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She murmured her thanks and climbed the short flight of stairs to the reading room with its panoramic view of the bay, one of its main attractions for those who were not bookish. Several people were out on the balcony in the sunshine using the telescope, two elderly gentlemen were engaged in a politely vicious dispute over the possession of The Times newspaper and a pair of young ladies came through from the lending section clutching a pile of what looked suspiciously like sensation novels.
Sara found the familiar thick red volume of the Peerage and settled down at a table. She had been out for less than a year before she married and she and Michael had moved immediately to Cambridge for him to take up his new post at one of the colleges. It was perfectly possible that she had missed seeing any number of members of the ton, including Mr Dunton, especially as her family had come to England from India only shortly before the Season began.
If I were going to take a false name I would keep it as close to my real one as possible so I would react to it without hesitation, she thought. Mr Dunton was about twenty-eight or nine, she guessed. His card gave his initials only, L. J., but Marguerite had called him Lucian quite naturally, so that was a start. She would begin with the Marquesses and work down the hierarchy because she was certain she knew all the dukes, at least by sight.
There was always the possibility that he was the heir to a title, which would slow the search down, but she was certain he was not a younger son. That gentleman had been born with a silver spoon, if not an entire table setting, firmly stuck in his mouth. Two pages...she turned the third and struck gold. There it was.
Lucian John Dunton Avery, third Marquess of Cannock, born 1790. Only sibling Marguerite
Antonia, born 1800. Seat, Cullington Park, Hampshire.
She closed the book with a satisfied thump of the thick pages which made the elderly gentlemen look over and glower. She smiled sweetly at them and they went back to their newspapers.
So why was the Marquess staying at the hotel incognito? There was nothing unfashionable or shocking about taking a seaside holiday in the summer and a good half of the ton did just that, although this was a quiet resort and not a magnet for society’s high-fliers like Brighton to the east or Weymouth, for the more sedate of the ton, to the west.
He was hardly outrunning his creditors and if there had been a great scandal involving him she must have noticed it in the papers, however little interest she took in society gossip. Or her mother would have written about it in the fat weekly letters that covered everything from the latest crim. con. scandals to the more obscure lectures at the Royal Society.
So the anonymity must be because of his sister and, as there was no shame in being unwell and a large proportion of the visitors were invalids or convalescent, there must be a scandal to be hidden, poor girl. She would need handling with even more sensitivity if that were the case.
Sara slid the Peerage back in its place on the shelf and went downstairs.
‘You found what you wanted, Mrs Harcourt?’
She was so preoccupied that James’s question made her jump. ‘Hmm? Oh, yes, thank you.’
‘Will you be at the Rooms tonight? It is a ball night.’ Despite being shy James Makepeace loved to dance and the Assembly Rooms’ programme always included two ball nights every week during the summer season. When she nodded he asked, ‘Will you save me a set, Mrs Harcourt?’
‘Of course. The very first.’ Even with the Assembly Rooms’ rather limited orchestra it was a pleasure to dance. She had missed that almost more than anything during her long year of mourning. At least the very serious and straight-faced Marquess-in-disguise was unlikely to indulge in anything quite so frivolous as a seaside assembly dance.
* * *
Lucian was in half a mind to order a sedan chair for Marguerite to take her up the hill to Aphrodite’s Seashell, amused to see that the resort still provided them. But when he suggested it she laughed, actually laughed, and he was so delighted that he could not bear to put a frown back on her face by insisting.
She had been so bitterly sad and angry—with him, of course. This was all his fault, according to Marguerite. Not that bas—All the spirit, all the restless enthusiasm that was Marguerite, had been knocked out of her, replaced by a listless apathy in which he could not make the smallest crack. Even the anger had faded away, which was what had truly frightened him.
Marguerite was his only sibling and he was well aware that the difference in their age and sex had kept them apart. His childhood had been far stricter than hers—tutors, riding and fencing masters, carefully selected playmates from suitable local families had filled his days and provided his company. He could never forget that he was heir to an ancient title, great responsibilities, with a duty to the past and to the future. Marguerite had been spoiled and rather vaguely educated by a doting governess—it was no wonder that she had been hit so hard by what had happened.
‘As though I want to be carted through the streets like an ageing dowager,’ she said, pulling him back from his brooding, and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, just like she used to do in the days before she ran away.
‘Well, take it slowly,’ he chided, not wanting to let his delight show. ‘It is a hill.’
‘I have to learn to climb hills again some time, otherwise everything would be abominably flat,’ Marguerite observed as she unfurled her parasol.
Had that been a mild joke, a pun even? Perhaps this flight to the seaside had not been such a bad idea after all and he had been too impatient for results. She managed the climb well, without needing to pause for breath, and studied the shop windows as they passed with something like interest.
Lucian took her into Aphrodite’s Seashell and let his gaze wander with seeming casualness over the women already gathered around the long table. Some were sitting with craftwork spread out in front of them, others stood chatting. Everyone looked up as he and Marguerite entered and then the ladies went back to what they had been doing without any vulgar staring. They all seemed perfectly respectable, well dressed and spoke in educated accents. Their ages ranged from about twenty to sixty, he estimated.
Mrs Harcourt was standing at the shelves, a number of books in her hands, talking to a tall, earnest-looking woman. ‘You could either write the journal directly into a book that is already bound and do your sketches on blank pages, or do the entire thing loose-leaf and then have it bound up, which might be safer—then if there are any small corrections you want to make that page can easily be replaced. But see what you think of these, at any rate, Mrs Prentice.’
She excused herself and came over to greet them. ‘Miss Dunton, Mr Dunton.’ She looked at him and Lucian found himself staring back into those intelligent grey eyes that, surely, held a gleam of mischief. What was there to amuse her? It did not seem to be malicious, more, almost, as though they shared a secret. And once more that inconvenient sense of attraction, of arousal, stirred. It should not have surprised him, he thought. This was a lovely woman with an intriguing mixture of assured sophistication and youth.
He wanted to touch her, badly, and that made him abrupt. ‘I understand there is a small charge for refreshments?’
‘Six pence, if you please, Mr Dunton.’
Lucian took off his glove to retrieve the loose change from his pocket book and held out the small coin, rather than put it on the counter. She extended her own hand, palm up, and his bare fingertips brushed her skin as he laid the silver on it. He suspected she knew exactly what he was about, but she was perfectly composed as she broke the contact and placed the coin on the counter. Her hand had been warm and soft to his fleeting touch and Lucian had a startling mental picture of it, pale gold on his bare skin.
‘Thank you, sir. At what time will you be returning to collect your sister? There is an excellent library just up the street on this side, if you choose to wait.’
So much for any thought of waiting in the shop to observe proceedings. ‘Thank you, I will investigate it,’ he said with a deliberately cheerful, open smile when he suspected she was anticipating something more laden with meaning, an invitation to flirt, perhaps. ‘Half past four, Marguerite?’
‘Mmm? Oh, yes, thank you.’ His sister was already investigating the books and pamphlets. As he watched her a woman in late middle age smiled and indicated a book with a murmured comment. Marguerite took it down from the shelf and Lucian nodded to Mrs Harcourt, resumed his hat and left the shop.
Most definitely surplus to requirements, he thought, turning to continue up the hill in search of the library. It was a surprisingly good feeling to see Marguerite confident and engrossed. He couldn’t even be annoyed that Mrs Harcourt was proving so resistant to his hints. She was a respectable lady with a position in the town to defend, no doubt, and, as a gentleman he had no intention of ruffling those feathers without a clear signal to proceed. Still, it was a pity, he enjoyed the unspoken conversation they seemed to be having. Or perhaps it was a duel.
Chapter Three (#u5e72efc4-bc0f-57b0-879f-5f3811a0f2b6)
Two hours later Sara watched Mr Dunton—the Mysterious Marquess, as she was beginning to think of him—finally extract his sister from the shop, his arms full of parcels. She had suggested that Marguerite leave her purchases, and the shell-work project she had just begun work on, and she would have Tim bring them down to the hotel. But nothing would content her other than heaping them into her brother’s arms, despite the fact that no gentleman—let alone a marquess—should be walking around town laden like a footman.
To judge by his expression, any number of parcels was worth the animation on the girl’s face, the colour in her cheeks. Sara knew she ought to dislike him, or, at least, be completely indifferent to him, for he was exactly the kind of man she was living her life to avoid, but she admired his care for Marguerite.
She was still musing on the brother and sister—rather more on the brother, if she were to be truthful—as she locked the door, drew down the blind and began to deal with the contents of the cash drawer while Dot cleared away the tea things and washed up. The day’s takings had been good, she saw with satisfaction, entering them in her ledger before locking the money bag away in the safe. She must make a trip to the bank tomorrow, which was very gratifying.
It was not that she needed the money, exactly, but profitability was her main measure of success in a business and Sara did not like to fail at anything she put her hand to.
‘There you are, ducks.’ Dot emerged from the scullery, flapping a drying cloth before hanging it on the rail. ‘All done and dusted. Busy today, wasn’t it? I liked that little scrap of a lass, the new one. Pretty manners and no side to her. Looks as though she’s been having a difficult time of it though, bless her. It’s a hard thing to lose a baby.’
‘What?’ Sara stood up from the safe so sharply that she hit her head on the shelf above. ‘Ouch! What do you mean about a baby?’
‘She’s grieving and sad and she’s thin—but not in her bubbies. And Mrs Pike knocked against her when she passed the scones and she flinched and made a little sound like it hurt. I reckon they’re still sore, poor lamb, just like mine were when I lost our second.’
‘But she’s so young, only eighteen, I think. Oh, Dot, how awful.’ No wonder her brother was so anxious and so protective and they were here under a false name. ‘We must look after her, because I don’t think she has her mother or a companion with her, no woman to talk to, only her brother—and her maid, I suppose. And I would wager this shop he’s thinking most of the time about how to kill the man who fathered her child and not about how it has affected her.’
That was what men of breeding did, guarded the honour of their womenfolk whether the women wanted it or not. And people got killed as a result and the women in question were tied about with rules and restrictions because their menfolk cared so much and honour meant everything. Their honour, she told herself angrily. That helped stifle her own guilty conscience. A little.
The demands of honour had killed her husband, the man she had thought was above those antiquated notions about women and their lack of right to govern themselves and it had driven her here, a safe distance from the loving tyranny of father and brother. She could not turn away from Marguerite.
‘We’ll do our best for her, that’s for sure.’ The older woman threw her shawl around her shoulders and picked up her basket. ‘I’m off home to make supper, then we’re going down to the Dog and Mackerel, Farwell and me. What’ll you be doing, ducks?’
‘Dancing at the Assembly Rooms. I have promised Mr Makepeace a set.’
‘He’s sweet on you, you know, and he’ll never say, a’cos of who you really are.’
‘I know. I don’t encourage him, Dot. I just want to be friends. It isn’t because of who I am—it’s because I don’t think of him in any other way.’
‘Aye, poor bugger. He knows it, so don’t you be worrying about breaking his heart. He wouldn’t do for you anyway, but he’ll be hard put to compete with the likes of that other one now he is on the scene.’
‘What other one?’ As if I don’t know. ‘Honestly, Dot, shouldn’t you be off home?’
Her henchwoman, superbly indifferent to hints, made herself more comfortable with one expansive hip propped against the doorframe. ‘That Mr Dunton. If he’s a plain mister, then I’m the Duchess of Devonshire. And he’s taken a fancy to you. Not an honest one, that’s true, but where’s the harm in a bit of fun between the sheets, you being unattached and no maiden, as it were?’
‘Dot, stop it this minute. A bit of fun between the sheets indeed! I wouldn’t think of such a thing.’
Which is a barefaced lie. I haven’t thought of much else since I set eyes on him. The Mystery Marquess. Only his presence here was not such a mystery now she knew about his sister.
‘Aye, well, that’s what you say. You have a good time and if the Rooms are too dull, you drop in at the Dog and join in the sing-song.’ She took herself off on a gale of laughter at the thought, leaving Sara torn between amusement and exasperation.
Home for you, my girl. A nice bath, a few letters to write and then get dressed up and off to the Rooms for some wild dissipation, Sandbay-style.
* * *
Sandbay’s Assembly Rooms were only a year old, the creation of a consortium of the town’s leading businessmen who had raised the money for the construction. They had visited Weymouth and Brighton to seek inspiration and had returned to order a building containing a ballroom, card room, tea room and the associated retiring rooms, cloakrooms and entrance hall.
It was all very shiny, still smelled faintly of paint and had proved an instant success with the visitors and local gentry alike. Sara, who had a subscription for the season, paid off her sedan chair, left her outer clothing at the cloakroom and entered the tea room which served as the foyer during the evenings. A little flurry of new visitors was clustered around the Master of Ceremonies, Mr Flyte, who abandoned them with a smile and descended upon Sara.
‘Dear Lady Sarisa, welcome, welcome.’ She was his highest-ranking subscriber—unless Mr Dunton had subscribed and been recognised—and flattering her was far more important to the Master of Ceremonies than any number of newly arrived minor gentry.
‘Mr Flyte, please do not let me interrupt. You were speaking to these ladies and gentlemen.’ She bowed slightly in apology to the waiting visitors, annoyed that he had deserted them to toady to her, and went on through to the ballroom.
Although the music had not yet begun the room was already filling up, none of the subscribers feeling the need to demonstrate fashionable ennui and drift in halfway through proceedings.
James Makepeace appeared at her side, slightly pink and scrubbed around the ears, but smartly attired in his best evening suit. ‘Lady Sarisa, good evening. You have not forgotten that you promised me the first set, I hope?’
‘I have not.’ She put her hand on his proffered arm and they strolled around the room, greeting old friends and stopping to chat with the local squire, Sir Humphrey Janes, whose grandfather had built the first lodging houses which had given the resort its initial impetus. His son had invested in the hotel and the bathing rooms and the present baronet saw it as his family duty to encourage the social life of Sandbay.
‘You are in great beauty tonight, my lady.’ He bowed over her hand, twitted the librarian mildly on his courage in leading out the belle of the ball and warned Sara to ready herself for a visit from his sister. ‘She has plans for a charity bazaar and is scouring the town for committee members for the organisation. You would do well to flee to Brighton, if not Scarborough, to be at a safe distance.’
* * *
It was the laughter that caught Lucian’s attention as he entered the ballroom, Mr Flyte at his side. Rich and musical, it sent a shiver of awareness down his spine.
‘Now, Mr Dunton, you must not hesitate to call upon my services for any needs you have while you are a guest in our little town. We may be small, but we pride ourselves here in Sandbay on giving our visitors our most personal attention. Suggestions for tours, recommendations for the most reliable livery stable—’
‘Who is that lady? The one in the amber and the emeralds? The one laughing.’
It couldn’t be, surely? A shopkeeper in silk and gems? Perhaps they were paste, but he doubted it—the green glowed in the candlelight with the authentic fire in the eyes of a black panther.
‘That, Mr Dunton, is our most distinguished resident, Lady Sarisa Harcourt—Lady Sarisa Herriard as was—the only daughter of the Marquess of Eldonstone.’ The Master of Ceremonies beamed as though he was personally responsible for the appearance of so elevated a personage. ‘A widow, you understand,’ he murmured. ‘We are fortunate that she recovers from her loss amongst us.’
‘Mr Flyte, this morning I took my sister to a shop called Aphrodite’s Seashell and met a Mrs Harcourt who bears a most uncanny resemblance to that lady.’ Someone was playing games with him and he did not like it.
‘Oh, hush, sir, I do beg you.’ Flyte was positively flapping his hands in agitation at this indiscretion. ‘A little eccentricity in a lady is something to be indulged, is it not?’
‘It is?’ Eccentric dowagers were one thing, beautiful young widows were quite another.
‘Oh, most certainly. Lady Sarisa lends lustre to all the social and charitable occasions in the town and also amuses herself harmlessly by providing entertainment of a cultured and unexceptionable kind to ladies of all ages.’ He cleared his throat and lowered his voice even more. ‘We assist in keeping her ladyship’s two, shall we say, lives quite separate.’
What the blazes her father the Marquess thought of this Lucian could not imagine. He had met the man, and his exquisite and alarming Marchioness, two years ago when they had come to England from India when Eldonstone inherited the title. The East India Company soldier and his exotic, half-Indian wife had caused a stir amongst the ton and there had been a son and daughter, he recalled now, but he had not met them because he had been called from London to his father’s deathbed and the remainder of that Season had passed without him.
Lady Sarisa had inherited her mother’s looks, but her father’s blond hair and grey eyes, striking in contrast with the pale gold of her skin. For a moment he speculated that her marriage had caused a rift in the family, but if it had, she had not been cut off without a penny, because that gown and those gems had not been bought on a shopkeeper’s earnings.
The small string orchestra struck up with a flourish and couples began to come on to the floor to form the first set. Lady Sarisa was led out by someone else he recognised, the gangling local librarian.
‘I would beg the favour of an introduction to the lady when this set is completed, Mr Flyte.’
‘Of course, sir. I would be only too happy to oblige.’
Lucian might be incognito, but he knew that Flyte had discreetly assessed his tailoring, his accent and his manner and clearly decided that he was suitable to make the acquaintance of Sandbay’s grandest resident.
Lucian was wryly amused at his own reaction to that valuation. He had thought that somehow he kept his own self-esteem separate from his sense of what was due to his rank and position, but it seemed that his father’s constant reminders of what was due to—and from—a marquess had made a deeper impression than he had thought. This was the first time that he had ever found himself in society as a plain gentleman and it was a mild shock to find how much he would have been put out to have been ignored.
He took himself off to the card room, reluctant to let Lady Sara see him standing waiting on her, watching her. If she wanted to play games, he was not going to join in, at least, not too obviously. But how to approach her now? Flirtation would be acceptable, he was certain, but anything else was another matter. This was not some dashing widow on the fringes of society.
* * *
When the set finally came to an end he was back in the ballroom, Mr Flyte at his side.
‘Lady Sarisa.’
She turned at the sound of the Master of Ceremonies’ voice, the movement wafting her scent to Lucian’s nostrils. Definitely sandalwood, with an overtone of citrus, an undertone of pepper and a stimulating frisson of warm female skin, although that last might have been his fantasies at play.
‘Mr Flyte.’ The smile on her lips curved them into a seductive bow and her grey eyes seemed to pick up green glints from the emeralds at her ears and throat.
‘May I have the honour of presenting Mr Dunton of Hampshire to your ladyship as an eligible partner? Mr Dunton, Lady Sarisa Harcourt.’
Lucian bowed, she curtsied. Mr Flyte retired beaming.
‘Lady Sarisa.’
‘My lord.’
For a moment he thought he had misheard her, then he saw those grey eyes were alight with mischief. ‘Just who do you think I am, madam? I confess that you have me confused.’
‘I know exactly who you are. The Marquess of Cannock. Do you intend to ask me to dance, my lord? I am unengaged for the next set.’
‘I would be delighted,’ he said grimly, offering his hand as the musicians signalled the start. ‘We need to talk, Lady Sarisa, but not here.’
‘No, indeed. I will show you our seafront terrace after this set. It is delightful on such a warm evening as this.’
‘I am sure it is.’ Lucian made himself concentrate on the dance, a complex country measure that kept him busy negotiating the steps and gave little opportunity for speculation on the games eccentric young ladies might play on moonlit terraces.
‘There is no reason we may not converse about general matters,’ Lady Sarisa remarked as the convolutions of the dance brought them together for a moment. ‘Unless you are a nervous dancer, of course, in which case I will observe strict silence. You only have to give me a hint. Do you intend a long stay in Sandbay, Mr Dunton?’
‘My nerves will withstand a little conversation, I believe. I had planned on a stay of a few weeks, Mrs Harcourt.’
She chuckled softly as the measure separated them and he remembered with a jolt that this was not some game between the two of them, but something much more serious. She knew he was keeping his sister from society, that there was something very wrong and he had no idea at all whether he could trust her discretion. Who did she know and, more importantly, who might she gossip to? If he had any hope of saving Marguerite’s reputation then she must make her come-out next Season in good health and spirits without a whisper of suspicion that anything had gone amiss. Even then, it was going to be hard enough finding a suitor willing to overlook what had happened if it ever came to a proposal of marriage.
But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, there was this woman to deal with. This infuriating, teasing, beautiful woman.
