His Lady Mistress (4 page)

But Max was here…why? Could he really be courting Celia? Max? Her gentle, tender Max? Did he know
she
was here?
Oh, for goodness sake! Why should he?

She didn’t think she had told him who her uncle was. And apparently Max had left the village very early on the morning
after her father’s burial. He would not have seen Lord Faringdon. And what if he found out
she
was here? She bit her lip. The only way in which he could help her would be to remove her from the Faringdons’ care. And he wouldn’t be able to do that, even if he wanted to. He might force them to treat her properly while he remained, but after he left—Despite the warmth of the day a chill stole through her. It would be worse than ever.

She couldn’t understand it. They didn’t want her here. They hated her. Why, then, did Aunt Faringdon refuse to write her a reference and let her go?

No. She must stay out of his way. Not that he was likely to recognise her after five years…she’d been a child. A thin, underdeveloped fifteen seen by a tallow candle. No. He would never recognise her.

In her dreams Max always knew her instantly, swept her up on to his horse and took her away. Lord Blakehurst was another matter entirely. Earls did not sweep indigent females up on to their precious bloodstock and carry them off to the obligatory happy ever after. Somehow she had to banish Lord Blakehurst and think only of Max. Otherwise she had lost her comforting dream.

The following evening Max, Earl Blakehurst, sighed with relief as the ladies left the dining room in the wake of Lady Faringdon. What in Hades had possessed him to accept this invitation? He hated gatherings like this. A veneer of pretension and affectation on the part of the ladies, concealing a solid core of hypocrisy. And the gentlemen were not much better.

Across the table young Godfrey Faringdon’s bragging account of some tale involving a lady’s companion at another house party grated on him. He gritted his teeth. In consigning Colonel Scott’s daughter to the care of her loving family, he had made a serious error of judgement.

‘Ah, Blakehurst? You there, old chap?’

He looked across the table to Mr Marlbury.

‘You’re being chased,’ said Marlbury, in a helpful spirit.

Max looked at him blankly. He knew
that
. Celia Faringdon’s subtlety at dinner had rivalled her mama’s. And as for her little stratagem this morning! He shuddered. That was the stuff of nightmares. Trapped. By a conniving little baggage!

‘The brandy!’ urged Marlbury.

‘Oh.’ Max became aware of Thornfield, to his left, attempting to pass him the brandy decanter. ‘Sorry, Thornfield.’ He poured himself a glass and took a cautious sip. He barely suppressed another shudder. Just as atrocious as the previous night. Lord. The things a man would do in response to a guilty conscience: attending ghastly house parties and drinking appalling brandy to name a couple.

‘I say, Blakehurst,’ said Thornfield in a low voice, ‘Miss Celia seems quite taken with you!’ He leered at Max. ‘Dare say you’ve only got to drop your handkerchief.’

Max gulped brandy. One thing he could guarantee: Miss Celia might be taken
with
him, but she would not be taken
by
him. His handkerchief would stay in his pocket. And
he
would stay out of the maze.

‘Of course, if that don’t appeal,’ went on Thornfield, showing remarkable percipience for a man in his inebriated condition, ‘you could always amuse yourself with Fanny Moncrieff or Kate Highbury.
They
won’t expect marriage.’ He attempted a lascivious wink.

Max returned a non-committal reply and reminded himself that he did, after all, bear a certain reputation. But had he realised that Lady Moncrieff and Mrs Highbury were to be present, casting their jaded, world-weary lures in his direction, then he would definitely have reconsidered his strategy in attending.

Oh, the devil! Too late for second thoughts now. He was here and he should have come years ago. Indeed, even being in the house had not yielded results. He had found out noth
ing, so he would have to ask his host point-blank. And how he was supposed to ask tactfully escaped him.

In the end, he eschewed tact, cornering his host as they left the dining room. ‘Faringdon, perhaps I might have a private word with you?’

Lord Faringdon blinked. And then smiled. An oily, triumphant sort of smile that put every nerve on full battle alert. ‘Why, of course, Blakehurst. My library is private. This way!’ He signalled to his son. ‘Godfrey, tell my lady that I am engaged on some urgent business with Blakehurst.’

Max eyed him with extreme disfavour. Good God! The man was fairly rubbing his hands in glee! What the devil did he—? The truth crashed over him. Faringdon thought he was about to make an offer. For Celia. Mentally cursing his own idiocy, Max followed his host to the library.

‘More brandy, Blakehurst?’

Max abandoned good manners. ‘No. Thank you.’

Faringdon favoured him with a conspiratorial grin and poured a glass anyway, thrusting it at him. ‘No, no, Blakehurst. This ain’t the same stuff we had in the dining room! Wouldn’t waste this on that lot!’

‘I’ve had enough,’ Max informed him coldly.

Faringdon stared. ‘Had enough? Oh, ah…yes, well.’ He took a sip himself. ‘To business, then. I take it, you like what you see. She’s had only the best, so…’

Max headed him off at once. ‘Lord Faringdon, I wonder if you could give me any news of Miss Scott?’

‘Miss Scott?’
The brandy in Lord Faringdon’s glass slopped over.

Max frowned at the reaction. Faringdon’s eyes flickered under his hard gaze. Fear.

He pressed on, relentless. ‘Yes. I believe her to be a niece of Lady Faringdon and under your care. Her late father was my C.O. and I thought to enquire after her.’ He pretended to examine a painting.

‘Oh.’ Disdain came through clearly. ‘I’m afraid she is no longer with us.’

Anger surged through Max and he swung back to stare at Faringdon. Just as he’d feared. Verity Scott had been bundled off God knew where. Somewhere her tragic story could not embarrass the socially ambitious Faringdons. He could see it now—packed off to be a companion to a cantankersome old hag, or immured in some foul girls’ school as a drudge. Well, he wouldn’t permit it!

He saw with satisfaction that Faringdon had paled and forcibly relaxed his hands. Clenched fists were not the best way to draw information out of a reluctant man. Not discreetly, anyway.

‘Perhaps you could give me her direction, Faringdon. I should like to pay my respects.’ What had they done to her? Could he help her? Might Lady Arnsworth, his Aunt Almeria, employ her?

Lord Faringdon said quickly, ‘I fear you misunderstand me, Blakehurst. When I said that Miss Scott was no longer with us, I meant that she has…that she is…’

Cold horror, laced with shocking pain, shuddered through Max. ‘She’s dead.’ Statement, not question, and something inside him tore apart as Lord Faringdon inclined his head in assent.

‘Wh…when?’ He could not control the break in his voice. That poor, gallant child. Dead. It lacerated him.

‘Oh, quite soon after she came to us, you know.’ Lord Faringdon manufactured a sigh. ‘All very sad of course, but no doubt for the best. There was nothing much one could do for her after Scott’s disgraceful end, you know. Dare say she felt it.’

Max remembered a fifteen-year-old girl crouched, weeping in the mud of her father’s grave, planting bluebells, and came close to strangling his host.

‘I’ve little doubt she did.’ He hardly recognised his own voice, hoarse and shaking.

Faringdon glanced at him. ‘Sure you won’t have a drink, Blakehurst? You sound as though something’s caught in your throat.’

Something was—bile. A drink wouldn’t answer the purpose. He’d be tempted to fling it in Faringdon’s face. Somehow he managed to say, ‘I take it she’s buried in the churchyard, then. I’ll pay my respects there.’ Bluebells. She’d liked bluebells. He’d beg some bulbs from the gardeners. A queer sound from Lord Faringdon brought him around. His jaw clenched, Max raised his brows questioningly.

Lord Faringdon looked as though he might strangle on his cravat as he tugged at it. ‘Ah, well…um…as to that, Blakehurst…no
marked
grave, y’know. Sad, very sad. Weakness in the bloodline, no doubt. Only glad it bypassed my family.’

Max’s stomach churned at the import of Faringdon’s words.
No marked grave…

Then she had…the memory of another suicide’s grave rose in accusation. He could feel the rain, smell the wet earth…and hear the awful blows…And he saw again a girl’s tear-streaked face, heard her breaking voice struggle to finish a psalm, felt the slight, trusting weight in his arms as he attempted to comfort her. Saw dark, shadowed eyes shining in the firelight with tears and gratitude for too little, too late.

Blindly he turned and walked from the room without another word.

Verity slipped away from the kitchens as soon as she had finished helping to count the silver. Swiftly she made her way along the upper corridors towards the back stairs that led up to her chamber.

The sound of footsteps ascending the main stairs hurried her the more. Her aunt had made it quite plain that she was to remain out of sight of the guests. So far she had managed to get through the day without any serious trouble—a run of luck she had no intention of breaking.

Reaching the back stairs, she caught up her skirts and took
the steps two at a time, only to let out a shriek of fright as a shadow detached itself from the wall and grabbed for her. The familiar reek of stale brandy assailed her. ‘Let me go, Godfrey!’ She hit out at her slightly inebriated cousin and tried to dodge around him, but he caught her easily in the confined space.

‘Just a cousinly kiss, then.’ He leered at her. At least she assumed he was from the slur in his voice. He usually leered when his mother wasn’t looking.

She was trapped between Godfrey above her and the footsteps below in the hall. ‘Stop it!’ she hissed, clawing at his eyes.

He grabbed her wrists as he jerked his face away and dragged her close. ‘Not without my kiss,’ he muttered. Brandy and foul breath surrounded her.

‘No!’
Gagging, she kicked out at him and connected with his shin, stubbing her own toe. It was enough. Godfrey yelled in pain and shoved her away so that she stumbled backwards into the hall with a cry of fright.

Her landing scared her even more. Instead of crashing to the floor, she found herself held safely in a strong grip. A very masculine grip that steadied her on her feet and released her. Dazed, she looked up into a dark, harsh face. Bright topaz eyes burned into her.

‘Oh!’
she gasped. ‘What are
you
doing here?’

Dark brows lifted in mute question. ‘Have we met?’

Her world tipped upside down as she stared up at the one person she must, above all others, avoid. ‘N…no,’ she lied. ‘You startled me. Thank you, sir. I…I didn’t know there was anyone here. I…I slipped.’

‘Did you?’ The deep voice took on a tone of lazy curiosity. ‘And did Faringdon slip, too?’

Verity could not suppress a shudder. Suddenly her elbow was taken in a firm grip.

‘You may as well come out, Faringdon,’ continued her rescuer. ‘Let’s be quite sure we all understand each other.’

Godfrey emerged from the stairwell and Verity saw with unchristian pleasure that her wild swipe at his face had drawn blood.

‘What’s it to do with you?’ blustered Godfrey. ‘This ain’t your house!’

Lord Blakehurst smiled without the least vestige of humour. ‘The whims of a guest should always be indulged, Faringdon. It appears the wench is less than willing. You will oblige me by leaving her alone. Is that clear?’

Wench?
Verity only just choked back the explosion. Safer if he did think her one of the maids. So she swallowed her fury and lowered her eyes. Probably in this clothing she did look like a servant. She had already decided that it was too dangerous to let him know she was here.

Godfrey smirked. ‘Unwilling? Oh, she’s always willing enough—’

Blakehurst seemed to swell. ‘Go. Before I forget that your father is my host.’

Godfrey backed away. ‘Suppose you think you’ll get a leg across, eh, Blakehurst?’ he jibed, settling his sleeves in an attempt to look unconcerned. Then he lifted his hand to his face and stared at the blood in apparent disbelief. The look he stabbed at Verity swore revenge.

Cold fear dripped down Verity’s spine. If this came to her aunt’s ears—that she had landed in Lord Blakehurst’s arms—her situation would be even worse.

‘I suggest that you cease to judge others by your own dubious standards, Faringdon.’ His lordship’s voice descended to outright menace. ‘I have absolutely no need to force my attentions on unwilling maidservants. Now take yourself off!’

Godfrey left, with another vicious look at Verity. Her heart sank. God only knew how he would explain that scratched face to his mother, but Verity didn’t doubt that she would figure largely.

Shivering, she turned to go. If Godfrey didn’t mention Lord Blakehurst’s presence, then she was safe. Relatively.

‘A moment.’

Slowly she looked back. Almost against her will, her eyes lifted to his face. All hard planes and angles, it held the promise of strength and purpose. Something inside her exulted, rioted, even as she stood motionless, trapped in his gaze. ‘My lord?’

‘You puzzle me, girl.’

Swallowing hard, she didn’t say anything, just tried to look vaguely subservient as she fought the attraction of those eyes.

‘Are you a servant?’

Five years ago, three even, Verity would have denied the suggestion without hesitation. Now…now when she knew how easily she could be kicked out, that there was nowhere else to go, now that she understood exactly what her fate would be if they
did
throw her out, she hesitated.

‘You don’t talk like it,’ he went on.

‘Nursery governess,’ she muttered. It wasn’t quite a lie. She did try to teach the younger girls between paid governesses. The gaps between paid governesses had gradually become longer and longer.