The Notorious Lord (15 page)

He let himself out of the stable yard and set off down the
tree-lined drive to the road. The breeze on his face was pleasant and light and he welcomed its refreshing coolness. He found himself in something of a dilemma. He wanted Rachel Odell and had wanted her for some considerable time now. Tonight had only emphasised that. But this was no light flirtation to pass the summer and then be forgotten. He could not simply seduce the childhood friend that he loved, the daughter of a man who was his respected mentor. If he took the step of paying court to Rachel, then it would be irrevocable. He would have to persuade her to marry him. He would have to persuade her to put aside all the things that she wanted—a settled life, peace and tranquillity, a stable home—and convince her that they were as nothing compared to what he could offer her.

Cory was not at all sure that he had the right to even try. He was not in the least certain of success. On the other hand, failure was not an option. If he failed, not only would he lose Rachel, he would lose her friendship and would never regain it.

Cory was used to making decisions in seconds that would take other men days or even weeks. He was an adventurer, accustomed to risk. This felt like the biggest risk that he would ever take in his entire life.

He knew that his decision was already made, but he also knew that he had to be careful. He had to woo Miss Rachel Odell, his dearest and closest friend. And he had to do it in a manner that would not startle or scare her, a manner so subtle that she would not notice until it was too late and she felt as strongly for him as he did for her.

A sound from behind him interrupted his thoughts and caused him to pause and glance over his shoulder. The road stretched behind him like a silver ribbon on the moonlight. It was empty. Nevertheless, he thought he heard the patter of footsteps. He started walking again. The steps seemed to echo his. He paused again. There was silence. Cory reached very quietly for the pistol at his belt.

He started walking again, softly, carefully. The footsteps followed him. He could almost feel eyes on his back. Yet he knew that if he turned, there would be no one there.

The attack came with a silent uprush of shadows. There was the sound of running feet and then a bullet whistled past his ear, so close that Cory felt the breeze of its passing. He flung himself down into the ditch and drew his own pistol in one movement, firing by the same instinct that had prompted him to dive for cover and thus save his life. He heard a muffled cry. Hauling himself out of the ditch, he was just in time to see a shadowy figure leap over a farm gate and head towards a covert of trees some fifty yards distant. In the faint moonlight it looked insubstantial, a wraith of a creature yet one capable of murder.

The urge to pursue was a strong one, but a cool head and tactical thought overrode Cory’s natural instinct. He was alone, he did not know the terrain and his assailant had a lead of twenty or so yards. He doubted very much that the attacker would return to take another shot.

Cory let his breath out in a long sigh. ‘I am not so easy to dispose of as Jeffrey Maskelyne,’ he muttered grimly as he stowed the pistol back in his belt. Doubtless his assassin would have been surprised to find that he was armed. He guessed that they had planned to bring him down with one shot and follow it up with a second from close quarters. And he had given them the perfect chance by electing to walk back on his own. They had come very close and only his instinct for danger had saved him. He could feel the cold sweat trickling from his brow now.

A carriage rounded the corner behind him, lamps blazing, and drew to a stop beside him on the road. The door swung open.

‘Can I offer you a lift?’ Richard Kestrel’s voice said wryly.

Cory had never been so glad to see anyone in his life. He
swung up into the carriage and closed the door behind him with a decisive click.

Once he was seated on the thick red cushions with the Richard Kestrel looking at him with quizzical amusement, he felt rather a fool.

‘Everything all right, old fellow?’ Richard asked. ‘You did not have any trouble at Midwinter Royal, did you?’

Cory shook his head. Rachel Odell was trouble, but of an entirely different sort.

‘Someone had been there before me,’ he said. ‘The books had all been ripped apart. If Maskelyne had used them for concealment, then the secret is lost.’

There was a silence. ‘Someone else knew about them,’ Richard said slowly.

‘It would appear that way, certainly.’

Richard eyed him closely. ‘Was that all that happened? I thought you were in better shape than to get in a sweat over a walk home!’

Cory rubbed his sleeve across his forehead. ‘Did you see anyone on the road?’ he asked.

Richard’s eyes sharpened in interest. He shook his head slowly. ‘Not a soul,’ he said. ‘I’ve driven back from Midwinter Marney. Ross Marney and I went from dinner to what passes for a club in this godforsaken spot—’ He broke off, eyeing Cory closely. ‘But I do not believe you want to hear my social engagements, old chap. What happened to you?’

Cory grinned. ‘Someone just took a pot shot at me,’ he said baldly.

Richard was too cool a hand to show a great deal of surprise at this intelligence.

‘Are you injured?’ he enquired.

‘Of course not,’ Cory said.

‘Did you injure your assailant?’

‘Of course.’ Cory’s tone turned grim. ‘Though not as
much as I would have wished. The bullet winged him—or her—in the arm, I think.’

‘Her?’ Richard questioned.

Cory shrugged. ‘It could have been. I only caught a glimpse, and it was impossible to tell. It could not be Miss Odell, though,’ he added on an afterthought.

Richard looked quizzical. ‘Why not?’

Cory laughed. ‘Because she would not have missed me,’ he said. ‘I taught her to shoot myself.’

Richard sat back on the seat and stretched his long legs out in front of him. In the light of the carriage lamps his expression had turned calculating. ‘I will get Justin to ask around,’ he said. ‘He has the right contacts. Someone may know something. They always do if the price is right.’

‘It could have been a poacher or a footpad,’ Cory conceded, ‘but I do not think it likely.’

‘Neither do I,’ Richard said. ‘But how convenient that you injured your quarry, Cory.’ His tone hardened. ‘The reading group meets tomorrow afternoon. Lady Sally told me so herself at the dinner this evening. I think we might pay an impromptu call at Saltires.’

‘It would be courteous,’ Cory said, his lips twitching.

‘And we shall see,’ Richard added, ‘which of the ladies is indisposed—or nursing some sort of injury. It should be most enlightening.’

Chapter Eight

T
he mood of the reading group had felt somewhat prickly that afternoon. Rachel’s sleep had been broken by disturbing dreams after her meeting with Cory in the stables, and she was nursing a headache that not even Mrs Goodfellow’s tincture of valerian had been able to banish. The other ladies all seemed a little out of temper and it was difficult to concentrate on
The Enchantress
under the circumstances. Helena Lang was absent with an indisposition that Lady Benedict unkindly referred to as over-indulgence at dinner the night before, Lady Benedict herself had her arm in a sling from a tumble down the stairs and Lady Sally Saltire had her hand bandaged and could barely turn the pages of the book. She explained that she had been tending her precious roses that morning when a thorn had driven into the palm of her hand. All in all, the ladies were subdued and a little sharp.

When Bentley, the butler, announced the arrival of visitors, they greeted the news with some relief. Lady Sally put her book aside and raised her brows enquiringly.

‘Is it anyone to whom we wish to be at home, Bentley?’

‘It is Lord Richard Kestrel and Lord Newlyn, ma’am,’ Bentley said woodenly. ‘Lord Richard said that he was certain that you
would
be at home, ma’am.’

A small smile twitched Lady Sally lips. ‘Very well, then,’ she said, rising from the sofa in an elegant flurry of silk. ‘If Lord Richard is so certain that we are receiving guests, then who are we to disappoint him? Tea on the terrace, please, Bentley. I am sure that Lord Richard and Lord Newlyn are both most partial to a cup of tea.’

Rachel had dropped her book when Cory’s name was mentioned and had to grope around on the floor to retrieve it. She felt her colour rise as everyone turned to look at her. Lady Benedict was staring at her in a speculative fashion, a malicious smile on her lips. Rachel, all fingers and thumbs, put the book on a side table and tried to breathe calmly.

By the time Cory was announced she was flushed and flustered and annoyed to find that her heart was beating a tattoo as she watched the door like a cat at a mouse hole. It was inexplicable; she had
seen
Cory many times before and his entry into a room had never caused this constriction in her throat before. She felt as though she wanted to turn and run, and it was all to do with the previous night…

As soon as Cory came in, he looked directly at her. Rachel’s heart jumped. In that moment she knew that Cory wanted to come across to her straight away. He hesitated visibly, but after a moment walked over to Lily Benedict instead. Rachel saw him gesture to the sling, a look of concern on his face, and saw Lady Benedict tilt her face towards him, smiling like a flower reaching to the sun. Rachel felt cross and disappointed and obscurely angry with Cory. She was forced to remind herself rather strongly that she might be Cory’s friend but it was of no consequence to her whom he chose to flirt with. Even so, she felt annoyed that last night his choice had fallen on her, but now he was happy to trifle with another lady’s feelings. It branded him insincere and proved that he had only been entertaining himself at her expense in the stables. A tiny part of her, the part that had wanted it not to be a game, felt shrivelled at the thought.

Lord Richard Kestrel was chatting to Lady Sally, and Olivia and Deborah had wandered out on to the terrace to take tea, so Rachel took the opportunity to slip outside. She could feel her headache worsening and hoped that the fresher air might make it better.

The gardens at Saltires were small but beautifully tended, for Lady Sally, in company with her friend Olivia Marney, was a keen amateur gardener. Rachel wandered towards the small ornamental lake, but swiftly retraced her steps when she realised that Mr Caspar Lang was sitting by the gazebo, having his portrait painted for the watercolour book. Rachel had no wish to be caught watching. Mr Lang had quite a good enough opinion of himself as it was, without her adding to it.

It was as she was coming back through the rose arch that Cory stepped directly on to the path in front of her. Rachel had thought herself quite composed by now and was intending to take her place at the tea table in a cool and rational manner, but now such thoughts flew from her head. Perhaps it was the suddenness of Cory’s appearance, or perhaps the fact that she had been thinking about him on and off—with rather more on than off—for the past fourteen hours. Whatever the reason, she gasped and coloured up like the most impressionable of débutantes. Cory eyed her blush with interest, which just seemed to make it worse.

‘Whatever is the matter with you, Rae?’ he remarked softly. ‘You look rather guilty. What were you doing—running away?’

Rachel, unforgivably, vented her irritation by snapping one of Lady Sally’s prize roses off the arch.

‘Of course I was not running away! Why should I wish to do that?’

‘I have no notion,’ Cory said, driving his hands into his pockets. ‘I merely thought that you had been acting strangely, dashing off before I could speak to you.’

‘I was not aware that you had noticed,’ Rachel said, before she could stop herself. ‘You were far too occupied.’

She saw the humour deepen in Cory’s eyes and was vexed with herself.

‘I see,’ he said.

‘I doubt that you do,’ Rachel said. ‘If you choose to flirt with Lady Benedict, then it is no concern of mine.’

‘Of course not,’ Cory said soothingly.

‘I don’t care!’ Rachel said childishly.

‘I know that you don’t,’ Cory agreed.

Rachel stared at him, frowning. She was not quite sure why this unsatisfactory exchange made her feel worse, but it did. It reminded her strongly of childhood squabbles, but with an added element of adult friction that she could not quite explain.

‘Why are you agreeing with me?’ she demanded.

‘Because I thought it would put you in a better temper,’ Cory responded.

Rachel repressed the urge to stamp her foot. ‘Well, don’t!’

‘You are very cross today,’ Cory observed.

‘Congratulations on your perspicacity. Of course I am cross.’ Rachel pulled the head off the rosebud and tossed it aside, wincing as the thorn caught her thumb. ‘I have the headache and you are deliberately setting out to provoke me, just as you did last night.’

There was a pause that suddenly seemed heavy with unspoken meaning. The whole tone of the encounter changed in an instant.

‘I do not suppose,’ Cory said, moving closer, ‘that you slept very well last night, Rae.’

Rachel looked up and met the question in his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat. Last night they had been playing games, but she had no intention of doing so again. It had been far too disturbing. What had set out as a plan to teach
Cory a lesson had almost ended in her own downfall. She had nearly succumbed to his skilful seduction.

She deliberately moved away. ‘Why should you think that?’ she asked coolly.

Cory followed her. ‘Because I did not,’ he said.

‘So?’ Rachel raised her brows. ‘I cannot see the connection.’

Cory gave her a keen glance. ‘Then let me construe for you. I did not sleep well because I was thinking of you. And you, I suspect, did not sleep well because you were thinking of me.’

Rachel turned her shoulder. Her heart was beating with quick, light strokes. ‘You are quite mistaken. And odiously arrogant! My inability to sleep last night had nothing to do with you. I was scarcely lying awake troubled by dreams of you!’