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‘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.
