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‘Are you deaf as well as stupid?’ Randolph enquired mildly. ‘I said your presence is unwelcome. Do you not understand English?’
A look of surprise passed between the men. They were used to issuing threats, not receiving them, but all of them were ready for a fight.
‘Don’t reckon it’s us wot’s stupid.’ Seth smirked as he swaggered closer. ‘You’re not from round here, are you, friend? If you was, you’d know not to cross me.’ One of his thumbs jabbed arrogantly at his chest. It rose to tip his hat back on his head in a cocky gesture, then both brawny fists were jammed on his hips. ‘If you fancy being a hero for Miss Woodville, I’ll give you a fight. Or you could just get going, y’know.’ Something about the stranger’s cool confidence was unsettling Seth Luckhurst despite the odds being stacked very much in his favour. ‘It’s her I’m after. I need to … talk to her,’ he finished on a lewd chuckle.
Randolph gave a sigh, as one might when one’s patience is being tested to its outer limit. ‘Unfortunately you can’t,’ he replied with weary courtesy. ‘I want to talk to her and my need is greater than yours.’ He let go of Deborah’s wrist and started to shrug off his leather coat as though readying himself to take up Seth’s offer of a fight.
Deborah immediately sought and gripped hard at one of his hands, unsure whether she did so to seek his security or to stop him brawling. He had little chance of success against three adversaries. She was as worried as much for Randolph’s safety as she was for her own. A finger traced a soft, secretive caress on her palm—a wordless instruction that she remain quiet and trust him. Randolph turned to his horse to deposit the garment over the saddle and pivoted back with a pistol in each hand.
An immediate gasp parted Deborah’s lips. She’d not even seen him remove the weapons from their repository, so coolly and smoothly had he handled them.
‘Be sensible and be on your way.’ Randolph’s suggestion held an amount of tedium.
Seth rubbed a nervous hand over his bristly jaw. ‘There’s three of us and you’ve only got two shots.’
‘And both of them are levelled on you,’ Randolph told him with a smile. He could tell that Seth was the ringleader and the others deferred to his authority. He seemed a common enough bully and Randolph suspected Luck-hurst would crumble when his own life was in serious peril.
‘Shoot me and they’ll get you,’ Seth blustered, but he’d backed away a pace.
‘Sensible move,’ Randolph drawled his praise.
Seth stopped on seeing his cronies peering at him askance. Turning tail so quickly would do nothing for the reputation of the Luckhursts. He and his brother, Zack, were feared as the area’s most brazen villains. If Zack found out what had gone on, he’d beat the living daylights out of him. Seth adjusted his hat and, beneath its lowered brim, ruminated whether his accomplices would blab that he’d retreated from a stranger who spoke and dressed like a town fop.
Sensing he was wavering, Randolph helped the fellow make a decision. A shot rang out, making Deborah start and suppress a scream and Seth bellow in rage as his hat flew backwards off his head. It landed, tattered and smoking, on a grassy mound.
‘Missed.’ Randolph tutted and gave a sardonic smile. ‘I’ll need to practise.’
‘You’ll pay for this,’ Seth snarled. His usually rubicund cheeks had turned ashen in alarm. He knew very well that the fellow could have put a bullet between his eyes had he chosen to. He was obviously a proficient marksman and therefore a fellow to be wary of. From town he might be, but he was certainly no novice gunman. Seth turned and, furiously swiping the ragged hat from the ground, stomped back towards the shrubbery. His cronies fell into step behind him, looking uneasy. Before he disappeared into the thicket Seth turned and glowered at Randolph. ‘Stupid thing you just done. I’m going to come looking for you and when I find you …’
‘I’ll make it simple for you. I’m staying at the Woolpack in Rye. Ask for Randolph Chadwicke from Suffolk.’
Immediately on hearing that three tousled heads almost collided as the men immediately conferred. Seth straightened, arrowed another suspicious stare at Randolph. A moment later they’d disappeared and soon after came the sound of hooves hitting hard ground.
Randolph paced away from Deborah, the loaded pistol still raised as though he suspected they might arc about to return on horseback in a surprise attack.
As the sound of the gang’s retreat died away Deborah’s shoulders slumped in a release of tension and a sigh shuddered out of her. A moment later the enormity of what had happened—and how much worse it could have been—hit her like a thump in the stomach. A sob burst in her chest and she crossed her arms over her middle, inclining forwards as though she felt sick.
As soon as he noticed her stifled anguish Randolph returned swiftly to her side. An arm remained raised, levelling the loaded gun in readiness whilst the other enclosed her in a comforting embrace and pointed the spent weapon skywards. A moment later he had deposited both weapons whence they came and swung into the saddle. Reaching down, he circled an arm around her narrow waist and scooped her up easily in front of him as though she were weightless.
Simultaneously Deborah smeared the wet from her eyes and sucked in a startled breath. She could never in her life remember being handled so roughly. Spontaneously she squirmed as though she might slide down the animal’s sleek flank to the turf. A brawny arm girdled her midriff, preventing her moving, then jerked her back against his solid torso.
‘Be still,’ Randolph growled against her ear. ‘Trust me, if they decide to come back mob-handed and overpower me, you won’t like what it is they have in mind for you.’
Deborah could feel her cheeks starting to prickle and burn, and not simply from the warm breath that had just bathed it. She knew as well as did Randolph it wasn’t conversation those villains had had in mind for her this afternoon. The terrifying thought made her shudder and her hands pressed at her stomach as though to suppress the nausea rolling there. Seth and his cronies might not have happened upon them by unlucky chance as they walked towards Woodville Place. It was not unusual for her to stroll home using this route. Had Seth been watching her since Fred drove off in the trap? Had he plotted to ambush her with the intention of physically punishing her for reporting him to the magistrate? If so, he must have put his plan into action before he saw her set off home with an escort. He certainly had not been ready for the challenge Randolph presented.
‘They won’t cow me,’ Deborah announced with a shaky attempt at bravado. ‘I’m not frightened of them.’
‘Well, you should be.’ A large hand caught her sharp little chin and tilted her head so he could scan her profile beneath a shadowing bonnet brim. He tightened his hold as she tried to twitch her face free. ‘Has he tried to intimidate you like this before?’
Deborah shook her head, her golden tresses swaying against his abrasive cheek as he inclined towards her to catch her quiet response. ‘It’s just been nasty looks and comments and so on, although on one occasion he did try to grab me when I passed him in a lane near Hastings. Our maid Lottie was with me that day. But that didn’t stop him.’
‘And?’
‘I knocked away his hand. It was about six months after Edmund was murdered by one of those brutes. Luckhurst was probably just showing off to his friends. He said he’d marry me so I wasn’t left on the shelf. They all started laughing.’
‘You don’t go out alone in future.’
Deborah swivelled about to frown at him. No man had spoken to her with such curt authority since she was a teenager. And of course her father had had a right to dictate to her. She was a viscount’s daughter, an only child who had been reared to be confident and independent. Since her stepfather had died, and her mother had grown increasingly nervous and prone to her migraines, Deborah had taken over the reins at Woodville Place. She made decisions that affected the lives of her and her mother and their few servants. She was her own mistress. Who did Randolph Chadwicke think he was, ordering her about? But for a quirk of fate the hiatus in their acquaintance might not have been breached today … or any other day in the near future. They were now strangers to one another. She raised sparking sapphire eyes and drew a breath in readiness to forcefully remind him of all of it, but a grim smile told her he had no need to hear her lecture—he could guess the gist of it.
The stallion was prodded into action and the sudden motion threw her back against him. She felt his arm tighten, anticipating her rejection, but after a moment resting rigidly against him, she felt her body involuntarily relaxing. Soon she’d curved into him for warmth and lowered her bonnet against the wind whipping at her complexion.
By the time their ride was at an end Deborah was feeling very subdued and not a little guilty.
The horse ambled in a circle, once, twice, in front of rusting iron gates that stood ajar at the head of a leafy avenue that wound to Woodville Place. She realised Randolph was giving her an opportunity to invite him to take her right up to her door before he had to insist he do so.
‘Would you like to have a cup of tea and a bite to eat, sir, before you set on your way again?’ she asked in a small voice.
‘Why … thank you, Miss Cleveland, I should very much like that.’ Randolph’s answer was ironically formal and suited to a light dialogue conducted in a drawing room rather than one addressed to the back of her head as she perched, rather windswept, atop his trusty steed. Overhead, branches of a stout oak tree formed a canopy of drily rustling leaves. The breeze strengthened, causing a few scraps of curled russet foliage to drift down and settle on her skirt. In front of her Randolph’s hand brushed them idly off, then refastened on the reins. She stared, as one fascinated, at long brown fingers intertwined with leather, feeling suddenly shyly conscious of her hips snugly settled between his muscled thighs. She could feel her cheeks becoming warm from the intensity of his scrutiny; she knew his eyes were constantly on her. There was so much more to be said. She owed him an apology and her gratitude, for, without him … She dared not think what might have happened to her.
During the gallop home, safe in Randolph’s arms, she’d come to appreciate just how fortunate she’d been. But for his presence by her side today she might be lying beaten and abused in a ditch by the wayside. She felt deeply ashamed that earlier she’d implied that, if he visited her and her mother at Woodville Place, he’d be unwelcome.
‘You will say nothing to my mama of what went on, will you?’ Over a shoulder she slanted up an appealing look at him. It was the first time she had properly studied him for any length of time. Earlier her sliding glances had quickly darted away. But now she gazed and, whilst waiting for his answer, she realised that he wasn’t so very changed in looks from the man she’d thought she’d marry when a tender eighteen years old. The grooves bracketing his mouth and radiating from his feline eyes weren’t extremely ageing, she decided. His hair was now long and light and his visage far darker and leaner, but he still resembled the handsome gentleman she’d wanted to be her husband.
‘I’ll not tell your mother Seth Luckhurst has designs on your virtue.’ Randolph’s tone sounded quietly ironic.
‘His design is to keep me quiet,’ Deborah stressed on a blush. ‘He has no liking for me.’
‘He doesn’t need to have a liking for you, Deborah,’ Randolph returned as one explaining something that ought to be obvious. ‘Don’t ever go out again without a chaperon.’
Deborah limited her mutinous response to making a tight little pout of her mouth. Of course she knew his advice was sound and sensible. Still it rankled that, if she took it, her freedom and independence—things she cherished—would be lost to her. The lout who’d forced her to change her habits deserved no such victory.
‘Does your mother know that your driver was beaten today?’ Randolph asked abruptly.
A forceful shake of the head preceded her words. ‘I told Fred to avoid her and go straight away to his quarters and rest. If Mama finds out that Seth is threatening me, she will suffer very badly with her nerves.’
‘What did Luckhurst say about you that caused your driver to remonstrate with him?’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘I think you are,’ Randolph contradicted. ‘What did Luckhurst say?’
Deborah twisted her fingers in her lap. ‘Fred truly would not repeat it and, as he was in pain from his injury, I did not insist he tell me. I guessed from his embarrassment that it was something lewd.’
‘I imagine you’re right. So are you going to promise to heed my warning and only go out accompanied in future?’
Deborah looked up and, as their eyes held, she felt a sudden yearning to have him again put his arms about her and comfort her. For all her bold talk of standing up to the bullies, she felt a coil of fear unfurl in her belly. Soon Randolph would again be gone from the area and she would have no champion to scare off the likes of Luck-hurst for her. She sensed rather than saw his amber eyes drop to her softly parted mouth and her breath caught in her throat as she realised he need only incline forwards a little to lock together their lips.
‘Will you soon be gone from here?’ she whispered, her eyes riveted to the shady chin just a few inches away.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What business …?’
Her query was curtailed by the finger he put to her lips to silence her.
‘Promise you won’t go out alone,’ he demanded harshly.
She nodded.
‘Say it.’
‘Promise,’ she muttered with bad grace.
The finger that had hovered a fraction away from her lips returned to gentle a reward on her plump pink skin. Abruptly he took up the reins. A second later he’d urged the horse in to a sedate trot towards the house.
Chapter Four
‘I’ve brought a guest home today, Mama.’
Julia Woodville had been tackling a Gothic tale with some apathy so was happy to hear someone novel might brighten her mundane routine.
Usually she spent the mornings at her sewing and taking a constitutional in the garden. The weather was now too fresh to spend a lengthy time outdoors so today she’d limited her stroll to the paths on the southern side. The spare time till luncheon had been whiled away at her writing desk. She liked to keep in touch with her friends in London. She better liked having their replies to learn what was going on in the beau monde, although their gay news always made her sadly yearn to be a part of it.
The afternoons were customarily employed in reading. She enjoyed scanning the ladies’ journals and appreciated a good book. But the romance Deborah had got her from the circulating library this week was not one to hold her interest. Julia Woodville gladly let it drop to her lap. Myopically she squinted at her daughter and at the fellow stationed behind her.
Deborah approached her mother’s chair positioned close to the log fire. Having removed her straw bonnet, she tossed it to the sofa and combed a few fingers through her tangled flaxen locks to try to bring some order to them. She was conscious she probably looked unattractively dishevelled after the thundering pace Randolph had set on the short ride to Woodville Place. Her other chilly digits were held out to the glow in the grate. It was a gloriously bright yet invigorating day in mid-October. Draughts were stirring the curtains at the casements, making warmth from the flames very welcome within the parlour’s solid stone walls.
‘Who is it, dear?’ Julia hissed in an undertone. ‘Is the vicar again come for tea?’ Julia Woodville’s failing eyesight allowed her to see little more than a gentleman’s silhouette. Yet she could read the print in her books very well. She peered past her daughter again, feeling a mite deflated. The vicar was a nice enough chap, but his sister was better company and this fellow seemed to be alone.
‘No, it is not Gerard. It is an acquaintance from London. He is presently in Sussex on business.’
Julia’s interest re-ignited with the information. It was her constant wish that they might return to the metropolis and live a mean approximation of the wonderful life they’d once known. She’d accepted that they could never recapture the sumptuous existence her first husband had provided for them both, but a small neat villa on the fashionable outskirts would suffice, she’d told Deborah. Unfortunately their funds would not suffice, Deborah constantly told her, even for that modest dream to be realised.
Now that the visitor had come closer Julia could see that it was indeed not the vicar. Gerard Davenport was nowhere near as tall and broad as this gentleman seemed to be. But she couldn’t fathom his identity. His features were still indistinct, although he seemed to have a good head of light-coloured hair.
‘It is Mr Chadwicke. I expect you must remember him. He is a friend of the Earl of Gresham.’ Debbie introduced him rather breathily. ‘I expect you remember that when we lived in London with Papa he would sometimes visit us with Marcus.’ Deborah knew that mention of the Earl of Gresham was likely to disgruntle her mother. Julia Woodville had never quite come to terms with the fact that her daughter had spurned an earl. Even knowing that Marcus had been as keen as Deborah to end their betrothal had remained a minor setback to a grand match in Julia’s mind.
‘Yes, I do remember him,’ Julia whispered after a long pause. She picked up her book rather agitatedly, then put it back in her lap. It was opened once again.
Deborah turned and gave Randolph a rather apologetic smile. She knew her mother tended to suffer with her nerves depending on her mood, but that didn’t excuse this rather rude reception. When they’d lived in town Randolph had been a visitor to their Upper Brook Street mansion. At times he’d arrive alone, but more usually he’d call with his friend, Marcus. She could only recall her mother greeting Randolph charmingly in the past. Surely he could have done nothing in the interim to upset her?
‘How are you, Mrs Woodville?’ Seemingly unperturbed by her inhospitable welcome, Randolph approached Julia’s chair to courteously offer her a hand, ‘I’m well enough, thank you, sir.’ Having given a limp shake to his firm fingers, Julia drew her shawl closer about her. ‘You are back, then, from foreign lands.’
‘I am,’ Randolph concurred. ‘It is good to be home.’
‘And that brother of yours? Is he home too?’ Julia once more looked agitated and the book was picked at with fidgeting fingers.
‘Sebastian is dead, Mrs Woodville.’ The information was given tonelessly.
That news caused Julia to look thoughtful. ‘Must we remember to address you as Lord Buckland? Or did your brother get himself a son?’
‘I have a nephew and a niece,’ Randolph informed her in the same neutral, polite way.
‘So you ended up with nothing at all, then …’ Julia appeared not to require a response to that. She flicked pages in her book as though hunting for an interesting excerpt.
Deborah had listened to this exchange with her jaw dropping in astonishment. Her mother seemed to be acting very oddly this afternoon. But it was not just her mother’s unfathomably churlish attitude that had startled her. In just a few short minutes she’d learned a good deal about Randolph’s relations that had come as a shock.
When they had been close friends years ago, Randolph had been happier to speak about his sister than his brother. At the time Emilia Chadwicke had been a schoolgirl of about ten. Deborah guessed that she now would be about seventeen and preparing for her début. His father had long been deceased but, as far as she was aware, his mother was still alive and living in Suffolk with her daughter.
As for Randolph’s older brother, she’d heard rumours that Sebastian Chadwicke constantly caused trouble for his family. Randolph had confirmed his brother existed and was a nuisance, but Deborah had discovered very little else about him—Randolph had always seemed reluctant to discuss him. Deborah’s friend, Jemma, was married to Randolph’s friend, Marcus, so little snippets had come her way over the years to add to her suspicion that the fellow must be a very bad sort. In contrast to his errant sibling, Randolph had always been sought after in society and had been known as a personable gentleman. Debbie could recall feeling glad that Randolph had not been unfairly treated because of his brother’s notoriety. Yet now it seemed her mother was doing just that.
The news that Sebastian Chadwicke had died had not come her way, neither had she been aware that the fellow had at some time married and produced children. But then, after seven years apart, she no longer had any right or reason to make enquiries through their mutual friends about Randolph’s life or his kin. Neither had it been very right of her mother to pry. But having done so, at least she should have offered a brief condolence on learning of Randolph’s loss, no matter that the deceased was rumoured to have been a rogue. It was very out of character for her mother to overlook etiquette.
‘I bumped into Lottie in the vestibule and asked her to bring some tea, Mama,’ Deborah brightly announced to break the quiet. ‘And Mr Chadwicke has kindly agreed to stay and dine with us later.’
‘Yes, indeed he must,’ Julia agreed, as though feeling a little guilty over her previous lack of manners. In a quite sprightly manner she got up from her chair and smoothed her pearl-grey gown. ‘It is nice to see people from the old days. Sometimes I think I should love to have a chat with a friend about Almack’s or the latest rage drawing audiences at Drury Lane. Such wonderful parties we would attend! Vauxhall! Now there was a treat! Although it could be a little … scandalous.’ She gave a meaningful nod, her features momentarily animated by mischief. ‘Did you enjoy visiting the pleasure gardens, Mr Chadwicke?’
‘I did, Mrs Woodville. I remember having a very enjoyable evening there with you all.’
‘Indeed, we did have a good time!’ Julia corroborated. ‘Of course, your chum, Marcus, didn’t accompany us when he should have done. He was newly engaged to Deborah at the time,’ she remarked with a faraway smile at the fire. ‘But you were kind enough to take his place and escort us on that occasion.’
‘It was my pleasure to do so, ma’am,’ Randolph said, his eyes gliding to Deborah and lingering there.
‘It was bad of Marcus to stay away—’
‘You cannot blame him for that, Mama,’ Deborah interrupted on a constrained laugh. ‘At the time he was falling in love all over again with his future wife,’ she softly reminisced, very aware of a pair of predatory eyes on her.
‘At the time you were his future wife,’ Julia reminded her daughter pithily.
‘But I was glad that he didn’t want me!’ Deborah’s tone was sharpened by impatience, as usual, on hearing her mother snapping at her for having turned down the chance to be the Countess of Gresham. Her eyes darted to Randolph and for a moment were engulfed by a warm, honeyed look.
Lottie appeared, bearing the tea things. The young maid slid the tray on to polished mahogany and looked expectantly at Deborah. A small gesture from Deborah indicated that the girl was not needed to carry out the ritual of pouring.
‘Have you lately been in London, Mr Chadwicke?’ Julia asked, her tone bright with anticipation. She enjoyed hearing the newest on dits.
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Woodville,’ he answered.
‘Oh …’ Julia murmured with patent disappointment. ‘Well, never mind. After you have had tea you must take Mr Chadwicke to see the gardens, Deborah,’ she said. ‘We have a sunken garden, you know, sir. My late husband, Mr George Woodville, was a keen gardener. He knew the names of every shrub and there are acres of them to choose from. There is a pond, too, with a fountain and fish the size of pheasants.’
‘Are you not having tea, Mama?’ Deborah watched as her mother continued past her to the door.
‘I shan’t; I had some tea and seed cake not long before you arrived home and I don’t want to spoil my appetite. We must give our guest a good dinner this evening. I shall go and see what our Mrs Field has got in the still room.’ She paused. ‘I believe Basham was out shooting earlier this week. There should be plenty of game if the beef is all gone.’
Had Deborah cared to take a look into the corridor whence her mother had just disappeared, she would have seen the woman heading for the stairs rather than the kitchens. But she was too conscious of Randolph’s overpowering presence, and the apology owed to him for her mother’s bizarre behaviour, to follow her parent and find out what on earth was troubling her this afternoon.
‘I … I’m sorry my mother seemed a little unwelcoming at first,’ Deborah blurted as soon as the door had closed on Julia Woodville’s departing figure. ‘I assure you she doesn’t mean to give offence.’
A crooked smile acknowledged Deborah’s plea on behalf of her mother. Randolph had his own suspicions why the woman might not want him around without his friend, the Earl of Gresham, rendering him acceptable.
