‘That comes as no surprise.’
Heavens! When will I learn to curb my tongue?
A muscle bunched in his jaw. ‘And such a riposte is entirely predictable. You clearly suffer under the illusion that the idle aristocracy are fit for little other than frittering their fortunes away upon their own pleasures and depravities.’
She couldn’t decide if she felt shame at having insulted him, albeit indirectly, or pride that she could stand her own against such a man.
‘They are your words,’ she responded, raising her brows. ‘Your interpretation of my expressed belief that you would have no knowledge of the manufacture of lead crystal. And I was correct.’
His lips thinned. ‘Where is your brother, Miss Markham? When do you expect him home?’
She bit her lip.
‘I do not know.’
Her stomach clenched into a tight, hard ball of fear. Unable to sit still, she rose to her feet and crossed the room to the desk. Daniel’s desk. But there were no clues there. She had searched it thoroughly and there was no hint of where he had gone or what had happened to him. She fingered a contract that lay on the top of a pile of papers awaiting attention, that same all-pervading sense of dread crawling through her veins. This contract was important to Stour Crystal.
Would Daniel really just...go? Would he really be so negligent?
Of the business? Of her? Of their parents?
‘I do not know,’ she repeated.
Lord Vernon Beauchamp eyed Miss Markham. Lines of strain bracketed her mouth and worry lurked in those huge hazel eyes—eyes that had sparked such fire at him only moments ago. In fact, all her fire had fizzled out... This was not merely a case of her brother not being at home this afternoon, of that he was certain. But alongside the worry in her eyes lurked caution. Maybe attempting to flirt his way into gaining her good opinion...her trust...had been a mistake.
He rose to his feet and approached the desk. She tracked his every movement, her wariness plain.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ Vernon said. ‘Will you not sit down and tell me what has happened? There truly is no need to be suspicious of my intentions towards your brother. If it helps to reassure you, you should know that I have never before met Daniel and I know nothing more than he wrote in this letter.’
He reached into his pocket and produced the letter that Daniel Markham had penned, the letter that had prompted Vernon’s journey into Worcestershire. Miss Markham subsided into the desk chair and took the letter, unfolding it to read. Vernon hitched one hip on the far corner of the desk. After a few seconds, she raised her gaze to his.
‘The Duke of Cheriton? This letter is not addressed to you...is it?’
Vernon laughed. ‘No, I am not a duke. Cheriton is my brother. He had every intention of writing to your Daniel with an invitation to call upon him to discuss his concerns, but I formed a sudden desire to visit Worcestershire and so I offered to travel up here to meet your brother myself.’
Leo—Vernon’s brother—had recently married again and the bride’s maternal aunt, Lady Slough, had set her sights on Vernon as a suitable catch for her daughter. Not that Vernon had anything against the chit, but Lady Slough sported all the finesse of a wild boar and he had decided that putting some distance between himself and the lady in question would be best for all concerned. He would not put it past Lady Slough to attempt a spot of entrapment.
Vernon had no inclination to enter the parson’s mousetrap. Not for a very long time, if ever. Leo already had his heir and spare—plus a daughter—from his first marriage, thus securing the future of the dukedom, so there was no absolutely no need for Vernon to wed. And why would he choose to give up his charmed life of a popular, wealthy bachelor? He wanted for nothing.
Except purpose.
He thrust aside that mocking voice, even though he was unable to deny that restlessness had also played its part in persuading him to travel up here to Worcestershire.
Miss Markham had continued to read her brother’s letter, a frown knitting her forehead.
‘Henry Mannington? Who is Henry Mannington?’ Her voice was unusually deep for a woman and slightly gruff—quite at odds with her petite figure and luxuriant curls.
‘You have never heard of him?’
She shook her head and two of those springy, copper-coloured curls of hers bounced over her forehead. She pushed at them absentmindedly, her gaze still fixed on the letter.
‘No. Never.’
‘He is not a friend of your brother’s? A customer? A rival?’
‘No. None of those. I told you,’ she said, with a hint of sarcasm, ‘I have never heard of him.’ She paused, white teeth nibbling at her lower lip. Then she narrowed her eyes. ‘But you know who he is. Or you would not have come all the way up here to speak to Daniel.’
Impressed by her quick uptake, Vernon decided there was nothing to be gained in concealing the little knowledge he did possess.
‘Henry Mannington is a distant cousin of the Beauchamp family, but none of us has seen him or heard of him for several years. He is a classics scholar with a passion for exploring ancient sites and even as a young man he had no interest in socialising in our circle.’
‘The upper ranks of society, you mean?’
There it was again. That hint of disdain in her tone, but recognisable for all that. Miss Markham clearly did not approve of the aristocracy.
‘Yes.’ He would neither apologise for who and what he was, nor feel guilty for it. Her prejudices were her problem. ‘He is my age and we were at university together. Our paths have not crossed since then.’
Miss Markham thrust the letter back at Vernon. ‘I cannot see how this will help me find Daniel.’ She crossed her arms.
‘Find him?’
Her cheeks reddened, clashing with her bright hair. Her lips compressed.
‘How long is it since you have seen Daniel?’
For the first time her composure wavered, her nostrils flared and her hazel eyes, fringed with thick, dark lashes, sheened.
‘Come.’ Vernon gentled his voice. ‘You are upset. Tell me what has happened. I might be able to help.’
‘I do not need help.’
‘How long?’
‘F-five days.’
Vernon checked the letter. ‘Three days after this was written.’ He re-read the missive. ‘By its wording, Daniel had suspicions about Henry Mannington, but what manner of suspicions? It must be more than Henry claiming kinship with Cheriton, for that much is the truth and easily verified. And Henry is a decent chap, not the sort to become embroiled in matters dastardly enough to drive your brother to beg help from a peer with whom he has no acquaintance.’
Miss Markham stood up and resolutely smoothed down the skirt of the peach-coloured gown that skimmed her petite frame. The colour should have clashed with her hair, which was the colour of an autumn leaf, but the combination put Vernon in mind of the brilliant sunset of the evening before and he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. She glared at him as he also rose to his feet. She really was a tiny little thing, barely reaching his shoulder. She put him in mind of a cornered kitten, fur fluffed up and claws out, ready for a fight.
‘There is no need to stand every time I do,’ she said, placing her fists on the desk and leaning on them. ‘I am not one of your fine