Fated Folly (20 page)

Rupert struggled up on his elbow and caught her handkerchief as it fell. ‘A degree better. Is this yours?' He blinked sleep away. ‘What are you doing here?'

He did not remember. Clare did not know whether to be glad or sorry. She must improvise quickly. ‘I came out for a walk, and found you sleeping.'

‘
Alone?' he asked with a frown.

‘
Oh well, I did not mean to come so far.' She saw his eyes narrowing and bit her lip. But the mischief peeped through. ‘Oh drat. The truth is I came to find you.'

‘
Did you indeed?' he enquired politely, sitting up.

‘
Well, I knew you had been drunk,
Sir
Rupert, and I wanted to know if you were all right.'

‘
Your solicitude overwhelms me,
Lady
Wolverley,' he said, shifting so that he could rest his back against the tree behind him. He held out her handkerchief. ‘Add to your goodness, I beg, and wet that for me.'

Clare got up, taking the small square of linen. She was aware of him watching her as she dipped it in the water for the second time and wrung it out a little. She came back to him, smiling as if nothing untoward had occurred between them, and dropping down, reached out with the handkerchief as if she would place it against his forehead.

Rupert's hand caught hers and closed over it, wet handkerchief and all. ‘Clare,' he said heavily. ‘About yesterday.'

Clare shook her head, and with her free hand quickly put her fingers lightly to his lips. ‘Don't say anything, pray. Forget it. I don't want to be at outs with you, Rupert.'

‘
Nor I,' he said quickly, his hand coming up to hold hers against his lips while he kissed her fingers.

Clare smiled at him. ‘You know the adage better than I, I dare say.'

‘
Least said, yes.' Then he grimaced, and releasing her hands took the handkerchief and applied it to his face. ‘I wish one might say the same of brandy.'

‘
Why in the world had you to resort to that?' Clare demanded in a voice of censure.

On a pleading note, Rupert said, ‘Don't scold, Lady Wolverley. I am suffering enough as it is.'

‘
Well, brandy is not a remedy.'

‘
I know it.' He grimaced. ‘But I don't know of any other for my malady.'

Clare watched him draw the wetness across his brow and dampen the sleep from his face. He still looked pale, and he was unshaven, as Clare had discovered when he kissed her. Not that she had minded, neither that nor the aftertaste of brandy in his kiss. There were shadows under his eyes, too, she noted with a rush of tenderness.

‘
At least you may recover without let or hindrance, now that our visitors have gone,' she remarked, twinkling at him. ‘And now that you know I am not going to plague you, so you need not lock your door against me.'

A rueful look crept into his face. ‘How did you know?'

‘
I tried to get in, of course. Don't be afraid. I shan't do so any more.'

Rupert stretched out his hand to her. ‘Don't be silly. You are always welcome, you know that.'

Her eyes quizzed him, although she gave him her hand. ‘You are a dreadful fibber, Sir Rupert Wolverley.'

His fingers closed over hers. ‘Alas, I have sunk beyond recall.'

‘
Utterly. I shall “sir” you forever now. I shall treat you with all the deference your advanced years warrant.'

‘
For five minutes.'

‘
And I shall alternate “Sir Rupert” with “Great-uncle”.'

Rupert jerked her forward so that she came to her knees, and reaching about her, gave her a sharp slap on the rump.

‘
Ouch!' she cried, laughing and falling against him.

‘
I did warn you,' he told her, mock severe, catching her up and holding her off. ‘Never tease a man with a morning head.'

Mischief sparkled in her bosom and her heart lightened. ‘I shall tease you morning, noon and night, if I choose, head or no head. You knew I was going to lead my husband a dance, so it is quite your own fault for marrying me.'

‘
I know it is,' Rupert agreed, his eyes alight with laughter. ‘I should rather have blown my brains out had I had any sense at all.'

‘
Well, you have done that quite successfully with your atrocious brandy, sir.'

‘
Very true.' He pushed her back. ‘But if that is all the sympathy you have to offer, I wish you will go away. Go and learn of housekeeping from Berinthia, or some such thing.'

Clare went quite silent all of a sudden, sitting back on her heels and staring at him.

But Rupert, once again drawing the wet handkerchief against his brow, did not notice. In a musing tone, he said, ‘I do feel we ought to persuade her to stay, Clare. It will trouble my conscience if she goes off to slave in some other household, where she may not be treated in a manner worthy of what she deserves. She is my cousin, after all, distant though the relationship is. And she has stood in place of a mother to Pippa for so long.'

He looked to Clare for a response as he finished, and caught the expression on her face. ‘Why, what is the matter, Clare?'

‘
Berinthia,' she breathed.

“
B”, she thought frantically. It couldn't be, could it? Not her, Rupert. You could not. But she did not say it. Not now. Not when she had just succeeded in recovering that ease of communication, the bantering games that brought them so close.

She gave a rather shaky laugh. ‘Oh, it—it just struck me what a lovely name it is. Berinthia.' She read doubt and puzzlement in his face, and added quickly, ‘You are right, of course. I have been trying to—to persuade her to forget this nonsensical idea of finding a post.'

She began to get up, anxious to leave him before the shock of this hideous possibility could overwhelm her.

‘
Where are you going?' Rupert demanded, his hand flying out.

Clare moved out of reach. ‘I cannot sit here all day, Rupert.' She managed a quizzing smile. ‘In any event, you told me to go. I shall leave you to sleep off your excesses.'

Then she darted away before he could stop her, running quickly through the trees in the direction of the Manor. Fortunately, there was no possibility of missing her way coming from the forest, for the gabled roofs of the Manor stood out above the trees.

As she hurried, her mind was working swiftly.
Berinthia
. So agitated as she had been when the sketch was found. Trying to snatch it from Clare's hand. She would return it, she said. And that it was foolish of him to leave it in the drawer. She had known, of course she had. She was the mysterious “B”. How stupid not to guess before. So easy for them, living in the same house. Her position putting her above suspicion. And Rupert did not want her to leave. Had he not just said so? Did that mean they were still—?

Her heart shied away from the thought. Oh, how could he? Miss Flimwell, of all people. She was not even pretty. Far from it. She was skinny, and sallow, and old. Well, older than Rupert by some years, Clare amended, conscious that her jealousy was making her spiteful. But it spat from her nevertheless. She was old. How could Rupert make love to her? She had grey hair!

Clare's feet flew as she speeded up the terraces towards the house. She would have the truth at once. Because if Berinthia Flimwell was in love with Clare's husband, out she would go.

Breathless and panting, Clare launched herself through the still open French windows into the drawing-room, and pulled up with a jerk.

Rising from the chair by the desk was Lord Ashendon, a welcoming smile on his face.

‘
Well met, cousin.'

‘
What are you doing here?' Clare gasped out between panting breaths. ‘Rupert will be furious.'

‘
Let us hope, then, that he does not return too early,' Ashendon said smoothly. ‘I understand from Brookland that he has gone off to—er—recuperate.'

‘
How dare you pump the servants?' Clare demanded, an angry flush suffusing her cheeks.

‘
I had a reason,' he told her, infuriatingly cool. Then, before Clare could think of a suitable response, he went on, ‘But I have brought you a visitor.'

He gestured to the sofa near the French windows behind her, and turning, Clare found they were not alone. The woman seated there rose, and came forward holding out her hand.

She was a pretty woman, who looked to be nearer forty than thirty, and a little plump. The sort most men would term “a cosy armful”, with a full bosom modestly concealed by the gauze fichu about her neck. A chipstraw hat, all over flowers, concealed most of her brown hair, and she wore a cotton gown that might have been fashionable a year or so ago.

She eyed Clare with undisguised interest as she came up to her, saying in a distinct country accent, ‘How d'ye do, ma'am? I've been wanting to meet you ever so.'

Mystified, Clare took the outstretched hand and shook it. ‘How do you do?'

‘
Mrs Arksey is something of a celebrity hereabouts, Cousin Clare,' Ashendon said in his smoothest tone, moving towards them with his snuffbox in his hand.

‘
Indeed?' Clare responded politely, wondering what in the world he was talking about.

‘
You exaggerate, my lord,' the woman said, her eyes never leaving Clare's face.

‘
Not at all, Biddy,' he laughed, taking snuff. ‘To have been able to earn your living since your husband's death in such a successful manner is no small achievement.'

‘
Not quite a living no more.'

‘
Well, you have other means, have you not?' Ashendon said pleasantly. Turning to Clare again, his lip beginning to curl a little, he added, ‘She is a notable artist, Clare. All the families around here have some of her works hanging on their walls. Our own family group in the gallery, for instance, was by Mrs Arksey's hand.'

‘
The—the painting?' Clare faltered. Her eyes went to Ashendon and back to the woman. ‘Did you say—Biddy?'

‘
Bridget, ma'am,' explained Mrs Arksey. ‘Only everyone calls me Biddy. I did do such paintings in the past. But I was always better with my pencil, truth to tell.'

‘
Portraiture,' Ashendon purred.

Clare's mind was going blank, but the satisfaction on Ashendon's face registered even as his meaning penetrated. His smile was lethal.

‘
I thought, cousin, we might persuade Rupert to have Biddy paint you.'

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

Clare looked at the man, one stark fact drumming in her head.

Rupert's mistress. She was Rupert's mistress. Not Berinthia. Not Blanche. But
Biddy
. Biddy was Rupert's mistress.

‘
Paint me?' she repeated, as if the words made no sense.

‘
It is customary for a new bride to be committed to canvas, Cousin Clare.'

As she stared at him, all the implications of his action came stampeding into her mind. He was trying to part her from Rupert! Not content with arousing a demon of jealousy in him, he wanted to do the same by her. She had known nothing of any mistress were it not for Ashendon. And that sketch. Both Rupert and Berinthia had exclaimed at its presence in the drawing-room desk. Ash must have planted it there for her to find. Now, to crown all, he had brought her face to face with Rupert's mistress.

Rage burned in her breast. But Biddy Arksey was standing there. This time, for pride's sake, Lady Wolverley would play the game, and spike Ashendon's guns.

‘
Indeed, Mrs Arksey, I should be delighted,' she said, turning to the woman, all her batteries of charming guile turning on full blast.

Mrs Arksey, however, saw fit to put the possibility out of count. ‘Aye, but I don't do portraits no more, ma'am. My landscapes are selling well enough now.'

‘
What it is to have a patron,' commented Ashendon lightly. ‘But, Biddy, you must make an exception in this case.'

Clare saw Mrs Arksey shoot him an odd, questioning glance, but said firmly, ‘I make no exceptions, my lord.'

‘
You need not on my account,' Clare said sweetly, chalking up one more grievance against Ashendon. Patron indeed! ‘My husband will no doubt commission someone suitable in due course.'

‘
I cannot believe you are not instantly inspired, Biddy,' Ashendon protested.

Coming closer to Clare, he put an arm about her, imprisoning her tightly as she stiffened and tried to shrug him off. His fingers took hold of her unwilling chin and he forced her head about so that she had to meet the mockery in his green eyes.

‘
Look at her, Biddy. Such an enchanting, piquant little face. Soft, cherry lips; locks of palest gold; and those orbs—' as Clare's reluctant gaze glittered at him impotently ‘—oh, so sparkling. Can you blame poor Rupert? What man would not succumb?'