скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Stour Crystal?’ Lord Vernon surveyed the frontage of Stourwell Court before looking back along the carriageway, to the wrought-iron entrance gates in the distance. Thea bridled as she fancied she detected a slight curl of his upper lip as he stripped off his driving gloves. ‘Your family manufacture lead-crystal glassware?’
‘We do.’
And I am proud of it.
Her father had built the business from scratch, manufacturing some of the finest quality cut lead crystal in the land. His Lordship might have been born into the aristocracy but that did not give him the right to look down upon her. But with that defiant pride came the realisation that she had not offered her visitor the customary hospitality due a visitor. She had allowed her disappointment he was not Daniel to override her manners and that would surely only add to his lordship’s low impression of her and her family. She bit back any further comment and moved away from Lord Vernon to smooth her hand over the haunch of the nearest horse. She smiled at the groom.
‘He is hot,’ she said, ‘and you must be tired and in need of refreshment.’ After the heavy rains of a week ago, the weather had turned unseasonably warm. ‘Take the horses around the back—you will see the way to the stable yard and you may care for them there. Come to the kitchen afterwards. Cook will give you some food and something to drink.’
The groom waited until his master gave him permission—granted by a flick of the head—to proceed before leading the horses away. Lord Vernon, a look of irritation on his face, swished his driving gloves against his palm. No doubt he was unhappy at his groom and horses’ needs being considered before his own: yet more evidence of his sense of entitlement. Mentally, Thea shrugged but she took care to conceal her scorn. She had neither the strength nor the heart to engage in a verbal sparring session.
‘You, too, must be weary, my lord. Shall we continue this discussion indoors?’
As the scrunch of hooves faded, his lordship inscribed an arc through the air with his arm and then bowed.
‘After you.’
Thea marched to the front porch, feeling much like a cat whose fur had been rubbed the wrong way, but she vowed to remain polite; she had no wish to reinforce his prejudices. The man had been neither rude nor derogatory, but—she pictured again that subtle curl of his lip—she knew how his sort viewed ordinary business folk who must work for their living.
She led him across the hall and into the study.
‘Would you prefer ale or wine, sir?’
‘Tea,’ he said.
She was certain he was being deliberately awkward. Their aversion was mutual then. So be it. She had more pressing concerns than how some spoilt aristocrat viewed her and a handsome face and a manly physique meant nothing to a woman who had forsworn all men. She jerked at the bell and a footman soon attended.
‘Bring tea for the gentleman, please, George, and a glass of Madeira for me. And some of Cook’s fruit cake.’
As George turned to leave, Thea said, ‘Is Mama with Papa?’
‘She is, miss. Shall I inform her we have a visitor?’
Thea glanced at Lord Vernon, who had removed his hat to reveal a full head of auburn hair that curled around his ears. A little flutter deep in her stomach taunted her: perhaps she wasn’t as immune to an attractive man as she thought. She wrenched her attention away from her treacherous body.
‘No. That will not be necessary, George.’
‘Very well, miss.’
Thea then sat in a chair by the window and gestured to a nearby chair.
‘Please, take a seat, sir.’
She waited until he was settled, her thoughts whirling. She knew from past experience, through her dealings with other men, that he would be reluctant to discuss business with her simply because of her sex. If she were to learn the truth of his visit, she must try to annoy him into indiscretion and she knew the perfect way to aggravate him: men often found it hard to deal with females who were direct.
‘Is it money?’
His brows lowered into a thunderous frown. ‘Is what money?’ His question almost a growl.
‘Does Daniel owe you money? Are you here to collect on a debt?’
‘I do not—’ He snapped his jaw shut, abruptly cutting off his heated response. His eyes—an arresting shade of green that sparkled in the light of a stray sunbeam filtering through the window pane—narrowed. When he spoke again, his voice was level. ‘Why should you jump to such a conclusion? Is your Daniel a gambler?’
Thea frowned in her turn. This man was clearly not to be easily manipulated.
‘He is not.’
‘Then I ask again, why do you jump to the conclusion I am here to collect on a debt?’
Thea shrugged, stood up and paced to the fireplace. She swung around, to see that her visitor had risen to his feet. She huffed a silent laugh. A lord and a gentleman, trained from birth in correct etiquette. When a lady stands—even a lowly born lady such as she—a gentleman, too, must stand.
‘Please. Sit down.’ She crossed the room to sit in her own chair and his lordship—with a supercilious lift of one brow—followed suit.
He folded his arms. ‘I am waiting.’
His voice was soft. Almost menacing. Thea shivered at her sudden mental image of a wolf: crouching, watching, patient. She thrust aside that picture, silently castigating herself for such a fanciful thought. He was a man...a powerful lord, maybe, but a man none the less.
His question...what was it again? About debt. ‘We are in business, my lord. I wondered if Daniel had overlooked a bill.’
His lips twitched. Thea searched his expression and felt her tension ease and her sense of foreboding lift as she realised he was trying not to laugh. No sign of a menacing predator now. She really must try to curtail her imagination.
‘I cannot decide whether to be amused or offended that you could even suspect I am a debt collector,’ he said. His smile now surfaced fully, his lips parting to reveal white, even teeth.
Heavens, he is a handsome devil.
She quashed that thought and dismissed the accompanying trip of her pulse.
‘Might we, do you think, start this conversation anew and dispense with the suspicion on both sides?’
Thea inclined her head by way of reply. A truce would speed this meeting along and give her the opportunity to discover if Lord Vernon Beauchamp knew anything that might shed light on Daniel’s disappearance.
George came in with the refreshments and Thea poured a cup of tea for her visitor before handing him the cup and saucer. He captured her gaze as he murmured his thanks, his deep voice vibrating through her. Then he brushed her fingers as she handed him a plate with a slice of cake. A whiff of cologne arose to tease at her senses: spicy, with notes of cinnamon. Musky and expensive. The resulting flicker of desire deep in her stomach exasperated Thea all over again.
She recognised his tactic. This was an attempt to use his charisma to wheedle information from her. He was a handsome aristocrat, experienced in the art of flirtation and accustomed to having his own way...well, he would soon find she was too shrewd to allow weasel words and admiring glances to fool her.
She had been burned before.
Never again.
Besides, she had neither the time nor the inclination to engage with him in this particular game. There was far too much at stake.
‘I do not know your name.’
His statement startled her. ‘But...of course you know my name. Daniel is my brother. I, therefore, am Miss Markham.’
He cocked his head to one side. ‘But I did not know whether or not you were married, Miss Markham. For all I knew, you could be Mrs Wilful, or Lady Copper Curls.’
He smiled. Charmingly. A fan of crinkles formed at the outer corner of each eye. Thea raised her chin and directed a stern look at him.
‘You were about to tell me your business with my brother, sir.’
Lord Vernon set his teacup and saucer on to a side table and settled back into his chair, his elbows propped on the arms as he placed his hands fingertip to fingertip beneath his chin.
‘My business is with your brother. It is not proper that I should discuss it with you.’
‘Because I am a female?’ No matter how many times she was told she was unable to understand business matters, it became no easier hearing the same sentiment from yet another male. ‘As I said before—my brother and I collaborate in our father’s business. We do not have secrets.’
‘And yet you have no idea why I am here.’
Thea swallowed past the painful lump in her throat. ‘That is entirely different. I cannot be privy to your whims and fancies in deciding to call upon Daniel.’
‘Whims and fancies,’ he murmured. ‘I cannot say I am flattered at being thought a man subject to whims and fancies.’ His expression hardened and again she was reminded that, beneath his urbane exterior, there lurked an altogether different beast. ‘You boast there are no secrets between yourself and your brother and yet you are unaware it was your brother who wrote to me to request a meeting.’
‘For what purpose?’
He raised a brow. ‘Perhaps you can enlighten me?’
Thea shook her head and a lock of hair sprang loose to dangle in front of her eye. She clicked her tongue in irritation, swept the curl from her forehead and hooked it behind a hairpin, then sipped at her Madeira, her mind working furiously. This conversation was not going the way she intended. She was desperate to find out if this man had any information that might tell her where Daniel had gone.
‘I have not the first idea why Daniel wrote to you. Was it connected with the business?’
‘I can safely say he did not summon me to discuss a matter of business. The only knowledge I have of lead-crystal glassware is the quality of the liquid contained therein.’
‘That comes as no surprise.’
Heavens! When will I learn to curb my tongue?
A muscle bunched in his jaw. ‘And such a riposte is entirely predictable. You clearly suffer under the illusion that the idle aristocracy are fit for little other than frittering their fortunes away upon their own pleasures and depravities.’
She couldn’t decide if she felt shame at having insulted him, albeit indirectly, or pride that she could stand her own against such a man.
‘They are your words,’ she responded, raising her brows. ‘Your interpretation of my expressed belief that you would have no knowledge of the manufacture of lead crystal. And I was correct.’
His lips thinned. ‘Where is your brother, Miss Markham? When do you expect him home?’
She bit her lip.
‘I do not know.’
Her stomach clenched into a tight, hard ball of fear. Unable to sit still, she rose to her feet and crossed the room to the desk. Daniel’s desk. But there were no clues there. She had searched it thoroughly and there was no hint of where he had gone or what had happened to him. She fingered a contract that lay on the top of a pile of papers awaiting attention, that same all-pervading sense of dread crawling through her veins. This contract was important to Stour Crystal.
Would Daniel really just...go? Would he really be so negligent?
Of the business? Of her? Of their parents?
‘I do not know,’ she repeated.
Chapter Two (#ub9023f9e-87e6-53c1-bac6-8e63428c1502)
Lord Vernon Beauchamp eyed Miss Markham. Lines of strain bracketed her mouth and worry lurked in those huge hazel eyes—eyes that had sparked such fire at him only moments ago. In fact, all her fire had fizzled out... This was not merely a case of her brother not being at home this afternoon, of that he was certain. But alongside the worry in her eyes lurked caution. Maybe attempting to flirt his way into gaining her good opinion...her trust...had been a mistake.
He rose to his feet and approached the desk. She tracked his every movement, her wariness plain.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ Vernon said. ‘Will you not sit down and tell me what has happened? There truly is no need to be suspicious of my intentions towards your brother. If it helps to reassure you, you should know that I have never before met Daniel and I know nothing more than he wrote in this letter.’
He reached into his pocket and produced the letter that Daniel Markham had penned, the letter that had prompted Vernon’s journey into Worcestershire. Miss Markham subsided into the desk chair and took the letter, unfolding it to read. Vernon hitched one hip on the far corner of the desk. After a few seconds, she raised her gaze to his.
‘The Duke of Cheriton? This letter is not addressed to you...is it?’
Vernon laughed. ‘No, I am not a duke. Cheriton is my brother. He had every intention of writing to your Daniel with an invitation to call upon him to discuss his concerns, but I formed a sudden desire to visit Worcestershire and so I offered to travel up here to meet your brother myself.’
Leo—Vernon’s brother—had recently married again and the bride’s maternal aunt, Lady Slough, had set her sights on Vernon as a suitable catch for her daughter. Not that Vernon had anything against the chit, but Lady Slough sported all the finesse of a wild boar and he had decided that putting some distance between himself and the lady in question would be best for all concerned. He would not put it past Lady Slough to attempt a spot of entrapment.
Vernon had no inclination to enter the parson’s mousetrap. Not for a very long time, if ever. Leo already had his heir and spare—plus a daughter—from his first marriage, thus securing the future of the dukedom, so there was no absolutely no need for Vernon to wed. And why would he choose to give up his charmed life of a popular, wealthy bachelor? He wanted for nothing.
Except purpose.
He thrust aside that mocking voice, even though he was unable to deny that restlessness had also played its part in persuading him to travel up here to Worcestershire.
Miss Markham had continued to read her brother’s letter, a frown knitting her forehead.
‘Henry Mannington? Who is Henry Mannington?’ Her voice was unusually deep for a woman and slightly gruff—quite at odds with her petite figure and luxuriant curls.
‘You have never heard of him?’
She shook her head and two of those springy, copper-coloured curls of hers bounced over her forehead. She pushed at them absentmindedly, her gaze still fixed on the letter.
‘No. Never.’
‘He is not a friend of your brother’s? A customer? A rival?’
‘No. None of those. I told you,’ she said, with a hint of sarcasm, ‘I have never heard of him.’ She paused, white teeth nibbling at her lower lip. Then she narrowed her eyes. ‘But you know who he is. Or you would not have come all the way up here to speak to Daniel.’
Impressed by her quick uptake, Vernon decided there was nothing to be gained in concealing the little knowledge he did possess.
‘Henry Mannington is a distant cousin of the Beauchamp family, but none of us has seen him or heard of him for several years. He is a classics scholar with a passion for exploring ancient sites and even as a young man he had no interest in socialising in our circle.’
‘The upper ranks of society, you mean?’
There it was again. That hint of disdain in her tone, but recognisable for all that. Miss Markham clearly did not approve of the aristocracy.
‘Yes.’ He would neither apologise for who and what he was, nor feel guilty for it. Her prejudices were her problem. ‘He is my age and we were at university together. Our paths have not crossed since then.’
Miss Markham thrust the letter back at Vernon. ‘I cannot see how this will help me find Daniel.’ She crossed her arms.
‘Find him?’
Her cheeks reddened, clashing with her bright hair. Her lips compressed.
