Not that he wanted to, for he was already cursing himself for having embarked on this journey. He must have been mad to agree to his sisters’ suggestion. He’d risked robbery tonight—possibly worse—in order to visit a man he’d taken in immediate dislike and a girl who radiated disdain. Rescue could not come quickly enough. A fervid image floated in the air before him: Fielding racing his team of greys up the gravelled drive and pulling the coach to a welcome halt. He could almost smell the cloud of dust.
He’d had to get out of town: that was clear enough. London was getting just a little too hot for him, the duel a step too far. And the constant scolding of his sisters had become intolerable. At the time it seemed a clever ploy, disappearing from London society for a few weeks to allow the gossip to quieten, while at the same time fulfilling his family’s wishes. But now it no longer seemed quite so clever. In fact, it was quite possibly one of the worst decisions he had ever made. The sooner he was on his way to Merry’s and the congenial shooting party that awaited him, the better.
Verney Towers! The house was a barrack of a place, grandiose and uncomfortable in equal measure. Why had he allowed himself to be persuaded here? The scandal with Celia Burrage would have died a death soon enough. Ton gossip had a short life and, after all, he had done no more than many. His was not the first duel to be fought over an errant wife, nor would it be the last. But in future he would eschew the married ladies of his acquaintance, accommodating though they were, and find his fun elsewhere. That shouldn’t be too difficult. There were plenty of chère amies to keep the boredom at bay, barques of frailty more than willing to spend his money. As for his three taskmasters—he should be immune to his sisters’ reproaches by now. That they should imagine he would honour some insane pledge of their grandfather’s had seemed ridiculous when they’d told him. Now it left him speechless.
They might be rendered speechless, too, if they saw for themselves the bride they were proposing. It wasn’t that she was bad looking. Indeed, he imagined that those eyes could be fascinating when they weren’t so evidently affronted and the straw-blonde locks entrancing when not scraped into the most unbecoming bun he had ever seen. But they were of a piece with the rest of her appearance: she made no attempt to attract, no attempt to interest or entice. Nothing, in short, that would persuade him to stay a minute longer than he needed. As soon as his travelling coach was once more roadworthy, he would make his escape.
Chapter Two
Lucinda woke early the next morning to the sound of creaks and rustlings as the old house settled itself to endure the coming winter. A sliver of bright light encircled the window frame and she threw back the curtains to a perfect autumn day. The sky was a blue sphere, untarnished by even a wisp of cloud. The air was still, the trees motionless, standing tall and proud, clothed in their last glowing leaves. It was a morning to be out, out and away from these musty walls and from the memory of yesterday’s disasters.
She dared not think about Jack Beaufort and what he might do. If he were to recognise the figure that had ambushed him, she was powerless to save herself. He might have recognised her already—she felt a spark of terror pinch at her heart. He had certainly looked at her closely enough, but that might have been simple curiosity. He would wish to inspect the woman his sisters were proposing he make his wife. He must have suffered a gross disappointment. Even in her present dire situation, Lucinda had to chuckle at the likely effect of that hideous brown gown and the even more hideous shawl. If they had not completely repelled him, then her air of cold boredom should have completed the task. She wished now that she hadn’t acted quite so badly and not just because of her uncle’s inevitable scolding. She had to confess that the earl fascinated. He was quite different from any man she had met: he was fashionable, elegant, beautifully mannered, but so were others. He was a rascal, she thought, that was what marked him out—the scar, those eyes, the wicked enjoyment of seeing Sir Francis and his pomposity deflate with fear. But she must tread warily: she must never forget that he could undo her at any moment. Her future was in his hands.
But that of Rupert was in hers. She knew that she must plead with her uncle to change his mind, to pay the money that would liberate her brother. It would be a final appeal to his affections, though in truth he had none. Once he had issued a decree, this soft and flaccid man was granite. Rupert had to be punished and more brutally than ever. Francis had failed to bring him to heel, to inculcate in him the imperative of family honour, and for that there could be no mitigation. It was terrifying to feel that she alone stood between her brother and an early death, but today was a morning to shake off such black thoughts. She would ride far and away and consign Francis, his house and his guest to oblivion.
In half an hour she was in the saddle and urging her mount along one of the chalk cart tracks which led to the Downs. The horse was in no mood to hurry and she had constantly to spur him forward. After her whirlwind ride last night, it felt unbearably slow. Once on the Downs, though, her mount grudgingly picked up speed until she was riding at full gallop along one of the highest ridges. In the translucent light of early morning, she could see in the far distance the smudge of coast and the sea, calm as a fathomless mirror.
She galloped on until her breath was all but spent. Slowing to manoeuvre her way around a thicket of bushes, she heard hooves coming from the opposite direction. It was unusual to meet another rider on this vast expanse of downland, and particularly so early in the day. She dropped to a walk and rounded the bushes cautiously. Not cautiously enough, for almost before she knew it, she had met the other rider head-on. She began to apologise for her clumsiness but then found herself looking into the sardonic face of Jack Beaufort. Her apologies stuttered to a close.
‘You,’ she exclaimed ungraciously. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Good morning, Miss Lacey. How delightful to meet you once more.’ The irony was unmistakable. ‘You must forgive me for not realising that I was trespassing. I apologise for my ignorance.’
Her face turned red. ‘I am sure you know, Lord Frensham, that downland is rarely private. You startled me—I had not expected to see you here and so early.’
He sat back on his horse, perfectly at ease. Arrogantly at ease, she thought. The firm chin and the set mouth spoke of a man who would not easily yield.
‘There is a simple explanation for my early ride. I could not sleep. I trust this is not an indelicate question, but does Verney Towers by chance play host to the spirit world?’
‘There are no ghosts, if that is what you mean.’
‘No murdered husbands or wives for ever immured within its walls?’
‘The house has led a blameless life.’
‘Then the noises …?’
‘It creaks and groans with changes in the weather.’
‘How very disappointing! I have been imagining a hundred different tales, each of them more bloodcurdling than the one before.’
‘The only death at the Towers is like to be from boredom,’ she said tartly.
He could not prevent a grin lighting his face. ‘And is that your opinion of Sussex society in general?’
‘I imagine that society is much the same everywhere.’ Her tone was dismissive.
‘Where else have you known?’ It was a sly question.
‘I have lived a narrow and entirely parochial life, your lordship, as I am sure you are aware. But I doubt that I would go on in London any differently than I do here.’
His eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘But if you have never partaken of London’s attractions, how can you be sure that you do not undervalue them?’
‘I cannot be sure, of course, but it is inevitable that given time they would pall.’
‘In that case, let us do our small best to keep life’s boredom at bay. I wonder if you would care to walk. The day is splendid and we ought not to waste it.’
She should