The Bachelor Trap (9 page)

As he undressed for bed, his thoughts turned to Edwina's letter and his skepticism when he'd first read it, a skepticism that was based on the rumors he'd heard about her declining mental faculties.

The reception after the funeral service had taken place at the vicarage; that was where Brand had first heard that Edwina was not quite herself. She'd become something of a recluse, and was suspicious of her neighbors. She still attended church services, but did not linger to talk to her friends or acquaintances.

All this he had heard from the vicar so, naturally, he had believed it, but others had embellished the tale when they'd offered him their condolences, women of the village whom he'd met in the local shops. The impression he got from them was that Edwina was becoming more and more senile.

That was when he should have broached the subject with Mrs. Ludlow, but she was tearful and there was no sense of urgency. It was still weeks before Edwina's letter reached him. He'd mentioned the rumors to his grandmother, and her response was much the same as it was today, that Edwina Gunn was as crusty as ever.

If anyone knew whether Edwina had become senile, it was Mrs. Ludlow. He'd take her word over anyone's. Not that he thought the vicar had lied. All he had described was a disturbed mind, and there was no doubt that Edwina was disturbed when she heard that Hannah might well have been murdered.

Then who started the rumors, and why? Was this a deliberate attempt on someone's part to discredit anything Edwina might have to say about the night Hannah disappeared? The rumors certainly had that effect on him.

That thought put him in mind of his grandmother again. He had the impression that she could have told him more about Hannah Gunn if she'd wanted to. What was she keeping from him?

The picture of Hannah that was forming in his mind was full of contradictions: She was the youngest of three sisters, a governess, headstrong, a trial to Edwina and admired by Marion. It was generally held in Longbury that she had eloped—or was that another rumor to throw everyone off the scent?

Then where was she?

When he blew out the candle and climbed into bed, his thoughts turned to Edwina and to how much he owed her. To a small, confused boy who found himself in a tug-of-war between two omnipotent beings, his father and his grandfather, her small cottage had offered a safe haven. All that Edwina asked in return was that he solve the mystery surrounding Hannah's disappearance.

Into the silence, he said, “I'll find her for you, Edwina, I swear it.”

The waters receded two days later, and Marion and her sisters set out for Longbury with Lord Denison acting as their escort. Marion could hardly refuse. Not only were they bound for the same place, but he had a well-equipped coach at his disposal—Brand Hamilton's, as it turned out. He had mentioned Brand's late-night visit to the posting house and subsequent departure before anyone was up as though it were of no importance, something vaguely connected to the election, and Marion did not dare argue the point with him. She could hardly let him know that she'd been spying on them.

They arrived at the village in the middle of the morning. They did not see much of Longbury because Edwina's cottage was on the outskirts, just off the main thoroughfare. The sun was shining, the air was fragrant with the scent of apple blossoms, and a hush had descended in the carriage as they looked out the windows, waiting expectantly for their first glimpse of the house. Suddenly, they turned a corner into a small courtyard, and there it was.

“Yew Cottage! Why, it's lovely,” said Phoebe, “and not nearly as small as I expected.”

Her sisters agreed. It was a whitewashed two-story brick building with bow windows on the attached wings. A profusion of climbing plants clung tenaciously to a trellis on the walls. Marion's memory began to stir. One of those bay windows belonged to the front parlor, the other to the dining room. Hannah's bedchamber had been on the ground floor behind the parlor. They'd called it “the maid's room,” though it had been a long, long time since it had been occupied by a maid, not since her grandparents had lived there. After they died, the Gunn sisters had learned to economize, just as she and her sisters had learned to do after the deaths of their parents.

There was a knocker on the front door as Marion remembered, a lion rampant, supposedly of Norman origin. She'd been fascinated by that knocker as a child, touching it reverently, imagining how many people had touched it before her.

As Emily and Phoebe walked to the front door, she turned aside to have a word with Lord Denison. She was sincere in her thanks, not only for his escort but also for the loan of Mr. Hamilton's carriage.

“Oh,” said Denison, “you'll have the opportunity of thanking him in person. I'm sure he's here at the Grange. That was the plan, anyway. When he hears you have arrived, I don't doubt that he'll be calling on you the first chance he gets.” And with a cheery wave, he got into the carriage and gave the order to move off.

Marion didn't have time to think about Ash Denison's parting shot. The door was opened by a dark-haired woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Ludlow, and they were ushered inside. It took her only a few minutes to decide that she liked Mrs. Ludlow. She was friendly in a quiet sort of way, was as neat as a new pin, and kept the house as neat as she kept herself. But it was the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread that established Mrs. Ludlow's reputation in Marion's mind. Already, the cottage felt like home.

As they toured the house, Marion was surprised at how much she remembered: the stone fireplace in the parlor; the solid oak furniture; the velvet drapes. She felt herself smiling. The layout of the house was all coming back to her. She could picture the vista of gardens and orchards from the upstairs windows; she knew where the outbuildings were and where the ruined refectory pulpit used to be and, beyond that, the Priory where the monks once lived. But her thoughts jarred and came to a sudden stop when they came to the oak-paneled staircase.

Emily said, “Is this where…?”

Mrs. Ludlow nodded. “Yes, I found her,” she said, and sniffed.

When Emily sniffed as well, Marion said decisively, “We'll talk about Aunt Edwina later, after we have unpacked. She wanted us to have her house and she wanted us to be happy in it. Just remember that.”

Marion didn't want to be unfeeling, but neither did she want her sisters to mope about something they could not change. There had been too much death in their young lives already.

Her words had the effect she'd hoped for. Nodding and smiling, they trooped up the stairs.

Later, when her sisters were unpacking, Marion slipped downstairs into Hannah's room. It had a long sash window that overlooked the herb garden and let in plenty of sunlight, a pretty, girlish room done in muslins and chintz.

She felt a nagging uneasiness at the back of her mind now that she was touching Hannah's things—an empty cologne bottle on the dresser, a small cushion smelling faintly of lavender, paper and pens neatly laid out on the escritoire.

A memory came to her. They were quarreling, here, in Hannah's room, and she didn't like it. Hannah was yelling, then she stormed out of the house. Then there was silence.

What was the quarrel about?

Emily called to Marion from the stairs, and the memory faded as she went to answer her sister's summons.

Halfway through the afternoon, they took a rest from unpacking their boxes and had tea served in the front parlor. They were well pleased with the house and were able to speak about Aunt Edwina without becoming morbid or cast down. In fact, they were laughing and joking when Mrs. Ludlow announced that they had visitors.

When Marion got up, so did her sisters. They exchanged curious glances, wondering who would call on newcomers on the day of their arrival.

“Lady Clarice Brigden,” announced Mrs. Ludlow, “and Miss Flora,” and she stood aside to allow the visitors to enter.

Marion saw a dark-haired, fashionable young woman of her own age, taller than average, with strong features softened by her smile and blue eyes alight with mischief. It was the mischief that jogged Marion's memory. She knew Lady Clarice from before.

Fragments of memories rushed in. Secret chants and secret signs. Ghost hunting and midnight frolics.

She was startled. Could these memories be real?

Her gaze shifted to the child. Miss Flora was a leggy girl of about ten summers with a mop of fiery red curls, long-lashed green eyes, and a suspiciously demure smile.

The customary curtsies were exchanged and Marion invited her guests to be seated.

Lady Clarice ignored the invitation. Arms outstretched, laughing, she advanced on Marion. “You don't remember me, do you, Marion? Have you forgotten all the wild adventures we shared when you came to visit Miss Gunn?”

Marion laughed. “I've forgotten the wild adventures. But I haven't forgotten you. It's Clarice FitzAlan, isn't it?”

“Oh, that was before my marriage. Now I'm Clarice Brigden. And this is Flora, Theodora's niece. Flora has come for a little holiday.” She paused, absorbing Marion's expression. “You remember Theodora? She is married to my uncle, Robert? You
do
remember Robert?”

Marion didn't but it seemed easier to nod vaguely, and she quickly introduced her own sisters. Refreshments were ordered, and Clarice took up the conversation again.

“They'll all be beating a path to your door! The FitzAlans, I mean, especially Grandmama. Ever since she heard your name was linked to Brand's, she has been burning with curiosity, but Brand won't tell her a thing. Well, we're all burning with curiosity. Is it true, Marion? Are you and Brand secretly engaged?”

More confused than annoyed, Marion said slowly, “Are you referring to Brand Hamilton?”

Clarice looked as confused as Marion felt. “Who else would I be referring to but my half brother? We had the same father, the Duke of Shelbourne. And his name, by the way, is Brand
FitzAlan
Hamilton, though he doesn't like to acknowledge the connection.” Her lips thinned. “He's ashamed of us, I suppose. He thinks we're drones and parasites, not like him with our noses always to the grindstone. Poor Oswald—that's my husband—is ashamed to live off my money. He's a writer, by the way, and there's not much money in that. But what's the good of having money if I'm not allowed to spend it?”

When Marion stared at her blankly, she went on, “I'm doing it again, aren't I? That's what comes of living with Miss Cutter. Suffice it to say that Brand has control of the purse strings. Our father, in his wisdom, made him sole trustee of his estate.”

Marion was torn between shock at Clarice's frankness with someone who was almost a stranger to her, and disbelief. No one had told her that Brand's father's estate was in Longbury. No one had told her that Brand was related to the FitzAlans or that his father was the Duke of Shelbourne.

She would never be rid of him.

She looked at Clarice and more memories stirred. It seemed inconceivable that she could have forgotten such an impetuous playmate. But she hadn't forgotten. It would be truer to say that she had misplaced Clarice in a miscellany of memories of holidays she'd spent in various places. What she remembered was that as children, Clarice FitzAlan had got them into one scrape after another. She was curious; she was adventurous; and, of course, she was fun to be with, especially for a girl like herself who had been raised to obey the rules. Clarice had seemed like a breath of ether. One whiff and a person was ready for anything. Marion couldn't remember exactly what they'd got up to, but she hadn't forgotten her mother's scolds and lectures. Clarice always got off scot-free.

Clarice said gently, “Marion, you haven't answered my question.”

The rebuff was short and sharp. “Nor do I intend to.”

Clarice's eyes lost none of their brightness. “I suppose you're waiting till he wins the nomination before you make the announcement. I can't think why. Grandmama says that Brand would stand a better chance of winning if he were engaged to the right sort of woman. Then people wouldn't care that he was baseborn.”

That was the trouble with the daughter of a duke. She could say anything and no one from a lower order would dare contradict her or tell her to mind her own business—no one, perhaps, except the daughter of an earl.

As coolly as she could manage, Marion said, “What exactly has your brother told you about me?”

“Now, Marion,” said Clarice, “don't make strange with me.” To Emily, she added, “She was like this when we were girls. You know, prim and proper? It's just as well that my mother, or your Aunt Edwina for that matter, didn't know the half of what we got up to when they weren't around.”

Phoebe seized on this. “What did you get up to?”

“I dare not tell you,” replied Clarice irresistibly, winning a huge grin from Phoebe. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes, Brand. He hasn't told us a thing. In fact, he's as closed-mouthed as only he can be. This isn't the first time his name has been linked with a lady's,” she chuckled, “not the first time by any means, but those others he dismissed in unflattering terms, which leads Grandmama to believe that his interest in you must be serious.”

Marion was momentarily lost for words.

Emily was not. She'd been listening to the conversation with mounting vexation. In her opinion, Lady Clarice's manners were too free and easy to be tolerated, especially when there were young, innocent girls present, girls with flapping ears. “Phoebe,” she said, fixing her sister with a hard stare, “why don't you show Flora the history you've been working on?” To Clarice, Emily added, “Phoebe is writing the history of our Gunn relations.”