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Susanna curled her lip. ‘Lud, you always were so pious, Luce! No one would guess! The only person you could possibly meet is old Josselyn, the agent, and even he has probably tired of trying to disprove my claim and will leave you alone! I thought you might like a chance to look at Cookes,’ she added slyly. ‘It is full of dusty old tomes that would no doubt be fascinating to you. For myself, I cannot bear bookish things, but I know that you are the most complete bluestocking.’
There was another silence whilst Lucille struggled against an inner compulsion. ‘It wouldn’t work,’ she said, more forcefully this time. ‘Why, we do not even look alike!’
Superficially, this was true. Lucille felt her twin’s gaze skim her with faintly malicious consideration. She knew what she must look like to Susanna’s sophisticated eyes: a country dowd in an old dress, angular where Susanna was generously curved, her silver fair hair several shades paler and drawn back in a disfiguring bun. They had the same sapphire blue eyes, but whilst Susanna made flirtatious use of hers, Lucille’s were customarily hidden behind her reading glasses. Lucille’s complexion was porcelain pale, without any of the cosmetic aids which Susanna so artfully employed—powder and rouge for the cheeks, carmine for the lips, kohl for the eyes…The effect was spectacular and could only serve to underline the differences between them.
It was three years since Lucille had seen her sister, and she felt that Susanna had not changed in either appearance or attitude. It was typical of Susanna to arrive without warning, demanding that her sister embark on some harebrained escapade just to oblige her. Lucille, forever cast in the role of the sensible twin, had tried to restrain her sister’s wilder schemes in their youth, but to little avail. Susanna was headstrong and obstinate, and had not improved with age. Lucille could still remember the horror she had felt when Susanna had announced defiantly that, their adoptive father’s death having left them destitute, she would try her luck among the demi-monde in London. She had been quite determined and neither her sister’s reasoned arguments nor the shocked disgust of their remaining family had swayed her. That had been nine years ago, and who was to say that she had been wrong? Lucille thought, with faint irony. Susanna had never been troubled by the moral dimension of her choice and materialistically she had done very well for herself.
Susanna got to her feet with the fluid grace that was one of her trademarks, and crossed to her sister’s side, pulling her to her feet. They regarded their reflections in the parlour mirror, one a pale shadow of the rich colour of the other.
‘You could be made to look like me,’ Susanna said, slowly. ‘’Tis only a matter of clothes and cosmetics, and no one at Dillingham has seen me properly—why, I’ve told you, no one but Seagrave’s agents have called in a week! So you see…’ she gave Lucille a calculating sideways look ‘…you need consult nothing but your own inclination! It would not be for long, and I daresay you could do with a holiday from this prison!’
Lucille jumped, shaken, for her sister had hit upon the one truth which Lucille did not wish to acknowledge. Over the past few months, Lucille had been aware of an increasing need to escape the claustrophobic confines and predictable routines of the school. She needed time to read, study, walk and be on her own, but she had had nowhere to go. In some ways the genteel world of the school, the endless classes of little girls, the restricted horizons of all the teachers, was indeed the prison Susanna described.
Susanna was virtually all the family Lucille possessed and Susanna had made it clear long ago that her antecedents were not an asset in her chosen course in life, and she would be obliged to her twin if she did not broadcast their relationship. This suited Lucille, who could see that it would not be to her advantage to claim sistership with one of the most infamous Cyprians in London. The parents of her pupils would be outraged—or believe that she was cast in the same mould. It was a strange twist of fate that had cast two sisters adrift in the world for one to turn into a bluestocking and the other a courtesan.
Lucille sighed. She had no illusions that Susanna wanted to use her, but more than half of her was crying out to her to seize the chance Susanna was offering. The prospect of spending some time in the house where their father had lived and worked held a curious appeal for her. But an impersonation was both foolhardy and immoral, the voice of her conscience told her severely. But it would not be for long, temptation countered defensively, and she would not really be doing anything wrong…
‘How long do you think you would be away for?’ she asked cautiously, and was rewarded by a vivid smile from Susanna, who sensed that her battle was already won.
‘No more than a week or two,’ she said carelessly, resuming her languid pose on the sofa. ‘And you would need to do no more than occupy the house. I do not imagine that anyone will call—doubtless it will all be a dead bore, but then you must be accustomed to such tedium far more than I!’ Her disparaging look encompassed the faded respectability of the school parlour. ‘Lud, how I detest this shabby-genteel place!’ With a chameleon change of mood, she smiled on her sister once more. ‘Oh, say you will do it, Lucille! You would so enjoy a change of scene!’
Lucille bit her lip at her sister’s shamelessness. Unfortunately Susanna was right. Whilst the idea of the impersonation appalled her, the lure of Cookes definitely held a strange charm.
‘All right, Susanna,’ she said wryly. ‘No doubt I shall live to regret it, but I will help you.’
Susanna glanced at the ugly clock on the parlour mantelpiece. Now that she had got what she wanted she did not wish to linger. ‘Lord, I must be going or that old gorgon will be turning me out of doors!’ She turned eagerly to her sister and clasped her hands. ‘Oh, thank you, Luce! I’ll send for you soon!’
She let her sister go and scooped up her fur stole and jewelled reticule. ‘You must not worry that you will have to deal with anyone I know,’ she added carelessly, with one hand on the doorknob. ‘No one of my acquaintance would be seen dead in the country!’
‘And the Earl of Seagrave?’ Lucille asked suddenly. ‘He is the owner of Cookes, is he not? There is no likelihood of him coming down to Suffolk?’
Susanna stared. ‘Seagrave? Upon my word, what an extraordinary idea! He has no interest in the case, I assure you! Why, Seagrave employs an army of agents and lawyers in order to avoid having to involve himself in his estates!’
Lucille turned away so that her sister could not see her face, and made a business of collecting up the cups and saucers. ‘Do you know him, Susanna? What manner of man is he?’
Had Susanna had more interest in the motivation and feelings of others, this enquiry might have struck her as odd coming from her bookish sister. However, she seldom thought beyond her own wishes and needs. She wrinkled up her nose, frowning with the unaccustomed mental effort of trying to sum up someone’s character.
‘He is a charming man,’ she said, at length, ‘handsome, rich, generous…Lud, I don’t know! He does not belong to my set—he is too high in the instep for me! But you need have no fears, Lucille—as I said, Seagrave don’t care a fig about Cookes!’
Lucille stood by the window, watching as her sister ascended elegantly into the waiting carriage. Her thoughts were elsewhere. In her mind’s eye she could see another June morning, a year previously, when the bright, fresh day had lured her early from her bed. Lucille’s bedroom was at the back of the school, overlooking a quiet lane and the courtyard of the local coaching inn, The Bell. Lucille had thrown her casement window wide, relishing the light breeze on her face, the quiet before the routine of the school day began. She had been leaning on the sill when there was a commotion in the inn yard and a spanking new curricle had driven in, its driver calling for fresh horses.
Lucille had stared transfixed as he had jumped lightly down and engaged the landlord in conversation whilst the grooms ran to change his team. He was tall, with the broad-shouldered and muscular physique of a sportsman; a figure which showed to advantage in the tight buckskins visible beneath his driving coat as he swung round to view the progress of the grooms. The early morning sun burnished his thick dark hair to a rich chestnut and illuminated the hard planes of his face. Lucille had caught her breath and suddenly, as though disturbed by her scrutiny, the man had looked up directly at her. It had been an extraordinary moment. Lucille had stood frozen, the breeze flattening the transparent linen of her nightdress against her body and stirring the tendrils of silver blond hair that were for once loose about her face. It was as though they were only feet apart as the man very deliberately held her gaze for what seemed like forever. Then he grinned, his teeth showing very white in his tanned face, and raised a casual hand in greeting before turning away, and Lucille slammed the casement shut, her face aflame with embarrassment. And it was only later, whilst out in the town, that she had heard that their illustrious visitor had been none other than the Earl of Seagrave…
Lucille found that she was staring blankly out into the empty street. A wave of heat washed over her at the memory of the encounter. Never had the even tempo of her life at the school been so disrupted! Accustomed to seeking a rational explanation to everything that happened to her, Lucille was completely at a loss to explain the startling compulsion that had drawn her eyes to Seagrave in the first place and then held her captive staring in such a shameless manner! And then for him to notice her standing there immodestly in her shift! Well, Lucille thought, tearing her mind away, there was no danger of the experience recurring. Susanna had reassured her of that. Which, a small corner of her mind persisted in telling her quite firmly, was a great pity but perhaps for the best.
The atmosphere in the crowded gaming room was tense. There was no doubt that the Earl of Seagrave had had the run of the cards; several less fortunate players had been forced to retire, their pockets to let, grumbling wryly about his diabolical luck. His dark gaze was intent, a slight frown between his brows as he concentrated on the cards. It was a face of character, perhaps a little too harsh to be classically handsome, the dark, gold-flecked eyes deep and unreadable.
Another hand ended in his favour—and from the doorway, with disastrous clarity, came the stage whisper of some luckless sprig of nobility:
‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, they say…It’s all over the Town that Miss Elliott is about to throw him over…this business of the Cyprian…too blatant, only a week after their betrothal…on my honour, it’s true…’
Too late, someone shushed him and he fell suddenly silent. Seagrave turned his head, and the crowd fell back to expose the speaker as one Mr Caversham, very young and cruelly out of his depth.
‘Pray continue, Caversham.’ All Seagrave’s acquaintances recognised the note of steel beneath that silky drawl. His dark eyes were coldly dispassionate as they pinned his victim to the spot. ‘Your audience is rapt. Miss Elliott is about to terminate our engagement, you say. Further, I infer that the reason is some…alliance of mine with a certain barque of frailty? Did your informant also vouchsafe the name of this ladybird? I feel sure they must have done, Caversham.’
There was a profound silence as Mr Caversham’s mouth opened and closed without a sound. All colour had fled from his face, leaving him looking pitifully young and vulnerable. The Honourable Peter Seagrave, exchanging a watchful look with Lord Robert Verney across the card table, shook his head slightly in answer to Verney’s quizzically raised eyebrows. They had seen Seagrave in this mood before and understood something of the devils that drove him. Peter put a tentative hand on his brother’s arm and felt the tension in him as taut as a coiled spring.
‘Nick, let be! The fellow’s a foolish puppy who knows no better—’
Seagrave did not appear to hear him. He shook the restraining hand off his arm and got slowly to his feet. There was a collective intake of breath. Caversham was tall, but Seagrave towered over the younger man. Strong fingers reached for the neckcloth at Caversham’s throat, drawing him inexorably closer in the Earl’s merciless grasp.
‘Do please reconsider your silence, Caversham,’ Seagrave said, still in the same, smoothly dangerous tones. ‘You possess a certain piece of information which I am anxious for you to disclose.’ He gave his victim a slight shake.
Caversham was a fool but he was no coward. His mouth dry, his neckcloth intolerably tight, he managed to gasp, ‘It is Susanna Kellaway, my lord! I heard…I heard that she had taken a house on your Suffolk estate…The story is all over Town.’
Seagrave gave him an unpleasant smile. ‘True in all particulars! I congratulate you, Caversham!’ The young man was released so suddenly that he almost fell over. Loosening his collar with fingers that shook, Caversham watched as Seagrave unhurriedly turned back to the card table, collected the pile of guineas, rouleaus and IOUs and sketched a mocking bow to his companions.
‘My apologies, gentlemen. I find some of the company here little to my taste. Peter, do you come with me, or would you prefer to stay?’
There was a bright light of amusement in Peter Seagrave’s brown eyes. ‘Oh, I’m with you, Nick, all the way!’
The whispers gathered pace as they went down the stairs. ‘Can it be true? He did not deny it…So la belle Susanna has thrown the Duke over for a mere Earl?’
Seagrave gave no sign that he heard a word as they left the club. His face might have been carved from stone. The brothers went out into the cold morning air, where a hint of dawn already touched the eastern sky. Once out in the street, Seagrave set off for St James’s at a brisk pace which demonstrated that he was stone-cold sober. His brother almost had to run to keep up. Peter, who had been invalided out of the army after Waterloo the previous year, had still not quite recovered from the bullets he had received in the chest and thigh and after a few minutes of this route march he was forced to protest.
‘For God’s sake, Nick, slow down! Do you want to finish what the French started?’
That won him a glance with a flicker of amusement and although Seagrave did not reply, he slowed his pace to a more moderate rate that enabled his brother to keep up without too much difficulty. Not for the first time, Peter wished that his brother was not so difficult to read, his moods so impenetrable. It had not always been so. Now, for instance, he sensed that Seagrave was blindingly angry, but knew he would say nothing without prompting. Peter sighed and decided to risk it.
‘Nick, what’s all this about? When that idiot Caversham started talking I thought it was all a hum, but you knew all about it already, didn’t you? You wanted him to tell everyone about Miss Kellaway!’
There was a silence, then Seagrave sighed. ‘Your percipience does you credit, little brother.’ There was a mocking edge to his words. He drove his hands deep into his coat pockets. ‘Yes, I knew. Josselyn wrote me some garbled letter earlier this week to tell me that Miss Kellaway—’ he sounded as though there was a bad taste in his mouth ‘—had claimed a house in Dillingham. I wanted to see how much of the story had become common knowledge.’
Peter was frowning. ‘But if you already knew about the Cyprian, why did you not take action?’
He waited, and heard his brother sigh again. ‘I did not think that it mattered,’ Seagrave said, with the weary boredom that was habitual.
‘Did not think—?’ Peter broke off. He was one of the very few who knew the depth of his brother’s disaffection since his return from the wars, his apparent lack of purpose in civilian life. They had shared similar experiences whilst on campaign and Peter could see why Seagrave had been so deeply affected and had found it difficult to settle in a society that seemed to offer only instant, superficial gratification. Peter had the happy temperament to be able to recover from his harrowing experiences, albeit slowly, but Seagrave had always been much deeper, had dwelt more on all that he had experienced. It was as though some part of him had become shut away, unreachable and uninterested.
Nothing could hold his attention for long. He had the entrée into any ton function that he chose to honour with his presence. He had women fawning on him and a fortune to spend at the card tables. He could not even be accused of being a bad landlord and neglecting his estates, for he made scrupulously careful arrangements to ensure that all his tenants’ needs were met. He just chose never to attend to such matters himself. No wonder then that a letter from Josselyn had met with such indifference.
Seagrave sighed again. ‘I see now that I was naive in thinking that it did not affect me.’ His tone was coolly reflective. ‘It needed only for some busybody to hear the tale—as they have done—for it to be all over Town. And now Miss Elliott is to give me my congé! I wish I cared more!’
Peter frowned. He knew that Seagrave had never pretended to have any more regard for Louise Elliott than the mutual respect one would expect to have for one’s future wife, and he also knew that this had nothing to do with the exquisite actress which his brother currently had in keeping in a discreet villa in Chelsea. But even if his feelings were not engaged, the match with Louise was worth preserving if possible.
‘Go and see the Elliotts tomorrow,’ he urged. ‘I am sure all can be put to rights. Louise is a sensible girl and will understand the truth of the matter.’
Seagrave’s mouth twisted with wry amusement. ‘Just so, Peter. I am persuaded you are correct. My future wife is indeed the sort of cold-blooded young woman who could easily ignore the fact that I had a Cyprian in keeping. What she is less likely to forgive, however, is the public humiliation that will reflect on her now that this story is known. And in order to avoid future misunderstandings, I reluctantly feel it is my duty to travel to Dillingham and ascertain exactly what the situation is.’ His voice hardened. ‘I am sure that, with the right inducement, Miss Kellaway can be impelled to see sense.’
Peter had never met Susanna Kellaway but suddenly, hearing the underlying anger in his brother’s voice, he found himself feeling very sorry for her indeed. A thought occurred to him.
‘I say, Nick, do you know Miss Kellaway at all?’
‘Not in the sense you mean,’ Seagrave said dryly. ‘I’ve met her, of course.’ His tone was unpleasant. ‘A cheap little piece with a commercial mind—and the commodity she sells is herself.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you remember Miranda Lethbridge?’
‘Cousin Sally Lethbridge’s girl?’ Peter frowned. ‘Yes, of course—she was about fifteen when I went away in ’12. Why do you ask?’
‘Miranda made her come out a couple of years ago.’ Seagrave sounded amused. ‘You may remember her as a child in pinafores, Peter, but she had improved dramatically and there were plenty who fell at her feet.’ The amusement fled from his tone. ‘Amongst them was Justin Tatton, whom you may remember served with me in Spain. He was bowled over by Miranda and she was equally smitten. We all thought they’d make a match of it.’ Seagrave’s voice was suddenly savage. ‘Miss Kellaway had other ideas, however. This was before Penscombe swam into view, and though Justin has no title, he was rich…Anyway, she made a dead set at him, and in a weak moment he succumbed.’ Seagrave shrugged, a little uncomfortably. ‘God knows, I am in no position to judge another man, but the unutterable folly…Justin said later that it had been a moment of madness, that after a single night he felt nothing but disgust and repulsion. But the damage was done. He begged Susanna Kellaway to tell no one, but she was furious that she could not hold him, and she made very sure that Miranda heard—and in the worst terms possible. Naturally the poor girl was devastated. She refused to even speak to Justin, and last year she made that hasty marriage to Wareham…’ Seagrave shook his head.
‘I am not a sentimentalist,’ he added with a touch of humour, ‘but I deplore the way Miss Kellaway takes whatever she wants with no concern for the destruction she causes! Even in my worst excesses I was never so careless of the feelings of others, and God knows, I have done some damnably stupid things in my time!’
Peter was silent. When Seagrave had first returned home from the Peninsula he had been possessed by a spirit of wildness which Peter suspected was the result of escaping the war with his life intact. He knew that as one of Wellington’s most promising officers, his brother had been sent on some secret and highly dangerous missions and had brushed with death on more than one occasion. He had fought with the Portuguese militia, the ordenanca, as well as covering himself with glory in a more orthodox manner on the battlefield of Talavera. Seagrave’s reaction to civilian life had been a very public and unrestrained year of hell-raising that blazed a trail through the ton until it had burned itself out and he had changed into the deeply world-weary individual he was now.
Seagrave looked up to where the crescent moon was perched above the rooftops, fading from the summer sky as dawn approached. He sighed. ‘No, with Miss Kellaway it is one excess after another! There will always be some poor fool who is besotted and will fall victim to an experienced woman preying on impressionable young men for their fortunes!’
Peter grimaced. ‘I wonder what she wants with you, Nick,’ he mused. ‘You could scarcely be described as an inexperienced youth!’
His brother gave him a cynical glance. ‘Come on, Peter, you’re not an innocent either! She wants money—in one form or another! It’s what she always wants! And I’m damned if she’ll get any out of me!’
The reception which Seagrave met with the following morning at Lord Elliott’s house in Grosvenor Street was not auspicious. The butler had at first tried to turn him away with the news that Miss Elliott was not at home, but Seagrave greeted this information with well-bred disbelief. The butler, flustered, could not stand his ground and could only protest as the Earl swept past him into the drawing-room, where he found both Lady Elliott and her daughter. Seagrave’s intended, a plumply pretty blonde with pale, slightly protruberant blue eyes, looked up from her embroidery frame at his entrance and uttered a small shriek.
‘You!’ she gasped, in tones of outrage. ‘Seagrave! How could you! Oh, I wish I were dead!’ She burst into noisy tears.
Lady Elliott was made of sterner stuff. She swelled with indignation. ‘I am astounded that you see fit to show your face here, my lord! To come from the arms of that creature to my own, sweet, innocent Louise! It defies belief! The notice terminating the engagement has already been sent to the Gazette!’
Louise sobbed all the louder. Seagrave, who had as yet uttered not one word, found that there was no necessity for him to do so. His sense of humour, long buried, began to reassert itself. Giving the outraged matron and her snivelling daughter the full benefit of a wicked smile, he executed an immaculate bow, turned on his heel and left the room.
It was late when the stage pulled into the yard of the Lamb and Flag in Felixstowe and decanted its occupants onto the cobbles. Lucille Kellaway, stiff and sore from the discomforts of her journey, picked up her shabby portmanteau and looked about her. There was no sign of her sister Susanna, despite the agreement that the two had to meet there.
Lucille had found the journey from Oakham fascinating. She had travelled so little that each new view was a delight to her and each new acquaintance was a pleasure to meet. She now knew all about Miss Grafton, a governess about to take up a new position with a family in Ipswich, and Mr Burrows, a lawyer visiting a client in Orford. She had looked out of the coach window and admired the well-kept farmland that stretched as far and as flat as the eye could see, and had glimpsed the sea as they drew into the town.
She struggled towards the inn door, her heavy case weighing her down. The smell of roast meat wafted enticingly from the kitchen and light spilled from the taproom onto the cobbles, accompanied by the sound of male voices and laughter. Lucille shrank. Although not of a timid disposition, she was too shy to march into the public bar and demand attention. The landlady found her cowering in the passageway.
‘I am looking for Miss Kellaway,’ Lucille said, a little shyly, and immediately saw an expression of mingled prurience, curiosity and disgust flit across the good lady’s features.
‘Miss Kellaway and the gentleman are in the private parlour,’ the landlady said, tight-lipped, nodding in the direction of a closed door at the end of the passage. She marched off to the kitchen, leaving Lucille alone.
Lucille knocked a little hesitantly on the door of the parlour. She could hear the intimate murmur of voices, but no one answered her. She pushed the door open and recoiled, almost turning on her heel to run away. Susanna was reclining on the parlour sofa in much the same pose as she had held at the school, but with shocking differences. Her emerald green silk dress was cut very low and it had fallen off one shoulder completely, exposing one of Susanna’s plump breasts. A portly, florid man with thinning sandy hair was leaning over her, fondling her with impatient hands whilst his mouth trailed wet kisses over her shoulder. He looked up, met Lucille’s horrified gaze and straightened up, an unpleasantly challenging look in his eyes.
‘Egad, what’s this! My good woman—’
Susanna pushed him away much as one might repel a fractious child. She hoisted her dress back up without the least embarrassment.
‘This is my sister, Eddie.’ She turned to Lucille, a frown marring her brow. ‘You’re monstrously late, Lucille! I had quite given up hope of you! We sail with the tide tomorrow morning, so there isn’t much time.’ She did not ask whether Lucille had had a good journey, or if she was hungry, nor did she invite her to sit down.
‘Now, my carriage will take you to Dillingham in the morning. I have left Felicity there—my housekeeper, Felicity Appleton,’ she added irritably, seeing Lucille’s look of incomprehension. ‘She will help you choose your clothes appropriately. I have left a large wardrobe at Dillingham, but Eddie will buy me more in Paris, won’t you, darling?’ She touched his hand and fluttered her lashes at him.
The gentleman, whom Lucille assumed to be Sir Edwin Bolt, had been scrutinising her through his quizzing glass these few minutes past with what Lucille considered a most ill-bred regard. Now he guffawed.
‘Take more than a parcel of clothes, Susie m’dear! Why, the girl’s as strait-laced as a nun, and as cold, I’ll wager!’
Lucille flushed and Susanna gave a flounce. ‘Well, she need not meet anyone in Dillingham! I am not asking her to be me!’ She saw his sulky, mulish expression and her tone softened. ‘But I do see what you mean, my love!’ She giggled girlishly. ‘I fear that my prim little twin will never thrill to a man’s touch! The delights of love are not for her!’
Lucille was beginning to feel rather sick. An insight into Susanna’s relationship with her lover was something that repelled rather than interested her. Sir Edwin, mollified, had started to paw Susanna’s shoulder again as though he could not keep away from her. His hot, blue gaze roved lustfully over her opulent curves. The dress slipped a little.
‘Send the girl away so we may pick up where we left off,’ he muttered, pressing avid, open-mouthed kisses on Susanna’s white skin. Lucille looked away, her face flaming.
‘If that is all—’ she said, with constraint.
Susanna had tilted her head back to facilitate the progress of Sir Edwin’s lips down her neck. He was already pulling at her dress again. She waved her sister away. ‘Very well, Luce—’ she sounded like someone dismissing her servant ‘—you may go now. Unless you wish to join us, that is!’
Sir Edwin looked up, a lascivious look suddenly in his eye. ‘Now there’s an idea! Introduce the priggish virgin to fleshly delights, eh? What do you say, Miss Kellaway? Why, we could show you a thing or two…’
Their mocking laughter followed Lucille from the room. She closed the door with exaggerated care and leant against the wall of the passage for a moment to recover herself. Her whole body was one burning blush, her mind revolted, a sick taste in her mouth. That Susanna should have sold herself for that, and not even appear to care…The stone wall was cool beneath her fingers and Lucille was glad of its chill and the darkness that surrounded her. As she straightened up, however, she realised to her horror that she was not alone. At the end of the passageway, hidden from view, two men were talking.
‘…travel on to Dillingham tomorrow. Do you go to the Yoxleys’ for a while?’
It was a mellow voice, the cadences smooth and pleasing to the ear. Lucille paused, her attention arrested despite herself. The other man’s voice was less distinguishable.
‘…a sen’ night, perhaps…join you at the Court…A Seagrave…back at Dillingham, Nick…’
From being overheated, Lucille suddenly found herself icily chill. Surely she could not have misheard? Had the man not mentioned the names of Seagrave and Dillingham? She dropped her portmanteau from nerveless fingers.
The voices cut off abruptly at the crash. Lucille bent clumsily to pick her case up again, only to find that when she stood up her way was blocked by the tall figure of a man. The light was behind him and she could not see his face, but in the claustrophobically small passage, his physical presence was overwhelming.
‘Can I be of assistance, ma’am? Are you unwell?’ His voice was very pleasing to the ear, smooth and mellifluous, Lucille thought again, confused. His hand had taken her elbow in a steadying grip which nevertheless felt as though it burned through the fabric of her dress. She had not heard him speak on that infamous occasion when they had seen each other in Oakham, but she knew instinctively who he was.
‘No…’ Lucille’s voice came out as a thread of a whisper. She looked up into the dark face, into fierce, gold-flecked eyes, and felt quite dizzy. ‘I thank you, sir, I am quite well…Excuse me.’
She had pushed past his astonished figure and was already halfway up the stairs before she realised that she had no notion of where she was going. She paused in dread, hoping that the gentleman would not follow her; a moment later, to her inexpressible relief, she heard a door close softly below. She sat down heavily on her portmanteau and almost cried. Had she been able to return to Oakham at that very moment she would not have hesitated. But Miss Pym had closed the school for the summer, and had gone to visit her good friend Fanny Burney for a few weeks. Lucille realised that she had nowhere to go except Cookes. She leant her head against the wall and closed her eyes.
‘Whatever is it, miss? You look proper moped and no mistake!’ The landlady’s judgmental tone had softened as she considered the shabby, huddled figure. This one was no Cyprian like that painted hussy downstairs! ‘Come along, miss,’ she added encouragingly. ‘I’ll show you to your room. Everything will look better in the morning!’
Chapter Two
‘Miss Kellaway.’ The voice was soft and smooth as warm honey. It spoke in Lucille’s ear.
Lucille had been at Cookes for ten days and thought that she had stumbled into paradise. The house, converted from a charming jumble of medieval cottages, was crammed full of books, treatises and journals enough to keep her occupied for weeks. Her previous reading had been restricted to the books available from Miss Pym’s limited collection and from the Oakham subscription library. At Cookes she could read until the print blurred and her head ached. And then there was the garden—a wilderness where one could wander for hours amidst the rioting roses, or sit in the cool shade of the orchard. It had all been like a blissful dream, a thousand miles away from the petty cares of the school regime and uninterrupted by callers from the outside world.
Lucille’s conscience, originally troubled by the impersonation of Susanna, had grown quiescent as nobody disturbed her peace. The memory of that dreadful night in the inn at Felixstowe had faded away. She now thought it quite possible that she had misheard the snatches of conversation that had led her to believe that the Earl of Seagrave would be in Dillingham, and mistakenly believed him to be the gentleman who had offered her his help. Certainly she had seen neither hide nor hair of him since her arrival.
The other legacy of that evening had been the slow realisation of what an impersonation of Susanna might mean—the memory of the landlady’s prurient scorn and Sir Edwin’s lustful advances still made her shiver. That someone might think she was Susanna, and as such was fair game for such treatment, made her feel ill. In her innocence she had not even considered it before—ignorance, not innocence, she now chided herself bitterly. But while nobody called and she had no wish to go out, it was a matter that could be put to one side, if not ignored.
The warm, southern aspect of Cookes’s drawing-room, with its delightful views across the lawn to the fishpond, had lulled Lucille into a sleepy state of relaxation that afternoon. Her copy of Walter Scott’s Waverley had slid from her hand as her head rested against the panelling and her eyes closed irresistibly in the sunshine. She had removed her reading glasses, which rested on the window-seat beside her, and had drifted into a light doze.
The voice spoke again, this time with an inflection of impatience.
‘Miss Kellaway?’
