Читать книгу The Outcast's Redemption - Sarah Mallory - Страница 11
ОглавлениеGrace blew out her candle and curled up beneath the bedcovers. She really could not make out Mr Peregrine. She turned restlessly. In general Papa was a very good judge of character, but he seemed to have fallen quite under this stranger’s spell.
She had to admit that dinner had been very enjoyable, the man was well educated and there had been some lively discussions of philosophy, religion and the arts, but he lacked knowledge of what was happening in the country. Surely the north was not that backward. Fears of Bonaparte invading England were never far away, but she thought if the man was a spy he would be better informed. Had he been locked up somewhere, perhaps? She was more thankful than ever that he was in the groom’s accommodation and that she had reminded Truscott to check the outer doors were secure before he went to bed.
Perhaps he had been in the Marshalsea. Many men of good birth were incarcerated there for debt, or fraud. With a huff of exasperation she sat up and thumped her pillow.
Such conjecture is quite useless. You will only end up turning the man into a monster, when he is probably nothing more than penniless vagrant, for all his talk of having business in Arrandale.
But would he be in any hurry to leave, if they continued to treat him like an honoured guest? She settled down in her bed again. The man had clearly enjoyed his dinner and he had been eager to take tea with her after. A knot of fluttering excitement twisted her stomach as she remembered his glinting look across the dining table. It was almost as if he was flirting with her.
Yet he barely spoke two words to her in the drawing room. Once the tea tray appeared he lost no time in emptying his cup and saying goodnight. She tried to be charitable and think that he was fatigued. Sleep crept up on Grace. No doubt matters would look much less mysterious in the daylight.
* * *
‘Good morning, Mrs Truscott.’ Grace looked about the kitchen. ‘Is our visitor still abed?’
‘Nay, Miss Grace, he went out an hour ago.’
‘Goodness, what can he be up to?’
Mrs Truscott smiled. ‘Well, you know what your father always says, miss. Only those who rise early will ever do any good.’
Grace laughed.
‘It is quite clear you approve of Mr Peregrine! But never mind that. I have come down to fetch tea for Papa. We are taking breakfast together and then I am going to visit Mrs Owlet. Perhaps you would pack a basket for me to take to her.’
‘I will, Miss Grace, but it goes against the grain to be helping those that won’t help themselves.’
‘Mrs Truscott! The poor woman has broken her leg.’
‘That’s as may be, but if she hadn’t been drinking strong beer she wouldn’t have tumbled off the road and down the bank, now would she? And that feckless son of hers is no better. I doubt he’s done an honest day’s work in his life, not since the hall closed and he lost his job there.’ The older woman scowled. ‘It’s said there’s always rabbit in the pot at the Owlets’ place, courtesy of Arrandale woods.’
‘I am sure young Tom isn’t the only one to go poaching in the woods and there is more than enough game to go round, since the woods are so neglected.’
‘That’s not the point, Miss Grace. It’s breaking the law.’
‘Well, if the law says a man cannot feed his family when there is such an abundance of rabbits on hand, then it is a bad law.’
‘Tsk, and you betrothed to a magistrate, too!’ Mrs Truscott waved a large spoon in her direction. ‘Don’t you go letting your man hear you saying such things, Miss Grace.’
‘Sir Loftus knows my sentiments on these things and I know he has some sympathy with the poorer villagers, although it would never do for him to say so, of course, and I suppose I should not have said as much to you.’
‘Don’t you worry about me, Miss Grace, there’s many a secret I’ve kept over the years. Now, let’s say no more about it, for the kettle’s boiling and the master will be waiting for his tea.’
* * *
Later, when she had seen her father comfortably ensconced in his study, Grace set off with her basket. Mrs Owlet lived at the furthest extremity of the village, at the end of a small lane backing on to Arrandale Park. Grace stayed for some time, trying to make conversation, although she found the widow’s embittered manner and caustic tongue very trying. The sun was at its height when Grace eventually emerged from the ill-kept cottage and she stood for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Having spent the past hour sympathising with Mrs Owlet, Grace was not inclined to walk back through the village and listen to anyone else’s woes. Instead she carried on up the lane into the park. There was a good path through the woods that bounded the park itself, and from there she could walk past the hall and on to the vicarage. It was a well-worn path that cut off the long curve of the High Street.
It was a fine spring morning and the woods were full of birdsong. Grace’s sunny nature revived and she began to feel more charitable towards Mrs Owlet. She had fallen on hard times when Arrandale House had been closed up. Now she lived a frugal existence with her son in what was little more than a hovel. It was no wonder that she was bitter, but Grace could not help thinking that less indulgence in strong beer and more effort with a broom would have improved her condition. Seeing her now, with her grubby linen and dirty clothes, it was difficult to think that she had once been laundress in a great house.
Grace recalled Mrs Truscott’s dark mutterings about young Tom Owlet poaching in these very woods and she looked around her. Not that anyone could mistake her tall form in its blue pelisse for a rabbit, but she strode on briskly and soon reached what had once been the deer park. Arrandale Hall was ahead of her, but her path veered away from the formal gardens and joined an impressive avenue of elms that lined the main approach to the house and would bring her out very close to the vicarage.
She had walked this way many times and always thought it regrettable that such a fine old house should stand empty. It was looking very grand today in the sunshine, but there was something different about the building that made her stop. She frowned at the little chapel beside the main house: the wide oak door was open.
Grace hurried across to the chapel. It was most likely Mr Jones had gone in there for some reason, but it could be children from the village, up to mischief, and the sooner they were sent on their way the better. She stepped inside and stood for a moment, while her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Someone was standing by the opposite wall, but it was definitely not a child.
‘Mr Peregrine! What on earth are you doing here?’
* * *
Wolf turned. Grace Duncombe stood in the entrance, a black outline against the sunshine.
‘The door was open and I was curious to see inside.’ He saw the frowning suspicion in her eyes. ‘I have not been stealing the church silver, Miss Duncombe, if that is your concern.’
‘There is nothing of that sort left in here now,’ she replied. ‘But what business can you have at the Hall?’
‘Curiosity,’ he repeated. ‘After what your father said last night I was interested to see the house, but you may be easy. The caretaker knows better than to let strangers into the house.’
Aye, thought Wolf, Jones would turn a stranger away, but the man had been happy enough to let Wolf wander through the familiar rooms. If Grace had arrived ten minutes earlier she would have found him in the entrance hall of the house itself. That would have been more difficult to explain away.
‘It was remiss of Mr Jones to leave the chapel open,’ she said now. ‘I must remind him of his duties.’
‘Must you?’
‘Why, yes. While the family are absent we must respect their property.’
‘Very commendable, Miss Duncombe, but since we are here, would you object if I took a moment to look around? You may stay, if you like, and make sure I do no damage.’
‘I shall certainly do so.’
Silently he turned to study an ornately carved edifice with its stone effigies. A curious stranger would ask whose tomb this was, so he did.
‘That is the tomb of Roland Arrandale and his wife,’ said Grace, stepping up beside him. ‘He was the first Earl of Davenport. The second and third earls are buried here, but the Hall was not grand enough for James, the fourth earl. He built himself a new principal seat and bequeathed Arrandale Hall to his younger son, John. His descendants are buried in the vault below us and you can see the carved memorials on the walls.’
‘Including these,’ murmured Wolf, looking up at two gleaming marble tablets.
‘They are recent additions. For the late Mr and Mrs Arrandale, and Florence, the poor wife of Mr Wolfgang Arrandale. I believe the younger son arranged for these to be installed at his own expense when the trustees refused to pay.’
Wolf kept his face impassive. What were those cheese-paring lawyers about to deny money for such things? And Richard—confound it, his little brother should not be bearing the cost. This was his fault. All of it.
‘It was fortunate there were no children,’ he said, keeping his voice indifferent.
‘Oh, but there was,’ she corrected him, as he had hoped she would. ‘There was a little girl. She was adopted by an Arrandale cousin, I believe.’
‘I am surprised her maternal grandparents did not bring up the child.’ He glanced at Grace, hoping she might answer the question he dare not ask. She did not disappoint him.
‘The Sawstons moved away from the area after their daughter’s death. They wanted nothing more to do with the Arrandale family, nor their granddaughter.’ Disapproval flickered over her serene countenance. ‘It was cruel of them to abandon the baby at such a time. The poor child had done nothing to warrant it, except to be born.’
And that was his fault, too. A shudder ran through Wolf and he turned away, saying curtly, ‘There is little of interest here.’
‘Unless you appreciate craftsmanship,’ she told him. ‘The font cover is by Grinling Gibbons.’
‘Is it now?’ Wolf went to the back of the church where the stone font stood behind the last box pew. He ran a careful hand over the elaborately carved wooden cover. ‘What a pity I did not know that earlier, I might have carried it off to sell in the nearest town.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Is that not what you think of me, Miss Duncombe, that I am a thief?’
‘I do not know what you are.’
‘Your father trusts me.’
‘Father trusts everyone.’
‘True. He is a saint and I will not deny that I am a sinner. But I am not here to steal from the chapel.’ Her darkling look was sceptical. He shrugged. ‘I have seen enough here now. Shall we go?’
She indicated that he should precede her out of the church, then she carefully locked the door. She stood on the path, as if waiting for him to walk away.
He said, ‘If you are going to the vicarage, I will escort you.’
‘Thank you, but before I leave I am going to take the key back to Mr Jones.’
‘Very well, I will wait for you.’
She looked dissatisfied with his answer, but she turned on her heel and hurried away to the house. Wolf followed more slowly. He could only hope that Jones would not give him away.
A few minutes later she returned and he was relieved by her exasperation when she saw him. Clearly she had no idea of his real identity.
‘Yes, I am still here,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I shall escort you back to the vicarage. It is not at all seemly for a young lady to walk these grounds alone.’
‘I have done so many times without mishap.’
‘So you are an unrepentant trespasser.’
‘Not at all, there is a right of way through the park.’
‘And you walk here for pleasure?’ he asked her.
‘Not today. I have been visiting an old lady. It is much quicker to walk home this way than through the village.’
‘It would be quicker still to ride. And having seen you in the saddle I know you ride very well, Miss Duncombe.’
‘One cannot live within twenty miles of Newmarket without riding.’ He detected the first signs of a thaw in her response. ‘However, riding today would not have been so convenient. You see, I came through the village and carried out several errands. I passed on Mrs Truscott’s recipe for a restorative broth to one family, called in upon a mother with a newborn baby to see how they go on and took a pot of comfrey ointment to old Mr Brent, for his leg. That would have been much more difficult if I had been riding Bonnie. I would have been forever looking for a mounting block to climb back into the saddle.’
‘I quite see that. But do you never ride here, in the park?’
‘I would not presume to do so without the owner’s permission.’
‘Are you always so law-abiding?’
‘I am the parson’s daughter and betrothed to Sir Loftus Braddenfield. I am obliged to set an example.’
‘Of course.’
She looked up. ‘I think you are laughing at me.’
‘Now why should I do that?’ He saw her hesitate and added, ‘Come, madam, do not spare my feelings, tell me!’
‘I think...’ she drew a breath ‘...I think that you have very little respect for the law!’
His lip curled. ‘You are wrong, ma’am. I have a very healthy respect for it.’
Grace did not miss the sudden bitterness in his voice. A convict, then. She should be afraid, he might be dangerous.
Not to me.
A strange thought and one she was reluctant to pursue. Instead she looked about her as they made their way through the avenue of majestic elms that led to the main gates and the High Street.
‘It is such a pity that the park is now turned over to cattle,’ she remarked. ‘It was a deer park, you know. I used to love watching them roaming here.’
‘You remember the house as it was? You remember the family?’
‘Of course, I grew up here. At least, until I was eleven years old. Then I was sent off to school. As for knowing the family, my father may be a saint, as you call him, but he was careful to keep me away from the Arrandales. The old gentleman’s reputation as a rake was very bad, but I believe his two sons surpassed him. Thankfully for Papa’s peace of mind, by the time I came back the Hall was shut up.’
‘And just when did you return?’
‘When I was seventeen. Seven years ago.’
His brows went up. ‘And you are still unmarried?’
She felt the colour stealing into her cheeks.
‘I came home to look after my father, not to find a husband.’
‘The local gentlemen are slowcoaches indeed if they made no move to court you.’
He is flirting with you. There is no need to say anything. You owe him no explanation.
But for some inexplicable reason she felt she must speak.
‘I was engaged to be married. To Papa’s curate, but he died.’
‘I am very sorry.’
For the first time in years she felt the tears welling up for what might have been. She said quickly, ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘And now you have a new fiancé,’ he said.
‘Yes. I am very happy.’
* * *
There was a touch of defiance in her words, but Wolf also heard the note of reproof. He had been over-familiar. She was the parson’s daughter and not one to engage in flirtatious chatter, but he had been curious to know why she was still unmarried. She was very tall, of course—why, her head was level with his chin!—and she had no dowry. Either of those things might deter a suitor. But they should not, he thought angrily. She was handsome and well educated and would make any man an excellent wife. Any respectable man, that is.
When they reached the park gates he saw they were chained, but there was a stile built to one side. Wolf sprang over it and, having helped Grace across, he pulled her fingers on to his arm. Silently she disengaged herself. Understandable, but he could not deny the tiny pinprick of disappointment.
* * *
Grace was relieved to be back on the High Street and with the vicarage just ahead of them. This man was far too forward and the tug of attraction made her feel a little breathless whenever she was in his company.
You are very foolish, she told herself sternly. His only advantage is his height. He is the only man in Arrandale taller than you and that is hardly a recommendation!
‘You are frowning, Miss Duncombe. Is anything amiss?’
‘No, not at all.’ Hastily she summoned a smile. ‘Here we are back at the vicarage. It will be quicker if we walk up the drive rather than going around to the front door and summoning Truscott to let us in.’
Grace pressed her lips together to prevent any further inane babbling.
* * *
She is uneasy, thought Wolf. But how much worse would she feel if she knew I was a wanted man?
A large hunter was standing in the stable yard and Mr Duncombe was beside it, talking to the rider, but seeing them approach he smiled.
‘So there you are, Grace, and in good time.’
The rider jumped down. ‘My dear, I am glad I did not miss you altogether.’
Wolf watched as the man caught Grace’s hand and raised it to his lips. He looked to be on the shady side of forty, stocky and thick-set, with a ruddy complexion and more than a touch of grey in his hair. His brown coat was cut well, but not in the height of fashion, and he greeted Grace with an easy familiarity. Even before they were introduced Wolf had guessed his identity.
‘Sir Loftus Braddenfield is our local Justice of the Peace.’
It did not need the warning note in the parson’s mild words to put Wolf on his guard. Some spirit of devilry urged him to tug his forelock, but he suppressed it; Sir Loftus Braddenfield did not look like a fool. The man was coolly assessing him as Wolf made a polite greeting.
‘So you are on your way to London, eh? Where are you from, sir?’
‘I have been travelling in the north for some time,’ Wolf replied calmly.
‘And you thought you’d break your journey in Arrandale. Friend of Mr Duncombe’s, are you?’
‘I knew the family,’ explained Mr Duncombe. ‘A long time ago.’
Sir Loftus was still holding Grace’s hand and it occurred to Wolf that he did not like seeing his fiancée escorted by a stranger. Wolf excused himself and as he walked away he heard Sir Loftus addressing Grace.
‘I wish I could stay longer, my dear, but I have business in Hindlesham. I merely called to invite you and your father to dinner this evening. But if you have visitors...’
Grace’s reply floated across the yard to Wolf as he ran lightly up the garret stairs.
‘Mr Peregrine is not a visitor, Loftus. More one of Papa’s charitable cases.’
He winced. That cool description should allay any jealous suspicions Braddenfield might have. Clearly the lady had a very low opinion of ‘Mr Peregrine’. He went inside, but as he crossed the room he could not resist glancing out of the window, which overlooked the yard. The little party was still there, but the parson and Braddenfield appeared to have finished their discussion, for the magistrate was taking his leave of Grace, raising her hand to his lips. Wolf scowled. She was smiling at Braddenfield more warmly than she had ever smiled at him.
Kicking off his boots, he threw himself down on the bed. It did not matter what Miss Grace Duncombe thought of him. There were more pressing matters requiring his attention. Putting his hands behind his head, he thought of all he had heard from old Brent and from Jones, the caretaker at Arrandale Hall. He closed his eyes and conjured his own memories of the tragedy. He remembered the servants coming up to the hall while he knelt beside Florence’s almost-lifeless form. Jones had added one small detail that Wolf had forgotten. It had been Charles Urmston who pulled Wolf to his feet, saying as he did so, ‘You have done it this time, Arrandale. Your temper has got the better of you.’
Everyone would think Florence had met him on the landing, ready to continue their argument, and he had pushed her away so that she had fallen to her death. There were witnesses enough to their frequent quarrels. And the theft of the necklace was also laid squarely at his door.
He sat up abruptly. Whoever stole the diamonds knew the truth about Florence’s death, he was sure of it. Wolf glanced out of the window again. The stable yard was empty now. Mr Duncombe and his daughter were invited to dine with Sir Loftus, so he was free to patronise the local inn this evening.
* * *
‘Well, well, that was a pleasant dinner.’
Grace wished she could agree with her father, but if she were truthful, she had found the evening spent with Sir Loftus and his elderly mother a trifle dull. Mrs Braddenfield was a kindly soul, but her interests were narrow and her son, although well educated, lacked humour. Grace supposed that was partly to do with his being Justice of the Peace, a position he took very seriously. They did not even have the company of Claire Oswald, Mrs Braddenfield’s young companion, to lighten the mix, for she was away visiting relatives.
The conversation over dinner ranged from local matters to the weather and the ongoing war with France, but it had all been very serious. Grace compared the evening to the previous one spent in the company of their mysterious guest. They had discussed a whole range of topics and her own contributions had been received without the condescension she often detected in her fiancé’s manner. Berating herself for being so ungrateful, she sought for something cheerful to say.
‘It was very kind of Loftus to put his carriage at our disposal.’
‘It was indeed. It would have been a chilly ride in the gig.’
She heard the sigh in her father’s voice. At times like these Papa felt the change in their circumstances. The tithes that provided a large proportion of his income as rector of the parish had diminished considerably since Arrandale Hall had been shut up and when their ancient coachman had become too old to work they had pensioned him off. Grace had persuaded her father that a carriage was not a necessity; they could manage very well with the gig and the old cob. And so they could, although she could not deny there were benefits to riding in a closed carriage during the colder months of the year.
Sir Loftus owned the manor house in the market town of Hindlesham. It was only a few miles, but Grace was thankful when they reached Arrandale village, for they would be home very soon. It was nearing midnight and most of the buildings were in darkness, no more than black shapes against the night sky, but light spilled out from the Horse Shoe Inn, just ahead of them. With her head against the glass Grace watched a couple of figures stagger on to the road without any heed for the approaching vehicle. The carriage slowed to a walk, the coachman shouting angrily at the men to get out of the way. From the loud and abusive response she was sure they had not come to harm beneath the horses’ hoofs.
Grace was relieved her father was sleeping peacefully in his corner of the carriage, for he did not like her to hear such uncouth language. Dear Papa, he was apt to think her such a child! Smiling, she turned her gaze back to the window. They were level with the inn now and there was someone else in the doorway. As the carriage drove by, the figure turned and she saw it was Mr Peregrine.
There was no mistaking him, the image was embedded in her mind even as the carriage picked up speed. He was hunched, his coat unbuttoned and he was wearing a muffler around his throat rather than the clean linen she had taken the trouble to provide for him. His hat was pulled low over his face and it was the merest chance that he had looked up at just that moment, so that the light from the inn’s window illuminated his face.
Why should he be skulking around a common inn at midnight? And had he recognised her? Grace drew herself up. She was not at fault. If he had seen her, then she was sure he would be at pains to explain himself. She was more than ever relieved that he was not sleeping in the house. When they reached the vicarage she gently roused her father and accompanied him indoors. She decided not to say anything to him about their guest tonight, but unless the man had a satisfactory explanation for his activities she would urge her father to tell him to leave.
* * *
The following morning she found their guest breaking his fast in the kitchen, freshly shaved, a clean neckcloth at his throat and looking altogether so at ease that for a moment her resolve wavered. But only for a moment.
‘Mr Peregrine. When you have finished your breakfast I would be obliged if you would attend me in the morning room.’
Those piercing violet-blue eyes were fixed upon her, but he waited until Mrs Truscott had bustled out of the room before he spoke.
‘You wish to see me alone?’
She flushed, but remained resolute.
‘I do.’
‘Is that not a little...forward of you, Miss Duncombe?’
Her flush deepened, but this time with anger.
‘Necessity demands that I speak to you in private.’
‘As you wish.’ He picked up his coffee cup. ‘Give me ten minutes and I will be with you.’
Grace glared at him. Mrs Truscott had come back into the kitchen so she could not utter the blistering set-down that came to her lips. Instead she turned on her heel and left the room. How dare he treat her thus, as if she had been the servant! If he thought that would save him from an uncomfortable interrogation, he was sadly mistaken.
* * *
Wolf drained his cup. The summons was not unexpected. It was unfortunate that Grace had seen him last night and it was his own fault. A carriage rattling through the main street at any time was a rare occurrence in Arrandale and he should have realised that it was most likely to be the Duncombes returning from Hindlesham. If only he had kept his head down, remained in the shadows, instead of staring into the coach window like a fool. Even now he remembered the look of shocked recognition on Grace’s face. Well, he would have to brazen it out.
He made his way to the morning room where Grace was waiting for him, her hands locked together and a faint crease between her brows. She was biting her lip, as if she did not know quite how to begin. He decided to make it easy for her.
‘You want to know what I was doing at the Horse Shoe Inn last night.’
‘Yes. You are, of course, quite at liberty to go wherever you wish,’ she added quickly. ‘It was rather your appearance that puzzled me.’
‘My appearance, Miss Duncombe?’
She waved one hand towards him. ‘Today you are dressed neatly, with propriety. Last night you looked like a, like a...’ He waited, one brow raised, and at last she burst out, ‘Like a ne’er-do-well.’
He shrugged. ‘I have always found it expedient to adapt to my surroundings. I had a sudden fancy for a tankard of home brewed and I did not want to make the other customers uncomfortable.’
It was not a complete lie. It had been a risk to go into the taproom at all, but the parson had told him the landlord was not a local man and would not know him. Wolf had hoped that with his untidy clothes and the ragged muffler about his neck no one would associate him with the Arrandale family.
Grace looked sceptical.
‘Since the inn supplies us with our small beer I can only assume you had a sudden fancy for low company, too,’ she said coldly. ‘Forgive me if I appear uncharitable, but I think you have imposed upon our hospitality long enough.’
The door opened and the parson’s soft voice was heard.
‘Ah, Mr Peregrine, there you are.’ Mr Duncombe came into the room, looking from one to the other. ‘Forgive me, am I interrupting?’
Wolf met Grace’s stormy eyes. ‘Your daughter thinks it is time I took my leave.’
‘No, no, my dear sir, there is no need for that, not before you have finished your business in Arrandale.’
Wolf waited for Grace to protest, but although her disapproval was tangible, she remained silent.
‘Miss Duncombe is afraid I am importuning you, sir.’
‘Bless my soul, no, indeed. I am very pleased to have you here, my boy.’
‘But your daughter is not.’ His words fell into a heavy silence.
‘Perhaps, my son, you would allow me to speak to my daughter alone.’
‘Of course.’ As Wolf turned to go the old man caught his arm.
‘Mark me, sir, I am not asking you to quit this house. In fact, I strongly urge you to stay, for as long as you need. You are safe here.’
‘But if Miss Duncombe is not happy about it—’
‘Let me talk with Grace alone, if you please. We will resolve this matter.’
* * *
Grace frowned. She did not understand the look that passed between the two men, but the stranger went out and she was alone with her father.
‘Now, Grace, tell me what is troubling you. Is it merely that you think Mr Peregrine is imposing upon me?’
‘I do not trust him, Papa.’ She saw his look of alarm and said quickly, ‘Oh, he has not acted improperly towards me, but—’ She broke off, searching for the right words to express herself. ‘Yesterday, when I was coming home after visiting Mrs Owlet, I came upon him in the Arrandale Chapel, and I saw him again last night, outside the Horse Shoe Inn when we drove past at midnight.’
‘Ah.’ The parson smiled. ‘These are not such great crimes, my dear.’
‘But you must admit it is not the behaviour of an honest man.’
‘It may well be the behaviour of a troubled one.’
‘I do not understand you.’
‘No, I am aware of that. I am asking you to trust me in this, Grace.’
‘Papa!’ She caught his hands. ‘Papa, there is something you are not telling me. Do you not trust me?’
He shook his head at her.
‘My love, I beg you will not question me further on this matter. One day, I hope I shall be able to explain everything, but for now you must trust me. It is my wish that Mr Peregrine should remain here for as long as it is necessary.’
He spoke with his usual gentle dignity, but with a firmness that told her it would be useless to argue.
‘Very well, Papa. If that is your wish.’
‘It is, my child. Now, if you will forgive me, I am off to visit the Brownlows. They sent word that the old man has taken a turn for the worse and is not expected to last the day.’
‘Of course. I must not keep you from your work.’
‘Thank you. And, Grace, when you next see Mr Peregrine I want you to make it plain to him that we want him to stay.’
With that he was gone. Grace began to pace up and down the room. Every instinct cried out against her father’s dictum. The man was dangerous, she knew it, to her very core. So why was her father unable to see it? Grace stopped and pressed her hands to her cheeks. The image of Mr Peregrine filled her mind, as he had been that day by the pump, droplets of water sparkling on his naked chest like diamonds. That danger was not something she could share with her father!
There was a faint knock on the door. She schooled her face to look composed as Truscott came in with a letter for her. The handwriting told her it was from Aunt Eliza, but her thoughts were too confused to enjoy it now. She would saddle Bonnie and go for a ride. Perhaps that would help her to see things more clearly.
* * *
Wolf heaved the axe high and brought it down with more force than was really necessary. The log split with satisfying ease and even as the pieces bounced on the cobbles he put another log on the chopping block and repeated the action. It was a relief to be active and he was in some measure repaying his host’s kindness. The vision of Grace’s stormy countenance floated before him and he pushed it away. He wanted to tell her the truth, but Mr Duncombe had advised against it. He must respect that, of course, but there was something so good, so honest about Grace that made the deception all the more abhorrent.
The axe came down again, so heavily that it cleaved the log and embedded itself in the block. He left it there while he eased his shoulders. He had discarded his coat and waistcoat, but the soft linen of his shirt was sticking to his skin. It would need washing again. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips as he recalled Grace tripping out into the garden and seeing him, half-naked, by the pump. He remembered her look, the way her eyes had widened. She had not found his body unattractive, whatever else she might think of him.
The smile died. There was no place in his life for a woman, especially one so young. Why, he was her senior by ten years, and her innocence made the difference feel more like a hundred. No, Grace Duncombe was not for him.
There was a clatter of hoofs and the object of his reverie approached from the stable yard. Her face was solemn, troubled, but the mare had no inhibitions, stretching her neck and nudging his arm, as if remembering their last meeting. Idly Wolf put a hand up and rubbed the mare’s forehead while Grace surveyed the logs covering the cobbles outside the woodshed.
‘My father wishes me to make it clear that you are welcome to remain here as long as you wish.’
‘Thank you, Miss Duncombe.’
She looked at him then.
‘Do not thank me. You know I would rather you were not here.’
She went to turn the mare, but Wolf gripped the leather cheek-piece.
‘Grace, I—’
The riding crop slashed at his hand.
‘How dare you use my name?’
He released the bridle and stepped back. Fury sparkled in her eyes as she jerked the horse about and cantered away.
‘Hell and damnation!’ Wolf rubbed his hand and looked down at the red mark that was already appearing across the knuckles.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ Truscott appeared, looking at him anxiously. ‘I just seen Miss Grace riding out o’ here as if all the hounds of hell were after her.’
Wolf’s eyes narrowed. ‘I need a horse. A fast one.’
