Читать книгу Tangled Reins - Stephanie Laurens, Stephanie Laurens - Страница 6

Chapter Two

A low moan brought Dorothea’s head around sharply to peer through the dim light at her sister, curled in the opposite corner of the carriage. Cecily’s eyes were shut but the line between her fair brows showed clearly that she was far from sleep. She moved her head restlessly on the squabs. The coach lurched into a rut as the horses’ hoofs skidded on the icy road. Dorothea caught the swinging strap to stop herself from being thrown. As the coach ponderously righted itself and resumed its steady progress she saw that Cecily had drawn herself up into a tight ball and wedged herself firmly into the corner, her face turned away.

Dorothea returned her attention to the dreary landscape, glimpsed fitfully through the bare branches of the trees and hedges lining the road. The grey February afternoon was closing in. The patter of drizzle on the coach windows punctuated the stillness within. Then, rising like a castle through the gathering gloom, standing on a crest surrounded by the dark shadows of its windbreaks, loomed the Three Feathers Inn. As it was just over halfway to London from the Grange, situated on the Bath Road, she had chosen it as their overnight stop. If it had been only herself travelling to London she would have made the journey in a single day. But Cecily was a poor traveller. With luck, their slow pace broken by a night’s rest would allow her to arrive in Cavendish Square in a fit state to greet their grandmother.

The only other occupant of the carriage was their middle-aged maid, Betsy, who had tended them from the cradle. She dozed lightly, enveloped in woollen shawls on the seat facing Dorothea. After much consideration, Aunt Agnes had been left behind. There had been nothing specific in Lady Merion’s letter summoning them to London, but the discussions at Darent Hall had clearly been on the unspoken understanding that Aunt Agnes would continue to do her duty and escort her charges to Cavendish Square. However, Aunt Agnes’s rheumatism was legendary, and Dorothea had no wish to saddle herself with the querulous, though much loved old lady, either on the road to London or once they were arrived, supposedly to enjoy themselves. Furthermore, Aunt Agnes’s opinions on men, of whatever station, were dampening in the extreme. Dorothea thought it unlikely that her presence would aid in the push to find Cecily a husband. Nevertheless, her polite note to Lady Merion, informing her of their expected date of arrival, had made no reference whatever to Aunt Agnes.

The coach lumbered on through the steadily thickening mists. It had been overcast all day, but for the most part the rain had held off, much to the relief of their coachman, Lang. The journey to London with the roads only just cleared was always a risky business. Wrapped in his thick frieze coat, he was deeply relieved to turn his team in under the arch of the inn. It was a large establishment, one of the busiest posting houses in the district. The main yard was devoted primarily to travellers changing horses or temporarily halting. The large travelling carriage rumbled through and on under another archway into the coachyard. Ostlers ran to free the steaming horses, and the landlord came forward to assist the sisters into the inn.

Here, however, a problem lay waiting.

While they warmed themselves before the roaring fire in a snug, low-ceilinged parlour Mr Simms apologised profusely. ‘There’s a prize-fight on in the village, miss. We’re booked out. I’ve kept a bedchamber for you, but I’m afraid there’s no hope of a private parlour.’ The rubicund landlord, middle-aged, with daughters of his own, eyed the young ladies anxiously.

Dorothea drew a deep breath. After travelling at a snail’s pace all day she did not really care what was going forward in the neighbourhood, as long as she and Cecily were adequately housed for the night. She automatically appraised the neat and spotlessly clean room. At least there would be no danger of damp sheets or poorly cooked food in this house. There was no point in being overly distressed by the lack of a parlour. Drawing herself to her full height, she nodded to the clearly worried Simms. ‘Very well. I see it can’t be helped. Will you please show us to our bedchamber?’

Mr Simms had correctly guessed the Darent sisters’ station from Dorothea’s letter requesting bedchambers and parlour. While he rarely criticised the ways of his clients, he thought it a crying shame that two such pretty young ladies were travelling escorted only by servants. He led them up to the bedchamber he had had prepared for them. Experience of the goings-on likely to occur within his house before the night was through had led him to house them in the large bedchamber on the north side of the inn. This was the oldest part of the rambling building, isolated from the rest, and reached only by a separate stairway close to his private domain.

Arriving, puffing, on the landing, he threw open a stout door. ‘I’ve put you in this bedchamber here, miss, because it’s out of the way, like. The inn will soon be fair to burstin’ with all the young gentlemen been to see the fight. My missus says to tell ye to stay put in your chamber and lock the door and she’ll see to it that only she and my daughter come up with your meals and suchlike. That road, we’ll all like as not avoid any unpleasantness. I’ll have your bags brought up in a jiffy, miss.’ With these words Simms bowed and retreated, leaving Dorothea, brows flying, and Cecily, pathetically pale, staring at each other in consternation.

‘Oh, my!’ said Betsy, sinking down on one of the chairs by the fire, eyes round with dismay. ‘Maybe we should travel on, Miss Dorothea. I’m sure your grandma wouldn’t like you staying at an inn with all these rowdy, boisterous, ramshackle lads, miss!’

‘I don’t believe there’s any other inn near, Betsy. And after all, as the landlord says, if we keep the door locked and stay in our room, surely we’ll come to no harm?’ Dorothea spoke in her normal calm tones, drawing off her gloves and dropping her travelling cloak over a chair. After her momentary dismay, undoubtedly due to tiredness, she was inclined to dismiss the situation.

‘Well, if it’s all the same to you, Thea, I would much rather stay here than try to go on,’ said Cecily.

The thin, reedy voice clearly conveyed to Dorothea just how unwell her sister was feeling. She walked briskly to the bed and turned down the coverlet. The sheets were dry and clean. She plumped up the pillows invitingly. ‘And so we shall, my love! Why not curl up on the bed until dinner arrives? I must confess, I’m not convinced that removing from here wouldn’t land us in a worse pickle than the one we’re in at present.’

A tentative knock came at the door. ‘Who is it?’ said Betsy, rising.

‘It’s only me, ma’am. Hannah, the landlord’s daughter.’

Betsy opened the door to reveal a stout damsel with a mobcap perched above a comely face. ‘My mum will have the dinner ready shortly, but she was wanting to know if you needed anything else, ma’am?’ Hannah hefted the sisters’ bags into the room and stood looking enquiringly at Dorothea.

‘Why, yes! We’d like some warm water, and could a truckle-bed be put up in here for our maid? I’d rather she spent the night with us.’

The girl nodded. ‘I’ll be back in two shakes, ma’am.’

Five minutes later Hannah was back with a jug of steaming water and a truckle-bed in bits. While she and Betsy struggled with this contraption Dorothea and Cecily washed the dust of the road from their faces and felt considerably better. Finally conquering the recalcitrant truckle-bed, Hannah wiped her hands on her apron and addressed Dorothea. ‘I’ll be back in half’n hour with your dinner, miss. Be you sure to lock the door after me.’

Dorothea murmured her thanks as the bolts slid to behind the helpful Hannah. Cecily, drowsy, curled up on the bed. Betsy sat by the fire, working on some sewing she had brought with her to while away the time.

Now that her immediate needs were satisfied, Dorothea prowled the room, restless and cramped. After a day spent in the carriage, she longed to get just one breath of fresh air before a night spent within the airless cocoon of the bedchamber. Suddenly she remembered Lang. With Cecily as passenger, they would normally leave mid-morning. However, her limited knowledge of prize-fights and their aftermath suggested that an early departure might be preferable. She looked out of the window, but this faced the back of the inn. She could hear no noise or ruckus to suggest that the audience from the fight had arrived.

Quickly she crossed to Betsy’s side. ‘I’m just going down to see Lang. We should make an early start tomorrow to avoid the crush.’ She had lowered her voice. ‘You stay here and watch over Cecily. I’ll only be a moment.’

Before Betsy could protest she picked up her old travelling cloak and whisked herself out of the door. She paused on the landing to fasten the cloak. Sounds of ribald laughter came, muted, from where she supposed the taproom to be. She made her way quietly down the stairs and along the corridor in the opposite direction, eventually reaching the door giving on to the coaching yard. Here she found a mêlée of ostlers and horses. Pausing in the shadows, she scanned the area, trying to locate Lang. He was nowhere to be seen. Remembering that private grooms often helped the ostlers at times like these, she ventured to the archway and peeked into the main stableyard.

‘My, my! What have we here? A pretty young thing, come to help us celebrate!’

She gasped. The sensation of an arm slipping around her waist made her heart stand still, but instead of hazel eyes lazily regarding her she found herself looking into a vacuous face with cherubic blue eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing. The man holding her had been drinking but he was not altogether drunk.

He dragged her, struggling furiously, around the corner to fetch up within a riotous group of seven semi-drunk gentlemen, intent on a night of carousing, having watched their favourite win the fight. Dorothea realised her mistake too late. The main yard of the inn was full to overflowing. One of the men reached out and flicked her hood back, and the light from the inn’s main door fell full on her face. She tried desperately to pull free, but the young man had a good grip on her arm. She winced as it tightened.

Immediately a drawling voice cut through the clamour. ‘Do let the lady go, Tremlow. She is known to me and I really cannot let you embarrass her further.’

Recognising the voice, Dorothea wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

The effect of the statement was instantaneous. The hold on her arm was immediately withdrawn as the dark shadow of the Marquis of Hazelmere materialised at the edge of the group.

‘Oh! Sorry, Hazelmere! No idea she was a lady.’

This last sentence, uttered sotto voce, made Dorothea’s cheeks burn. She pulled up her hood as the men in the group peered to see which lady could thus claim Hazelmere’s protection.

The Marquis, unhurriedly strolling across the group to her side, largely obscured her from view. Arriving beside her, he turned to the group and continued in the same languid tone, ‘I feel sure you would all like to offer your apologies for any embarrassment you have, however unwittingly, caused the lady.’

A chorus of, ‘Oh, yes! Definitely! Apologies, ma’am! No offence intended, y’know!’ greeted this bald statement.

Simms, having noticed the problem rather late in the day, now hung on the fringe of the group, waiting to render any assistance at all to one of his most valued customers. The Marquis’s eye alighted on him. ‘Ah, Simms! A round of ale for these gentlemen after this slight misunderstanding, don’t you think?’

Simms took the hint. ‘Yes, m’lord! Certainly! If you gentlemen would like to come this way I’ve a hogshead of a new brew I’d much appreciate your comments on.’ With this treat on offer, he had little difficulty in herding the group towards the taproom.

As they moved away Anthony, Lord Fanshawe appeared at his friend’s side, a questioning lift to his brows. One moment he had been walking across the stableyard beside Hazelmere, heading towards a hot dinner, when Marc had suddenly stopped, uttered one furious oath and then plunged through the crowd towards a small group of revellers near the coachyard. Although nearly as tall as his friend, with Marc ahead of him, he had had no chance to see what had attracted his attention. As he drew closer he heard Marc at his most languid. He assumed there was a lady in it somewhere, but it was only when Hazelmere turned to address some remark behind him that he realised he was effectively protecting her from the eyes of the stableyard.

Hazelmere turned to him. ‘Check they’re all in, will you, Tony? I’ll join you in the parlour in a few minutes.’

Fanshawe nodded and without a word turned back towards the inn. The languid tones had disappeared entirely, replaced by Hazelmere’s normal speech with the consonants somewhat clipped. That single glimpse of his childhood friend’s face had confirmed his suspicion. The Marquis of Hazelmere was in a towering rage.

As he had reached her side Hazelmere had unobtrusively taken Dorothea’s arm, initially holding her beside him. When the group had made their apologies and moved away he drew her back so that she was shielded by his height and the voluminous driving cloak which hung in many tiers of capes from his broad shoulders. Conscious only of a desperate need to quit the scene, she tried to retreat into the coachyard. He turned but did not release her. With the light behind him, his face was unreadable. ‘One moment and I’ll escort you indoors. I’d like a word with you.’

Even to Dorothea, unwise in the ways of the Marquis, the words had an ominous ring. She was furious with herself for falling into this scrape and mortified that, of all men, it should be Hazelmere who had rescued her from it. And in such a way!

He turned back to speak briefly with another tall man who came up. Then, much to her relief, as her legs felt strangely weak, he ushered her into the coachyard.

Once in the comparative privacy of the rapidly clearing inner yard, he stopped and drew her around to face him. She almost gasped as the light from the inn door lit his face. The hazel eyes were hard and reflected the light from the inn; his lips were set in an uncompromising line. It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that he was furious, and equally obvious that she was the object of his wrath. ‘And what, may I ask, were you attempting to accomplish out there?’ The sarcastic tones stung like a whip.

Far from being cowed, Dorothea immediately took umbrage. She flung up her head and her eyes snapped back. ‘I was seeking my coachman, if you must know, to tell him I wish to leave this inn very early tomorrow, to avoid precisely the sort of attention that I was most regrettably unable to avoid tonight!’ She was slightly breathless by the end of this speech, but continued to give the odious Marquis back look for look.

His eyes narrowed. After a slight pause he continued in less harsh tones, ‘It seems very remiss of Simms not to have warned you to keep to your chamber with your door locked.’

She had to swallow before she was able to answer, but she managed to return his hard gaze. ‘He did tell me.’

The expression on his face became even stonier. ‘I can only marvel at your lack of care for your own reputation. I’ve already warned you that your hoydenish ways will not do in wider society.’ He had grasped both her arms just above the elbow in a far from gentle grip. For one appalled moment she thought he was going to shake her. Instead, after a pause heavy with tension, he spoke again, his tone a study in suppressed fury. ‘I can only repeat what I’ve said before: under no circumstances whatever should you venture outside unattended! And add a rider to the effect that if I ever find you alone like that again I will personally ensure that you won’t sit down for a sennight!’

She gasped, green eyes wide in utter disbelief, whereupon he continued, his tone savage, ‘Oh, yes! I’m quite capable of doing so.’

Looking up into the implacable face, the hazel eyes almost black, she realised that the threat was no bluff. But by now she was every bit as angry as he was. By what right did this imperious man order her around and threaten her? Imperious, arrogant and totally insufferable! Normally the most collected of women, she struggled to shackle her anger and direct it specifically towards its source.

But Hazelmere gave her no time to vent her fury. Becoming aware that he was still holding her in full view of the coachyard, thankfully almost deserted, he abruptly turned her towards the inn and, one hand hard at her elbow, swept her indoors. ‘Which chamber has Simms put you in?’

Unable as yet to command her tongue, Dorothea indicated the door at the top of the small stairway.

‘Very wise! That’s probably the safest chamber in the inn tonight. You may not have a peaceful night, but with luck it should be free of unwelcome interruptions.’

Glancing at her furious white face and over-bright eyes, Hazelmere drew her on to the stairs. On the second step she swung around, thinking to give him a piece of her mind while he was on the lower step and not towering over her. But, correctly guessing her intention, he had slipped past her and continued to draw her upwards on to the small landing.

The landlord suddenly appeared in the corridor, heading for the back of the inn.

‘Simms!’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘A glass of your best brandy. At once.’

‘Yes, m’lord!’

Dorothea thought the request extremely odd, but dismissed it as yet another example of his lordship’s vagaries. She was more concerned with giving voice to her frustrations. Turning to face him across the small landing, she was disturbingly aware of his presence so close, and disliked having to look up such a long way to meet his eyes.

‘Lord Hazelmere! I must tell you that I find your manner of addressing me quite unacceptable! I do not at all accept your strictures on my conduct. Indeed, I do not know by what right you make them. Tonight was an unfortunate accident, that’s all. I’m quite capable of looking after myself—’

‘Would you really rather I had left you in the hands of Tremlow and company? You wouldn’t have found it entertaining, I assure you.’ Hazelmere, deciding that she could not be allowed to talk herself into hysterics, broke in smoothly over her diatribe. His words, uttered in a stonily bored tone, acted like a cold douche, effectively stopping her in mid-sentence.

He was again afforded a view of her thoughts as they passed clearly over her face. He watched the realisation that it was, in fact, due to him that she was not at this moment in quite desperate straits finally sink in. He had not thought it possible, but she paled even further. Watching her closely, he saw Simms approaching. He took the proffered glass, dismissing the landlord with a curt nod and the words, ‘I’ll want to speak to you in a few minutes, Simms.’ Turning, he held out the glass to her. ‘Drink it.’

‘No. I don’t drink brandy.’

‘There is always a first time.’

When she continued to look rebelliously at him he sighed and explained. ‘Whether you know it or not, you’re exhibiting all the symptoms of shock. You’re white as a sheet and your eyes look like green diamonds. Soon you’ll start to shake, and feel faint and very cold. The brandy will help. So be a good girl and drink it. If you won’t, you know perfectly well I’m quite capable of forcing you to.’

The glittering green eyes widened slightly. There had been no change in his tone and she felt no direct menace, as she had before. Then, looking into his eyes, she gave up the unequal struggle. She took the glass and, shivering slightly, raised it to her lips and sipped. Hazelmere waited patiently until she drained the glass, then removed it from her hands and dropped it into one of his cloak pockets.

As she looked up he remembered her unfinished errand. ‘I take it you’re travelling to London?’

She nodded. His face had softened, the harshly arrogant lines of ten minutes before had receded, leaving the charmingly polite mask she suspected he showed the world. She felt as if he had, in some subtle way, withdrawn from her.

‘What’s the name of your coachman?’

‘Lang. I’d thought to leave at eight.’

‘Very sensible. I’ll see he gets the message. I suggest you enter your chamber, lock the door and don’t open it to anyone other than the landlord’s people.’ The tone was calm, with no hint of any emotion whatever.

‘Yes. Very well.’ She was completely bemused. Her head was whirling—shock, fury, brandy and the Marquis of Hazelmere combining to make her distinctly befuddled. She pressed the fingers of one hand to her temple, forcing her mind to concentrate on what he was saying.

‘Good! Try to get some sleep. And one more thing: tell Lady Merion I’ll call on her the day after tomorrow.’

She nodded and moved to the door, then turned back. Still angry, she knew she was beholden to him, and pride forbade her to leave without thanking him, however little inclined she was to do so. She drew a deep breath and, head held high, began. ‘My lord, I must thank you for your help in releasing me from those gentlemen.’ Lifting her eyes to his, she found that this bland statement had brought the most devastatingly attractive smile to his face.

Wholly appreciative of the effort the words had cost, he replied, his voice light, ‘Yes, you must, I’m afraid. But never mind. Once you’re in London, I’m sure you’ll find opportunities aplenty to make me sorry for my subsequent odiously overbearing behaviour.’ One dark brow rose at the end of this outrageous speech, the hazel eyes, gently and not unkindly, quizzing her. The answering blaze of green fire made him laugh. Hearing voices below, he reached out a finger to caress her cheek gently, saying more pointedly, ‘Goodnight, Miss Darent!’

Speechless, she whirled away from him and knocked on the door. ‘Betsy, it’s me. Dorothea.’

Hazelmere, lips curving in a smile that, had she seen it, would have reduced Dorothea to a state of quivering uncertainty, drew back into the shadows as the door opened with an alacrity which spoke louder than words of the fears of those inside.

‘Heavens, miss! Come you in quick; you look white as a sheet, you do!’ Dorothea was drawn into the room and the door shut.

Hazelmere waited until he heard the bolts shot home, then made his way, pensively, downstairs. At the back door, he encountered Simms.

‘Simms, I have a problem.’

‘M’lord?’

‘I want to make sure those ladies are not disturbed tonight. You don’t perchance have a large burly cousin lying about, who could take up sentry duty on that stair?’

Simms grinned as he saw the gold sovereign in his lordship’s long fingers. ‘Well, as it happens, m’lord, my oldest boy has the most dreadful toothache. He’s been mooning about in the kitchen all day. I’m sure he could do sentry duty, seeing as you ask.’

‘Excellent.’ The coin changed hands. ‘And Simms?’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘I’d like to be sure those ladies get the very best of treatment.’

‘Of course, m’lord. My wife’s about to take their supper up to them now.’

Hazelmere nodded and wandered out to the middle of the coachyard, looking up at the stars, twinkling now that the clouds had cleared. He paused, apparently lost in thought. Jim Hitchin, his groom, stood a few yards away, waiting until his master acknowledged him. He had been Hazelmere’s personal groom ever since the young Lord had required one. Well acquainted with his employer’s foibles, he waited patiently. Hazelmere stretched and turned. ‘Jim?’

‘M’lord?’

‘I want you to find a coachman staying here, name of Lang, coachman to the Misses Darent. Miss Darent wishes to leave at eight tomorrow, to avoid the inevitable action around here. She obviously cannot deliver the message in person.’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘And Jim?’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘Tomorrow morning the Darent party is to leave here by eight. If there’s any difficulty in achieving that departure I want you to see I’m summoned. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘Wonderful. Goodnight, Jim.’

Jim departed, not the least averse to an early morning if it led to a clear sight of this Miss Darent. He had witnessed, distantly, the exchange in the coachyard. To his mind, his lordship was not behaving in his usual manner. Losing his temper with young ladies was definitely not his style. Jim was burning to see what the lady who could throw his master off balance looked like.

Hazelmere, fortunately oblivious to the speculations of his underling, strolled back through the main entrance of the inn and paused outside the open taproom door. Noise, like a cloud, rolled out over the threshold to greet him. Through a bluish haze of tobacco smoke he saw the group of young blades from whom he had rescued Dorothea standing at the end of the bar. It took him longer to locate the last of their number, seated at a small table in the corner, deep in conversation with Sir Barnaby Ruscombe. After considering the scene for a moment, he walked on to the private parlour he always had when staying at the Feathers. Entering, he saw Fanshawe, feet up on the table, carefully peeling an apple.

Fanshawe looked up with a grin. ‘Ho! So there you are! I was wondering whether it’d be prudent to come and rescue you.’

A ghost of a smile greeted this sally. ‘I had a few errands to attend to after returning Miss Darent to her room.’ Hazelmere removed his driving cloak, remembering to extract the glass from the pocket before he threw it on a chair. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine.

‘And who the hell is this mysterious Miss Darent?’

The Marquis raised his black brows. ‘No mystery. She lives at the Grange, which borders Moreton Park. She and her sister are travelling to London to stay with their grandmother, Lady Merion.’

‘I see. How is it, I ask myself, that I’ve never heard of the girl, much less set eyes on her?’

‘Simple. She’s lived all her life in the country and hasn’t moved in the circles we frequent.’

Fanshawe finished his apple and swung his feet down from the table as the door opened to admit Simms, bearing trays loaded with food. ‘At last!’ he cried. ‘I’m famished.’

Simms placed the platters on the table and, checking that all was in order, turned to Hazelmere.

‘Everything’s taken care of, m’lord, as you requested.’

Hazelmere nodded his thanks, and Simms retired. Fanshawe looked up from heaping his plate, but said nothing.

The friends took their meal in companionable silence. They had quite literally grown up together, being born on neighbouring estates within a month of each other, and had shared their schooldays at Eton and, later, Oxford. During their past ten years on the town the bond between the Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe had become almost a byword. Over the years there had been few secrets between them, yet, for reasons he did not care to examine, Hazelmere had omitted to mention his acquaintance with Dorothea Darent to his closest friend.

Once the platters were cleared and they had pushed their chairs back from the table, savouring the special claret brought up from the depths of Simms’s cellar, Fanshawe, dishevelled brown locks falling picturesquely over his brow, returned to the offensive. ‘It’s all too smoky by half.’

Resigned to the inevitable, Hazelmere nevertheless countered with an innocent, ‘What’s too smoky by half?’

‘You and this Miss Darent.’

‘But why?’ The clear hazel eyes, apparently guileless, were opened wide, but the thin lips twitched.

Fanshawe frowned direfully but agreed to play the game. ‘Well, for a start, as she doesn’t move in the circles we frequent, tell me how you met her.’

‘We met only once, informally.’

‘When?’

‘Some time last August, when I was at Moreton Park.’

The brown eyes narrowed. ‘But I visited you at Moreton Park last August, and I distinctly remember you telling me such game was very scarce.’

‘Ah, yes,’ mused Hazelmere, long fingers caressing the stem of the goblet. ‘I do recall saying some such thing.’

‘And I suppose Miss Darent just happened to slip your mind at the time?’

The Marquis smiled provokingly. ‘As you say, Tony.’

‘No, dash it all! You can’t possibly expect me to swallow that. And if I won’t swallow it no one else will either. And, as that fellow Ruscombe’s about somewhere, you’re going to have to come up with a better explanation. Unless,’ he concluded sarcastically, ‘you want all London agog?’

At that the dark brows rose. Hazelmere drew a long breath. ‘Unfortunately you’re quite right.’ He still seemed absorbed in his study of the goblet. Fanshawe, who knew him better than anyone, waited patiently.

Sir Barnaby Ruscombe was a man tolerated by society’s hostesses purely on account of his trade in malicious gossip. There was no chance that he would abstain from telling the story of how Hazelmere had rescued a lady from a prizefight crowd in an inn yard. The fact that Hazelmere was sure to dislike having his name bandied about in such context would ensure its dissemination throughout the ton. Although not in itself of much import, the story would reveal the interesting fact that the Marquis had some previous acquaintance with Miss Darent. And that, as Fanshawe was so eager to point out, would lead to complications.

After some minutes had passed in silence Hazelmere raised his eyes. ‘Confessions of a rake, I’m afraid,’ he said, both voice and features gently self-mocking. Seeing the surprise in Fanshawe’s brown eyes, he continued, ‘This time the truth will definitely not do. The details of my only previous meeting with Miss Darent would keep the scandalmongers in alt for weeks.’

Tony Fanshawe was amazed. Whatever he had expected, it was not that. He knew, none better, that, while Hazelmere’s affaires among the demi-monde might be legion, his behaviour with women of his own class was rigidly correct. Then he thought he saw the light. ‘I take it you mean that when you met her in the country she was unchaperoned?’

The curious smile on Hazelmere’s lips deepened. The hazel eyes held Fanshawe’s for a moment, before dropping to the goblet once more. ‘I am, naturally, devastated to contradict you. You’re right in assuming we were unchaperoned. But what I meant is, if the truth ever became public property Miss Darent would be hopelessly compromised and I, in all honour, would be forced to marry her.’

It was not possible to misinterpret that. ‘Good lord!’ said Fanshawe, thoroughly intrigued. ‘Whatever did you do?’

Hazelmere, sensing the wild speculations running through his mind, hastened to bring him back to earth. ‘Control your satyric imaginings! I kissed her, if you must know.’

‘Oh?’ Fanshawe was positively agog.

Feeling horrendously like a schoolboy describing to his more backward friends the details of his first encounter with a wench, Hazelmere regarded him with amusement tinged with irritation. Correctly interpreting the slightly awed expression in the brown eyes, he nodded. ‘Precisely. Not a peck on the cheek.’

Fanshawe stared at Hazelmere for a full minute before saying, his voice quavering with suppressed incredulity, ‘Do you mean to say you kissed her as you would one of your mistresses?’ Hazelmere’s brows merely rose. ‘No! Dash it all! You can’t go around kissing young ladies as if they were bordello misses!’

‘Perfectly true. The fact, however, remains, that in Miss Darent’s case I did.’

Fanshawe blinked. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why. But he could not quite bring himself to enquire. Instead he asked, ‘How long did she take to come out of her faint?’

‘Oh, she didn’t faint,’ replied Hazelmere, the smile in his eyes pronounced. ‘She tried to slap me.’

Fanshawe was fascinated. ‘I must meet this Miss Darent for myself. She sounds a remarkable young lady.’

‘You can meet her in London shortly. Just remember who met her first.’

And that, thought Tony Fanshawe, is a very revealing comment. He sighed, exasperated. ‘If that’s not just like you, to find all the choicest morsels before anyone else has laid eyes on ’em. I don’t suppose she has a sister?’

‘She does, as it happens. Just turned seventeen and a stunning blonde.’

‘So there’s hope for the rest of us yet.’ Abruptly eschewing their light banter, he returned to the serious side of the affair. ‘How are you going to account for your knowing Miss Darent?’

‘She’s Lady Merion’s granddaughter, remember? I’ll call at Merion House as soon as we get back to town and, figuratively speaking, throw myself on her ladyship’s mercy.’ He paused to sip his wine. ‘It shouldn’t be beyond us to concoct some believable tale.’

‘Provided she’s willing to overlook your behaviour with her granddaughter,’ Fanshawe pointed out.

‘I rather think,’ said Hazelmere, his gaze abstracted, ‘that it’s more likely to be a case of Miss Darent being willing to overlook my behaviour.’

‘You mean, she might try and use it against you?’

The hazel gaze abruptly focused. Then, understanding his reasoning, Hazelmere gave the ghost of a laugh. ‘No. What I mean is that, although she was furious with me, I’m not sure she’ll tell Lady Merion the full story.’

Fanshawe mulled this over, then shook his head. ‘Can’t see it, myself. You know what the young ones are like. Paint you in all sorts of romantic shades. The chit will probably have blabbed it all to at least three of her bosom bows before you even get to see Lady Merion!’

The strangely elusive smile that kept appearing on Hazelmere’s face was again in evidence. ‘In this case, I think it unlikely.’

A thought struck Fanshawe. ‘The girl’s not an antidote, is she?’

‘No. Not beautiful, but she’d be strikingly attractive if properly gowned.’

‘You mean, she wasn’t properly gowned when you met her?’

A soft laugh escaped Hazelmere. ‘Not exactly.’

Reluctantly Fanshawe decided not to pursue it. He was consumed by curiosity but slightly scandalised by the revelations thus far. He had never known Hazelmere in this sort of fix, nor in this sort of mood. For the first time in his life he was sure that Marc was hiding something.

Hazelmere volunteered a few more pieces of the puzzle. ‘She’s twenty-two, and sensible and practical. She didn’t faint, nor did she enact me any scenes. If I’d allowed it she would have terminated our interview a great deal sooner. Tonight, instead of falling on my chest and thanking me for deliverance from the hands of Tremlow and company, she very nearly told me to go to the devil. In short, I doubt that Miss Darent is in the least danger of succumbing to the Marquis of Hazelmere’s wicked charms.’

Fanshawe gaped. ‘Oh. I see.’ But he did not see at all.

Unfortunately he had no more time to pursue the matter. A sharp knock on the door heralded the arrival of a group of their friends, come late from the field. More wine was called for and the conversation took a decidedly sporting turn. It was not until much later that Tony Fanshawe recalled his conviction that Marc Henry was concealing something from his childhood friend.