A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season (11 page)

‘We have scandal enough as it is, William,’ replied Major Lyndhurst acidly. ‘What the hell did Marcus think he was doing?’

‘I have no way of knowing, I’m afraid. He was in a very strange mood that night. That I will say. Never heard him say such things before. Perhaps it was the drink. Marcus has always been so very insistent on the importance of duty, and loyalty—especially to you—that I was shocked to hear him refer to you as he did. And then, to couple it with such remarks about Georgiana—’

‘
What?
What did Marcus say about my wife?’

‘I…I can’t remember precisely, Anthony. Pray do not glower at me like that. It was not I who spoke slightingly of your wife, I assure you.’

‘Are you telling me that this quarrel between Marcus and Frobisher was over
my
wife?’ The Major’s voice had sunk to a venomous whisper.

‘I—Well, yes. I can’t remember exactly what was said. I had had quite a few glasses myself. I seem to recall that Frobisher took Marcus to task for what he had said. Can’t remember the way of it, exactly. But I do remember Marcus’s threat. No one could forget that. He stood there with his lips drawn back, like a dog baring its teeth, and his eyes blazing. He looked like some kind of fiend. And he said that, if he ever laid eyes on Frobisher again, he would kill him. He meant it, too. If I’d been in Frobisher’s shoes, even drunk as he was, I’d have taken myself off and kept my head down.
Obviously, he didn’t, though. Or he wouldn’t be at death’s door now.’

‘Damn Frobisher!’

‘Anthony! The man may be dying! And if Marcus really is responsible, we should—’

‘Enough, William! I have no desire to hear anything more on this subject. I do not permit anyone—
anyone
—to speak of my wife.’

‘But what are we going to do about Marcus? He will surely be found sooner or later. And, if Frobisher dies, Marcus could hang.’

There was no reply. Amy could hear retreating footsteps. It sounded as if Major Lyndhurst had stalked off without another word. Mr Lyndhurst-Flint was alone.

Amy went quickly back to the clothes press, offering up a silent prayer that Mrs Waller would arrive soon. For, if Mr Lyndhurst-Flint chose to enter the room, Amy would have no defence against his vile advances.

Recognising the housekeeper’s voice in the corridor outside, Amy let herself relax once more. She was safe from Mr Lyndhurst-Flint. For now.

Marcus was thoroughly bored. And frustrated. It had been weeks now, and still there was no news. Why could it not have been resolved by now? It had seemed so simple at the time.

It was not simple. Not simple at all. And the delay was threatening Marcus’s relationship with Anthony. If only Anthony knew the whole story of what had happened…but no one would dare to tell him. It was impossible to repeat such fearful insults to any man of honour. If Anthony learned what Frobisher had said of him, Anthony would certainly demand satisfaction. There would be even more bloodshed.

Marcus cursed silently. It was his own fault. He should have been better prepared. He should have given Anthony a plausible version of the quarrel, one that Anthony would accept without question. As it was, Anthony had listened to Marcus’s hastily concocted account and had claimed to be convinced. But as the days passed, Anthony’s doubts about Marcus’s assurances had clearly begun to grow. Marcus could not blame him. In Anthony’s place, he would have thought the same, no matter how close their friendship.

Marcus resumed his pacing up and down the dressing room. It was not much, but at least it was exercise of a kind. What he would not give for a good gallop in the fresh air!

At the mere thought of the joys of fresh air, Marcus sneezed loudly. Good grief! He couldn’t be sickening, could he? That would be the last straw. He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief. He had none. Yet another consequence of his hasty flight from London. He was already subsisting mostly on linen borrowed from Anthony so that the lower servants would not suspect his presence in the house. Since he was already wearing one of Anthony’s shirts, he might as well borrow his cousin’s handkerchieves as well.

He pulled open the top drawer of the chest and pushed aside the pile of carefully laundered handkerchieves, looking for the most worn.

But Anthony had no old or worn ones at the bottom of the pile. Instead, he had a tiny miniature of a pretty dark-haired lady, with a very fair complexion.

Intrigued, Marcus lifted the portrait out of the drawer to have a closer look. She was quite lovely. And also very young indeed, probably just out of the schoolroom. It was only then that Marcus realised, with something of
a shock, that this must be Anthony’s mysterious wife, the woman who had deserted him while he was fighting for his country on the field at Waterloo.

Why on earth had Anthony kept it? Surely he could not love a woman who had treated him so foully? Not a word had been heard from her in four long years. She had done nothing to scotch the vile rumours that had become common currency among the
ton
. Frobisher, deep in his cups in that gaming hell, had parroted them without a qualm. That Anthony Lyndhurst had murdered his wife after catching her with her lover. That Anthony Lyndhurst had ensured that his wife’s lover fell on the field at Waterloo. That Anthony Lyndhurst, for all his wealth, was not a man whom a gentleman would wish to know.

Lies! Every word of it! There was no more upright and honourable man in England than Anthony Lyndhurst, as Marcus well knew. But the
ton
much preferred a juicy rumour to respectable truth. Those lies had acquired a status by virtue of constant repetition.

And because the woman had refused to appear to prove them wrong!

Marcus turned a little towards the window in order to look more closely at a woman who was clearly a stranger to duty and loyalty. He tried to find signs of duplicity or vice in her features. But he could not. It was a sweet face, with hazel eyes gazing candidly towards the portraitist. There was no sign of the woman she had become. Perhaps she had been corrupted by—

The door slammed with incredible violence. ‘Marcus!’ Anthony thundered.

Marcus looked up with a start. Anthony was clearly furious. His whole body was stiff with anger. He threw Marcus a look filled with hatred and, it seemed, disgust.
Then he strode forward and snatched the portrait from Marcus’s frozen fingers, before pointedly turning his back.

Marcus was shaken. He had rarely seen Anthony so affected by anything. Anthony was always in control. Yet there had seemed to be a tremor in his fingers when he seized the portrait. And now, there was a rigid set to his shoulders that suggested he was struggling to master some powerful emotion.

‘Anthony, forgive me,’ Marcus began, taking a step towards his cousin and touching him lightly on the arm. ‘I had not intended to pry. I found it when I was looking for—’

Anthony shook off Marcus’s hand. He did not turn. ‘I have no wish to discuss what you were doing or what you intended, Marcus. You have betrayed my trust. Think yourself lucky that I, at least, have enough family loyalty not to betray
you
.’

Marcus was so shocked he could not speak. This was Anthony, his cousin, and his closest friend. He must not allow a rift to develop between them, especially over a traitorous woman. He took a deep breath, preparing to make an abject apology.

It was too late. Anthony pushed the miniature deep into his pocket and marched out of the room without a word.

And without once looking back.

A
my rested her elbows on her bent knees and her chin on her hand. She had to come to a decision. So far, she had achieved nothing worthwhile. There had been that half-finished letter in Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s chamber, to be sure. But that held no clue to Ned’s whereabouts.

The only place left to search was the Major’s bedchamber. She had already checked all the others. And the office and the library downstairs.

She shifted uncomfortably on the thin mattress, but she knew she had no right to complain about her accommodation. She had a room to herself. Quite a spacious room, too, with a view of the lawn and, beyond it, the mile-long grassy ride leading to the North Lodge. Could Ned be somewhere in the woods flanking the ride? Injured? Perhaps even—? Amy shuddered. She could never begin to search all those woods. There were acres and acres of them.

She had to concentrate on the house. She would have to return to Major Lyndhurst’s bedchamber. And its mysterious occupant.

Amy felt her skin growing hot at the memory. It was embarrassment, of course. It must be. She had been such
a fool to stand there, rooted, and let him put his hands on her…

Oh, dear. No. This was not the way to save Ned.

She swung her feet round on to the floor and stood up, automatically reaching for her spectacles and smoothing her skirt. She searched her mind for a few appropriate biblical sayings, preferably from the Old Testament. Amelia Dent was the kind of person who would delight in fire and brimstone, and the mortification of the flesh. Flesh…Amy swallowed hard at the vivid picture conjured up by that word, a picture of that naked man…If only he had been fat, or old, or ugly. But he was none of those things.

And he might still be there, waiting, ready to pounce on her the moment she entered the room. She could not go back there.

She must. She had no choice.

Not for the first time, Amy wondered why she had not confided in Sarah. Surely Sarah would have been able to tell her about the dark stranger? But, then again, perhaps not. For if Sarah knew about him, she would have said something, would she not? Sarah did not keep secrets from Amy. And she would be hurt to learn that Amy had kept a secret from her.

The truth was that Amy felt bound by that stupid promise. And, if she were honest with herself, she was intrigued, too. Why had he forbidden her to say anything to Major Lyndhurst? The Major, of all people, must have known there was a stranger in his chamber. And the Major’s valet, too. He must have—

Amy paused in the act of straightening her cap. Yes, Timms must know. Amy had heard him telling one of the young housemaids not to go into the Major’s bedchamber to clean unless Timms himself was there. It had
seemed very strange at the time. Amy had assumed that Timms wanted to keep a protective eye on the Major’s belongings, that he was concerned that the maid might break things. But what if it were more than that? Smoky. Yes. It was smoky. And Ned had used that very same word in his letter.

The answer must be in Major Lyndhurst’s bedchamber.

And, as soon as the guests were safely downstairs, Amy was going to find it. No matter what the risk.

By the time Amy stood once more outside the Major’s bedchamber, she had persuaded herself that the dark stranger would certainly be gone. It was days since her encounter with him. It was impossible to believe that the Major was concealing the stranger on a long-term basis. The man might have been there for a day or two, no doubt for perfectly good reasons. Whoever he was, he must be gone by now. There was no risk of encountering him while she searched the Major’s room. It was absurd to think otherwise. Nevertheless, Amy had to take several deep breaths before she could force herself to turn the handle and enter the room.

She found herself alone. She gave a very audible sigh of relief and sagged back against the door, gazing round anxiously. The screen was folded back. There was no bath. There was not even a modest fire in the grate. The curtains stood open to the garden and the distant lake, letting in the golden evening light. It was a normal—and perfectly empty—bedchamber.

Yet she hesitated by the door, listening intently. She could see into part of the dressing room, but she could not be sure that it, too, was empty without going in. And what if he was there?

Act normally. Walk into the dressing room as if you had a right to be there. You have been sent to fetch a…a handkerchief. If he really is there, he cannot know for sure that you are lying. And you can take one and leave. Before he has time to do anything.

She straightened her back and walked quite slowly into the dressing room, looking calmly about her, as if to find where the handkerchieves were kept. There was the chest! And the huge clothes press, and the narrow servant’s bed, and all the other paraphernalia of a gentleman’s dressing room. But there was no one else in the room. He was gone.

‘Thank God,’ she whispered, unable to contain her relief.

It was but a brief moment of weakness. She had no time to wonder about the missing stranger. She must complete her search, and quickly. She returned to the bedchamber and looked about her for the most likely place to start. Yes! The small writing desk by the window. It was an odd piece of furniture for the host’s bedchamber. After all, he did his estate work in the office on the ground floor, and he also had a desk in the library. If he wrote letters and documents here, in the privacy of his bedroom, they would be the sort of thing that no one else must see.

Yes. If there was proof, it would be in the Major’s desk.

The desk, unlike Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s, was very tidy. There were no papers on the top. Just writing paper, pens and ink. Amy slid open the wide central drawer. It contained more writing paper, and wafers, and sealing wax, and other necessities, but nothing else. She closed it carefully, not making a sound. There were two small drawers on either side. She tried the topmost one on the
right. It was locked! She cursed under her breath. Why should a man lock his desk when no one but his trusted valet was permitted to be alone in the room?

Amy refused to despair. She dare not break the lock. But perhaps the key was hidden somewhere about? She began to search frantically in the unlocked drawers.

‘Lost your way
again
, Dent?’

Oh, no!

‘For a high-class dresser, you have a singularly poor sense of direction, I must say.’

That deep voice sent a shiver through her body. He was there! Again! She had no idea where he had appeared from, but it did not matter. He was there. And he had caught her searching Major Lyndhurst’s desk. What excuse could she possibly make? She pressed her clasped hands tightly against her body and stared down at the worn leather surface of the desk, willing her brain to think of something, to stop terrifying her with images of the ruin she was facing.

‘It would be polite to turn round, you know, Dent, and to answer my question.’

Amy swallowed hard and started to turn, wondering what she might see this time. What if he—?

He was adequately—if not fully—clothed. Breeches and a loose-fitting shirt, open at the neck to reveal his upper chest. He was leaning nonchalantly against the dressing-room door as if his presence in the room were the most normal thing in the world. And those long fingers were absently stroking his still unshaven chin. With that growth of beard and his long dark hair, he looked infinitely dangerous.

He
was
dangerous!

She fixed her gaze on the floor between them. And said nothing.

For a long moment, he just stood there, motionless. Amy could hear only the pounding of her own blood in her ears.

At last, he spoke. ‘Lost your tongue as well as your sense of direction, I see.’ He straightened and began to move towards her. His feet made no sound on the worn carpet.

In that moment, Amy understood how a cornered mouse must feel, when the cat was bearing down on it. But this cat did not pounce immediately. He stopped in front of her. Waiting.

‘Do you really have nothing to say?’ he asked softly.

Amy looked up then. She swallowed hard, trying to bring some moisture into her parched throat. ‘I…I was sent to fetch…’ Her excuse petered out at the sight of his lifted brows. He knew perfectly well that she was lying. She pressed her lips tightly together. She was unable to hold his penetrating gaze.

‘No, Dent, it’s not a very good excuse. And we both know it.’ He shook his head at her, rather in the manner of a fond relative, bemused by the antics of a naughty child. ‘Tell me,’ he said calmly, ‘why are you doing this?’ He reached out a hand to her.

Amy stepped back in alarm, but it was too late. With a quick flick of his long fingers, he had removed her all-concealing cap. ‘You really should not hide such beautiful hair,’ he said. Then, with thumb and forefinger of both hands, he delicately removed her heavy glass spectacles. ‘And you should not hide those beautiful eyes, either.’

He turned his back on Amy and carefully laid her spectacles on the Major’s desk. Very quietly, he said, ‘You are playing a very dangerous game, Miss
Devereaux. What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?’

Amy found herself staring in horror at his back. He knew who she was! Somehow, he had recognised her, even though he was a stranger to her. She was sure to be ruined now. And it was all for nothing! She had not rescued Ned!

Marcus turned very slowly. It was important not to frighten her. One look at her stark white face told him he was too late. She was already terrified. Indeed, she looked to be on the point of collapse.

He picked up the chair from beside the desk and set it down at her back, pushing gently on her shoulder until she sat down. ‘Forgive me, Miss Devereaux. I did not mean to upset you. But, truly, it is a mad start for a lady to come to a gentleman’s house in the guise of a servant. With colouring as unusual as yours, you were bound to be recognised. And recognition spells ruin, as I am sure you know.’

Her hands were tightly clasped in her lap. Her knuckles were white. But when she raised her gaze to meet his, there was a spark of defiance in those violet-blue eyes. It was in her voice, too. ‘I have taken the greatest of care, sir, to ensure that no one in this house would catch sight of my hair. If you had not removed my cap just now—’

‘I recognised your hair at our last meeting, Miss Devereaux. And, on that occasion, if you recall, you were wearing your cap throughout. It just went…slightly awry.’ He tried to prevent himself from smiling at the memory. Apart from those tell-tale wisps of hair, she had been more than adequately covered. He, on the other hand, had not.

‘And how is it, pray, that you know who I am? I am not aware that we have ever been introduced.’

Marcus was glad to see that she had recovered much of her natural dignity. And some courage, besides. Miss Amy Devereaux was certainly no shrinking miss. ‘That is easily explained,’ he said, with a nonchalant shrug. ‘I recall that you were pointed out to me some years ago at…some function or other. Colouring such as yours is not easily forgotten, even by one who has not been introduced. It was your first Season, I collect?’

She rose to her feet. Her back was ramrod-straight. ‘If you saw me in London, sir, it was seven years ago, during my first—and only—Season. Do you expect me to be flattered that you have remembered my name?’

‘No, ma’am. I expect you to be concerned. For if a man who set eyes on you only once can remember who you are, then other men will recognise you, too. You must leave the Chase before you are utterly ruined.’

‘I cannot,’ she replied immediately, with a small but decisive shake of her head.

‘Why not?’ snapped Marcus in exasperation.

She said nothing. She was refusing to look at him now.

Marcus took her firmly by the shoulders. ‘I ought to shake you until your teeth rattle, madam. What on earth can be so important that you would risk your reputation for it?’ A thought occurred. Instantly, he dropped his arms back to his sides. ‘Oh, of course. I should have known. It is always the way with women. You are here because of a lover.’

Her open palm struck him full on the cheek before he had time to realise quite how much he had insulted her. Her face was alight with fury.

For a tense moment, they stared at each other, like
warring stags. Then Marcus raised both hands, palms uppermost, in a gesture of surrender. ‘Miss Devereaux, I beg your pardon. That was an unforgivable thing to have said. And I fully deserved your chastisement.’ He put a hand to his cheek, rubbing the throbbing skin. He smiled wryly down at her. She had a heavy hand, indeed. And she was beginning to look a little uncertain. His ready acceptance of her rebuke seemed to have thrown her off balance. Now was the time to press home his advantage.

‘Miss Devereaux,’ he said gently, ‘it must be a matter of immense importance that has made you take so great a risk. Will you not confide in me? I may be able to help you.’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘You? But I don’t even know you.’

‘No,’ he said with a slow smile, ‘but you are here at Lyndhurst Chase for a reason. And I know a great deal about what goes on here.’

‘Do you?’ she asked quickly. For a moment, she sounded eager. Then her voice dropped again. ‘But I dare not trust you. Or anyone.’

Marcus reached for her hand. It was not as soft as a lady’s hand should have been. It was the hand of someone who was used to much more manual work than any lady should be. ‘Miss Devereaux, I give you my word as a gentleman that you may trust me. No matter what you may tell me, I promise you, on my honour, that I will not betray you.’

She did not remove her hand from his. Nor did she look at him directly. She seemed to be turning his words over in her mind. He could tell from the set of her shoulders that she remained undecided. And more
than a little afraid. Marcus knew he must simply wait for her decision.

At last, with a deep sigh, she said, ‘I do know that you saw my hair before. And I know, too, that you did not betray my identity then. If you had spoken of it to anyone, I should have been gone from this house long since. So, it seems that I
should
be able to trust you.’ She shook her head a little. ‘Indeed, it seems that I have no choice.’