Читать книгу Bought for Revenge - Sarah Mallory - Страница 8

‘So, Mr Monserrat has arrived,’ said Mr Havenham.

They were at breakfast. Annabelle was buttering a freshly baked muffin and did not look up.

‘Has he, Papa?’ She kept her tone decidedly cool.

‘Yes, Telford mentioned he was the new owner of Burnt Acres, did he not? Although I suppose we shall have to call it Morwood Manor again now. He has written me a very civil letter and I have invited him to call today.’

‘Oh, that is unfortunate. I have arranged to visit old Mrs Hall in Stanton and shall not be able to meet him.’

‘But I have not yet told you the time, my dear.’

‘I know, dear Papa, but I am engaged to go on to Mrs Ford’s for a fitting for my new gown.’ She gave him her sweetest smile. ‘If I’d had more notice I should of course cry off from both these appointments, but as it is…’

‘No, no, you must go, especially to visit Mrs Hall, I would not have you backward in your attentions to such an old friend. Very well, my dear, off you go. I will give our new neighbour your apologies.’

‘Mr Monserrat, sir.’

A very correct butler showed Lucas into the sunny drawing room at Oakenroyd, and as the door closed quietly behind him Lucas took the opportunity to study the man waiting for him.

He suffered something of a shock. In his mind he saw a tall, upright man with brown hair and grey eyes, very like his daughter, but his host was an elderly gentleman, his shoulders slightly stooped and his hair silver white. He came forwards now to greet his guest. His grey eyes were smiling, but Lucas had the impression of a pervading air of gentle sadness about the man.

No sympathy, Lucas reminded himself. Havenham is your enemy. Smile, play his game of friendliness, but keep your distance.

Lucas listened to his words of welcome. They seemed sincere, uttered in a quiet voice that matched his mild demeanour. There was no hint that Miss Havenham had told him of their meeting. Surely if she had done so his welcome would have been less cordial?

Lucas took a seat, accepted a glass of wine. After all, that was the civilised thing to do. It did not imply that they must therefore be upon good terms. In the past he had shown equal courtesy to a captured French officer, knowing that if they met on the battlefield they would neither of them have the slightest hesitation in killing the other.

But this is underhand. Havenham doesn’t know you are his enemy.

The thought was unwelcome, but Lucas pushed it aside. Havenham’s conscience should tell him that retribution would come, one day. He dragged his attention back to what his host was saying.

‘I regret my daughter is not here to greet you. She is gone on a visit of duty that could not be put off.’

‘That, sir, is my loss,’ murmured Lucas. So she was avoiding him? Well, there was plenty of time to renew that particular acquaintance.

‘No, no, she is eager to meet you.’ The old man smiled. ‘She will want to see the new owner of Morwood. The house has been empty since before she was born and she has grown up running free in the grounds.’

‘Really? I am surprised you allowed her to wander so far from home.’

‘It is safe enough. She was always accompanied by a servant, or her brother, when he was alive.’ A hesitation, a flicker of pain, quickly brushed aside and Havenham continued. ‘Now she is grown, of course, she does ride unaccompanied, but I do not worry about her going there. The locals never venture on to the estate. They believe it is haunted.’ The old man fell silent, looking dreamily into the fire.

‘And is that what you believe too, sir?’ Lucas prompted him. ‘Is that why you have never done anything with it?’

‘No, but it holds painful memories for me.’ Lucas saw another shadow of pure anguish cross the lined face, then Samuel seemed to shake himself out of his reverie and said brightly, ‘But that is all in the past now. You are about to bring Morwood alive again and I am very glad of it.’

Lucas stayed for no more than the required half hour, fending off questions he did not wish to answer and making enquiries of his own about Morwood. All the time part of him was marvelling that he could sit so calmly exchanging pleasantries with a man whom he had hated for so many years. A man he planned to destroy.

Annabelle had been thankful to escape from the house and from a meeting with Mr Monserrat. She would have to meet him sometime and part of her was a little ashamed that she was putting it off, but she stifled the quiet voice that was her conscience and went in sunny spirits to call upon the elderly Mrs Hall. However, when she sat down to dinner that night she could not forbear asking her father about his visitor.

‘I am sorry you missed him,’ said Samuel as he took his seat opposite her. ‘He has great plans for the manor, and I am glad of it. I should have done more with the house…’

‘And is this Mr Monserrat a gentleman, sir?’ Annabelle prompted him in an attempt to dispel his wistfulness.

‘Oh, I think so, my dear, although he is very dark. He was a soldier, you know, at Waterloo and before that in the Peninsula. I have no doubt the hot sun is responsible for his complexion, he is almost swarthy.’

She was about to say that could not account for his black eyes and hair, but she remembered, just in time, that her father did not know she had met their neighbour.

‘In fact, he reminds me of someone.’ Her father leaned forwards, a slight crease in his brow as if he were trying to catch some fleeting thought. He smiled and shook his head. ‘No, it will not come and is probably a nonsense. But you shall see for yourself when you meet him.’

‘I will indeed.’ Annabelle turned her attention to her food, hoping that it would be some time before she was obliged to see Mr Monserrat.

Samuel had been looking forward to dinner with the Rishworths, but when Annabelle had helped him into Mr Keighley’s carriage, she knew he would be comparing it unfavourably with their own well-padded barouche, which was now stored away at the back of the coach house.

‘Mr Havenham, welcome, sir, and Miss Havenham.’ Lady Rishworth greeted them with her usual jolly smile before turning to welcome Mr Keighley, who followed them into the drawing room. A number of guests had already arrived, all of them known to Annabelle. She considered it a misfortune that the closest was Mrs Kensley, a widow as colourless as her grey garb but with a waspish tongue. She gave Annabelle a false smile as she expressed her surprise at seeing them there so early.

‘I had thought you would be walking here tonight, Mr Havenham, and did not expect you for a good half hour yet.’

‘No, no, ma’am, Mr Keighley was good enough to call for us.’

Annabelle admired her father’s calm and good-natured response.

‘But it must be such a blow to lose your own horses,’ the widow continued. ‘Times are very hard indeed when Oakenroyd must close its stables.’

‘They are not closed, ma’am,’ Annabelle corrected her. ‘It is only the carriage horses that have been sold. Old Simmons the coachman gave notice that he wanted to retire and we decided that we would not replace him for a while.’

‘My dear, you do not need to explain to me.’ The widow patted her arm and it was all Annabelle could do not to pull away from the condescending gesture. ‘So many Stanton families are struggling at present. No doubt you are regretting spending all that money on your presentation…’

Annabelle’s ill humour disappeared and she laughed at the absurdity of the remark.

‘My dear ma’am, that was two years past. But since you mention it, I do not regret a groat spent on a London Season.’ She continued, knowing what the widow’s next comment would be, ‘Neither do I regret returning unmarried. It means I can look after my father and be mistress of Oakenroyd. What more could I ask for?’

Annabelle watched with no small measure of satisfaction as Mrs Kensley blinked and opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. She was well aware that the widow had prepared any number of sympathetic and patronising comments, but none would be appropriate now. Her father touched her arm.

‘My dear, let me present our new neighbour to you.’ Annabelle’s head came up. ‘Mr Monserrat, my daughter, sir.’

So he was here and looking very different from their previous meeting. In The confines of the Rishworths’ commodious drawing room he looked even larger than she remembered. The superb cut of his black evening coat did nothing to lessen the width of his shoulders, and the snowy whiteness of his cravat and shirt-points accentuated the deep tan of his skin. His hair, black as jet, was brushed back from a face that was more rugged than handsome with heavy brows that gave his aquiline features a rather hawkish look. She could more readily believe him a soldier than a courtier, yet when he made his bow to her she could not fault it.

‘We have met,’ he said, not taking his eyes from her. ‘I am glad to see you are none the worse for your little tumble, Miss Havenham.’

‘Tumble?’ Samuel was immediately on the alert. ‘When was this?’

She glared at the man, but he met her furious gaze with a bland smile as he replied.

‘On Monday last, sir. Miss Havenham had the misfortune to come off her horse and I was able to assist her.’

Mrs Kensley tittered. ‘Have I not always said that big horse is no mount for a lady?’

Her remark was ignored. Mr Havenham turned a frowning look upon Annabelle.

‘My dear child, you said nothing of this to me.’

‘Because it was of so little importance, Papa.’

‘But you did not tell me you had met Mr Monserrat.’

‘We were not introduced,’ she explained, keeping her voice cool. ‘And he merely helped me back into the saddle.’

‘Oh, my love, have I not said you should take your groom when you are out riding?’

Her tormentor nodded. ‘Let me add my entreaties to your father’s, Miss Havenham. You can never be sure what dangers you might meet in the woods.’

She almost gasped at his impertinence, but contented herself with a swift, angry glance as she addressed her father. ‘You have, sir, and in future I shall make sure I am always accompanied.’

Mrs Kensley was watching the interchange closely. She gave a little cough to remind everyone of her presence.

‘Perhaps you should consider selling such a dangerous brute, Mr Havenham,’ she suggested. ‘That would save you a deal of worry.’

Annabelle felt her temper rising, but support came from a surprising quarter.

‘Oh, I doubt that,’ remarked Mr Monserrat. ‘I suspect the lady would be a most uncomfortable companion if she was obliged to give up her riding.’

‘You are very right, sir. My poor father would soon be at his wits’ end with me. No, Mrs Kensley, it will be a sad day indeed when I am forced to part with Apollo.’

With a tight little smile she led her father away, muttering under her breath, ‘Insufferable woman! She delights in our troubles.’

Her father patted her arm. ‘Hush now, Belle. People are bound to talk about our economies. We must bear it as best we can. It will soon pass, when there is more fruitful gossip to be had.’

‘You are right, Father, and I beg your pardon. I am not as forbearing as you.’

‘You are young, my love, and impatient of adversity. These little setbacks happen and there are always those who will revel in others’ misfortune. We will smile and show them it is a small matter.’

‘Always so kind, Papa, always so gentle. I will try to learn from your example.’

‘You are a good girl, Belle.’ He patted her cheek. ‘Now, let me sit by the fire with my old friends while you go and enjoy yourself with the younger set!’

The Rishworths were well known for their lively dinners, and when they sat down at the table Annabelle found herself with a group that included Celia Rishworth and Lizzie Scanlon, two young ladies who were determined to enjoy themselves. She was some distance from her father, but since he was seated comfortably between his hostess and Mrs Hall she knew he would be happily entertained during the meal. Mr Monserrat was also at that end of the table. He appeared to be at ease with his company, but throughout the meal she was aware of his dark and enigmatic presence, watching and listening.

The dinner was excellent and the company determined to be pleased. Lucas set himself to entertain the ladies on either side of him, expertly drawing them out to talk about themselves and deftly turning aside all questions about his own background. On one side was Mrs Kensley, the widow whose caustic remarks had inflamed Miss Havenham. While cleverly eluding all her attempts to learn more about him, he encouraged her to talk. Lucas had her measure and took none of her comments or opinions at face value, but from her artless chatter he gained a great deal of valuable information about the neighbourhood.

As the meal progressed he studied Samuel Havenham, seated across the table from him. He had learned that Havenham’s health was not good, but this merely confirmed his own impression. The old man ate sparingly, just enough to avoid offending his hostess, and his wine glass rarely required topping up. However, it was easy to see that Samuel Havenham was a well-respected figure in the area, and despite being obliged to give up his carriage he was still regarded as a man of some standing. Lucas let the conversation flow around him as he continued to watch Samuel. He noticed how often his eyes strayed to his daughter, sitting at the far end of the table.

‘Miss Havenham is the belle of our local circle,’ offered Mrs Kensley, following his glance.

‘Is she?’

The widow tittered at his cool response. ‘Oh, she is not as pretty as Miss Rishworth, nor Miss Scanlon, but she is Miss Havenham of Oakenroyd.’

‘You mean it is only her fortune that makes her so appealing.’

Mrs Kensley gave an arch laugh. ‘Oh, Mr Monserrat, that is very wicked of you, of course I do not mean any such thing! Miss Havenham is a very good sort of girl. She has been a little spoiled perhaps, but then her papa quite dotes on her. Although that is no wonder, Miss Havenham being his only surviving child. However, for my part, I find her manners a little too forward for one so young.’

‘And how old is she?’ he enquired, helping the widow to another slice of lemon tart.

‘Not yet one-and-twenty, although she rides around on that big horse of hers as if she were lady of the manor.’ Mrs Kensley stopped, her knife and fork poised in mid-air. ‘But of course that will have to end now, won’t it, sir, since you are now the owner of Morwood Manor.’ She gave another of her irritating titters. ‘Unless, that is, you are tempted to offer for her? I warn you, Mr Keighley is there before you.’

Lucas smiled vaguely and sipped at his wine. The young people at the other end of the table were enjoying a lively conversation, with Annabelle Havenham at their centre. Mrs Kensley was right, the two other young ladies would be considered more beautiful than Annabelle Havenham. Her figure was good, but no better than others he had seen, her features were regular and her soft brown hair was simply dressed. Celia Rishworth’s vivacity made her dark curls dance about her head and Miss Scanlon’s fair prettiness was set off by an over-decorated gown that must have cost her father a pretty penny, but there was something about Miss Havenham’s quiet elegance that caught the attention. He remembered she had looked magnificent when riding and it was hard to forget the disconcertingly direct gaze of her grey eyes.

His own gaze moved on around the table until it reached James Keighley. A widower, he had been informed. They had been introduced earlier and Lucas had summed up Keighley as a country gentleman of comfortable means, some years older than himself. Was there an understanding between the man and Miss Havenham? Keighley had brought the Oakenroyd party in his own carriage, but Lucas had noticed no special attention between the pair since then. If he had been enamoured of the lady, or if he had been a hot-headed young suitor then he might have been a nuisance, but Lucas did not think Keighley’s interest in Miss Havenham was likely to affect his own plans.

When the ladies withdrew, their host gave a signal to the butler.

‘Now we can be comfortable.’ He leaned forwards to address Lucas. ‘I know you were a military man, Monserrat, but I hope you won’t think us unpatriotic to bring French brandy to the table now that the emperor has finally been defeated.’

‘Not at all,’ returned Lucas, pushing his glass out to be filled. ‘I am pleased to see you are supporting the new regime.’

‘We are, sir,’ declared Mr Scanlon, ‘and since Sir John is magistrate for these parts you can be sure that the duty has been paid on the brandy, too!’

There was general laughter at this.

‘So you were in the army, Mr Monserrat,’ remarked Mr Keighley. ‘What is it brings you to Stanton, sir?’

‘Have you not heard?’ said Scanlon. ‘He has purchased Morwood Manor and means to restore it. Ain’t that right, sir?’

‘It is,’ averred Lucas.

‘Well, now you are here,’ said Rishworth, ‘perhaps you would be interested in investing locally.’

‘That depends upon the investment.’

Sir John Rishworth sat back in his chair, preparing to expound upon what was clearly a favourite theme.

‘Our new toll road, for example. A number of us subscribed to the venture two years ago, to build a new road running around Dyke’s Ridge. The old road, you see, dips down very steeply past Oldroyd Farm to cross the ford, but the valley bottom is almost a bog. In winter the road is well nigh impassable. We hope the new road will improve trade to the town.’

‘Unfortunately it has not done so yet,’ observed Mr Keighley.

‘No,’ agreed Sir John. ‘Last year’s bad harvest means trade in Stanton has been very poor and we have not yet recovered our costs.’

Samuel Havenham sighed. ‘I had hoped we would have turned a profit by now.’

‘You could always sell your share in the venture,’ suggested Lucas.

Havenham shook his head. ‘No, no, we shall come about. Besides, the subscription was not so much an investment for me as for my daughter. A little something for her when I am gone.’

His neighbours cried out at that and declared they hoped Mr Havenham would be with them for many years to come.

‘If you are interested, Monserrat, there are several of us who might wish to sell on our shares to you,’ called a bewhiskered gentleman from the far end of the table.

‘Aye,’ cried Scanlon. ‘You may have mine with pleasure. I haven’t seen any improvement to business in Stanton or recovered my costs yet.’

Sir John waved one hand in a placating gesture. ‘Be calm, gentlemen. Once the mail coach begins to use the new road next summer our fortunes will improve, trust me.’

‘Perhaps Mr Monserrat has more patience than I,’ retorted Scanlon. ‘What do you say, Monserrat, would you like to take my shares off me?’

‘I will consider it.’

‘I think he is better keeping his funds to restore Burnt Acres,’ laughed the bewhiskered gentleman.

Lucas raised one black brow in enquiry. ‘Burnt Acres?’

‘Morwood Manor. Burnt Acres is what we’ve called that land for more years than I care to remember.’

‘Oh?’ Lucas kept his face impassive. ‘Why is that?’

‘Goes back to when the house burned down five-and-twenty years ago,’ explained Sir John. ‘Owner and his wife lost their lives in the fire.’

‘Aye, sad business.’ Mr Scanlon shook his head. ‘It followed a particularly dry spring. Burning debris from the house was caught up by the wind. It set fire to the surrounding trees and the gorse. By morning the house was a ruin and everything around it was scorched and blackened.’

A chill was spreading through Lucas, but he forced himself to ignore it. He asked his next question with studied indifference. ‘What caused the fire?’

Rishworth shrugged. ‘Angus Dutton was the magistrate then, so I am not familiar with the details, but no one knows for sure. It is thought it started in a bedchamber—the mistress of the house was a foreign lady from warmer climes and didn’t like this northern cold. She insisted on a fire in her room, day and night, at all seasons.’

Lucas, my love, come and read with me by the fire.

Samuel Havenham shifted in his chair. ‘Let us hope Mr Monserrat will bring some happier memories to the place.’

Their host signalled to the butler to fill the glasses again. ‘You’ve taken on a deal of work there, sir,’ he remarked.

‘Aye, but it’s brought some much-needed employment to the town,’ remarked Mr Scanlon. ‘Isn’t that so, Mr Monserrat?’

‘Yes, I use local labour where I can.’

‘Good for you, sir. And where are you staying while all this work is going on at Morwood?’ asked the bewhiskered gentleman. ‘I haven’t been there for years, but I understand the house is merely a shell.’

‘It is. I am staying at the Red Lion.’

Rishworth chuckled. ‘Ah, then let me warn you to watch out for the ladies, sir. The Red Lion holds the monthly assembly, and with you living there, they will expect you to attend.’

‘Aye,’ laughed another who had reached the roistering stage and was banging the table. ‘They’ll have you marked down as a dance partner and maybe more, if they have daughters to marry, eh, Sir John?’

Their host laughed. ‘I ain’t looking for a husband for Celia yet, but her mother is no different from the rest, looks upon every single man as a possible catch. Sorry to put it so bluntly, Monserrat, but there it is…’

Lucas smiled and shrugged and the conversation moved on, growing louder and more boisterous as the brandy and port flowed freely. By the time Sir John led them back to the drawing room to join the ladies, many of the gentlemen were decidedly rosy-cheeked. Lucas had drunk comparatively little and as the gentlemen ambled their way out of the dining room he hung back to wait for Samuel Havenham. Slowly they crossed the hall together.

‘I hope my neighbours’ little jests did not offend you,’ said Havenham in his mild way. ‘They are as good a set of gentlemen as one could hope to find, but the wine and the brandy, you know…’

‘I understand,’ said Lucas. ‘I am pleased at the warm welcome I have received since I came here.’

They were entering the drawing room and Lucas observed that Annabelle was watching him from across the room. A wry smile tugged at his mouth. There was one person whose welcome had been anything but warm. Havenham was still talking and making his way slowly but surely towards his daughter. Lucas wondered if he should excuse himself and move off, but an inner demon kept him beside the older man.

‘We have not done much entertaining of late at Oakenroyd,’ said Samuel. ‘My health, you know. I keep very much to the house during the winter months, but your coming puts me in mind of my obligations. Annabelle, my love, I was just saying to Mr Monserrat that we should hold a dinner. What do you say?’

‘Of course, Papa. Perhaps at the end of May. The weather will be more settled then and that will give me time to arrange everything. I do hope you will be able to join us, Mr Monserrat.’

She was clearly accustomed to playing hostess for her father. Her response was cool and collected, although Lucas noted how she avoided his eyes.

‘May? We cannot wait nearly two months to invite our new neighbour to dinner,’ objected Havenham.

‘Papa, I cannot possibly organise something in any less time. Invitations will need to go out and guests must have time to reply, then Mrs Wicklow must open up the guest rooms, and Cook, you know, will need notice to prepare.’

‘Yes, yes, I quite see that is the case if we are going to have a grand dinner, but in the meantime Mr Monserrat must take pot luck with us. Next week. A man cannot dine every night at the Red Lion!’ He touched Lucas’s arm. ‘Come as soon as you wish, sir. Name your day. You will find Belle keeps a very good table, you will not go hungry. And if truth be told her efforts deserve more appreciation than I can give them.’

‘You are very good, sir, and I will take you up on your invitation, gladly.’ He felt rather than saw the lady’s grey eyes upon him and turned to meet her frosty look with a blank one of his own. ‘Thursday next week would suit me very well, sir, but I would not want to inconvenience Miss Havenham.’

He could almost see the thoughts whirling through her head. She wanted to refuse, to make some excuse to put him off, but in view of her father’s invitation that was not possible. The devilish imp prompted him to say with false deference, ‘Perhaps Thursday is not her best day for cooking…’

‘Heavens, Mr Monserrat, I would not cook for you myself.’ The honeyed tone was as insincere as his own. ‘However, I can assure you that our cook is equal to feeding guests on any day of the week.’

‘Thursday it is, then,’ cried Mr Havenham, oblivious of the tension around him. ‘Splendid, splendid.’

He wandered off, but Lucas remained with Annabelle. ‘I look forward to improving our acquaintance, Miss Havenham.’ Silently she turned to walk away, but he kept beside her. ‘Ah,’ he murmured. ‘You are speechless with anticipation.’

‘I am speechless at your effrontery, first at Morwood—’

‘And now I only want to make amends.’

He could smell her perfume, not too sweet, and with a hint of citrus. He found himself leaning closer to breathe it in.

‘Let it be enough that I do not cut your acquaintance,’ she hissed.

‘But then everyone would want to know why.’

‘And you would delight in telling them, I suppose.’

‘No, no, I would not delight in it, Miss Havenham.’

She bit her lip and glared at him. He thought that if they had not been in Lady Rishworth’s drawing room she would have stamped her foot. He laughed suddenly and held out his hand to her. ‘Come, madam, your father likes me. For his sake, cry friends.’

She hesitated. Slowly, her hand crept up and into his. ‘Not friends, sir,’ she said quietly, ‘but for my father’s sake, not enemies.’

They did not speak again and later, when he lay down on his bed at the Red Lion, Lucas went over the events of the evening. He had enjoyed himself. Moreover, he had enjoyed the verbal sparring with Annabelle Havenham, so much so that when she had at last given him her hand he had felt a surge of pleasure.

He shifted uneasily. Havenham was a gentle, scholarly soul. In other circumstances he would have liked him, but it was not part of his plan to grow too fond of Samuel Havenham. Or his daughter. Lucas turned over and prepared for sleep, seeing again in his mind’s eye Annabelle’s clear eyes, the slight blush tinting her cheek during their last encounter.

On the other hand, it would do no harm at all if Annabelle Havenham grew too fond of him. Perhaps he should revise his plans. To force her to marry him to save her father would, of course, have its merit, but how much sweeter would his revenge be upon Samuel Havenham if Annabelle was to fall in love with him?