Unmasking Miss Lacey
Isabelle Goddard
STAND AND DELIVER! Incorrigible Jack Beaufort, Earl of Frensham, with a scandal at his heels, is taking an enforced sojourn in the country. He hardly expects to confront a highwayman in this quiet retreat. Or to discover, when he lays hands on the villain, a form that is undeniably female…Should he unmask the daring Miss Lacey and hand her over to the law? Or follow his rakish instincts to take the law and that temptingly curvaceous form into his own hands?
Praise forIsabelle Goddard:
‘Isabelle Goddard’s writing is sharp and crisp, her period detail evocative and authentic, her pacing zesty and her characters nuanced and believable. In THE EARL PLAYS WITH FIRE she has penned a wonderfully compelling tale peppered with action, intrigue, passion and adventure which readers will be unable to put down. I adored Richard and Christabel’s story, and I was completely captivated by their dramatic, tempestuous and moving love story.’
—Cataromance on THE EARL PLAYS WITH FIRE
‘An enchanting, compelling and highly romantic read … Isabelle Goddard has written an outstanding debut novel that sparkles with first-rate characterisation, vivid period detail, heart-pounding adventure and tender romance.’
—Pink Heart Review on REPROBATE LORD, RUNAWAY LADY
‘Now, I should put you on my horse and walk you home.’
Jack’s voice was hardly his own.
‘But …?’
‘But instead I must kiss you. I can do nothing else.’
His hand tipped her chin upwards and in an instant his mouth had found hers. Lucinda opened to him, her lips knowing exactly what to do. His kiss this time was immediately possessive, hard and intense; he was claiming her for his own.
The sound of a coach being driven fast along the nearby road burst upon them. Her lips were released.
‘That should not have happened.’
‘I have heard those words before, I think.’ Her mouth curved to a sensuous smile.
‘You are a witch and I cannot resist you.’
About the Author
ISABELLE GODDARD was born into an army family and spent her childhood moving around the UK and abroad. Unsurprisingly it gave her itchy feet, and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world.
The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university. Isabelle loves the nineteenth century, and grew up reading Georgette Heyer, so when she plucked up the courage to begin writing herself the novels had to be Regency romances.
Previous novels by this author:
REPROBATE LORD, RUNAWAY LADY
THE EARL PLAYS WITH FIRE
SOCIETY’S MOST SCANDALOUS RAKE
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Unmasking
Miss Lacey
Isabelle Goddard
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Lily and Bluebell, my constant companions.
Chapter One
‘Stand and deliver!’
The command shattered the stillness of the autumn evening and bounced from tree to tree in a slowly diminishing echo. Even as he struggled awake, the door of the carriage was being wrenched opened.
‘Stand and deliver!’
He was looking down the barrel of a duelling pistol. An odd choice of weapon, his mind registered, but fleetingly, for the pistol was ominously close and waving him to descend. He rose from the padded leather very slowly, the mists of sleep still clouding his vision. They were in a rare open space amidst the thick canopy of forest and a black cloaked-and-booted figure astride a chestnut horse filled the aperture. The moon was riding high and flooding the clearing, glinting across the gloss of the mare’s coat and lighting the silver braid of the man’s three-cornered hat. In its ghostly white gaze he saw that his attacker was unusually slight, hardly a match for the gruff voice issuing from behind a silk handkerchief. He calculated his chances of foiling this blatant piracy and decided they were good enough, despite the risk of the cocked pistol. He was carrying a substantial sum of money and had no wish to see it fall into the pockets of a gentleman of the road.
The chestnut was becoming restive, bucking and prancing at the side of the carriage, the white blaze between its eyes shifting in and out of the moonlight. With luck the mare’s antics would distract its rider, for the one pistol must cover two men. He made as though to descend as he’d been ordered, but then at the last moment shot his arm forwards and grasped his assailant’s wrist in a punishing grip. The wrist, as he suspected, was as slender as the form and crushed beneath his iron grip. The pistol faltered, drooped and fell with a thud onto the turf. He looked at the eyes behind the mask and saw them dark with dismay. The arm was pulled violently and suddenly from his grasp and the sharp tear of cambric filled the silent glade as the attacker’s sleeve ripped apart. Then in a breath the highwayman had backed his horse, turned and was riding into the distance as though all the demons of hell were on his heels.
And so they should be, he thought grimly. The scourge of ambush had all but disappeared from England’s roads but not, it seemed, from the deeps of Sussex. He picked up the discarded weapon and a scrap of lace which lay nearby, the remains of a torn ruffle, then looked closely at the abandoned pistol. It confirmed his earlier impression that it was a strange choice for a robbery. The gun was beautifully balanced, intricately decorated and evidently expensive. Hardly a toy for a highwayman!
He slipped both pistol and lace into the capacious pocket of his travelling coat and called to his coachman.
‘It’s all right, Fielding, it’s quite safe to come down.’
The man arrived at his side in seconds, breathing hard and looking downcast. ‘My lord, I had no choice but to stop.’ His voice quavered slightly. ‘He was threatening to shoot the horses—and then me.’
‘He was indeed a desperado.’ The tone was quietly ironic and there was a pause before his master continued, ‘Although my guess would be a local youth out on the spree or intent on winning a wager.’
‘I don’t know about that, my lord,’ Fielding puffed at the implication. ‘He looked the real thing to me.’
‘He would hardly win his wager if he had not.’
‘Whatever he was, he has cut the traces,’ the coachman remarked with something like a note of triumph.
His master strode to the horses’ heads and retrieved the trailing leather. Before he had been jolted thoroughly awake, he remembered hearing in the muffled distance the jangle of harness.
‘An intelligent move for a callow youth.’
‘Yes, my lord, we’re good and stranded.’
‘You are stranded, Fielding,’ his employer corrected gently, as he unhooked the broken traces from one of the leaders. ‘I shall ride this expensive beast to the nearest inn and hire whatever transport they can offer.’
The coachman sighed, but his master affected not to notice. ‘Tomorrow you will seek out the nearest saddler and arrange for the traces to be replaced. In the meantime we must find a home for the carriage and horses.’
The coachman sighed again a little more loudly, and his master added in a kindly fashion, ‘As soon as I find a hostelry, I will give instructions for your rescue.’
Lucinda rode at breakneck speed hunched low over the mare’s neck. She lost time in threading a complicated path through the trees, but she needed to be sure that she had shaken any likely pursuit. Now she was out of the forest and hurtling down the rutted lane she had traversed so hopefully only an hour earlier. She must put as many leagues as possible between herself and her nemesis.
Her plan had gone abysmally wrong. The man in the coach was not supposed to attack her. She was the assailant: she issued the commands and he was meant to deliver. Instead she had found herself temporarily mesmerised by his powerful figure and urged into action only when he’d grabbed her with such paralysing force that she had dropped the gun and fled the scene. Even now her left wrist throbbed sickeningly, and she was barely able to touch the reins without a shudder of pain. She thanked heaven that Red knew her way home and would take her there safely.
Only gradually did she slow her headlong gallop. A thicket of trees appeared in the distance, small but dense, climbing its way up the shallow hillside as though each set of roots was planted atop the trees beneath. Within their branches lay a secret, vital to her plans if she were to accomplish the task she had set herself.
But would she? Tonight had been a disaster and she could not afford another. It was only by the quickest of thinking that she had galloped free, a split-second decision to abandon the pistol and run. If she had not had the forethought to cut the traces first … it did not bear thinking of.
The man would have picked up the gun, she was sure, but he would not know to whom it belonged. It was most unlikely that he would ever trace its owner. And if by the very worst of luck he did, what would he find—a young man left to rot in a verminous London gaol. Certainly no highwayman free and riding the road. Her brother! She could weep when she thought how badly she had let him down. There would be no escape for him now; he would remain, as she had seen him just days ago, thin and ill, surrounded by every kind of dirt and disease.
She slid from the saddle and walked towards a wall of greenery. Coaxing Red forwards, she lifted the intertwined branches one by one to reveal a rough, wooden entrance built into the hillside. She tugged on the iron handle and the door swung smoothly back. She was safe, but, thanks to her bungling, Rupert was still in danger.
Assuming the guise of a highwayman had been a crazy idea. but since her visit to Newgate she had been unable to keep it from her mind. She had been struck by one of Rupert’s fellow prisoners, a giant of a man with shaggy, black bristles and laughing black eyes. He’d smiled at her saucily as the turnkey escorted her to her brother’s miserable cell and she’d been compelled to ask his name.
‘Black Jack Collins,’ the gaoler had said, as though she should know. And then when she’d continued to look blank, he’d added helpfully, ‘A gentleman of the road so called, who’ll hang before the week is out.’
Despite this grim prediction, the image of Black Jack Collins had stayed with her. A gentleman of the road did not sound as brutal as a robber, particularly if the victim was stupidly wealthy and emerged unhurt. If she became a highwayman for just one night, she might rescue her brother. The idea held and she’d thrown herself into the adventure, relieved to be doing something, anything, to aid Rupert. All it would take was one successful theft. She would choose a wealthy traveller, a man who would hardly miss the money he’d be forced to surrender. It wouldn’t be simple, it would need careful devising, but it was possible.
She had bubbled with excitement at the audacity of the plan and been filled with hope for its success. The black suit had been her brother’s, a little baggy, but with Molly’s quick needle, it fitted well enough. Molly’s mother, a chambermaid at the Four Feathers, had found the tricorne at the back of a dusty cupboard, no doubt abandoned long ago by its nefarious owner. And the weapon had been simple—Rupert’s duelling pistols had pride of place on his bedroom wall. She had taken one and prayed that she would not have to use it.
Meticulous planning, but all for nothing! The adventure had started well enough: the coachman had been cowed by the sight of the pistol, his horses obediently still, but the man she had been tipped to rob had not been as obedient. He had not read the same script as she and her wonderful scheme had crumbled before her.
A little ahead and at a point where the narrow stone passage branched in opposite directions, a dimly glowing lamp was being held high in the air. Red gave a gentle whinny at the sight of the waiting figure.
‘Miss Lucy, thank goodness! You’re here at last.’ A young girl rushed forwards. ‘I thought you would be returned an age ago.’
‘There was some trouble, Molly, and I had to take the long way home.’
‘Trouble, miss?’ The maid’s eyes held worry. ‘Then you didn’t …’
‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘I have returned with nothing.’
‘But you found the coach—the one Mother told us of?’
‘Yes, I found the coach.’ Her mistress’s voice was faint with weariness. ‘I even brought it to a halt. But its passenger was too strong for me and …’ she stumbled on her words ‘… I was nearly caught.’
The maid took a sharp intake of breath.
‘You must not worry.’ Lucinda gave her a quick hug. ‘Red spirited me from the scene and, as you see, I’m safe and well.’
‘Thank the lord, Miss Lucy, you’re home. I’ve been that anxious. But …’
‘But?’
‘There’s trouble brewing. Your uncle is fair beside himself.’
‘Uncle Francis? What ails him?’ Surely her uncle could not have got wind of this exploit.
‘I don’t rightly know, miss, but he’s been demanding to see you this past hour. I said you were laid down with the headache. But he fell into such a tantrum that I’m afeared he’ll be banging on your door before long and demanding to come in.’
‘Then I must make sure I’m behind it when he arrives,’ her mistress said with a brightness she was far from feeling. And before her maid had turned to lead the horse away, she was racing along the opposite passage, making for the concealed staircase.
She had barely struggled out of the incriminating clothes and into her wrapper before there was a peremptory knock and her uncle strode into the room. She tried to compose her face into one of suffering and hoped that her cheeks were not glowing too pinkly from the night-time gallop. Francis Devereux planted his plump figure firmly by the window embrasure and stared at his niece.
‘I understand from your maid that you have been indisposed. Did you not think to tell me? I waited dinner for at least half an hour.’
She should have thought. Her uncle’s mealtimes were sacrosanct and an attack on his food was an attack on him. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. Molly was busy attending me, else I would have sent her much earlier with a message.’
He harrumphed irritably. ‘I trust her ministrations were successful. You are recovered?’
Lucinda thought she had better be recovered. Even in candlelight, she was looking far too healthy.
‘She brewed me a wonderful concoction of her mother’s—Mrs Tindall is a genius— and since I have rested, the headache has vanished.’
Her uncle’s small blue eyes peered at her short-sightedly. ‘I’m glad to hear it. You certainly look well enough and it is most important that you do so.’
He began to pace up and down the room, the wooden floor occasionally creaking beneath his considerable weight. After a few minutes he stopped to face his niece and saw her puzzled expression. ‘I wish you to look your very best.’
As an explanation it fell far short. She was beginning to think that perhaps her uncle had imbibed rather too heavily at dinner when he startled her by saying, ‘In the event it is fortunate that he has not yet arrived—although I must say that I do not understand the delay.’ His tone was pettish and there was a frown on his face. ‘I trust that he will be with us tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Who?’
‘Do you never listen, Lucinda?’
She tried to look contrite, but it was difficult. She had no idea to whom her uncle referred nor any memory of a likely guest. Guests at Verney Towers were as rare as hen’s teeth. She seldom had time for her uncle’s little schemes and tonight even less. Tonight she had almost been caught and the spectre of the gallows wavered in the shadows of her mind. She shuddered as she thought of Black Jack’s fate. She had risked that same terrifying destiny, but only to fail. Her beloved twin was still imprisoned, still liable to succumb to illness or worse.
But she tried to school her face to one of complacence, for her uncle must not suspect for one minute what she had been at. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Francis, you must have spoken of this some time ago and it has completely gone from my memory.’
She must humour him sufficiently that he would go away. Reaction to her wild adventure was setting in and every limb felt leaden. Her wrist was throbbing ever more painfully and her whole being felt as though weighted by iron. All she wanted was sleep.
Her guardian shifted impatiently and when he spoke his tone was part irritation and part indulgence. ‘I shall never understand how women can remember the precise shade of a ribbon, but ask them to remember something of importance and it is all hay with them.’
She felt indignation rising. Long ago she had come to the conclusion that her uncle was one of the most tiresome men she would ever meet: a combination of foolish pride and moral rectitude was not a happy one. But she needed to be rid of him and she forced herself to sound agreeable. ‘Please remind me, Uncle.’
‘The Earl of Frensham is to visit us!’ Francis Devereux said this with the air of a ringmaster about to produce his most celebrated lion.
‘I see.’ She knew her response was inadequate, but her uncle appeared too absorbed by his own cleverness to remark on it.
He had resumed his pacing, the squeak of new boots now joining with the creaking floorboards in rampant disharmony. ‘I did not mention earlier that a message had come from the earl, for I had no wish to unsettle you unnecessarily.’
You thought it best not to put me on my guard, she translated inwardly, but why he had been so reticent, she had no idea.
‘The Earl of Frensham!’ Sir Francis exclaimed again. ‘Think of that. Such a splendid prize! It has taken a deal of time and persuasion to get him here, you know.’
Her head was buzzing; her uncle’s self-satisfaction was hardly new, but what had this earl to do with her?
Sir Francis stopped walking and drew near. ‘I won’t hide the fact, Lucinda, that on occasions I have not been entirely certain that it was the right path to pursue. I’ve had my doubts. Disquieting rumours from time to time, but they have turned out to be nothing but spiteful gossip—the usual scurrilous talk of the ton—and I was right to dismiss it. All froth and no substance, my girl!’ he finished triumphantly.
‘So the earl is coming,’ she ventured, hoping that he would get off his chest what he needed to say, and leave her in peace.
‘He is. He is coming to meet you, my dear.’
‘But he does not even know me.’
Her uncle looked at her as if she were slightly feeble minded. ‘Naturally he does not. That is why he is coming to Verney Towers, to make your acquaintance.’
‘I am most flattered,’ she managed, ‘but why me?’
‘Surely, Lucinda, you remember that much. His grandfather and my father made a promise to one another.’
She recalled hearing some such nonsense at the breakfast table one morning of late, but she had dismissed it as unworthy of notice. Her uncle was not of the same mind.
‘If the old Earl of Frensham—that is the second earl—if he were to have a grandson and my father a granddaughter, they were to make a match of it.’
She stared in astonishment. ‘But why?’
‘It was their dearest wish that the two families should be joined. They were the very best of friends for all their lives.’
‘It seems a little odd to be making plans for your grandchildren.’ More than a little odd, she thought. ‘What about their own children—surely they would have fulfilled the family wishes much sooner?’
Her uncle looked fixedly at the floor. ‘It pains me, as you well know, to talk of your mother. I believe the old earl’s son proved similarly unreliable.’
‘I’m sorry, Uncle Francis, but I still don’t see what this has to do with me.’
Her uncle lifted his gaze. ‘You are the granddaughter, of course.’ He spoke slowly and emphatically, as though by intensifying every word, any objections would be blown away. ‘I hope very much to see you marry into the Frensham family.’
‘You wish me to marry an unknown man, years older than myself?’ Truly her uncle had run mad.
‘He is not old, foolish girl. He is the third earl and inherited the title and considerable estates when he was a very young man. He can be little more than thirty.’
‘But I do not know him.’ She realised that she was repeating herself but felt too dazed to argue coherently.
‘This is your opportunity to become acquainted. I consider it a blessing that you have not previously met. Your unspoilt charm will come as a delightful surprise, for he has been on the town for many years and has suffered every kind of lure.’
She was too appalled to respond, but it hardly mattered. Francis was in full flow. ‘The earl is a very wealthy man,’ he sounded inordinately proud of the fact, ‘and has been much courted. I understand that he has grown tired of the attentions shown him. You have never mixed in high society and so will be the perfect antidote. His sisters—all three of them charming creatures—are as convinced as I that you will make an ideal couple.’
And what about me, she wanted to scream. I have no wish to marry; indeed, I loathe the very notion. But if I am to be forced into wedding, how ideal will a man ten years older than me, one I have never met, a man who has scandal trailing his coat tails, exactly how ideal will he be for me? But she knew it would be useless to argue: when Francis Devereux alighted on an idea, it would not be dislodged by even the mightiest earthquake.
Her uncle took her bowed head as acquiescence. ‘I will not force you into any marriage you do not wish to make, Lucinda,’ he said more amenably, ‘but I will expect that you treat with courtesy a man who has travelled here to make your acquaintance.’
The door shut behind him and she sunk on to the bed, numbed by the disasters that had befallen her. Cherished hopes had been shattered, a terrifying escape endured, and now the threat of a husband had appeared out of nowhere, filling the air with a black poison. Her uncle had said that he would not force her into an arranged marriage, but she was not stupid. She would be pressured, that was for sure, in all kinds of subtle ways. A man did not travel from London to be given a polite brush off. He would expect an answer and in the affirmative.
‘Is everything all right, Miss Lucy?’ Molly had returned from the stables and was peering anxiously around the bedroom door.
‘No,’ she answered bluntly. ‘My uncle wishes me to know that he has a guest arriving very shortly, a man I have never met, but one I am forced to greet with complaisance.’
‘Does he come as a suitor?’ the maid ventured.
‘He may choose to call himself such. I do not. The idea is preposterous.’
‘You may like him,’ Molly said hopefully.
Lucinda was well aware of the romantic notions embedded in her maid’s breast and tried to let her down gently. ‘That is most unlikely. He will be as the rest of his tribe—wealthy, idle and overindulged. From what Uncle Francis let slip, he may even be immoral.’
‘Sir Francis would never ask you to meet anyone disreputable.’
‘No, you’re right. My uncle is a puritan and if he has vetted and approved this man, he will be whiter than white and no doubt tedious beyond words. He will be prosy and dull. I shall probably fall asleep even as he talks to me.’
Before her mistress had stopped speaking, a sharp rap summoned Molly to the door. When she returned, it was to stammer, ‘Your uncle has sent a message, miss. The gentleman has arrived.’
‘Now! At this hour! What kind of person arrives at past ten in the evening?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure, but Sir Francis wants you dressed and downstairs immediately.’ She opened a closet door as she spoke and considered the array of garments within.
‘Shall I lay out the cream silk, miss? That complements your skin beautifully. And we can do your hair à la Meduse—little ringlets, like so.’ And she made a few passing feints in the air. ‘I’ve been practising these past weeks and it shouldn’t take long.’
Lucinda glared at her, shaking herself free of the depression which had begun to lap insidiously at her spirits.
‘Lay out the drabbest gown you can find, Molly,’ she commanded imperiously, ‘and search for that dreadful shawl the vicar’s wife gave me. I wish to look a complete dowdy! That should send him beetling back to London in a hurry, for he will want his money and title to buy something a great deal better.’
When she saw who stood in the flagged hallway below, Lucinda almost turned tail for the sanctuary of her room. She faltered on the final two stairs and, but for her uncle’s intervention, might have fallen. A state of frozen horror engulfed her. At this very moment she stood facing the man she had attempted to rob! She was incredulous, dumbfounded.
‘Allow me to present my niece to you, Lord Frensham—Miss Lucinda Lacey.’ Francis Devereux danced fussily around them. ‘Lucinda, this is the Earl of Frensham.’
‘Jack Beaufort,’ he said, bowing low over her hand.
‘My lord.’
Her tone was coldly formal and the curtsy she bobbed perfunctory. She was forcing herself to present an indifferent face, but it was a titanic struggle. To maintain composure when her mind was besieged by terrors! Had he recognised her? Was it possible that he saw, in the badly dressed girl before him, the highwayman of a few hours ago? Please, no, she prayed. She had recognised him immediately.
Slowly she emerged from the first sickening sense of shock and, under cover of her uncle’s monologue, snatched a covert glance. He wasn’t what she’d expected. Nor, she was sure, what her uncle had expected. The man appeared completely at his ease, his air of confidence pervading the vast hall and metaphorically rattling the suits of armour which punctuated its panelled walls in dreary sequence. His dress was elegance incarnate, down to the last burnished tassel swinging from his gleaming Hessians, and, if not precisely handsome, he made a striking figure. A small scar punctured his left cheek and the way that a lock of dark hair fell across his brow almost meeting it, gave him the look of a pirate. He needed only the eye patch and he would be complete. She could see why he had overpowered her so easily for, though tall, he was solidly built. His form told of many hours of punishing sport and she thought he would revel in it. Even his name—Jack Beaufort—had a piratical tang.
‘We are delighted that you were able to visit, your lordship,’ Francis Devereux oozed, his plump cheeks puffed with pride.
‘I am delighted to be at Verney Towers and to make your acquaintance.’ The words were right, but the man’s expression suggested otherwise. His was a smile of false pleasure, Lucinda decided.
‘It is a great honour to welcome you to our house, Lord Frensham, no matter what the hour.’
Sir Francis, she noted, was unable to resist a rebuke even to his prize guest, but the earl seemed not to notice. ‘I regret the necessity of arriving so late,’ he said smoothly, ‘but I was forced to hire a conveyance from the Four Feathers, an inn a few miles from here.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Devereux said eagerly. ‘We know the Feathers well. But why did you not continue the journey in your own carriage? I would have been more than glad to house your cattle.’
‘That is most kind, Sir Francis, but unhappily it was not possible.’ She saw a small smile appear at the corners of the earl’s mouth and knew that he was enjoying himself. ‘You see, I was set upon by a robber, a gentleman of the road as I believe they call themselves. He cut the traces and made it impossible for me to continue. I was forced to ride to the inn to secure help.’
‘But that is dreadful.’ Francis Devereux’s face was stricken. ‘Quite dreadful. A highwayman, you say. But we have not had highwaymen in Sussex for many a year.’
‘You have now,’ the earl remarked laconically.
‘But where did this dreadful event occur? Were you or your company hurt? What valuables were you forced to hand over?’
The questions rained down and she could see their guest exercising severe restraint to stop himself from laughing aloud. The ambush had disturbed her uncle acutely and he had forgotten his society manners in the clamour to know every last detail.
‘Please do not concern yourself. Nothing was taken and neither of us was hurt.’
‘Neither?’ Sir Francis looked puzzled.
‘I was travelling alone except for my coachman.’
‘Only a coachman!’ This seemed to exercise Sir Francis even more than the attempted robbery. ‘But my dear sir how could you be so imprudent?’
‘Lynton, my valet, will follow in a few days.’
Francis appeared to be working himself into a small paroxysm. ‘This robbery …’ he began for the third or fourth time.
‘Nothing was taken,’ the earl reminded him.
‘But it could have ended in disaster. We cannot have such a thing happening again, not in our quiet Sussex lanes.’
‘In fact, a quiet Sussex forest,’ Jack interjected, evidently hoping to annoy.
Sir Francis began to wring his hands. ‘But to have this threat on our very doorstep …’
She could almost see Jack Beaufort sigh inwardly. His host was not going to forget. She was sure that he had mentioned his adventure to see its effect, no doubt a small amusement in a vale of tedium. And now he had seen it and amusement was not the first word that sprang to mind.
In an attempt to deflect his host, he said, ‘I could always call in the Runners if you are seriously concerned. I have some small influence at Bow Street.’
The older man leapt upon the suggestion. ‘Yes, Bow Street. That’s the thing. I should be most grateful if you would do so, my lord.’
At these words, Lucinda felt her body stiffen. It was involuntary, the smallest of movements, and she prayed that her adversary had not noticed her recoil. She turned her head very slightly and met a pair of the deepest brown eyes. They wore a mere whisper of curiosity, but they were fixed intently on her. He had noticed, she thought, with misgiving, but what would he make of it?
It was clear that the girl had not liked the suggestion of a Runner. He could not imagine why that might be, but he hoped it might provoke her into speech. She had hardly said a word, standing mute and expressionless, beside her uncle. He was unused to such cavalier treatment, especially from a nondescript provincial. She was small and drab, but what else had he expected. She appeared to be dressed in a brown sack for that was all he could call it: a shapeless, mud-coloured garment that looked as though it had been worn to clean the scullery. Beneath his fascinated gaze, she had pulled a shawl of the vilest magenta stripes more closely around her shoulders.
She appeared nervous, too, or so he had at first thought. That was hardly surprising, ill dressed as she was and no doubt unused to company. She had almost tripped as she came down the stairs towards him. But straightening up from his bow, he’d been met by a pair of mutinous blue eyes. In the sparse candlelight of the bleak hall, they were pure sapphire. This was no shy ingénue, made uneasy by their meeting. Intrigued, he’d looked more intently at her. In response she’d averted her glance and quite deliberately looked through him. He was taken aback. He had no intention of making her or anyone else an offer of marriage, but she could not know that. She would imagine that he had come with courtship in mind and she was behaving as though he were the last man in the world she wanted to see. Miss Lacey was an enigma, but there was something, too, that was strangely familiar about her. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
Not that he wanted to, for he was already cursing himself for having embarked on this journey. He must have been mad to agree to his sisters’ suggestion. He’d risked robbery tonight—possibly worse—in order to visit a man he’d taken in immediate dislike and a girl who radiated disdain. Rescue could not come quickly enough. A fervid image floated in the air before him: Fielding racing his team of greys up the gravelled drive and pulling the coach to a welcome halt. He could almost smell the cloud of dust.
He’d had to get out of town: that was clear enough. London was getting just a little too hot for him, the duel a step too far. And the constant scolding of his sisters had become intolerable. At the time it seemed a clever ploy, disappearing from London society for a few weeks to allow the gossip to quieten, while at the same time fulfilling his family’s wishes. But now it no longer seemed quite so clever. In fact, it was quite possibly one of the worst decisions he had ever made. The sooner he was on his way to Merry’s and the congenial shooting party that awaited him, the better.
Verney Towers! The house was a barrack of a place, grandiose and uncomfortable in equal measure. Why had he allowed himself to be persuaded here? The scandal with Celia Burrage would have died a death soon enough. Ton gossip had a short life and, after all, he had done no more than many. His was not the first duel to be fought over an errant wife, nor would it be the last. But in future he would eschew the married ladies of his acquaintance, accommodating though they were, and find his fun elsewhere. That shouldn’t be too difficult. There were plenty of chère amies to keep the boredom at bay, barques of frailty more than willing to spend his money. As for his three taskmasters—he should be immune to his sisters’ reproaches by now. That they should imagine he would honour some insane pledge of their grandfather’s had seemed ridiculous when they’d told him. Now it left him speechless.
They might be rendered speechless, too, if they saw for themselves the bride they were proposing. It wasn’t that she was bad looking. Indeed, he imagined that those eyes could be fascinating when they weren’t so evidently affronted and the straw-blonde locks entrancing when not scraped into the most unbecoming bun he had ever seen. But they were of a piece with the rest of her appearance: she made no attempt to attract, no attempt to interest or entice. Nothing, in short, that would persuade him to stay a minute longer than he needed. As soon as his travelling coach was once more roadworthy, he would make his escape.
Chapter Two
Lucinda woke early the next morning to the sound of creaks and rustlings as the old house settled itself to endure the coming winter. A sliver of bright light encircled the window frame and she threw back the curtains to a perfect autumn day. The sky was a blue sphere, untarnished by even a wisp of cloud. The air was still, the trees motionless, standing tall and proud, clothed in their last glowing leaves. It was a morning to be out, out and away from these musty walls and from the memory of yesterday’s disasters.
She dared not think about Jack Beaufort and what he might do. If he were to recognise the figure that had ambushed him, she was powerless to save herself. He might have recognised her already—she felt a spark of terror pinch at her heart. He had certainly looked at her closely enough, but that might have been simple curiosity. He would wish to inspect the woman his sisters were proposing he make his wife. He must have suffered a gross disappointment. Even in her present dire situation, Lucinda had to chuckle at the likely effect of that hideous brown gown and the even more hideous shawl. If they had not completely repelled him, then her air of cold boredom should have completed the task. She wished now that she hadn’t acted quite so badly and not just because of her uncle’s inevitable scolding. She had to confess that the earl fascinated. He was quite different from any man she had met: he was fashionable, elegant, beautifully mannered, but so were others. He was a rascal, she thought, that was what marked him out—the scar, those eyes, the wicked enjoyment of seeing Sir Francis and his pomposity deflate with fear. But she must tread warily: she must never forget that he could undo her at any moment. Her future was in his hands.
But that of Rupert was in hers. She knew that she must plead with her uncle to change his mind, to pay the money that would liberate her brother. It would be a final appeal to his affections, though in truth he had none. Once he had issued a decree, this soft and flaccid man was granite. Rupert had to be punished and more brutally than ever. Francis had failed to bring him to heel, to inculcate in him the imperative of family honour, and for that there could be no mitigation. It was terrifying to feel that she alone stood between her brother and an early death, but today was a morning to shake off such black thoughts. She would ride far and away and consign Francis, his house and his guest to oblivion.
In half an hour she was in the saddle and urging her mount along one of the chalk cart tracks which led to the Downs. The horse was in no mood to hurry and she had constantly to spur him forward. After her whirlwind ride last night, it felt unbearably slow. Once on the Downs, though, her mount grudgingly picked up speed until she was riding at full gallop along one of the highest ridges. In the translucent light of early morning, she could see in the far distance the smudge of coast and the sea, calm as a fathomless mirror.
She galloped on until her breath was all but spent. Slowing to manoeuvre her way around a thicket of bushes, she heard hooves coming from the opposite direction. It was unusual to meet another rider on this vast expanse of downland, and particularly so early in the day. She dropped to a walk and rounded the bushes cautiously. Not cautiously enough, for almost before she knew it, she had met the other rider head-on. She began to apologise for her clumsiness but then found herself looking into the sardonic face of Jack Beaufort. Her apologies stuttered to a close.
‘You,’ she exclaimed ungraciously. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Good morning, Miss Lacey. How delightful to meet you once more.’ The irony was unmistakable. ‘You must forgive me for not realising that I was trespassing. I apologise for my ignorance.’
Her face turned red. ‘I am sure you know, Lord Frensham, that downland is rarely private. You startled me—I had not expected to see you here and so early.’
He sat back on his horse, perfectly at ease. Arrogantly at ease, she thought. The firm chin and the set mouth spoke of a man who would not easily yield.
‘There is a simple explanation for my early ride. I could not sleep. I trust this is not an indelicate question, but does Verney Towers by chance play host to the spirit world?’
‘There are no ghosts, if that is what you mean.’
‘No murdered husbands or wives for ever immured within its walls?’
‘The house has led a blameless life.’
‘Then the noises …?’
‘It creaks and groans with changes in the weather.’
‘How very disappointing! I have been imagining a hundred different tales, each of them more bloodcurdling than the one before.’
‘The only death at the Towers is like to be from boredom,’ she said tartly.
He could not prevent a grin lighting his face. ‘And is that your opinion of Sussex society in general?’
‘I imagine that society is much the same everywhere.’ Her tone was dismissive.
‘Where else have you known?’ It was a sly question.
‘I have lived a narrow and entirely parochial life, your lordship, as I am sure you are aware. But I doubt that I would go on in London any differently than I do here.’
His eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘But if you have never partaken of London’s attractions, how can you be sure that you do not undervalue them?’
‘I cannot be sure, of course, but it is inevitable that given time they would pall.’
‘In that case, let us do our small best to keep life’s boredom at bay. I wonder if you would care to walk. The day is splendid and we ought not to waste it.’
She should ride on. Walking with him was dangerous, the last thing she should do, but the grin had metamorphosed into the sweetest of smiles and she found herself acquiescing. He slid from his saddle and in seconds was at her side, helping her dismount. She was aware of the strong arm beneath her elbow, the strong fingers on hers, but she winced as his hand brushed against her wrist.
‘You are hurt, Miss Lacey?’
There was a momentary pause before she replied. ‘I was in the garden yesterday and foolishly attempted to unearth a small bush without tools.’
‘And what had the bush done to earn your displeasure?’
‘It was in the wrong place,’ she said shortly.
He gave a mock sigh. ‘So often our troubles are down to that one small fact, don’t you find—being in the wrong place?’
She gazed sharply towards him, but his face was innocent of suspicion. She was tense, agitated: that was the trouble, she chided herself, jumping at words that meant nothing.
They tethered the horses to the largest of the bushes and began to stroll towards the sun. She kept a clear distance from him, following a separate but parallel path.
He ignored her deliberate aloofness, but his words when he spoke sounded a challenge. ‘I hope that my visit has not incommoded you.’
‘My uncle’s guests rarely disturb me,’ she hit back. That was true since visitors were unknown at Verney Towers, but she had not meant to speak so rudely; she felt flustered and uncomfortable and had no idea why.
‘I am greatly relieved,’ he was saying, the wry pull of his mouth undermining the sentiment. ‘My stay is to be brief, but I would not wish you to be inconvenienced.’
‘How brief?’
The bald question left him unfazed. ‘If I had not had the misfortune to meet with some desperado on the road, I would even now be in the next county, enjoying the company of Lord Merrington and his friends.’
Was his mention of a desperado a tease? Had he guessed? Her heart was in her mouth and she dared not look at him, dared not speak, for she knew she would be unable to keep the tremble from her voice. The only sound was the soft swishing of her skirts against the tufted grass. If only she had not chosen him of all people to rob … but she must give nothing away.
‘I am sorry your plans have gone awry,’ she managed at last, ‘but if your intention was to stay only one night with us, it seems hardly worth your while to call.’ Once more she was sounding ungracious, she thought, little better than a badly brought-up schoolgirl.
‘I would not be so harsh, Miss Lacey. If I had not found my way to Verney Towers, I would never have had the pleasure of meeting you or your esteemed uncle.’ His voice was bland, but when she shot a glance at him she saw that his eyes sparkled with enjoyment.
He continued to talk, as smooth as caramel. ‘My sisters will be delighted, too, for I came at their behest. They wished me to make your acquaintance and, since I planned to travel to Hampshire, it needed only a small diversion to find my way here.’
‘I do not know your sisters, Lord Frensham, and cannot imagine why they were so eager that you should meet me.’
‘It is hard to credit, is it not, but their eagerness sprang from some ridiculous story they were told. They got it from a very old aunt who died quite recently. I wonder if you have heard the same tale.’
‘Are you referring to our grandfathers and the promise they made each other?’
‘Precisely. It is a fantasy and maudlin beyond belief. But for some reason the story has taken hold of their imaginations and they will not let it go.’
The story was maudlin and should be buried as quickly as possible. For the first time since they met, she felt in charity with him. ‘I fear that Uncle Francis is as enthusiastic as your sisters,’ she was moved to confess.
He pushed the stray lock of hair from his forehead in an impatient gesture and she saw that he was frowning. ‘It is amazing, is it not, that otherwise sensible people should concern themselves with such flummery. Such a proposition belongs to the last century—two people who have not a thought in common, to be pushed together, only because their families wish to be united!’
‘I believe that many people still find arranged marriages acceptable.’ She did not intend to be too much in charity with him.
‘That may be so, but I am not one of them.’
‘Then you did not come as a suitor?’
‘No, I did not,’ he said gently. ‘I hope that does not disappoint, but from our brief acquaintance, I imagine not.’ There was the shadow of a smile on his face.
It did not disappoint, of course it did not. The last thing she wanted was to be forced into allying herself with a stranger—allying herself with anyone. If she were ever tempted to consider matrimony, she had only to remember her mother’s history for the temptation to vanish as swiftly as morning dew. But still, in the back of her mind there was a small wistful thought: Jack Beaufort would make a handsome husband. She felt unbearably confused.
‘So why did you come—if you consider the story nonsense?’ she blurted out.
‘I confess that my visit was simply to stop my sisters’ infernal nagging.’
‘And will it?’
‘I doubt that. Their mission is to find a wife for me and they seem unable to resist any opportunity. But by calling on you, I have done as they asked and that surely must count for something.’
They had left the pathway and were strolling freely across the cropped grass, the sun warm on their faces. He was walking closer now and she was sharply aware of his proximity: the powerful athleticism of his figure, the lean, tanned face, the mocking dark eyes. She wished that she wasn’t enjoying his company quite so much. Then she sensed he was watching her intently and the spell was broken. He was assessing her, appraising her, she thought indignantly. It was time to cause him discomfort if she could.
‘I am beholden to my uncle for a home, your lordship, but you are free and independent. I cannot imagine why you would bend so easily to your sisters’ demands.’
‘That is because you have never met them.’ The slur on his manhood was brushed aside. ‘Georgina, the eldest, is overbearing and not easily gainsaid. Hester’s ceaseless complaining drives me to distraction and now Maria has joined forces with them and in the gentlest way possible has indicated that she wishes very much that I will soon bring a wife into the family. Together they are a formidable army.’
‘Would it not be easier therefore to settle on a bride of your own choosing? I understand from my uncle that you have the pick of London beauties.’
‘Surely Sir Francis could not be guilty of such vulgarity!’
Her unguarded remark had met the derision it deserved and she was left feeling gauche. But after several minutes he appeared to relent and, stopping close, he fixed on her a pair of candid brown eyes.
‘I see I must make a full confession. The truth is, Miss Lacey, I have no intention of ever marrying. My sole hope in coming here was to secure a breathing space before the next onslaught.’
She looked up at him, wrinkling her nose in disbelief. ‘It sounds as though you are fighting a battle.’
‘It feels so. You have not experienced the full ferocity of a London Season, I believe, or you would understand.’
‘I am grateful to my uncle for sparing me that at least. But I think you protest too much. I understand that you are a grand matrimonial prize and courted avidly. It seems to me that you cannot be so averse to ton circles.’
The earl shrugged his shoulders impatiently. ‘You have that from your uncle, too, I imagine. What other morsels has he seen fit to communicate?’
‘He implied that your name is often linked to others. Would it not be sensible to marry one of your devotees as soon as possible?’
The grin was back, but he schooled his voice to sound reproving. ‘You should not listen to gossip. Come, we must walk on. The sun is warm enough, but it does not do to be standing too long.’
They turned their steps and began heading back the way they had come. An unspoken accord had been reached and this time they walked together along the same path. It was rough and uneven in places where small clusters of broken chalk were scattered at random and Lucinda unbent sufficiently to let him take her arm and steer her expertly over the crumbling stones.
‘I could ask you the same question, you know.’ Her brows rose enquiringly. ‘Why do you not simply choose a beau and marry him? That would stop your uncle importuning you further.’
‘I have no beau, Lord Frensham, nor do I wish for one.’
‘Forgive me, but does that not augur a lonely life to come?’
‘I shall not be lonely.’ Her tone was defiant. ‘I intend to live with someone dear to me.’
She had not meant to say so much and he immediately pounced. ‘If he is not to be a husband, who is this mysterious person? I am intrigued.’
Her answer was as brief as she could make it. ‘My brother, Rupert.’
‘I see.’ But it was evident that he did not, for he looked genuinely puzzled. ‘And where is brother Rupert?’
She could not answer him directly, but said in a confident voice, ‘He will be home very soon. And when he comes, we will make our plans for the future.’
‘Will not your brother have his own plans for marriage?’
‘No,’ she said decidedly. ‘Rupert and I are twins. We have always shared our lives and always will.’
‘Then Rupert is a lucky man.’
They had reached the tethered horses and she knew that she had stayed too long. Jack Beaufort was an attractive man, she acknowledged, but that was all. His confession that he was not about to make her an offer of marriage was a huge relief, one concern less, but he could still prove dangerous. She was sure that he had not recognised her as his attacker, but at any moment she might give herself away without realising. Her safest path was to keep well clear of him. Safest for all kinds of reasons: the unexpected pleasure she’d felt in his company was a warning and she should heed it.
‘I must return to the house and speak with my uncle,’ she said quickly, ‘but I wish you enjoyment of your ride.’ She glanced across at Sir Francis’s stolid beast. ‘Though you might find it something of a struggle, I fear.’
The pirate’s grin was back. ‘You speak truly, Miss Lacey. A bigger sluggard you could not find.’
The encounter had given Jack much to ponder. He could hardly believe the girl he’d met this morning was the one who had stood dumb and drab at her uncle’s side last night. He did not know what game she was playing, but when he’d literally bumped into her, he’d been staggered at the transformation. A shapely figure was shown to perfection by the close-fitting riding costume she wore. The dress of sapphire velvet made a perfect foil for the cornflower blue of her eyes while her complexion, untouched by any trick of the hand, was smooth and clear, delicately flushed from the morning ride. Wisps of golden hair escaped from a Glengary cap of blue satin. She was quite lovely—what a revelation!
Lovely and spirited, he thought, as he rode slowly back to the house. She was no simpering miss, for sure: her eyes could dance with mischief and she was capable of the sharpest retort. When she’d thought herself being forced into an unwanted liaison, she had fought hard and he could not blame her; he knew how it felt to do battle with an intransigent family. Once she’d realised that she was safe from the threat of matrimony, she had relaxed into a different girl. He had enjoyed her company and found himself wanting more. But he should nip in the bud any interest she aroused, for, spirited though she was, she was also young and inexperienced and no match for a worn lover such as he.
He wondered where the years had gone since Julia had left him humiliated. Years spent in every kind of sport, in travelling, drinking, gambling, in careless affairs. Not one of those so-called friendships had had meaning. And here he was at thirty, still escaping the noose his sisters intended, still unable to put the past behind him. He shook himself, trying to banish the invisible shroud that had settled around his shoulders. He must make for Merry’s as soon as he was able. He was missing all the fun.
Or was he? The gathering would be like every other exclusive house party he had attended in the past eight years: he would play the congenial guest among the men, the attentive swain with the ladies, and return to London as bored as he’d arrived. The attraction of Hampshire did not seem quite so strong now and he fell to wondering why. Was it the girl? Had she got under his skin without his realising it? She was a beauty beneath that nonsense of last night, and she intrigued him. This business about living with her brother—but that would die a natural death when either or both decided on marriage. There was more, though. He sensed an unease that lay just below the surface of life at Verney Towers. The house was spartan, lacking all comfort, lonely, too. Lucinda appeared to live a solitary life, her uncle enclosed in his own small world and her brother nowhere to be seen. There had been something in her manner when she spoke of her twin that suggested trouble. That made him curious.
The horses in the stable block whinnied softly as they picked up the sound of his approach. Only a single lad was at work, busily washing down the cobbled yard.
‘Did you enjoy your ride, my lord?’ he asked cheekily.
‘No, I did not. There was never a more stubborn beast.’ He slipped from the saddle.
‘He has his notions, like his master.’
Jack thought it best not to enquire too closely of the boy’s meaning. He pulled a stray cigarillo from his inside pocket and lit it with a sigh of contentment. The smoke curled upwards in the clear air and he stood smoking for a while, leaning against the warm wood of the stable shutter. As always, it helped him think. What had possessed Francis Devereux to invite him when he must have known that his niece would react with animosity? Did the man genuinely believe in a foolish promise made years ago, or was his invitation more practical than that?
Lucinda Lacey had never been to London, it seemed, never enjoyed a Season or had the chance of finding a suitable husband. Was the baronet hoping to marry his niece off with the least amount of trouble? If so, the man must have been delighted to receive Georgina’s letter. Jack cursed his elder sister for her interference. She had always been too keen on minding other people’s business and Hester had happily joined forces with her, chorusing together that their brother must marry, and marry soon, to ensure the succession. As very young women they had dutifully agreed to the liaisons arranged for them and had little understanding of their brother’s revulsion at being bound to a woman he hardly knew. Now Maria had joined the fray. She had taxed him for showing no interest in the young women he’d met or at least not the kind of interest that led to wedlock. What could be better, she had said in her soft, die-away voice, than to bring two old families together by choosing this young, unspoilt girl who had known nothing but a quiet country life? What indeed!
The lad had almost finished rubbing down Sir Francis’s mount and Jack sauntered towards him, gesturing at the row of partitions. ‘You run a small stable.’
‘Three horses, sir. Enough for me.’
‘Three? Where is the third?’
‘She’s a little shy.’
Jack craned his neck and glimpsed a half-hidden stable at the far end of the long building. He walked towards it. An odd circular wooden door appeared to have been cut into its farthest whitewashed wall.
‘Where does that strange-shaped door lead?’
‘I don’t rightly know, sir. It’s been locked since I started here.’
But it was the horse that interested Jack. He would have liked a choice of mount this morning, but had been given none. ‘What’s her name?’
‘That’ll be Red. She’s a chestnut, a real beauty. Belongs to Mr Rupert.’
Rupert Lacey’s name seemed inseparable from this morning’s conversations.
‘Mr Rupert is Miss Lucinda’s brother, I collect.’
‘Yessir.’
‘He lives here?’
‘Not at the moment ‘e don’t,’ the boy said carefully.
Jack knew better than to press a servant who clearly did not wish to talk, so he said nothing, but walked slowly towards the far stable and leaned over its open door.
The boy was right. The horse was a beauty. A tall chestnut mare, coat gleaming even in the weak October sun, and a soft white blaze down the centre of her forehead lending her the look of a magical creature.
A white blaze. Something rattled his memory. A clearing, a white diamond-shape blaze on a chestnut horse, moonlight silvering horse and rider. Surely not! This could not be the highwayman’s mount! Yet when he looked closer, he was almost certain that she was. His mind began to race, searching for an explanation. Had the mare been stolen in order to perpetrate the crime? But how do you steal a horse from private land, ride her like the wind, then restore her to the stables without anyone being the wiser? It was hardly possible; it was more likely a member of the household—a servant, a groom, perhaps? But who would have been so audacious and why?
He turned to the boy. ‘How many grooms work here?’
‘Jus’ me, sir, with these horses. Dexter’s the coachman, but the carriage horses are kept in a different block t’other side of the house and ‘e sleeps above their stable.’
So if a servant had staged a brazen attack, it would have had to be this boy and that seemed impossible. He gave the lad a small coin for his time and began to walk towards the house, eager to regain his room and think through the conundrum. As he walked, he extinguished his cigarillo and buried the butt in his pocket. His fingers touched something soft, a handkerchief, no—he brought the article into the light—a piece of lace torn from the ruffle of a shirt.
He stood stock still, his brain once more churning. It was a man’s shirt, but a gentleman’s, not a stable boy’s. A gentleman from Verney Towers. Apart from Francis Devereux, there wasn’t one. Did Lucinda have a secret admirer who took to the road for fun? He’d said to Fielding that he thought their ambush had been a jape gone wrong. But she had been adamant that no lover existed and, truth to tell, he could not imagine a swashbuckling youth as her admirer. She was too considered, too restrained, in her dealings with men. He remembered the way she had pulled away when he had touched her. Her wrist, her left wrist! She had winced from an injury, from pulling a recalcitrant bush from the ground, she’d said. But was that a cock-and-bull story? What if it had been her wrist that he had grasped last night? If so, it would explain the fleeting sense of familiarity he’d experienced at their first meeting. The thought sent shock waves through him. He refused to believe it. What possible reason could she have to run such an appalling risk?
Once in his room, he spread his long form on the bed, thinking hard. Lucinda Lacey as his assailant! It was a ridiculous proposition: she was a lady. Ladies of his acquaintance might do many questionable things, but holding up a coach wasn’t one of them. He sat upright—there was a way to find out. It wasn’t only the scrap of lace that he’d picked up after his unknown attacker had disappeared into the night. He’d retrieved the gun and he had it still. He had been curious about it from the start, certain that it was a duelling pistol. If it was, it would be part of a pair, belonging to—not her, for sure, but this brother? Quite possibly. He drew the weapon from the pocket of his travelling cape and took it to the light. It was as he’d remembered: the pistol sported a most intricate decoration, a crown in the shape of acanthus leaves. It looked like a family crest, though not the Devereux emblem which was blazoned on every spare surface of the house. Did it perhaps belong to the Lacey family? In any case, it was not a gun that was easily replicated. If he found its companion here in this house, he would know almost certainly that the incredible was true. But then what would he do?
Lucinda changed rapidly out of her riding dress; she was intent on seeking an interview with her uncle before luncheon. The darkest of clouds remained in her life, but one threat at least had been removed: Jack Beaufort had no intention of pressuring her into marriage. In fact, he had no wish to marry at all. He had been candid and honest and she liked that in him. She wondered if he would be as direct with her uncle or simply depart the Towers, thanking his host for a pleasant stay. Either way Sir Francis would be furious: he did not easily accept having his schemes frustrated.
The door to the library stood ajar and Lucinda slipped quietly into the room. Her uncle was dozing fitfully by a roaring fire, but looked up as he heard her footsteps.
‘What is it?’ He sounded querulous and she feared she had chosen the wrong moment to make her appeal. ‘I am about to write letters before lunch, Lucinda. You must come back later.’
There seemed little sign of this activity and she decided that she would not be shrugged aside. Taking one of the room’s least comfortable chairs, she sat ramrod straight, facing her guardian.
‘Uncle Francis, I wish to speak with you.’
His small blue eyes cast a baleful look. ‘Indeed? Do you not think that my interests should come first? I have been wishing to speak to you on a matter of grave concern.’
She felt a murmur of unease, but counselled herself to wait patiently for her uncle to continue. He glowered at her for some minutes, fidgeting restlessly with the rings on his plump fingers, but at last he announced, ‘I desire an explanation.’
‘An explanation of what?’
‘You dare to ask! After your disgraceful conduct last night!’
She was taken aback for she had erased from her mind her first meeting with Jack Beaufort. In retrospect, it appeared horribly childish and she must have wanted to blot it from her mind.
Her uncle’s voice took on a cold anger. ‘Did I not request that you look your very best when our guest arrived? Did I not ask you to meet him with courtesy and make him welcome? And what did you do but dress yourself quite deliberately in the most appalling gown you could find and then follow that outrage by treating him with unfeigned rudeness.’
Her uncle was prone to exaggeration, but she could not deny his accusations. Every word he said was true and all she could do was keep silent and hope the storm would pass. But Sir Francis had more complaints. ‘Not content with your shameful behaviour last night, you appear this morning to have abandoned Lord Frensham to his own devices.’
‘I think you will find that the earl is as comfortable with his company as I am with mine,’ she said levelly.
But her guardian was not listening. ‘You made up your mind to dislike the man before he ever set foot in the door and you have conducted yourself towards him most shabbily. I did not expect it from you.’
She felt a stab of guilt. ‘I am sorry to have upset you, Uncle. I may have behaved stupidly, but the truth is that Lord Frensham and I would never suit.’
‘How can you decide such a thing when you hardly know the man?’
‘I do not need to know him. I am sufficiently aware of the circles he moves in to recognise that I could never be happy with such a life. I do not accuse his lordship of personal involvement, but his peers are the very people who helped Rupert to his ruin and I cannot imagine, Uncle, why you should wish me to make a match with such a one.’
Sir Francis had risen from his chair and was stomping around the library, pacing to the window and back, shuffling papers on his desk and moving books from one shelf to another. Finally he stopped and faced her once more, his face mottled with vexation.
‘You will have to marry somewhere, Lucinda. Is it not better that you secure for yourself a life of ease than be doomed to penury by wedding a half-pay soldier?’
She knew his thoughts were with his dead sister, Lucinda’s mother, that once-beloved girl, who had abandoned everything to marry Eliot Lacey against her family’s wishes.
‘I understand your concern for me,’ she said as mildly as she could, ‘but I have no wish to marry, Uncle, no wish at all.’
His face grew even redder. ‘You must marry! You must forget this nonsense of setting up home with your brother. Rupert is a wastrel and always will be.’
His words stung, but they also stiffened her resolve. She would live with Rupert one day and try in whatever way she could to compensate him for the unkindness he’d suffered at the hands of his family. But right now she could not allow herself to be deflected: she must voice her plea even though she knew it to be futile. ‘I know you consider Rupert to be a lost cause, Uncle Francis, and I know that in the past he has given you reason to believe that, but—’
‘He has—in full—and there is no more to be said.’
‘I think there is. I must talk to you about him.’
‘I will say only this, Lucinda, and then we will never speak of it again. While Rupert was a minor, I did all in my power to save the honour of the family—and to save his honour. Unhappily I failed. Now I consider my task at an end and I refuse to be troubled further.’
‘You have been very good, Uncle, more than good,’ she soothed, well aware that for years he had treated her brother harshly and any benevolence sprang from inflated family pride rather than affection. ‘You have done all you possibly could to keep Rupert on the right path.’
‘And received scant gratitude! He has reached the age of majority and must now be responsible for his actions. It is quite simple.’
Lucinda’s eyes were wide and pleading. She took a step towards her guardian, her hands raised in supplication. ‘I am sorry that I disobeyed you in going to London against your wishes, but I had to see my brother. He is my twin and whatever he has done, I love him dearly. What I saw broke my heart. The prison is cold and dank and the treatment he receives severe. The stark loneliness of his life is more than any gently born soul can bear. If you would but see him, you would understand.’
‘He has a lesson to learn and that is that he must live within his means.’
‘I am sure he has learned it. Will you not reconsider your decision? If he needs further punishment, there must be other ways—but please, please, allow him to come home.’
‘If he suffers, it is right that he should do so. He will be released in due time.’
‘His release may come too late. Think how you will feel if that is so.’
‘You have an unfortunate tendency to dramatise, my dear. Rupert Lacey is where he should be. Decency has not worked to make him an honourable man. Incarceration might.’
‘But, Uncle …’
‘No more! I have no wish to continue this conversation and no wish to speak of your brother again. While you live under my roof, Lucinda, you will observe my prohibition.’
Her uncle was immovable. As so often in the past she marvelled at the strange mix that was Francis Devereux: on the one hand a man willing to spend his fortune on the pleasures of life, fastidious in his choice of dress and food, on the other, a stiff and unyielding moralist, a man steeped in tradition for whom family honour was paramount. Rupert had transgressed and was beyond forgiveness. Not that he would care. The Devereux family meant nothing to Rupert—he had said often enough that as Laceys they did not belong. Without a doubt he had been made to feel so from a very young age, punished for every small infraction of the rules, unjustly accused of every misdemeanour. She had tried very hard to protect him from their guardians’ punitive regime, but rarely succeeded. Realistically in a world of powerful adults how could one young child protect another? But the knowledge that she had failed him was always with her.
She must not fail him now in the greatest crisis of his life. He had escaped Verney Towers and its petty rules and inflexible laws as soon as he was able, but it was an escape to disaster. Their grandparents had suffered a pathological fear that Rupert would follow in his father’s footsteps and had tried to beat the Lacey out of him. By all accounts Eliot Lacey rarely had a feather to fly with and was more than happy to bleed anyone who came his way. The beatings had not worked. Rupert had become as big a gambler as ever Captain Lacey was, but, unlike his father, she knew that he took little real pleasure in the turn of the dice. He had gravitated to the tables because they represented rebellion, freedom, rather than easy money. Yet there was enough of his father in him to keep him playing even in the face of abject failure. Despite brutal punishment Rupert, it seemed, had remained stubbornly a Lacey.
Chapter Three
In low spirits, she made her way to the dining room as the last chimes of the gong echoed through the cavernous hall. Their guest was already enthroned at one end of a massive black oak table. The room’s velvet furnishings, once a majestic red, were now sad and faded and Jack Beaufort presented an enticing contrast. He had changed his riding dress to a coat of blue superfine, its cut expertly moulded across a pair of powerful shoulders, and when he rose to greet her, she saw that his shapely legs were encased in tight-fitting fawn pantaloons. There were few men who could look as good in such revealing dress. He smiled lazily at her and unexpectedly she found herself flushing.
She hoped her uncle had not noticed her embarrassment, but she need not have worried. Sir Francis had his attention firmly on the table as dish after laden dish arrived from the kitchens. For the baronet, luncheon was not the usual modest meal and for some minutes he was wholly engaged in satisfying his appetite. Only after he had made his way through a considerable amount of food did he feel ready to converse.
‘This is fine beef. It comes, you know, from a farm not ten miles away—George Rutland’s place. Do you have property in Sussex, Lord Frensham?’
Her uncle knew down to the last squire who held land in his home county, but he would be eager, Lucinda thought, for the earl to enumerate his vast possessions.
Their guest, though, was not playing the game. ‘I own nothing in the county. In fact, I have visited Sussex very little.’
‘Perhaps because it lies so close to London? That is most understandable. You have a splendid London house, I believe. In Grosvenor Square, is it not?’ Sir Francis sat back and waited to be told of its glories.
‘I do not live in Grosvenor Square. My home is in Half Moon Street’.
His host looked shocked. ‘But is it wise to leave such a beautiful house empty?’
‘It’s not empty,’ the earl answered cheerfully. ‘My sister, Lady Bessborough, fills the house with her four children. As a bachelor, I am happy with something a little less grand.’
Francis was temporarily silenced by the need to taste several of the new dishes that had found their way to the table. When he spoke again, it was to say smugly, ‘Of course, you will not have much of a garden in Grosvenor Square.’
The earl seemed disinclined to quarrel with this and her uncle went on, ‘We have some splendid grounds at the Towers, you know—parkland which stretches for miles, a fine terraced garden and any number of succession houses.’ He wiped his lips in satisfaction. ‘Why do you not take a walk? The weather remains fair and I know that Lucinda will be pleased to accompany you and explain all that we are doing here.’
The earl had long since finished eating and seemed glad to rise from the table. ‘That sounds a most delightful way to spend an afternoon.’ His smile was only slightly wry as he bowed graciously in Lucinda’s direction. ‘If you are ready, Miss Lacey, shall we go?’ Beneath her uncle’s implacable gaze, she had little choice but to surrender her seat and take the proffered arm.
They strode in silence towards the honey-coloured terrace at the rear of the mansion. Francis Devereux did not intend to waste an opportunity to throw them together, Jack thought, no matter how distasteful his niece might find it. The gardens no doubt were another step in his campaign. He felt sorry for the girl, sorry for himself. They had been put in an impossible situation.
‘Your uncle was right—you have a magnificent estate. I can see why he was so insistent that we take this walk.’
She did not rise to his irony, but said instead, ‘My uncle is very proud of Verney Towers. You may have noticed.’ There was only the slightest tinge of acid in her voice.
‘He has every right to be proud,’ he said dishonestly. ‘It is a beautiful old house and surrounded by splendid countryside.’
She wrinkled her nose and he found it oddly charming. ‘I might agree with you on the countryside, but the house could never be called beautiful. You flatter us, I think.’
‘I never flatter, Miss Lacey.’
‘I cannot imagine that is so, or else how could you have made so many conquests?’
He did not feel sorry for her at all, he decided. She was abominable.
‘Whatever you may have heard will be an exaggeration. And I thought we had agreed that gossip should be ignored.’
She let go of his arm and smoothed out her skirts of patterned muslin. She was looking as fetching as she had this morning, he noticed, a rich blue ribbon threaded through blonde curls and a blue velvet tippet around her shoulders. Yesterday’s hideous rags had seemingly been consigned to the bonfire.
‘You agreed. In any case I am not interested in gossip, but I do value the truth. I am wondering why it is now that you have decided to visit us, Lord Frensham, for your sisters must have told you that silly story about our families quite some while ago.’
‘I believe I mentioned that I was driving to Hampshire.’
‘On the way to a country-house party, yes, but I imagine you must attend many such gatherings not a million miles from Sussex. So why come to us now?’
He smothered a sigh; she was far too perceptive. ‘Strictly in the interests of truth, I admit that this journey was convenient. Life in London was proving a trifle difficult.’
‘Life—or was it a woman?’
The conversation was becoming more indecorous by the minute, he thought, but he still found himself answering, ‘Yes. A lady.’
‘A woman,’ she said firmly. ‘What happened?’
‘Her husband happened.’ If he were to speak honestly, she might as well know the worst. There was a strange sense of satisfaction in for once talking candidly to a female, but he waited in some trepidation for her next question.
‘Do you often have to deal with irate husbands?’
‘No, I do not! I may have allowed myself to be pulled in a little too far this time and … Why am I telling you this?’
‘You are telling me because we have decided on the truth.’ She pointed to the short scar on his left cheek. ‘Did you get that from a similar “happening”?’
‘I was foolish enough to walk down an unlit Venetian alley some years ago—I owe it to footpads, not a furious spouse!’
‘Then you escaped lightly. It must have been a most dangerous situation.’
‘It was—particularly for them. Though I believe the canal was not overly deep and preferable, I imagine, to my sword.’
‘And is it a duel that you have just fought—I mean, with the angry husband?’
‘You are far too inquisitive, not to mention brazen.’
‘It is only right that I should know the kind of suitor my uncle has been so eager to propose! He had been worrying over your moral suitability until your sisters put his mind at rest. Now if he had been privy to this conversation …’
‘I cannot pretend to be proud of the life I’ve led. But neither do I feel undue guilt. There are ladies,’ he said carefully, ‘certain ladies, who need little flattery or persuasion to extend their hand in friendship.’
‘I am not so innocent that I do not know something of the world. I believe they are what Rupert calls lady-birds.’
He supposed he should look shocked, but he wanted to laugh. ‘Rupert may call them so, but you should not.’
‘What should I call them, then?’
‘You should not know about them.’
‘That is ridiculous.’
He had to agree, but thought it wise to steer the conversation into safer channels. They had reached the small archway at one end of the terrace and strolled through into the rose garden. The central fountain had been shut down for the winter and there were gaps here and there where plants had died or bushes lost their leaves. The weather, though, was still mild for late October and a sprinkling of blooms added colour to the grey flint walls.
‘This must be a wonderful retreat in high summer—the sound of rushing water and the sweetness of so many flowers.’
She was looking surprised. Evidently gossip had not credited him with an appreciation of nature. She bent down to sniff at a last apricot bloom. ‘Do you grow roses on your estate? This is a Buff Beauty—it still smells divine.’
‘I have tried to create something similar at Beaufort Hall, but in comparison my rose garden lacks maturity even though the Somerset climate is temperate. And the manor house in Yorkshire will never match the exacting standards of the Towers, I fear. It is situated on a hill and exposed to every extreme element.’
‘Do you enjoy having so many properties?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ he confessed.
‘I suppose that comes of being rich.’ It was clear that she set little store by this and the conversation limped to a close. He hoped they could talk more, for she was delightfully unusual. Though she had a face and a figure that seduced, she had a mind to match.
His hope was realised when they headed towards the cluster of hothouses which lay on the far side of the rose garden and she threw him a challenge. ‘I must pick flowers for the church today. Are you likely to be of any help?’
‘I doubt that flower picking is one of my better skills.’
‘What are, then?’
‘I can box.’
She could not prevent a giggle. ‘I cannot see flower arranging being the greatest use in the ring. But where do you box?’
‘At Jackson’s saloon in Bond Street.’
‘Rupert followed the gentleman’s career with great interest, although my uncle never allowed him to go to a prize fight. I know for a fact, though, that he sneaked away several times when the rumour of a likely meeting reached him.’
Her brother seemed a continuing presence, though as yet there had been no sign of him. ‘Was he permitted any sport?’ he asked curiously.
‘He wanted to learn to fence, but our grandparents thought it dangerous. Do you?’
‘Do I fence? Yes, frequently—at Angelo’s. One never knows when skill with the sword will come in useful,’ he added wickedly, and then, seeing her reproving expression, hurried on, ‘I compete in curricle races, too, and that is one of the roughest of sports!’
‘Then flowers will make an agreeable change.’
The succession houses were everything that the mansion was not—freshly painted, brightly lit and warm. Inside swathes of pelargoniums, fuchsias and heliotrope filled the space with such exotic colour that he blinked, but it was their overwhelming perfume that caught him in its grasp and played on his senses. He was filled with a mad desire to press Lucinda to him and dance with her around the flower-filled space.
His companion was not so easily distracted. ‘We must pick quickly before Latimer discovers us. He is the head gardener and considers everything he grows to be his and his alone.’
He tried to do as she asked, but her nimble fingers had filled two trugs to the brim before he’d managed to gather even a puny handful of chrysanthemums. ‘Do we drive them to the church or does the coachman also have a proprietorial attitude?’
She looked at him, astonished. ‘I would not call out the coachman to take a few handfuls of flowers little more than a mile. You are spoilt, my lord.’
‘EvidentIy,’ he murmured, picking up the heaviest basket. ‘Show me the way, Miss Lacey.’
He was not addicted to walking and his town attire was hardly suitable for a rural hike; he could only hope that his Hessians would survive. They were already beginning to lose their champagne sparkle and a tramp along a dusty lane was unlikely to improve them. But he was enjoying himself far more than he’d thought possible.
Verney turned out to be very neat and very small: a cluster of whitewashed cottages around the village green, a solitary shop which sold everything from shepherds’ smocks to a side of ham, and a church. It was Norman in design, its square tower looking proudly over the Sussex countryside, and its flint walls cradling several vividly stained-glass windows. Once through its huge oak door, the contrast in light was stark and for a moment he was blinded by the gloom. But as they walked towards the altar, pools of coloured light lit their way and the scent of flowers filled the air. He slid into a pew and watched as she arranged the blooms.
‘Do all the flowers come from the house?’
‘The cottagers provide them when they can, but it is more important for them to grow vegetables that they can eat.’
‘And you do this regularly? The church flowers, I mean.’
She straightened up, having put the last vase to rights. ‘When you live in a village, Lord Frensham, there are obligations.’ Her tone was crisp and he knew that she considered him incurably selfish.
‘It is a very attractive village, a very attractive part of the country,’ he said placatingly.
‘There is a splendid view from the church tower. If you have a head for heights, that is. When the air is as clear as it is today, it’s possible to see to Climping and the coast.’
The last thing he wanted to do was to climb the tower’s steep stairs, but he responded gallantly to the invitation. ‘What an excellent suggestion. Will you accompany me?’
If he were sensible, he would cut their walk as short as possible. Her uncle had thrown them together but that did not mean he had to go along with it. It would be better by far if he did not. But the sight of her slender, young figure in the simple sprig muslin, concentrating so hard on her task, had filled him with an unknown pleasure. He found that he did not want to be separated from her so soon.
She led the way up the spiral stone staircase. It was a climb of at least two hundred steps and by the time they finally reached the square turret, her eyes were sparkling with the effort. He clambered up the last few stairs and joined her on the tower. Despite the steep climb, neither was out of breath and they looked at one another with respect.
‘You did well, Lord Frensham. Normally visitors to the church need reviving by the time they make the tower roof.’
‘I do my best. But after sharing such a punishing experience, do you not think you could call me Jack?’
‘Jack,’ she said experimentally. ‘Is your name not James?’
‘It is—James Mountford Gillespie Beaufort. But I answer to Jack.’
She looked at his slim but powerful form, the glint in his eyes, the scar which enhanced rather than marred his face. ‘I can see why,’ she decided.
They walked to one side of the tower and looked out over the crenellated wall towards a distant sea.
‘It’s a perfect day.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘perfect.’ And for that moment it was.
‘And you are right, you can see all the way to the coast. Every detail is clear—see that convoy of wagons to the right, making their way northwards. They are travelling very slowly. Weighed down with treasure, no doubt,’ he joked.
‘Do your sisters call you Jack?’
‘When I was small I believe they did, but I am always James to them now.’
‘You are the youngest of the family?’
‘I am the long-desired heir.’
‘And did they spoil you—your sisters?’
‘I can’t recall they ever did.’
‘But your parents must have, if they waited so long for an heir.’
‘I hardly knew my parents,’ he mused. ‘They died when I was ten and, before that, I rarely saw them. From an early age I had my own quarters, my own staff. They came to see me on occasions and I visited the main house, but it was hardly an intimate family life.’
He had never been loved, but he was not about to confide that. He had been born to a role and that was his value. As a child he was uninteresting to his parents; as a future earl, he was cherished. He understood that now, but as a small boy, he had longed for a kind word, an affectionate hug, a loving smile. They had not been entirely absent—a succession of nurses had done their best—but he had looked in vain for a similar reward from his parents.
She looked aghast. ‘It sounds horrible.’
‘Not so horrible. I had the best of everything—the best clothes, the best food, the best tutors. Every wish was granted.’
‘That cannot have been good for you.’
‘Alas, no. As you see…’
‘And when did you become the earl?’
‘That, too, was not good for me. My godfather held the reins until I reached eighteen and then it was all mine—the title, the houses, the estates. No wonder I am deplorable.’
‘No wonder.’ But she was smiling as she said it.
He touched her arm. ‘Let us go down, Lucinda. I may call you that? I have a mournful fear that my boots will begin to pinch if I do not soon start back to the house.’
She turned to go, but then without warning dashed to the far wall and almost threw herself over the small parapet, or so it seemed to him. She was leaning at an acute angle, hanging dizzyingly in the air. ‘It’s still there. Look, Jack! That is where Rupert and I climbed and placed a little red banner we had made—my goodness, we must have been mad for there are no sure footholds on the tower.’
He raced across to the wall and grabbed hold of the folds of her muslin dress. ‘You seem to have changed little,’ he panted, clinging hold of her while straining to keep his footing. ‘Move back, Lucinda. We are both in danger.’
Gradually he managed to shuffle his arms until he could clasp her firmly around the waist and return her to an upright position.
‘Did I worry you? I was quite safe, you know. The parapet is high enough.’ She was laughing at him and he felt a ripple of anger.
He tightened his arms around her, holding her close to his body. ‘I know no such thing. Never do that again!’
He looked down at her upturned face and was met by a pair of blue eyes glimmering with mischief. He could drown in those eyes, he thought, and for a moment he stood motionless, lost in their gaze. He felt her body warm against his, her soft curls tickling his chin. Her lips were close; he had only to bend his head a fraction and he could taste that full, smiling mouth. He wanted to with an urgency that took his breath away. Somehow he resisted and gave a light brush of his lips to her cheek.
Her carelessness had vanished and her breath seemed to be coming in short spurts. She was looking flushed and flustered and he could feel her body trembling beneath his touch. She was finding his closeness unsettling and that pleased him—it would teach her not to play games. He hadn’t enjoyed the sensation of being out of control. When he took his arms from around her, she turned away and walked to the stairs without another word.
In silence, they found their way back to the nave. ‘Will you walk with me to the house?’ It was courtesy that made him ask. He wanted to be alone and he thought she did, too: he sensed relief when she refused the invitation.
‘You will have to excuse me. I have calls to make in the village.’
‘I am impressed. I had not imagined you such a diligent worker.’ His voice was deliberately teasing.
‘When you live in a small community, it is necessary.’ From the reproof, it was clear that she had recovered her composure.
‘Naturally, I would not know.’
‘You could always learn,’ she threw over her shoulder, as she walked towards the church door. ‘But not this morning, I think. I am to call on a very sick old lady and the sight of your town bronze could well be the death of her!’
With a rueful smile, he watched her trip up the aisle, basket in hand, and out into the sunshine.
He strode towards the Towers in an unsettled frame of mind. He might be stranded in Verney for several days, but he must keep his distance from Lucinda. For a man intent on remaining heart free, their recent encounter had been far too intimate and he must be careful not to repeat it. He had only once been in love, only once thought of marrying, and it had proved calamitous. He had no intention of repeating the experience, even with Lucinda’s obvious charms so close at hand: she was lovely to look at, lovely to hold, he thought guiltily. She was spirited, bold even, to the point of recklessness, with an immense energy for life despite the cramped existence she had been forced to lead. They were enchanting qualities. Yet they could also be dangerous, as he had found to his cost. He was uncomfortably aware of how much she reminded him of that long-ago love affair. Was Lucinda also a woman addicted to excitement?
The incident on the church tower loomed large in his thoughts and reignited his earlier suspicions. He could no longer dismiss the idea that she might have been his assailant on that moonlit night—from what he’d seen of her, he guessed that she would be quite capable of riding out as a highwayman. But if she had dared such an exploit, and he still doubted it, what could be her reason? There appeared to be no motive—unless she was indeed one of those rare women who took risks simply because they were there, risks that could spiral into disaster.
He wanted very much for that not to be the case and a strong compulsion to prove Lucinda’s innocence bubbled into life. While he walked, his mind considered the possibilities. If he looked for the matching pistol in the house and did not find it, might that suggest the gun he had in his possession had never belonged at Verney Towers? Of course, she could have hidden its companion, but that seemed unlikely. Why would she unless she felt herself to be under suspicion, and he had been most careful not to betray his distrust. If the matching gun were in the house, he was as certain as he could be that it would be in Rupert Lacey’s room. He could only pray that it was not. Searching might prove difficult for servants were up and down the grand staircase twenty times a day. But this afternoon he could be sure that at least his hosts would not disturb him: Sir Francis was immured in his library and Lucinda would not return from the village for at least an hour. It was unlikely that he would get a better chance. He took a deep breath—he would do it!
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