Historical Trio 2012-01 (58 page)

Elizabeth only allowed herself to breathe again once Nathaniel had disappeared in the direction of the library, the composure she had pulled about her like a cloak before coming down the stairs having been shaken the moment she saw him again. Her interest, the feelings she had for Nathaniel, were the things that definitely would ‘not do’!

Elizabeth was afraid of examining those feelings too closely; no doubt she would have plenty of time—days, months, years—in which to do so, once she was safely removed from his presence and returned to Shoreley Park.

In the meantime, it was her intention to keep herself as busy as possible so as not to allow herself the time to dwell on those feelings, starting with a long and hopefully pleasant walk with Hector.

However, within minutes of leaving Hepworth Manor, she unfortunately happened upon Sir Rufus strolling purposefully along the pathway towards her.

A look of satisfaction settled upon his homely features, his first words confirming that this was no idle encounter. ‘I have been walking here for some time in the hopes that I might meet with you again.’

‘Sir Rufus.’ Elizabeth’s own greeting was less fulsome as she eyed him warily. She was very aware of Mrs Wilson’s comments earlier about an oddness in this man’s true nature, but at the same time she could not help but wonder if this meeting was not fated to be. An answer, in fact, to her earlier uncertainties as to what, if anything, she should do about her new-found knowledge.

‘I have not had the opportunity to thank you for the roses, which you had delivered to me earlier today, Sir Rufus,’ she murmured as he fell into step beside her.

His face lit up with pleasure beneath his tall hat. ‘I am pleased you appreciated them.’

Elizabeth had not actually said that. ‘They are very beautiful,’ she acknowledged noncommittally.

He gazed down at her admiringly. ‘Nowhere near as beautiful as their namesake,’ he said.

Actually, Elizabeth knew herself to be nowhere near as beautiful as their original namesake, nor was she any nearer to answering why Sir Rufus would ever have considered naming his treasured rose after the woman who had been his younger brother’s scandalous lover. ‘You do me great honour, sir.’

‘Not at all.’ He came to a halt to turn and take her free hand in his much larger one. ‘Elizabeth, you must be aware by now of the esteem in which I hold you—’ He broke off abruptly as Hector chose that moment to announce his feelings about this encounter by growling fiercely as he sank his teeth into one of that gentleman’s boot-clad ankles. ‘Infuriating little beast!’ Sir Rufus’s face darkened angrily as he kicked out at the little dog, the force of it wrenching the leash from Elizabeth’s hand as Hector literally flew through the air to whine in pain as he landed several feet away on the dry and dusty pathway.

‘Sir Rufus!’ Elizabeth gasped her shocked dismay as she pulled her hand free to run to the little dog’s side. ‘How could you!’ She turned to glare accusingly at the man even as she aided a slightly dazed Hector to stagger awkwardly to his feet.

His expression remained dark with anger. ‘I am sick of the constant interruptions caused by the presence of that animal.’ Sir Rufus strode forwards to take a firm grasp of Elizabeth’s arm to pull her up beside him. ‘We will go to Gifford House where I might converse with you in uninterrupted privacy.’

Elizabeth’s eyes opened wide in alarm, both at this suggestion and Sir Rufus’s strange and wild behaviour. ‘I have no wish to go to Gifford House with you, sir.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘No—’

‘Yes, Elizabeth!’ He began to drag her along the pathway at his side.

‘Sir Rufus, I really must insist that you release me this instant!’ Elizabeth’s own efforts to free herself were met with resistance as the curl of his fingers became painful about her arm and would no doubt result in leaving bruises on the tenderness of her flesh.

Hector, seemingly recovered from the vicious kick, chose that moment for another attack on Sir Rufus’s booted ankle, his growls low in his throat.

Sir Rufus, his face twisted into a look of cruelty, did not hesitate to deliver another kick to the little animal’s side with the booted foot not held captive by sharp little teeth. A kick that Hector did not get up from this time, instead lying unconscious upon his side some distance away. ‘With any luck, the brute is dead!’ his attacker announced with satisfaction.

Elizabeth turned fiercely on the man standing beside her. ‘How can you even say such a thing?’ She tried once again to release herself from the steely grip of his fingers, uncaring of the pain to herself in her desperation to return to Hector’s side. ‘Let me go this instant!’ Her cheeks burned with fury.

‘You must know I cannot—’

‘I know of no such thing!’ Temper glittered in Elizabeth’s eyes. ‘You are a monster!’ She turned and began to pummel her fists upon Sir Rufus’s chest. ‘A cruel and unfeeling monster!’ Elizabeth was beyond reason, pushed well beyond all need to restrain the disgust and abhorrence she felt for this man. So much so that it took several minutes for her to realise that he was offering no resistance considering he had a fiercely angry woman beating her fists upon his chest!

But it slowly crept into her consciousness that he was unmoving against that heated onslaught. That he had, in fact, become unnaturally still.

Elizabeth stopped her pounding to look up at him, all the colour draining from her cheeks as she saw that he was looking down at her with such an odd expression in those pale and glittering blue eyes that it sent a shiver of apprehension down the length of her spine.

A nerve pulsed in his grimly set jaw. ‘Why do you continue to talk to me in this way when you know I only acted as I did so that we might finally be together?’

Elizabeth swallowed hard before speaking. ‘Sir Rufus—’

‘I will suffer no more of your squeamishness over something that needed to be done, Harriet!’ he thundered.

‘Harriet?’ Elizabeth’s eyes had now widened with more than alarm—was this man so lost to all sense that he actually believed her to be her mother?

His expression softened slightly as he looked down at her. ‘My darling Harriet.’ His hands moved to cradle each side of her face. ‘I am fully aware of your softness of heart. Indeed, I am sure I would not love you half as much if I did not know of your consideration for the feelings of others.’ His expression tightened. ‘For my brother’s feelings especially. But it is time for us to stop all the pretence, my darling. Time for us to be together, as we were always meant to be.’

There was such a look of unholy madness in his face now that Elizabeth realised at this moment that Sir Rufus truly did believe her to be Harriet Copeland returned to him.

Chapter Seventeen

‘Y
ou must come at once, Nathaniel! At once, do you hear?’

Nathaniel frowned as he looked up from reading the correspondence he had received from Gabriel Faulkner only that afternoon, to see his pale, dishevelled and obviously distraught aunt standing in the doorway of the library, those things alone enough to tell him that something was seriously amiss; his Aunt Gertrude prided herself on being both calm and practical on all occasions.

He stood up quickly from behind the desk. ‘What has occurred?’

Tears glistened in his aunt’s eyes as her hand moved to the agitation of her rapidly rising and falling chest. ‘Hector has returned terribly injured and without Elizabeth!’

Nathaniel frowned darkly as he stepped into the centre of the book-lined room. ‘Without Elizabeth?’ he repeated.

Mrs Wilson nodded. ‘Oh, Nathaniel, I fear she may have fallen over the cliff-top! Might even now lay dead and broken upon the rocks below—’

‘You must calm yourself, Aunt,’ he cut in sharply, her hysteria only succeeding in sharpening the keen edge of his own concern. ‘Hector has returned injured, you say?’

His aunt nodded quickly. ‘He is limping badly on his right front leg and his ribs appear to be either bruised or broken.’

‘Show me.’ He crossed the room in two long strides to join his aunt as she turned to lead the way to her private parlour where Hector lay unnaturally still and quiet in his basket beside the fireplace.

The little dog looked up with soulful eyes as Nathaniel went down on his haunches beside the basket, his hands gentle on the soft rise and fall of Hector’s ribs before he inspected the injured leg.

He turned to look at his hovering Aunt Gertrude. ‘His leash was still in place when he returned?’

‘Yes.’

Nathaniel straightened. ‘I do not believe anything is broken…’

‘Oh, thank goodness!’ Mrs Wilson breathed her relief before her expression once again clouded with concern. ‘But what of Elizabeth? Where can she be? You must go out and look for her immediately, Nathaniel!’ She wrung her hands together in her anxiety.

He had every intention of looking for Elizabeth. Indeed, he had only delayed that search long enough to examine the little dog first, in an effort to gain any information from Hector’s appearance as to where she might be. ‘Hector does not appear to have fallen down the cliff, Aunt, otherwise I am sure he would have sustained other cuts and injuries.’

Mrs Wilson frowned. ‘But surely Elizabeth would have returned by now if she had only lost hold of his leash?’

Nathaniel, knowing it would have taken some time for Hector, with his injured leg and bruised ribs, to have made his way back to Hepworth Manor, had already reached that same conclusion. Which meant that she was either lying injured on the cliff path somewhere or had been prevented from returning by some other means.

Means in the shape of Sir Rufus Tennant, perhaps?

Nathaniel scowled, knowing he had absolutely no basis for that conclusion. Except, of course, for the other man’s almost fanatical interest in Elizabeth these past few days.

His mouth was tight at the thought of Tennant being anywhere near her. ‘You will instruct Sewell to organise a search party at once, Aunt.’

‘But where will you be?’ His aunt turned to stare as him as he walked purposefully towards the doorway.

Nathaniel looked at her with eyes that were dark and stormy. ‘I am going to pay a visit upon a neighbour before joining in the search, dear Aunt.’

Mrs Wilson’s eyes widened. ‘You do not think Tennant has something to do with this?’

‘At this moment I am trying not to think, but to act, Aunt,’ Nathaniel rasped.

Her knuckles showed white as she clutched her hands together all the tighter. ‘He has seemed rather obsessed with Elizabeth recently…’

An obsession, knowing of her intended departure on the morrow, that he might just have decided to act upon before it became too late to do so, perhaps?

Nathaniel should never have allowed Elizabeth to go walking alone. He should have insisted on accompanying her earlier. Should have—

Damn it, never mind what he should have done! The most important thing now was to find her and reassure himself, and everyone else, as to her welfare.

Elizabeth had never felt so frightened in her life as she stood in the eerie silence of Sir Rufus’s hothouse, as unnerved by his belief that she was her mother as she was by the sharp pruning knife he held distractedly in one hand.

She had not come willingly to Gifford House with him, but he had been so fired by the intensity of his emotions that it was as if she weighed nothing at all as he dragged and pulled her along beside him, knocking her bonnet askew and forcing her to remove it completely when she could no longer see where he was taking her.

It had taken barely any time at all to reach Gifford House, where any hopes of Elizabeth being able to ask for assistance from one of Sir Rufus’s servants had instantly been dashed, as he had ignored entering the house by the front door and instead circled straight round to the back of the house, where he had entered the hothouse to shut and lock the door firmly behind them.

His earlier comments about her mother were enough to have persuaded her into holding her usually wayward tongue, most especially his comments as to Harriet’s ‘squeamishness over something that had needed to be done’, so that ‘the two of them might finally be together’, as they had ‘always been meant to be’.

Elizabeth was frantically wondering exactly what Sir Rufus had done in the past in order to ensure that he and Harriet might be together…

Nathaniel had left Hepworth Manor so hastily that he had not even paused to collect his hat and gloves as he hurried to the stable to help Finch saddle a brown gelding. He rode out onto the cliffs as if the devil were at his heels, all the time keeping a lookout for Elizabeth in case she had, after all, accidentally slipped over the side of the cliff. The nearest Nathaniel came to finding any sign of her was a particular part of the dusty pathway where he could see the scuffle of tiny footprints and Hector’s paw prints intertwined with a pair of men’s boots.

Tennant’s boots?

Nathaniel had no proof of that, of course, but, considering those two pairs of footprints led in the direction of Gifford House, he turned his horse firmly in that direction, his expression grimmer than ever.

‘Please, sir—’

‘My darling Harriet, I believe we may stop all pretence now and call each other by our given names!’ Sir Rufus assured indulgently as he looked down at Elizabeth with warmly glowing eyes.

She feared he had completely lost all reason; perhaps it was safest to indulge him in his fantasy? ‘Rufus,’ she complied softly, ‘would we not both be more comfortable if we were to go into the house and talk? Over dinner, perhaps?’ Elizabeth knew she would certainly feel more reassured if there were servants within screaming distance.

He gave a puzzled frown. ‘But you always said how much you longed to see my roses…’

‘And I am very happy to have seen them now,’ she hastened to reassure with a sideways glance at the knife in his hand. ‘I—I thought only of your comfort when I suggested we might go into the house for dinner.’

His expression softened again. ‘As usual, Harriet, you are ever considerate of others.’

Elizabeth did not remember her mother very well, having been but nine years old when Harriet departed Shoreley Park for the last time, but she did have memory of her mother’s warmth, and the laughter that had always filled the house whenever she was at home; it had become more than obvious these past few minutes that it was not only Giles Tennant who had fallen in love with Harriet Copeland, but that Sir Rufus Tennant had, too.

Had her death at the hands of Giles Tennant completely unhinged him?

Or was it something else, something much darker, something so much more terrible that was responsible for Sir Rufus’s present deranged state of mind?

Elizabeth moistened dry lips, very aware that his state of mind was so mercurial that he might turn violent again at any moment, most especially if she were to challenge his belief that she was Harriet. ‘I have to admit to welcoming the idea of partaking of a light supper myself.’ She would do or say anything in order to persuade him to go into the house and away from the complete isolation of this secluded hothouse.

He chuckled softly, giving her a brief glimpse of the younger man he must once have been. He was still not an especially handsome or dashing man, as his younger brother was reputed to have been, but he’d certainly had his own homely appeal. ‘You know that I have never been able to deny you anything.’

‘Then we may go into the house and eat supper?’ Much as she tried, Elizabeth could not keep the eagerness to escape being alone with him from her tone. ‘You might show me around the rest of the house then, too,’ she added encouragingly as he frowned slightly.

‘Of course; my beloved Harriet, you must be eager to view what is to become your new home.’ Sir Rufus gave one of her hands a reassuring squeeze.

‘Very eager.’ Elizabeth resisted a shudder at the mere thought of any woman having to live with him, let alone with those glassy-eyed hunting trophies that adorned the gloomy entrance hall of Gifford House; her mother had certainly been a woman who had surrounded herself with light and laughter and beautiful things.

‘Would you not like to see the rest of the roses first?’

‘Perhaps later.’ It took every effort of will on Elizabeth’s part to slip one of her gloved hands companionably into the crook of his arm as she smiled up at him. ‘Let us go to the house for a warming drink, at least.’ She gave a delicate shiver to accompany this statement.

In truth, she felt so inwardly cold it was as if ice ran in her veins, caused by her fear of this man—and the knife he still carried—rather than the temperature of the hothouse. But it was the lengths Sir Rufus might have gone to in order to ensure that Harriet Copeland became his own that Elizabeth feared knowing more than anything else.

‘You must have some idea where Sir Rufus is!’ Nathaniel glowered at the butler who had opened the door to Gifford House in answer to the remorseless pummelling of his fist.

‘I have told you, my lord, Sir Rufus is not at home,’ the elderly man repeated patiently.

Nathaniel looked about him wildly, wondering where the other man could have gone. Where he could have taken Elizabeth. If, indeed, she was with him at all…

The butler flinched slightly as he once again became the focus of Nathaniel’s steely-eyed gaze. ‘You might perhaps try the hothouse at the back of the house? Sir Rufus is there often and—’

Nathaniel did not linger to listen to any further explanations but ran down the steps and round to the back of the house to where the hothouse glinted in the late-evening sunlight.

Only to come to an abrupt halt beneath the shade of an oak tree as he saw Elizabeth and Sir Rufus just emerging from inside the glass hothouse, giving every appearance of taking an evening stroll together. Elizabeth’s arm was linked with that of Sir Rufus’s as she smiled up at him, chatting happily as they walked towards him.

Until Nathaniel saw her eyes…

Elizabeth had the most expressive eyes he had ever beheld, a startlingly clear and beautiful sky-blue, more often than not filled with either warmth or the light of battle that was so much a part of her feisty personality.

At the moment those lovely eyes showed neither warmth nor anger, but were instead dark and unnaturally wide, and filled with such an expression of fear and apprehension that Nathaniel felt a lurching jolt in his chest.

His concern deepened as he noticed other things about her appearance that did not sit well with her outward show of charming loveliness: her straw bonnet was gone completely, her dark curls in disarray, several ringlets falling onto the creaminess of her shoulders, and dusty smears upon her pale gown and gloves. As if she might have fallen—or been pulled along against her will?

Nathaniel deliberately stepped out from beneath the sheltering oak. ‘Good evening, Tennant.’

Elizabeth’s heart began to pound loudly at the first sound of Nathaniel’s voice, her relief immense as she turned to see him standing only feet away. Until, that is, she became as aware of the tension of the man at her side; Sir Rufus’s arm had become rigid beneath the soft touch of her gloved fingers, his whole body seemingly coiled as if he might spring forwards and attack the younger man at any moment.

Under any other circumstances Elizabeth knew that Nathaniel, ten years younger and having been a soldier, was more than capable of besting the other man, but at this moment Sir Rufus was filled with a strength and purpose fuelled by insanity—and he was still carrying that pruning knife in his other hand!

All things which Nathaniel must be made aware of if he were to fully understand the danger of the situation. ‘How lovely, Rufus; Lord Thorne has come to join us for dinner.’ She ignored Nathaniel’s start of surprise in favour of turning to smile warmly up into Sir Rufus’s demented features.

For several tension-filled seconds she feared he had not even heard her, so intense was his expression of dislike as he glared his fury at Nathaniel’s intrusion into this time with his ‘beloved Harriet’.