calais. Last seen, the woman in question had found solace in the arms of an Italian count.’

Lottie measured the distance between herself and the gate. She wanted to appear sophisticated and unconcerned, but if she was caught here alone in the company of a notorious womaniser, any hope of regaining a social life would be gone. She might as well learn to do tatting and resign herself to looking after Henry and Lucy’s children. She had to leave. Immediately.

‘An Italian count—imagine that. Really, it has been very pleasant speaking with you, but I must be going…’

‘And here I thought we were having a pleasant conversation.’ He took a step closer to her. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as if he understood precisely why she had decided to depart. ‘I regret that I disturbed you.’

‘You didn’t. I have seen all that I came for. I will return one day with my paints. There is a certain melancholy air about this place.’ She cautiously took a step backwards, then another; her foot slipped and a bramble snaked around her boot, holding her fast.

She attempted to free herself but only succeeded in catching the skirt of her dress. And it would have to be her new checked gingham. Fine lawn. Easily torn. She could hear Frances’s clucking and Aunt Alice’s sighing now. Then there would be explanations, ones she did not want to make. The dreaded Carlotta would be used in terrible tones. Carlotta—a name more suited to her aunt in Alnmouth than her.

Lottie shivered slightly and redoubled her efforts, wincing as a thorn pricked her through her glove. Her reticule with the Claude glass dropped to the ground with a slight crash. Lottie cursed under her breath. Everything was going wrong.

‘Allow me, Miss Lottie.’ Tristan Dyvelston bent down, and his long fingers caught her ankle, held it firm, while his other hand freed her from the bramble. He handed her the reticule and Lottie clutched it to her bosom. ‘No harm done and no need for unladylike utterances.’

‘You know my name.’ Lottie stilled, the reticule dangling precariously from her fingertips.

‘You said it earlier.’ He stood up, but did not move away from her. ‘You should be more cautious.’

‘Is this a warning?’ Lottie’s heart began to pound in her ears. He was very close. Earlier she had failed to notice the breadth of his shoulders or his height. She wondered how she had failed to do so. Wondered briefly what it would be like to be clasped in his arms, and she knew this was why he had his scandalous reputation.

‘An observation from one who has lived a bit longer than you.’ He looked at her. ‘I have met women like you before. They need to learn life’s lessons.’

‘And do you propose to teach me them?’ Lottie crossed her arms and forced her back straight. She gave her curls a little toss. They were back on familiar ground. She had endured such propositions before, although none given in such a warm voice. She supposed he practised it, but a small part of her wanted that voice to be just for her.

‘Do you wish me to?’ His eyes blazed with an inner fire. ‘Forgive me, but it is dangerous thing to do—provoking a man when you are quite without a chaperon.’

‘Forgive me, Mr Dyvelston—’ Lottie inclined her head ‘—we travel in different circles, but that line has been tried on me at least four times. You are not the first to use it and no doubt will not be the last. I may give the impression of being a silly blonde, but I am not. I might be not as sophisticated as some, but I can take care of myself. I have no intention of learning life’s lessons from one such as you. Or indeed any of your kind.’

He raised both eyebrows. ‘You speak in a very forthright manner for one who is barely out of the school room.’

‘Men such as you are an occupational hazard.’ Lottie smoothed the folds of her dress. A cold fury swept over her. Why was it that men expected women to swoon when confronted with something? Or to recoil in horror? Flirtations were fine, but men always went that little bit beyond. She cleared her throat and assumed an air of haughty superiority. ‘The agreed answer is that I am quite satisfied with my life at present, so thank you for the honour, but no. I shall wait until I receive the perfect proposal.’

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as if her words amused him. Amusement! How dare he!

‘And having received this set-down, I am supposed to walk away, and not gather you up in my arms. Is that what they taught you?’ He paused and his hand brushed her gloved one, sending tingles throughout her body. ‘Or would you rather a demonstration?’

‘A demonstration?’ The word emerged as a high-pitched squeak. Lottie held up her reticule like a shield. But she was torn between the knowledge that propriety demanded that she should flee, and the desire to stay and see what he might do. What would it be like to be held in the arms of a man who knew what he was doing? ‘I have no wish for you to demonstrate anything.’

‘Don’t you?’ The words wrapped around her like a silken rope and held her.

Slowly Lottie shook her head, but she watched Tristan Dyvelston’s smile increase. Lottie took two steps backwards. Perhaps she had made a mistake. The sound of Frances’s shriek was far too distant. She had been overconfident. ‘I will be going now. Straight away.’

He threw back his head, and his laughter startled a wood pigeon out of a tree. Broke the spell. He had intended on frightening her. She wanted the earth to up and swallow her. She had been naive.

‘I fail to see the amusement in this.’

‘Your expression is that of an outraged kitten with spiky hair.’

‘My hair is not spiky.’ Lottie opted for an expression of haughty disdain. ‘I have had odes written to my hair. Lord Thorngrafton sent me an ode about the gold in my curls.’

‘Not from me. Never from me.’ The colours of his eyes changed and she wondered that she had thought them deep black. They appeared full of hidden lights, shifting, dancing. Never the same, but spellbinding to watch. ‘I never write odes to hair. Never write odes at all if I can help it.’

He crossed the distance between them in one stride. His hand brushed her curls. ‘Definitely not spiky. I retract.’

‘Oh.’ Lottie put a hand against her throat. Her heart had begun to beat very fast. She parted her lips and closed her eyes. What would it be like to feel his lips against hers? She had only been kissed twice last Season, and neither time had been what she would qualify as a success. They had been somehow dissatisfactory, particularly after she had learnt that Lieutenant Ludlow had gone around trying to catch Caroline, Diana and Leda under the mistletoe as well. She waited, lips pursed and poised.

‘Virtuous virgins hold little attraction, even those with strawberry red lips. You may lower your mouth, Miss Lottie, and next time, wait.’

Lottie opened her eyes and hurriedly lowered her chin. She could feel the heat beginning to rise on her cheeks. A mocking smile twisted his mouth and his face became like carved marble.

‘Do they indeed?’ she asked in her frostiest tone as she drew her body up to her full height.

‘Too many complications. Too many considerations.’ He gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders.

Lottie released the air from her lungs. She should be relieved, but a small stab of regret ran through her. She had wanted to experience his arms holding her. ‘You make me sound positively frumpish. Highly unattractive.’

‘Not plain. Just a young lady who is far too aware of her charms and wants to play games, dangerous games that lead where neither party is prepared to go.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Women such as you provide complications, complications any sensible man would be well advised to give a wide berth, if he wished to retain his place in society. Even among my kind, we have a certain honour. I prefer someone who knows how to play the game.’

Lottie inclined her head. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dyvelston. It has been enlightening.’

‘Until we meet again, Miss Lottie.’

‘I doubt that very much.’

‘One never knows. When you are older, perhaps…’

He captured her hand, raised it. His lips brushed the exact point where her glove gapped, and touched her naked flesh for the briefest of instants. It seared through her.

Lottie jerked back her hand, and fled to the echoing sound of laughter. She ran straight into Frances, who wore the look of a disgruntled hen as she squelched along the lane. Her straw bonnet dripped muddy water.

‘Ah, Cousin Carlotta, at last we discover you.’

‘I was regarding the old church through my Claude glass.’ Lottie held up her reticule with a smile. How many times had she told Frances that she hated the name Carlotta? And how many times had her cousin ignored the request? Her hand went around the reticule. She winced as she realised that she had dropped the Claude glass and returning to the ruins was impossible. Not while Tristan Dyvelston was there. ‘The moonlit aspect was quite unusual. I shall have to show you some time.’

‘You mean now?’ Cousin Frances held her hands as an alarmed expression crossed her face.

‘Impossible, Fanny dear, as you appear a bit damp and I have no wish for you to catch a chill.’

‘I hate the name Fanny.’

Lottie gave a small smile. ‘I always have difficulty remembering that.’

‘We thought we heard voices, Miss Charlton, just now.’ Mr Shepard’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He appeared to have a very damp, dead sheep look about him and Lottie was positive that she detected a tinge of pink to Frances’s cheeks. ‘Yours and someone else’s.’

‘Yes, a male voice, Cousin, and yours answering him.’ Frances gave her a piercing glance. ‘Is there anyone of our acquaintance there?’

‘How did you find the bridge at Cruel Sykes burn?’ Lottie asked quickly. They had to get away from here before Mr Dyvelston appeared with a sardonic twist to his lips. When Frances was in one of her moods, everything would come out. Then she would never get back to Newcastle. ‘Was it easy to cross?’

‘Wet,’ Frances replied. ‘Very wet. Cold and slippery.’

‘Miss Frances fell in.’ Kent Shepard puffed himself up. ‘I had to rescue her.’

Lottie did not miss the slight change of name. Some good had come of this afternoon after all. Her scheme showed definite positive signs.

The golden portals of society and triumph beckoned. Tristan was wrong. She glanced behind her at the seemingly empty churchyard, biting her lip. As long as her little encounter went undiscovered. It had to go undiscovered. No one would believe that a notorious rake like Mr Dyvelston had gone to the churchyard of his own volition. He supped with the devil, according to Cousin Frances.

Why was it that the attractive men were always among the most unsuitable?

Lottie gave automatic answers as the conversation turned towards pleasantries about the weather. Her hand went to the place his lips had touched her wrist. She shivered involuntarily. She had had a lucky escape. Mr Dyvelston represented danger and she had best remember it. She would lead the sort of life that her mother and Henry wanted her to, if only she could return to civilisation. It was her destiny. She knew it.

Tristan watched her go. He heard her bright laugh and artless explanation and then turned back to his parents’ graves. A small case winked up at him. He reached down and pocketed it.

There was very little point in going after the woman now. Tristan closed his eyes. He had lied when he’d said that Lottie’s hair was ordinary. It was the colour of spun gold. He could see how men could have their heads turned. But there was something else about her. Something that called to him.

‘We will meet again, Lottie, you and I. And on my terms,’ he said, fingering the Claude glass and staring down at the village. ‘But first I need to determine who the false Thorngrafton is.’