The Runaway Heiress (18 page)

'So how did he die? It
must have been quite recently.'

'Less than a year ago.
Richard and Hugh were very close. There was only a year between them in age so
they grew up together. It was a curricle race. Hugh was on furlough and, as I
understand, Richard challenged him to a race. There was an accident. Richard's
curricle was attempting to overtake Hugh's on a bend. The wheel went into a
ditch at the side of the road and the curricle overturned. It was as simple as
that and pure chance that Richard hit his head when he was flung out on to the
verge. He struck a tree root or a hidden boulder—I don't know the detail—but he
never recovered consciousness. I always thought curricles were too dangerous
by half, but you cannot stop young men from indulging in risky sports.'

'But if it was an accident
as you describe, I don't understand the problem,'

'There was none. But the
Marchioness, God rot her soul, was beside herself with some extreme
emotion—anguish, she claimed, but I thought it more likely to be frustrated
ambition. She had always been able to influence Richard far more easily than
Hugh, which was useful since she had no intention of giving up her guiding
hands on the reins of the family. But now she was about to be thwarted with
Hugh in the saddle. Anyway, she uttered some very unwise observations, loudly
and publicly. She never did have any integrity. She hinted that the race was
all Hugh's idea in the first place and that Richard had been forced off the
road. That he was too good a driver to have made such a mistake. And Hugh had
benefited, of course, inheriting the title and the fortune on his brother's
untimely death. If you say things like that often enough, people begin to
gossip and put two and two together, even if the sum does not add up. It was
the
on-dit
of the Season.'

'But what a terrible thing
to do!' Frances's eyes widened in horror as she now realised the pain her words
would have unwittingly inflicted. 'Did she not realise the damage it would
cause?'

'Of
course she did. She blames Hugh and has left him in no doubt of it. She resents
that he has inherited everything when her favourite boy is dead. And he has
gone his own way, making changes without consulting her. There is no wonder he
has become cynical and as reckless as Richard. If people believe ill of him,
he'll give them something to blame him for. It is natural enough.'

'I
suppose so. And I accused him of trying to kill me. I am not surprised he
stormed out. And I am not sure how I can put it right.'

'Difficult,
I agree. And with a mischief-making little cat like Penelope Vowchurch stirring
the waters with her pretty paws...well. She wanted the marriage with Hugh so
she will be driven by envy. Women with so much self-control are always trouble.
But as for Hugh—if you take my advice, I would leave him to simmer a little before
I prostrated myself in abject mortification! He can be an uncomfortable
opponent when he is feeling aggrieved.'

Frances
laughed ruefully. 'I know. I am hoping that a ride round the estate will help.
And I think I am a coward on this occasion.'

'I don't believe
that for a moment.' Aunt May leaned across to pat her hand bracingly. 'You
strike me as a very resourceful young lady. Come on.' She surged to her feet,
dislodging Wellington, who had been snoring fitfully on the flounces of her
dress. 'Since the sun is shining, let us go and inspect the formal flower beds.
They are sadly neglected, you know, but the snowdrops should give a good show.
There is nothing like fresh air to lift your spirits. Are you interested in
restoring the gardens? They used to be beautiful in my younger days.'

Ambrose
caught up with Aldeborough in the stables where he and Matthew were inspecting
the hooves of one of his hunters. His greeting was perfectly civil, but his
expression was shuttered and Matthew's silence and raised eyebrows said it all.

After five minutes of
monosyllabic conversation, Ambrose had had enough, and decided to break his
promise to Frances.

'She did not know, Hugh.
You can hardly blame her.'

'Ah. I see you have had
communication with my wife this morning. And I suppose she told you all about
our exchange of views.'

'No, she did not. You have
to give her credit for more loyalty than that. But she knew she had said the
wrong thing and stirred you up. What she did not know was why. She was very
upset, so I sent her to talk to Lady Cotherstone.'

'What's the problem?'
asked Matthew, coming into the conversation halfway through, as he returned
from the saddle room with a hoof pick and proceeded to inspect the problem
foot.

'Richard's accident,'
stated Ambrose baldly when Hugh chose not to reply.

'What about it?'

'Not a thing,' interjected
Aldeborough with self-mockery. 'Except that my wife seems to believe that I
might have murdered my brother.'

'Oh, is that all! She
asked me about it weeks ago. I gather Mama had been giving her the family
history and dropping her usual vague hints. I did not tell her very much. We
should have told her the truth, Hugh. It would have prevented this.'

'It seems that everyone
has been conversing with my wife except me.' Hugh's lips thinned with barely
contained temper.

'And look what happened
when you did!' Ambrose's reply was brutal. 'Look, Hugh, nobody believes that
old scandal.'

'Only Mama. And nobody
listens to her anyway.' Matthew stood up and shrugged.

'And Penelope Vowchurch!
Who had the kindness to warn my wife of the dangers of travelling in my
company.' Aldeborough's bitter anger was hard held.

'I don't believe it!'

'No? Well, perhaps Frances
was making it up. Why not ask her? I'm sure she will confide in you. Now, if we
have finished discussing the legs of this misbegotten animal I am going to meet
Kington at Malton's Cross. And before you ask,' he snarled, T don't want your
company. You wouldn't want to ride with me today.'

He swung on to his bay gelding
and rode out of the stableyard at a rigidly controlled canter.

'We dealt with that well
between us, didn't we?' Ambrose grimaced at Matthew.

Matthew sighed and began
to lead the lame hunter back to its stable. 'There is no reasoning with him and
he will not talk about it.'

'He was very close to
Richard, wasn't he?'

'Yes. He loved him.'

'Is it not surprising when
you consider that they were not very alike?'

'No, they were not,'
Matthew agreed. 'Richard was the wild one. Always up for some adventure, some
wager, whereas Hugh was steadier, more considerate. But Mama never saw that.
The first born was the sun in her firmament. I did not really know Richard very
well. He never had much time for me. I suppose I was too young and too much of
a nuisance. I had a tendency to hero worship in those days but he soon cured me
of that—his boredom made me see the light. So I transferred it to Hugh,
especially when I saw him in his regimentals. It was enough to awaken envy in
the heart of any boy.' Matthew grinned. 'Hugh always had
time
—he was amazingly tolerant of a brat who
wanted to ride his horse across the formal lawns or try out his dress sword on
the chickens at Home Farm. You know the sort of thing.' He laughed at the
memory.

'I can imagine. I am
surprised he didn't bury you!'

Matthew laughed aloud, but
quickly sobered again. 'It is all still very recent, of course, and I suppose
the wound is still raw. And to have Mama express her preference so cruelly,
and accuse him of wanting the title and being responsible for the accident. He
doesn't care for the consequence at all. What he really wants is to take up his
commission again. He does not exactly enjoy estate matters. It must all seem
very tame after Salamanca.'

'But he does it well. Look
at the improvements he has made in such a short time, and the new ideas and the
repairs
that had been neglected for years.'
Ambrose swept his gaze round the stable block, which looked the epitome of good
management in the morning sun. 'I remember when the roof here was almost in a
state of total collapse. And the stable
doors
were rotting on their hinges.'

'That's Hugh.' Matthew
nodded. 'He'll be a better Marquis
than
Richard. Or our father, for that matter. At bottom, he cares more.'

Ambrose picked up the reins of his horse and
prepared
to mount. 'You know
that, I know that, but it does not mike the situation any better for Hugh.'

Frances heard Aldeborough
return in the early
evening.
She
was in her bedroom when she heard his door
open
and
close. She waited, but he made no attempt to
communicate
with her.

Now or never. She
swallowed her nerves and
walked
through the adjoining dressing room, knocked firmly
on the
door and entered without
waiting for a reply.

Things did not look
promising. Aldeborough was
standing
with his back to the room looking out over the formal
gar
dens. He did not turn round
when she entered.
Despite the
early
hour, he held a glass of brandy in one hand.
He
looked
windswept and mud splattered, but had made no
attempt
to change his clothes.
She could not see his expression.

'I have come to ask your
forgiveness. I did not know
about
Richard.' Her voice was soft but firm.

Still he did not turn to
face her. 'I believe that I
should
be
the one apologising to you.' His tone was bleak and
insuf
ferably polite. 'Ambrose told me that it was an innocent
com
ment. Indeed, I am sure it
was.'

'Oh.'

'Did you talk to Aunt
May?'

'Yes.'

'So now you know the whole
sorry story.'

'Yes. I could wish that
you had told me.'

'I did not see the need.'

'No. You told me, as I
remember, that it was none of my affair.' Frances found it hard to contain her
growing frustration.

He turned at that, his
face pale, his expression stark.

'And I would rather, in
future, that you did not discuss my personal affairs with Ambrose.'

She drew in her breath
before she could make a sharp reply. Now was not the time for temper.

'Very well.'

Silence stretched between
them.

'Why will you not talk to
me about your brother?' She tried again. 'You made me tell you about the marks
on my back, the beatings. You gave me comfort.'

'It is not the same.'

'Why not?' she persisted,
hoping to break through the barrier that he had so effectively built around
the painful wounds. 'Scars are the same whether on the body or soul. Talk to me
about Richard, Hugh.' He noted her use of his given name, still something rare,
but he still rejected her attempts at reconciliation.

'You know all there is to
know from Aunt May. I can tell you nothing more.'

'But I care that you have
been maligned. How could anyone possibly believe that you would harm your
brother?'

'You do
not know me,' he said bitterly. 'How do you know what I am capable of?'

She put out a hand as if
to touch him, to offer comfort. He drew back, imperceptibly, but she sensed his
reaction. It hurt.

'I don't need your pity.'

'I was not offering any.'

'Then,
if there is nothing else you wish to say... I have to dress for dinner.'

'No. I have nothing more
to say. You have made the matter very clear.' Pride came to her rescue. 'I will
not impose on you further. I clearly misinterpreted our relationship.' She could
not resist it. 'Perhaps you should inform me of the subjects that I am allowed
to discuss in future!'

She turned on her heel and
made a dignified exit, head high. She closed the door quietly; she may as well
have slammed it.

Aldeborough groaned and
thrust a hand through his hair. He poured another glass of brandy to give his
hands something to do and considered flinging his glass to shatter against the
panels of the closed door. He put it down carefully before he did just that. He
had dealt with her abominably. All he could see was the utter desolation in her
beautiful eyes. Perhaps after all he was no better than Torrington. He would
never scar her body, but without doubt he had hurt her by destroying the bond
of understanding that had begun to grow between them. He deserved more than her
censure, he deserved that she should hate and fear him—and she most certainly
did not deserve his rejection. He must put things right. And he would have to
apologise to Ambrose and Matthew, of course. He rubbed his hands over his face
in disgust and self-loathing as the events of the day replayed through his mind
in mind-searing detail. And, apart from that, there was the question of who
hated him enough to pay armed thugs to shoot him down in cold blood.

You have
made one enemy too many.

The implication was not
clear, but all he could think of was the confrontation with Torrington. And his
liaison with Frances. But how that would lead to a vicious and well-organised
ambush by paid assassins he could not envisage.

He fervently wished he was
back with his regiment in the Peninsula.

Chapter
Nine

Aldeborough
mended his relationship with Matthew and Ambrose with ease: they simply ignored
his previous edgy temper and continued as if nothing had happened. When he
attempted an apology, Ambrose threatened to floor him with a straight left if
he couldn't keep a civil tongue in his head in future, so the matter was
settled. They rode the estate, enjoying the onset of a period of fine weather.
They fished the trout stream, unsuccessfully, but with damp enthusiasm. They
enjoyed some rough shooting at the Priory and on the neighbouring land owned by
Ambrose's uncle. A local race at Kiplingcoates, over a four-mile course of
lanes and bridleways, gave them the opportunity to assess local horseflesh and
lose a considerable amount of money. The evenings were spent in playing cards
for small sums in the library at the Priory. If a deal of alcohol was consumed,
it was not sufficient to impair their enjoyment of country pursuits. Aldeborough
was able to throw off his unusual depression although the purpose of the assault
on the York road remained an irritant. But, as there was no repetition, the
incident receded into the background. Enquiries in York, as might have been
expected, revealed nothing.

For
her part, Frances spent most of her time becoming reacquainted with the Priory.
She remembered it, of course, from the days when Aldeborough had first brought
her here, hut now she had the time and inclination to explore it fully.
Originally, as its name indicated, it had been the settlement of Augustinian
monks, but with its dissolution under Henry VIII it had come into the hands of
the Lafford family. There were still remnants of the magnificent monastic
buildings, neglected now and robbed of their stone—ruined arches, crumbling
pillars, outlines of cloister and refectory, which Frances investigated with
dreams of incorporating them into a pleasure garden. The main house was of
Tudor design with gables and buttresses in golden local stone but with traces
of old brickwork. More recent Laffords had added wings and fanciful towers so
that to the eye it presented an impossible fusion of style and taste. Frances
loved it. Its rambling lack of uniformity appealed to her and she felt at home
here far more than she ever had in the magnificent town house in Cavendish
Square. But, she was honest enough to admit to Aunt May, perhaps that had much
to do with the absence of the Dowager. Here she was the unquestioned mistress
of her own home and enjoyed the freedom.

But she was equally aware
that the house needed much love and care. It had a chill, neglected air where
dust and mice reigned supreme and so did damp and mildew. The structure was
sound enough, but the Priory needed to be lived in. Aldeborough's parents had
spent little time here, preferring life in Cavendish Square, the country
merely providing the opportunity for hunting and winter house parties.

The spring weather tempted
Frances into the estate. The formal gardens swept from the balustraded stone
terraces to a ha-ha from where the parkland stretched to the horizon. Tastefully
positioned clumps of trees in spring foliage beckoned the onlooker to ride and
explore. The flower beds had been long neglected, the skeleton staff making
little impact on the encroachments of nature, and the kitchen gardens no longer
produced for the needs of the household. Frances could imagine the old brick
walls once more glowing with roses and espaliered fruit trees, the walks
vibrant with flowers.

She toured the rooms,
cellars, attics and cupboards with an enthusiastic Mrs Scott, who was delighted
to have a mistress interested in day-to-day household activity. She talked
herbs and gardening with Aunt May as well as the gossip about their neighbours
and London society. She was content to leave kitchen matters to the competent
cook who had ruled the roost since Aldeborough's childhood, which earned her
the immediate support and co-operation from that testy individual. Her days
were full and filled with small pleasures as she considered refurbishing some
of the holland cover-shrouded rooms and restocking the walled herb and
vegetable garden. To be mistress of her own home gave her considerable delight
and fulfilment. Whatever was lacking in her education at Torrington Hall, she
had acquired the knack of communication with the servants and knew how to run
an efficient establishment. At her direction, Rivers marshalled indoor and
outdoor servants for an assault on the neglect so that the oak floors and
linenfold panelling began once more to glow in the candlelight at the end of a
series of exhausting days. Cobwebs and spiders were swept ruthlessly from the
plaster ceilings. The mice went into hiding.

Sheer curiosity drove
Frances to investigate her husband's bedchamber, which opened through a
connecting dressing room from her own. If she had needed an excuse, she would
have claimed that it was her duty to ensure that it was clean and in good
order, but in truth she was drawn by a need to learn more about the man who now
had control of her life and, if she would admit it, of her heart. It was a beautiful
room, like her own in the old part of the house, with oak-panelled walls and
intricate plaster ceiling. It was a very masculine room, sparsely furnished
from the previous century with a carved chest, a chair with a tapestry seat, a
livery cupboard, the only modern addition to the old furniture being a dressing
table and mirror. Frances smiled: such necessary additions for a man whose
appearance was rarely less than suave and elegant. But it was the magnificent
bedstead that dominated the room. It was hung with dark blue velvet curtains
and valance, rather dusty but sumptuously lined with grey silk and ornamented
with gold cord and fringing. She ran a hand gently along the nap of the rich
material, realising that whatever she had hoped to discover in this room, she
was doomed to failure. Apart from a pair of silver-backed brushes and a snuff
box on the dressing table, there was little to indicate her husband's taste or
character. Except perhaps for the neatness, no doubt a consequence of a
military life of campaigning and the influence of Webster, the most efficient
of valets. No portraits on the walls, no personal possessions. Without
compunction Frances lifted the lid of the chest to investigate the contents.
Nothing. The only life in the stillness was the dust motes glimmering gold in
the sun's rays through the leaded windows. It was as if the Marquis was merely
a temporary visitor, passing through, rather than the master of the estate.

Leaving
Aldeborough's room to some competent cleaning under Rivers's watchful eye,
Frances took herself eventually to the attics. For the most part they were
empty except for a number of chests that yielded unexpected treasures, packed
away long ago. She mentally consigned the boxes of official-looking paper with
ribbons and seals to a later date and refastened the chests containing worn and
stained household linen, but instructed Rivers to have a number of items conveyed
to a small drawing room that she and Aunt May had taken to using in the
evenings.

'I
think you should read this, Aunt May,' exclaimed Frances with a mischievous
smile. She was seated on the floor at Lady Cotherstone's feet, her dusty skirts
and the contents of various boxes spread around her.

'What
is it? I cannot believe that anything in a book will be of benefit to me at my
time of life.'

Frances
turned over a few more pages with care, peeling at the faded, uneven writing.
'It has no name in it, but it is a collection of recipes and housewifely
advice,' she explained.

Aunt
May pushed aside a piece of embroidery from her lap. 'I believe that I will
leave the cooking to Mrs Scott and whoever reigns in the kitchens. I was never
interested in such things. Now, herbs and medicines are a different matter. Anything
of interest about that?'

'Not that I can see. Here
is Eel Pie with Oysters. A Pie with Pippins. Marrow Pie... Scotch Collops...
Barley Broth...'

'It
seems to be very plain and frugal fare. Perhaps you should put it back in the
attic for fear that it gives Mrs Scott ideas. And perhaps you would care to
pour me a glass of wine.'

Frances
laughed and did as instructed before returning to her rummaging. 'It is mostly
trinkets and ribbons—look at this fine pair of gloves—and...what do you suppose
this is?' She held up a small bunch of fragile dried leaves tied up with a
tarnished silver ribbon and with a yellowing label attached.

'Well,
now. It looks very much like a love token. They were very fashionable when I
was a young girl.'

Frances raised her
brows and sniffed the greying twigs which had begun to disintegrate over her
skirt. 'It smells like Rosemary. And listen to this.' She read out the
accompanying sentiments.

'Rosemary is for
Remembrance Between us day and night, Wishing that I might always have You
present in my sight. And when I cannot have As I have said before, Then Cupid
with his deadly dart Doth wound my heart full sore.'

Frances
held the token carefully, a wistful smile on her lips. 'Did you ever receive
one of these, Aunt May?' she asked, her voice betraying more than she was
aware.

'Yes,
I did. I was not a handsome girl, but I did not lack for suitors. But what
about a pretty child like you?'

Frances
shook her head, bending over the poem so that her curls hid her face.

'I do not suppose such
frivolous sentiments would be encouraged at Torrington Hall,' Aunt May probed
gently.

'Certainly not. My aunt
and uncle were never motivated by any feelings other than duty.'

'And Hugh?' The enquiry
was deceptively casual.

Frances laughed, but Lady
Cotherstone's ears were quick to detect the sadness, the longing.

'He is very kind—but there
is no romance. How could there be? It was all a terrible mistake. And now I
have made him so angry. He would not—write me a verse like that.' She stroked
the yellow paper with gentle fingers, thinking of the long-dead lady who had
been honoured with such tender sentiments.

Lady Cotherstone pursed
her lips thoughtfully and wisely said nothing.

Aldeborough registered his
wife's efforts in the Priory, her growing confidence and authority, with some
pride and amusement, but made no comment. His relations with Frances were not
mended. When she met with Aldeborough she was pleasant, smiled at the tales of
the fish they might have caught and was willing to outline her suggestions for
the new pottager, but he could not mistake the constraint in her voice or the
reserve in her eyes. The hurt and rejection were still very strong and as time
passed he became less sure how to put it right. It surprised him that he cared
so much to put it right. But he hated the wary reserve in her dark eyes and the
lack of animation in her face when she thought she was unobserved. Her smiles
were fleeting and lacked any real warmth or enjoyment. He found increasingly
that he needed to see her smile with unreserved pleasure, to smile at him. He
spent the nights alone because he doubted that he would be welcome in his
wife's bed and he was unwilling to force himself on her—but he did not enjoy
them.

As for Frances, she vowed
to abide by her husband's expectations. She would be an amenable and
conformable wife and nothing more. If he wished to shut her out of parts of his
life, then so be it. And she would never show him how unhappy it made her. Or
how a sudden desire to feel the caress of his hand or the touch of his lips
could awaken an intense ache around her heart. She rubbed her hand between her
breasts as if she might erase the pain. To no avail. She shrugged and retreated
inside a brittle shell where nothing could hurt her. She had had a lifetime of
practice and she could live without Aldeborough's attentions. And if she envied
the lady with the keepsake, then no one but herself need know.

Aunt May, well aware of the cold atmosphere,
for once chose to be diplomatic and make no comment, although she frequently wondered
how such a handsome man of the world as her great-nephew could be so blind in
the ways of women.

To give him his due,
Aldeborough tried to reduce the distance between himself and his bride.

'I understand you ride, my
lady.'

'Yes. One of my few talents,
if you remember.' He winced at the barbed comment.

'Come with me.' To prevent
any refusal, he took her hand and tucked it cosily under his arm. He felt her
body stiffen at the unexpected gesture, but ignored it. He also felt the shiver
that ran through her and saw the uncertainty in her face as she lifted her eyes
to his. It pleased him.

'Where are we going?'

He led her out on to the
terrace and round to the stableyard where Selby, the head groom, awaited them
with a grin on his weathered features.

'A surprise,' he said, smiling
down at her. 'Selby has something to show you.'

'Morning, Captain. My
lady.' Selby, who had served as Aldeborough's groom in Spain, disappeared into
the stables at a gesture from the Marquis and returned a moment lat leading out
a bay mare, already saddled and bridled.

'She is
yours, if it would please you to ride her,' Aldeborough explained, deliberately
casual, but watching her re action with far more than his apparent
dispassionate interest. 'She is not up to my weight, but she should suit you
perfectly. She is keen and lively, but has no vices.'

Frances opened her mouth
but no words came out, merely a little cry of delight. She remembered that
Matthew had once spoken about this mare.

'I bought her in Spain.'

Frances approached the
mare and rubbed her hand over the glossy coat, threading her fingers through
the dark mane. She was a dark bay with a hint of Arab in her small head and
arched neck. She turned dark liquid eyes on Frances and snuffled at her
fingers as she snatched at the bit, ready to run.