The Bachelor Trap (7 page)

Nothing short of the threat of imminent discovery could have made her move away. Ears straining, she edged closer to the open window.

“It may come to that, but I'd rather she came to me by herself and told me what's troubling her.”

“Why should she?”

There was a smile in Hamilton's voice. “Because she's learning to trust me.”

Marion sucked air through her teeth. If she were a man, she would have him by the throat right now.

Denison said, “You do realize that, in the eyes of the world, you're practically engaged to the girl? Need I remind you of the scene with Julia Milford in Fanny's ballroom, not to mention the kiss that followed? If you continue to pay such marked attention to Lady Marion, everyone will wonder when the wedding is to be.”

“Let them” was the curt reply.

Exasperated, Ash retorted, “What about Lady Marion? Doesn't she deserve to know what you're up to?”

Now for the moment of truth, thought Marion, and her fingers clenched into fists.

“Ash,” said Brand, “would you mind smoking that blasted cheroot outside? The smoke in here is practically choking me.”

Marion cursed under her breath. That was no answer, bur she dared not stay longer. Picking up her skirts, she slipped away, keeping to the shadows. Her pulse was racing and her resentment was edged with alarm. He was a newspaperman. He thought that gave him the right to ferret out everyone's secrets. Or maybe he wanted to make quite sure that the lady he took to wife wouldn't have any secrets in her past that could embarrass him when he became prime minister. Prime minister? Hah! She was beginning to sound like Phoebe. Her one consolation was that David wouldn't tell him anything, because she'd paid him handsomely for his silence.

She came face-to-face with Manley in the inn's lobby and wasn't surprised when he bared his teeth at her.

“I've been looking all over for you,” he said.

“And I've been looking all over for my reticule.” She recognized her boxes as her postboys carried them upstairs.

Manley dug in his pocket. “You left it in the coach,” he said, and held it out to her.

She practically snatched it out of his hand. Everything was just as it should be. There was no threatening note tucked inside.

Her smile was brilliant. “Now you may snap at me as much as you like, Mr. Manley.”

And she whirled herself around and went racing up the stairs.

Brand rose quietly, so as not to disturb Ash, shrugged into his coat, and went out onto the gallery for a breath of fresh air. Though lights still blazed from the inn's windows, the stable yard was fairly quiet. Only a few ostlers were on duty, and no carriages had entered the yard in the last little while. Postboys had brought the news that not only was Brighton cut off by the rising waters, but the road to Longbury had been washed away as well.

He couldn't sleep. His mind teemed with questions. He felt desperate to do something, anything, and he was stuck here in the middle of nowhere.

He'd examined the wheel of Marion's chaise and, as far as he could tell, it hadn't been tampered with. A submerged boulder had buckled the left wheel. His theory that Marion was deliberately being targeted was beginning to appear ridiculous. Or was that what he was supposed to think?

David Kerr. He'd got the name from Fanny, but she didn't know anything about him. Why wouldn't Marion confide in him?

At least he knew where she was and that she was safe. But he couldn't drop everything and go tearing up and down the English countryside looking for her, as he had done today, just because she might be stranded in some godforsaken place. And whose fault was that? No sane woman would have taken to the road in this kind of weather. Lucky for her, Ash was watching out for her.

What was he going to do with her?

His mouth curved in a smile that was ironic as well as humorous. Brand Hamilton, the baseborn son of a duke, and Lady Marion Dane, the highborn daughter of an earl? He was well aware that their mutual attraction appalled her as much as it appalled him. She thought that he wanted to marry her to further his political ambitions, that marriage to a blue-blood would add to his consequence. The opposite was true. With few exceptions, he felt nothing but contempt for the aristocracy and their assumption that a life of privilege was theirs by divine right.

Marion was an exception. Oh, she could act the grande dame when it suited her, those cool gray eyes chilling to ice. But that was a defense to keep him at arm's length. When she felt secure, as she did with her sisters and cousins, she was anything but aloof. Getting to know Marion was like peeling a rosebud, one petal at a time. One had to watch out for the thorns.

His grin faded. This wasn't a game. He had to be satisfied that there was no danger to Marion. He had things to do, places to go. He knew this terrain like the back of his hand. Flood waters or no, he could be in Longbury before dawn.

Marion wasn't going anywhere. Between them, Ash and Manley could look out for her.

On that thought, he turned into his chamber and wakened Ash.

The watcher cursed softly under his breath. Lady Marion had as many bodyguards watching over her as any princess of the realm. He would never get to her now. The note he was supposed to slip inside her reticule was burning a hole in his pocket.

He'd known that her chaise would eventually founder because he'd made sure that the wheel would buckle. What he hadn't known was when it would happen, or that Lord Denison would get to her first.

It seemed obvious to him that Brand Hamilton was taking a proprietary interest in Lady Marion and had enlisted his friend Denison to be her escort. The question he was asking himself was whether Hamilton suspected anything, or whether he was acting as any eager suitor would.

This was too close for comfort. The thing to do now was lie low and melt into the background.

Cold beads of sweat broke out on his brow. He felt chilled to the bone. It wasn't the thought of Lady Marion and what she might reveal that chilled him, but the thought of Brand Hamilton.

The last thing he wanted was to come face-to-face with that gentleman. He'd taken a chance at the theater, but it was a risk he wasn't prepared to take again.

A fresh horse was saddled and waiting for him in the stable. He mounted up, pulled his hat low over his face, and rode out, going back the way he had come.

Longbury was a small market town snugly nestled in a gap in the South Downs and owed its prosperity to the wool trade. Centuries before, it had also been home to a Benedictine monastery, but all that remained of the monks' presence was their Priory, now the stately home of the FitzAlans, the leading family in the area. Brand's family.

It stood on the summit of a hill, and though Brand had been riding for hours in a steady drizzle, and his eyes were heavy with fatigue, his gaze was inexorably drawn to the Priory's roof etched against the horizon. His grandfather's house, the Grange, was on the opposite side of the road, going down toward the river. In its time, the Grange had served as a granary, a farmhouse, and a vicarage before a prosperous wool merchant rebuilt it for his family's use. When the family's fortunes declined, most of the land was sold off and the main house and outbuildings passed from one owner to another until the property was acquired by the Hamiltons. The Grange was an unassuming, two-story brick building set in extensive grounds, and a fitting though somewhat spartan residence for his Puritan grandfather.

Close to the house was a small stable block for which his grandfather had had little use except for sheltering his horse and buggy. Though it was barely first light, the grooms Manley had hired were hard at work, and Brand was glad to turn the care of his horse over to them. Then he stumbled to the house, threw off his sodden cloak in the vestibule, and climbed the stairs to his bed.

When Brand wakened, sunshine was streaming in his bedroom window. His first thought was that the rain had stopped. His second was that he should have remembered there were no soft feather beds in his grandfather's house, only mattresses that felt as though they were stuffed with bricks. In fact, they were stuffed with horsehair.

Yawning, groaning, he rolled from the bed and took a moment to stretch his aching muscles. He'd slept in his clothes and he wasn't sure whether the rank smell came from his horse, from the mattress, or from himself. Fortunately, he always kept plenty of his own garments in the dressers and closets, a countryman's clothes that were never in or out of fashion.

He noted that the fire had been lit and that gave him hope. Crossing to the bell rope, he gave it a hard yank. His hope was realized a few moments later when a towheaded boy of about twelve summers entered his chamber.

“And your name is—?” Brand inquired.

“Sam,” replied the boy. “Sam Ludlow.”

Brand remembered Sam's mother very well. She'd been Edwina's cook and maid-of-all-work. More to the point, she was one of the people he'd made this snap journey to interrogate. It was she who had found Edwina's body. Perhaps she knew more than she realized—if there was more to know.

“Any chance that I could have a bath this morning?” he asked the boy.

Sam smiled. “My mother told me you would say that, so the first thing she did when we arrived was light the fire under the boiler.”

“Splendid,” said Brand, rubbing his hands.

Less than an hour later, bathed and changed, Brand entered the kitchen feeling more like himself. Mrs. Ludlow was like most countrywomen: As soon as she heard her man's step at the door, she had his meal on the table.

“You'll have to eat in the kitchen, sir,” she said, heaping a plate with scrambled eggs. “I haven't got round to setting fires in the other rooms.”

“The kitchen is fine,” Brand assured her. “And don't bother lighting fires. I'll be in and out a great deal.”

He'd hardly sat down when the plate was set in front of him—cold mutton, kidney, and fluffy eggs. Next came the toast with a bowl of marmalade. He waited until she'd poured his coffee before he invited her to join him.

“To talk about your duties here,” he said.

She smiled and shook her head. “I'm only helping out until your own people arrive. You see, I already have a job. I'll be working for Lady Marion up at the cottage.”

“Ah. I should have known. All the same, do take a chair and keep me company for a little while.”

She looked at him as though he'd taken leave of his senses. Servants did not keep company with their employers.

He gave her his most winsome grin. “I never got round to telling you how much Edwina appreciated all you did for her. She never stopped singing your praises.” And that was the truth.

She relented, then, and took the chair he indicated, her roughened hands loosely clasped in her lap. Her Celtic ancestry showed in her dark coloring and fine bones. He judged her to be in her early forties. Obviously, the boy got his looks from his father.

He remembered, then, that she was a widow. There were other children besides Sam, younger children, who were looked after by their grandmother while Mrs. Ludlow worked to provide for them all. His respect for the lady rose by several degrees.

She was looking at him expectantly.

Leading gently, he said, “How long were you with Miss Gunn?”

“Not long. Five years, after I became a widow and my mother came to live with us.” A shadow of a smile touched her lips. “Miss Gunn always remembered the children's birthdays.”

“That sounds like Edwina.”

She nodded. “She was always so kind, so generous.”

He let a moment of silence pass and chewed on the cold mutton. “I had heard,” he went on carefully, “that she wasn't easy to get along with those last few weeks. I mean, she was becoming forgetful and suspicious of her friends.” He stopped when he saw she was bristling.

There was no softness or respect in her voice now when she spoke. “Have you never forgotten where you left your spectacles or your keys, Mr. Hamilton? Do you always remember everyone's name? She was no more forgetful than the next person, but—” She bit down on her lip as though belatedly remembering to whom she was speaking.

“But?” Brand encouraged in the same gentle tone.

She breathed out a sigh. “She was troubled about the past, about her sister, Hannah. She wanted to know what had happened to her.”

“Everyone believes she eloped.”

“Miss Gunn said that that was a lie and she was going to prove it.”

“Who told her it was a lie?”

“She wouldn't tell me, and I didn't press her. Well, it's not my place, is it? She was my employer.”

“What did Miss Gunn think happened to Hannah?”

Her eyes flicked to the door as though hoping someone would enter and put a stop to the interview. Finally, she said, “She didn't say.”

He didn't want to alarm her by firing off questions, but he hadn't learned anything he didn't already know, except that Mrs. Ludlow didn't believe Edwina was becoming forgetful or senile. She could be trying to protect an employer who had always treated her well, but Brand did not think that was likely. Her indignation on Edwina's behalf seemed genuine.

He swallowed a mouthful of coffee before going on carefully, “You haven't betrayed any confidences, Mrs. Ludlow. Edwina told me all this in one of her letters. And I would have to say she sounded as sane as you or I.”

“She wrote to you?”

He nodded.

“When was this?”

“A few weeks before the accident. I was out of town and didn't receive her letter till after the funeral. Why do you ask?”

The interest died out of her eyes. “When I found her at the foot of the stairs, there were ink stains on her fingers, but neither the constable nor I found a letter or anything she might have written.”

Now this was something new, and the first indication of something out of the ordinary. “Only one more question,” he said. When she looked at him anxiously, he hesitated. He didn't want to frighten her off. He wanted to gain her trust so that she would confide in him. There would be other opportunities to speak with her.

Veering off in another direction, he said, “How do you get these eggs so fluffy?”

As he trudged up the steep incline to the house, Brand could not help reflecting on the irony of the situation. When he was old enough to strike out on his own, he'd left the Priory vowing never to return. Things hadn't worked out that way. Even in death, his father had managed to have the last word. By the terms of the duke's last will and testament, he had appointed Brand as sole trustee for his half brother and sister. Everyone expected him to refuse the trust or turn it over to his uncle, Lord Robert. This he would not do. Robert did not have the interest or the talent to manage Andrew's affairs, but Brand did, and he was determined to make his half brother worthy of his great estate.

When the butler opened the front door and ushered him into the Great Hall, Brand felt as though time had reversed itself. As a boy, he'd imagined Hartley to be about eighty years old. He hadn't changed a bit. Nor had the Great Hall. The same priceless tapestries adorned its walls, the same armored knight sat astride his stuffed destrier.

“You're looking well, sir,” Hartley observed with a faint smile, then advised him that the ladies were breakfasting in the morning room.

“Only the ladies?” inquired Brand.

Hartley nodded. “Lord Robert and Lady Theodora, I believe, are visiting friends in Windsor. There's a filly there that her ladyship has her eye on.”

That sounded like Theodora. Horses and hunting were the loves of her life. She had no children to deflect her interest from her horsey pursuits, and no husband. Lord Robert might have accompanied his wife to Windsor, but once there they would go their separate ways.

“And His Grace?” inquired Brand, referring to Andrew.

Hartley's smile bunched his thin cheeks. “Oh, the young duke is with the estate agent, at the farm.”

That was exactly what Brand wanted to hear. The FitzAlans' wealth depended on the land and its farms. It was imperative that the young duke be conversant with all aspects of how his estates were run. This was the lambing season, and the wool trade was important to the estate's fortunes. With the help of Mr. Terrance, the estate agent handpicked by Brand, Andrew's education had just begun.

“No need to announce me,” he told Hartley, and he made his way across the flagstoned Great Hall to the west wing.

When he entered the morning room, he paused and took in the scene with a quick glance. The dowager countess, his grandmother, sat at the head of the table, looking as stately as he'd ever seen her in her fashions of a bygone era. Not for the duchess the high waists and flimsy gauzes of the modern miss. To her right was her longtime companion, Miss Cutter, whom he'd christened Miss Flutter from her habit of fluttering from one topic of conversation to another and leaving utter confusion in her wake. At the sideboard was his half sister, Clarice, in her late twenties, handsome, with the strong FitzAlan features and dark, intimidating brows, which she could use with formidable effect.

That formidable will was shared by all the FitzAlans, including himself, so when FitzAlans had a falling-out, those who were wise ran for cover.

His grandmother saw him first. “Well,” she said, “don't stand there like a footman. Come in, come in.”