Gallant Waif (35 page)

Innate chivalry, despite his gruff manner of expressing it, was forcing him to offer her the protection of his name. It would be rank cowardice for her to put off the inevitable…

Kate shivered. She felt like some small sea creature which had had its shell ruthlessly peeled from it and was now open and vulnerable to every hurt. The sensation was devastating.

“I will explain, Ja— Mr Carstairs, but before I do I must ask you not to say anything, either while I am explaining or afterwards, particularly afterwards. It…it is very difficult for me to tell you this, but I know I have no choice, and… if you look at me or touch me or say anything to me at all…it will destr— Well…you must promise me you will not.”

Jack stared at her, puzzled. Deep foreboding filled him— she was in deadly earnest. “And if I do not promise?”

Kate looked despairingly at him. “Well, if you do not, I suppose I must tell you any way… but it will be much worse, much more painful for me.”

“Then I promise,” he said quietly.

Kate took a deep breath and looked resolutely out of the window, staring unseeingly at the countryside flashing past. She turned her face away, hunched his big warm coat around her and in a hard little voice related the events of her last few months in Spain and Portugal, leaving nothing out, making no excuses, making it totally clear why she had no reputation to destroy and why she could marry no one.

Jack was oblivious to the jolting of the coach and the pain of his leg. He moved not an inch towards her, but his eyes dwelt on her averted profile with passionate intensity. He regretted nothing more than that last promise he had made her, wanted desperately to pull her into his arms and kiss her grief and pain away. But he could not. He had given her his promise.

His eyes were sombre and his throat filled as he realised the desperate courage that had made her lay her life bare for his edification. His eyes were soft and heavy as they took in the brave tilt of her chin, the resolute carriage of her slender frame as she destroyed herself in his eyes. Or so she thought, his little love. Did she not know how wonderful she was, how brave and gallant and beautiful?

She finished just as the carriage was drawing in to Sevenoakes. The carriage pulled up. She gave a shaky little laugh and said, “So there is no need for you—or Francis or anyone—to put yourself out to save my reputation or defend my honour. You cannot save what has already been destroyed, nor protect what was lost long ago.”

He made an inarticulate sound of repudiation deep in his throat and reached out a hand to her, but she flinched away from him. Francis, unaware of the drama which had taken place inside, jumped down, shouting for brandy and hot food. He threw open the carriage door; Kate scrambled out and fled blindly into the house. Francis looked after her, frowning, then turned and saw the haggard face of his friend.

“Come on, old chap,” he said softly. “I’ll give you a hand.”

As Jack limped slowly up the front steps of the house, a vehicle swung in through the front gates. It was a smart travelling carriage. Jack recognised it. It bore his grandmother’s crest. It drew to a halt and an unknown man alighted and walked briskly towards the two waiting men.

“Mr Carstairs?” he said.

“Yes,” said Jack.

“My name is Phillips. I have the honour to be Lady Cahill’s man of business. I have come with important news for Miss Farleigh, whom I understand to be staying here.” He beamed at the two men, then faltered at the look on Jack’s face. “She is here, is she not?”

Jack frowned. “Yes, she is here, but I am afraid she will not be able to see you immediately. She…she is indisposed.” With an effort he gathered his composure and said wearily, “Please come inside and I will have some refreshment brought to you. I’m sure you’ll need it after your journey.”

Chapter Fifteen

She
‘s an heiress, isn’t she?” Jack could restrain himself no longer. Already he’d had to wait until he and Francis had changed and refreshments served to Mr Phillips.

The elderly lawyer looked momentarily shocked at his bluntness, but after a moment seemed to come to a decision. He allowed a discreet smile to transform his face.

“Yes, sir, you have guessed correctly, although I must say no more until I have informed Miss Farleigh of the whole. But it is wonderful news indeed.”

Jack turned to Francis. “According to my grandmother, Kate’s Delacombe grandparents were extremely wealthy. Undoubtedly they have left her a legacy,” he said, feeling unaccountably low.

“That should please Kate. Girl deserves a bit of good fortune,” Francis said.

“Wait a minute…” said Jack slowly. “I thought all the money went to that cousin of hers.”

“That’s right,” said Francis, sitting up.

“What cousin is that?” said Mr Phillips, frowning. “I investigated the matter very thoroughly, and to the best of my knowledge there is no living cousin.”

“Fellow called Cole.”

“Cole!” snorted Phillips rudely. “He is no cousin of hers. I’ve sent Bow Street Runners after him!”

“What?” Both men leaned forward, riveted.

“Well, if it is the same man—Jeremiah Cole, big fellow with sandy hair?” They nodded. “He’s the rascally solicitor that I caught with his hands in the honeypot, so to speak. He slipped out of my hands a few weeks ago and disappeared.”

“Good God!”

“Fellow has been discreetly helping himself to funds from the Delacombe estate for some time since his father, the previous trustee, died.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Francis again.

“Do you mean to say that swine was embezzling Kate’s money? And that he’s no relation at all to her?”

Phillips nodded. “Yes, indeed. But how do you know of him?”

Jack exchanged a long look with Francis. The motive for Cole’s abduction of Kate was perfectly clear now. Had he forced Kate to marry him, her entire inheritance would have legally belonged to him. But there was no need to let Phillips know of the abduction attempt.

“He was here,” said Jack grimly. “Posing as Miss Far-leigh’s cousin and attempting to get her to marry him.”

Mr Phillips gasped in amazement. Jack glanced at Francis. “You should have let me kill him, you know,” he murmured.

“The Runners will get him, old man. He’ll hang, or be transported at the very least.”

“If they catch him.”

“Oh, they’ll catch him, no fear of that,” said Mr Phillips confidently. “I have no doubt at all. None at all.”

“They’d better,” growled Jack.

“I don’t suppose he got his greasy paws on too much of Miss Farleigh’s inheritance?” asked Francis diffidently.

Jack shot a look at him. Francis had no need of a rich wife.

“No, no. Fortunately the great majority of her inheritance is tied up so he could not touch it, and the whole is of such a size that it makes Cole’s depredations almost negligible, a fact I expect he was counting on, should the heirs ever have been discovered,” said Mr Phillips, rendered indiscreet by the generous quantity of brandy his host had pressed upon him.

Jack’s heart sank. She was rich, immensely so, from what Phillips had inadvertently revealed. She would not stay here long, in that case. With a fortune she would have need of nothing, nobody.

“I gather there’s some significance to your arrival in my grandmother’s carriage,” he said heavily.

“Yes, so very kind of her ladyship,” agreed Mr Phillips. “I am to convey Miss Farleigh to London as soon as may be convenient. Lady Cahill has great plans for her, I believe, great plans.”

“I’ll wager she has,” muttered Jack sourly.

“Perhaps Miss Farleigh will have her own ideas about that,” suggested Francis. “She may not wish to leave here.”

“Not wish to leave here!” Mr Phillips was astonished. He glanced around the shabby room. “Not wish to live in a fine London house, to go to balls and routs? Why would she not?”

“Why not, indeed?” murmured Jack. “If you will excuse me, I must go upstairs and have my man see to this curst leg.”

He stumped wearily upstairs, almost relishing the distraction of the pain of his leg. He stopped at the door to Kate’s room and stood there for several minutes. There was something to be said for purely physical pain, after all. An hour or so of massage, a half-bottle of brandy and it was cured.

Neither of those remedies would help the other sort of pain. In fact, they only served to intensify it; massage invariably conjured up the memory of the time when Kate first laid her small, strong hands on his leg, kneading, stroking, caressing… And as for brandy—there was neither pleasure nor forgetfulness for him in getting drunk now, for the very scent of alcohol recalled that night when she had stormed into his sanctuary like a small avenging angel, smashing all his decanters and bottles. He would never forget the look on her face that night… nor what occurred afterwards… the pleasure, the madness, the bitterness.

He had to let her go. She had no future with him. Not now. Not since she had become a rich woman. She might have agreed to take him on in exchange for a home, shabby as it was, for security, for his protection for the rest of her life. He hadn’t dared to speak of love. That would have remained his secret. But a home—that might have been enough for a girl who had lost everything. That and the promise of a family. To an orphan, the promise of a family might have been appealing.

None of those things held any significance now. She didn’t need to marry now—she could choose. She would go up to London and choose. He would never ask her now—he would not have her think him a fortune hunter. He cursed the De-lacombe inheritance. He cursed Mr Phillips. Had the man not arrived when he did, Jack might have had her agreement to wed him already. And he would have wasted no time, would have had her to the village church the very next day.

He glanced up and down the corridor, then leaned his ear against her door and listened. Nothing. He could smell the beeswax she had used to polish the timber panelling. Beeswax. Another reminder of Kate. Reluctantly he brought his cheek away from her door, and headed towards his room. There were flowers on a side table in the corridor, small, insignificant blue things in a mass of green spiky stuff. He bent down to smell them, closing his eyes in anguish. They smelt of Kate’s hair. This must be rosemary, then. He pulled out a sprig, crushed it in his long, strong fingers, and inhaled the fragrance.

“Carlos.” He absent-mindedly tucked the sprig of rosemary into his shirt.
“Si senor.”

“Do something about this blasted leg, will you?”

“At once,
senor.”

As Carlos clattered downstairs to heat the massage oils, Jack began to shrug off his coat. He paused for a moment, then stepped back into the hallway. He gazed down at the vase of fragrant greenery. Carefully he picked it up, carried it into his room and set it down beside his bed, where the morning sun would catch it.

“No, it is very kind of Lady Cahill, but now that I am able to support myself there is no need for me to go to London.”

“But Lady Cahill was most insistent—” The elderly lawyer tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. The heiress was being extremely difficult. He had tried every persuasion, painted pictures of the marvellous things she would see and do, of the shops, theatres, concerts and balls, of the cultural wonders, the famous places and people she would see. Nothing had the slightest effect.

Mr Phillips cast a tense look at Mr Carstairs. Her ladyship’s grandson had observed the entire argument, arms folded, looking sardonic and bad-tempered. He had said not a word so far.

Mr Phillips felt very put out. Having a romantic soul underneath his dull exterior, he had envisaged himself as a kind of knight, who would escort the lost princess back to her rightful milieu. Only the princess was unaccountably resistant and unfemininely sharp of tongue and wit, and nothing he said could move her.

And, what was more, he thought, with a growing sense of injustice, when he had told her of the immense fortune which was at her sole disposal she had reacted quite as if she had other things on her mind. When he had repeated himself, thinking she was too overcome to take it in, she had replied, “Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. It is very nice, thank you.”

Nice! Mr Phillips might be a mere solicitor, but there was something downright insulting about referring to such a huge fortune as “nice’. He began yet another attempt to persuade her, but his remarks were cut across by the harsh, deep voice of his client’s grandson.