A Lady in Name (2 page)

‘I have not that distinction, I
thank God,’ he broke in, revolted at the thought. ‘He was my uncle, not my father.’

The information did not appear to afford Miss Graydene the slightest satisfaction.
Her slight bosom rose and fell sharply.

‘Whatever he was, sir, his existence is anathema to me.
I would to heaven you had been he, for there is a great deal I could say to him were he before me now—and none of it complimentary.’

Thoroughly taken aback, his lordship eyed the sparkle at her lashes with unconcealed curiosity.
So she had not come with blackmail in her mind, but to ring a peal over his Uncle Beves, a proceeding which could not but draw Stefan’s sympathy. He dug a hand into one of his inner pockets and silently proffered a crisp white handkerchief.

She eyed it, stiffening at the shoulders, and sniffed.
Her gaze lifted to his, but he said nothing, steadily returning her regard.

After a moment’s hesitation, a tiny smile quirked the corners of her mouth, and she took the offering, turning away a little to make use of it.
His lordship watched the starched handkerchief turning into a damp and crumpled ball. He received it back a trifle gingerly, and was surprised when Miss Graydene gave vent to a watery chuckle.

‘I am afraid it is ruined.
I beg your pardon.’

‘No matter.’
He stuffed it into a pocket of his greatcoat. ‘I take it you have only lately been made aware of your alleged relationship to my uncle?’

The faint lightening of mood gave way, and a world of sadness was in her eyes.
She did not appear to notice his deliberate resumption of doubt upon her claim.

‘Papa fell ill very suddenly.
When he knew he was fading and could not recover, he told me. That was November, I think—oh, near three months ago. I could not take it in at first, there was so much to do upon his death. The funeral, and Christmas in the parish is always busy.’ She looked away, into the embers of the dying fire. ‘I think I did not want it to be real, pushed it out of mind.’ Her gaze returned to Stefan’s, and a sliver of pity smote him at the re-emergence of tragedy in her face. ‘Until I knew I could ignore it no longer. My choices were too limited. I persuaded myself it was just—that
he
should pay. I wanted…I don’t know…to hurt him somehow, I think, as he had punished me.’

Her voice died.
Through a welter of confused sensation, Stefan realised that her gaze, unseeing upon his face, was far away. He would swear the painful revelation was in her mind. One could imagine the scene. Grieved for her dying parent, she must have been distraught at the news. Just what had been said, and how it might impinge upon his family was forgotten for the moment. The compulsion, as he later told himself, was born of this sympathetic concern.

‘I must ask you to accompany me, Miss Graydene.
We will continue this discussion at my home.’

* * *

How Lucy came to be jolting along in the Earl of Pennington’s curricle was a circumstance passing her comprehension. The matter had not been settled without argument. She knew she had instantly demurred when he had suggested she should go with him to Pennington Manor, whither they were bound at this moment.

‘No, indeed,
I cannot possibly come with you.’

His lordship, to her combined surprise and indignation, had become autocratic.
‘But you will certainly do so, Miss Graydene, since I so desire it. Kindly collect together what belongings you may have with you.’

‘I have none,’ she had protested, distracted.
‘At least, nothing other than a bandbox for necessities. I had no expectation of remaining beyond the one night.’

Lord Pennington had risen.
‘Fetch it then, if you please.’

Lucy’s independent spirit had reasserted itself.
‘But I do not please, sir! I am not staying. I came only for a conference with Lord Pennington, and since he is deceased—’

‘He is very much alive, as you see, Miss Graydene.’

‘Not you. I am talking of your uncle.’

A faint gleam had entered the grey eyes.
‘I am aware.’

‘Well then, you must see there is no sense in prolonging this interview.
What I have to say can be of no consequence to you.’

Lord Pennington had uttered a short laugh, but Lucy felt it to be without mirth.
‘On the contrary, ma’am. I am only too eager to hear anything you may have to impart concerning my predecessor. I have not been many months in office, but let me assure you, Miss Graydene, you are but one of my trials arising from the past. And it has not been my habit to ignore them. Now, gather your belongings as I told you. I will meet you in the yard in five minutes.’

On the words, he had turned, pausing only to seize up his gloves and hat from the chair where he had left them before striding out of the room.

Lucy had looked after him in considerable dudgeon for at least two of the allotted five minutes, unable to decide whether she was more annoyed at his walking out without giving her time to respond, or at his evident assumption she would do as he had demanded. At length it came to her that the one she relished least of his lordship’s remarks was his reference to her as one of his “trials”. As if it was her fault his abominable uncle had been a libertine!

Almost Lucy would have preferred the alternative interview, the one she had expected to have.
At least she would have remained in control of that one. Instead she had been jockeyed into just such a position as she was anxious to avoid—of a supplicant whose wishes were of no account. At least to the present incumbent of the earldom of Pennington. Lucy was rapidly revising her first favourable impression. He was clearly not as kind a man as his having provided her with a handkerchief at an awkward moment would suggest.

To her chagrin, Lucy’s thoughts had carried her unknowing along the corridor to the chamber she had occupied the previous night.
She realised she was hurrying, and was the more provoked for finding herself obedient to Lord Pennington’s instructions. Unable to think of any way to avoid joining him in the yard—beyond a foolish and craven notion of hiding under the bed—Lucy had picked up her bandbox and made her resigned way to the Boar’s yard.

She was well ensconced in the open carriage in deserted countryside with a rug over her knees to keep out the cold, before it occurred to her to question the propriety of allowing a gentleman
, be he never so much a peer of the realm, to capture her into his curricle and carry her off to his lair.

Lucy sat up straighter suddenly, turning her eyes upon his lordship’s unresponsive profile, a flush of apprehension flooding her bosom.

‘Where are you taking me?’

She was dismayed to hear the squeak in her voice, and knew by Lord Pennington’s questioning look that he had divined her unease.

‘To Pennington Manor, my home. I told you so at the outset.’

Disquieting questions sprang to Lucy’s tongue, but she withheld them, conscious of the listening ears of his lordship’s groom seated in the perch behind.
She began to wish she had held her ground and refused to come. Casting another glance at Lord Pennington, she saw a quick frown pull his brows together as he surveyed her face. Then abruptly, his countenance relaxed and he laughed out.

‘My dear Miss Graydene, allow me to allay your alarms.
Did you suppose yourself to be en route to a gloomy mansion inhabited by myself and one sinister retainer? Have no fear. The Manor boasts both light and a sufficiency of service. Moreover, both my mother and my sister are in residence. You may be confident of being adequately chaperoned.’

Heat shot into Lucy’s cheeks despite the biting wind and she turned to stare resolutely ahead.
How maddening of the man to have so easily read her panic and its cause. Yet the reassurance could not fail to settle her jumping nerves a little, and she was left to ponder the immediate future. An unsatisfactory subject for cogitation, since she had no means of knowing what Lord Pennington intended. To resume their discussion, he had said. Why in the world should he remove from The Boar at Withington village? He did not know her. In his place, Lucy was sure she would not have invited an importunate stranger into her house.

She was still trying to fathom his lordship’s reasoning when the curricle at last turned into a drive lying between two massive wrought-iron gates, which stood open.
As the carriage bowled down a long tree-lined avenue, Lucy fluttered with nerves as she glimpsed an extensive dwelling appearing through the trees. Was she about to see the trappings of the life she might have been heir to, had circumstances been otherwise?

Within a few short minutes, a vastness of gleaming stone struck Lucy’s eye, pale gold even in this wintry light. Sheets of windows spread across it, while above she caught the whirl and tumble of parapets and domed turrets.
Her awed gaze had barely drunk in this unexpected splendour when the curricle came to a halt below a flight of stone steps leading up to a pillared portico. The groom leaped down from his perch behind and ran to the horses’ heads; Lord Pennington set aside the reins and jumped easily down, and Lucy found she was being offered his hand to assist her to alight.

The memory of her first sight of him came back to her, as she recalled that slender hand.
She took it and found it had surprising strength. As he guided her descent, Lucy was conscious of the oddest sensation in her breast, as if a little bird fluttered briefly there.

Confused, she released herself as soon as she was steady on the ground, snatching tingling fingers into her own protective fist.
She dared not look to see if Lord Pennington noted this peculiar reaction, and breathed more easily when she saw him striding ahead of her, and beginning to mount the steps. He paused, turning with a frown upon his brow.

‘Don’t dawdle, Miss Graydene
. Follow me.’

With which he resumed his unconcerned progress, leaving Lucy to regret having allowed herself to become subject to the Earl of Pennington’s whim.
There was nothing to be done now but obey, however, and she headed for the steps, albeit with a flitter of reluctance.

He was awaiting her at the top, but Lucy refused to hurry.
A pair of heavy doors came gradually into sight, one of them held open by a portly individual dressed as befitted a superior servant.

‘Thank you, Hawkesbury.’

Lord Pennington ushered Lucy past him and through the door. She entered a copious hall, filled with light which fell upon pale washed walls and a chequered floor, and dominated by a great staircase leading to galleried upper regions. Huge paintings of classical scenes were to be seen on either side, and a number of doors led off, as it seemed to Lucy’s bewildered eye, in all directions.

‘Where is my sister, do you know?’

‘Lady Dionisia is in the Red Saloon, I believe, my lord. Lady Sarclet has called.’

This information caused the frown to reappear between Lord Pennington’s brows.
‘Oh, she has, has she? I suppose she had to choose this precise moment.’

Her attention fairly caught, Lucy at once deduced that his lordship’s dissatisfaction arose from her presence.
Whoever Lady Sarclet might be, it was evident Lord Pennington had foreseen none of the complications Lucy rapidly envisaged.

How in the world was she to be introduced?
How explain her presence to his mother and sister without revealing her disreputable identity? Lucy’s respectability had been shattered at a stroke, making her unfit company for the legitimate descendants of her hitherto unknown parent.

The reflection filled her with such angry distress, she missed most of what Lord Pennington said to his butler.

‘—and request Mrs Lovedown to make ready a chamber for Miss Graydene, if you please.’

This penetrated.
Forgetting the presence of a servant, Lucy flashed out without thought. ‘I am not staying, Lord Pennington.’

‘We will discuss that at a more convenient time, Miss Graydene,’ he retorted, in a tone blending hauteur with admonishment as his eyes flickered to the butler.

Lucy flushed and looked away, dismayed to have allowed herself to be provoked into impropriety.

‘Meanwhile, ma’am,’ he continued smoothly, ‘I have arranged for a little refreshment to be brought to you in the breakfast parlour.
If you will accompany me, Miss Graydene?’

He moved across the hall as he spoke, opening one of its many doors and gesturing for her to enter.
Feeling she had little choice, Lucy moved to join him and passed through into a long room a degree less overwhelming than the hall, and thence to a much smaller chamber.

‘You may be snug here for the time being,’ said her guide.

It was not the word Lucy would have used to describe a room into which both parlour and dining-room at the vicarage would have fitted comfortably. An oval mahogany table was set close to the windows, surrounded by matching chairs with seats upholstered in a blue striped fabric that toned with the wallpaper. A long side board and a couple of vast china vases, empty of flowers at this season and set either side of the fireplace, comprised the rest of the furnishings. Warmth came from the hearth, where the embers of a recent fire lay smouldering.