‘I’ve always liked the silver-grey silk, but the plum satin is pretty too.’
‘The silver-grey it is,’ Ruth said and put the other gown away.
‘Do you think Dr Bryant is sufficiently rebuffed or might he return to try again?’ Sarah asked as Ruth went about her toilette quite unconcerned by her friend’s observation or her uninvited assistance in closing buttons or pinning curls that were hard to reach.
‘I think he is too indignant to be persistent,’ Ruth answered. She stood up from the stool, pleased with her appearance. She had collected her warm coat and hat before she concluded, ‘I think I have heard the last from him on that score. When he left he looked as though his pride had taken a hefty dent.’
‘You’ve dented her pride and a woman scorned is best avoided for as long as possible.’
‘Amen to that,’ Clayton agreed, scowling at his friend’s wry philosophy. His black humour didn’t subdue Viscount Tremayne’s amusement. As his friend chuckled beneath his breath, Clayton leaned back into the sumptuous squabs of the splendid travelling coach that bore the crest of the Tremayne clan and was presently heading, at breakneck speed in the hope of outrunning the snow clouds, towards Willowdene Manor.
Clayton was glad to be spending time with his good friend and glad to be away from the metropolis for a while. Yet niggling at his conscience was a feeling that he was fleeing from an unpleasant situation and he never usually did that. Beneath his breath he cursed Loretta Vane for having managed to spoil his long-awaited reunion with Gavin and his family.
Shortly after Gavin had arrived at Clayton’s home that afternoon a letter from his mistress had been delivered. It had conveyed the outrageous news that Loretta expected him to arrange for their betrothal to be immediately gazetted. In anticipation of his submitting to that action, she had written to Pomfrey to warn him of his jilting. Loretta had also found the gall to infer that she’d dropped Pomfrey at Clayton’s behest… as though Clayton had browbeaten her into it.
After Clayton had spent an incredulous few moments rereading the unsubtle blackmail, he had been vacillating between laughing out loud and swearing at the ceiling. Seething anger had triumphed and he had screwed the perfumed paper in a fist and hurled it as far as he could while fighting down the need to storm straight to her house and shake some sense into the scheming minx.
He knew he would never allow himself to be coerced into marrying her, no matter how devious her strategies. A curt, unequivocal note had been despatched to tell her that. It had also made it clear that their relationship was at an end and that shortly his lawyer would contact her regarding a settlement.
Aware of his friend’s steady gaze on him, Clayton turned his head aside to stare at the dusky passing landscape. The first fat flakes of snow drifted past the carriage window, but still Clayton’s simmering fury at Loretta’s scheming preoccupied his mind. ‘The vixen is intent on stirring up trouble between Pomfrey and me,’ he remarked, almost to himself.
‘Don’t rise to the bait.’
‘I’ve no intention of doing so. But Pomfrey might. He won’t want to be made a laughing stock over this. He might feel obliged to act on it simply to protect his family’s good name.’
‘You think he might call for pistols at dawn?’ Gavin asked with a sardonic smile. He knew very well—as did the whole of the ton—that his friend was an excellent shot and unlikely to be challenged by a sane man to a duel. ‘Pomfrey has his pockets to let, not his attic. He won’t allow her to pull his strings any more than will you.’
‘She is extremely adept at pulling the strings of gentlemen.’
‘I’m sure,’ Gavin said on a dry chuckle. ‘Let’s hope Pomfrey is able to resist her persuasion as well as you can.’
Clayton stretched out his long legs comfortably in front of him and a slow grin softened his features. ‘You’d best tell the driver to slow down. The bad weather’s caught up with us.’
Gavin whipped his head about to frown at the falling snow. The urgent need to be reunited with his beloved wife and baby son made him reluctant to issue the order. With a sigh he realised he risked never seeing them again if they continued to drive at reckless speed on roads that would soon be treacherous. Having taken Clayton’s good advice and instructed the driver to rein in and take extreme care negotiating the road, he settled back into the seat and turned his mind again to his friend’s unfortunate plight.
‘It could all be a bluff, in any case,’ Gavin reasoned. ‘Lady Vane might not have sent Pomfrey a letter yet. She might be hedging her bets. I’ll warrant she won’t drop Pomfrey until she accepts it’s all over with you.’
‘I’m inclined to agree on that,’ Clayton said reflectively. ‘If she doesn’t understand plain English, as soon as I get back to town I’ll make sure she knows that I mean what I say.’
‘There is one certain way to make her accept you mean what you say and that you’ll never have her as your wife.’
‘And that is…?’ Clayton asked with lazy interest.
‘Marry someone else,’ Gavin said.
Chapter Three
‘I do hope Gavin has put up for the night somewhere. It would be foolhardy to travel on in such dreadful weather.’
Ruth gently settled baby James in his crib before turning her attention to the boy’s mother. Sarah had spoken in a voice sharpened by anxiety and with her melancholy gaze directed through the nursery window.
Inside the Manor all was cosy and warm, but sloping away from the house the lawns, that this afternoon had been murky green, appeared icy white. It was after eight o’clock in the evening and more than two hours since the time of Gavin’s expected arrival. The snow had stopped falling and the sky had become the darkest shade of blue, threatening a night of perilous frost lay ahead. A pale, hard moon had escaped from a scrap of cloud and beneath its faint light the snow scintillated back at the stars.
‘It is possible Gavin has not yet set out at all,’ Ruth soothingly reminded. ‘I expect he has sensibly remained in London if the snow has come from that direction.’ It was a valid reassurance, given more than once since the snow started, yet it did little to erase the look of strain from the Viscountess’s features. Sarah’s small teeth continued to nip ferociously at her lower lip. Forlornly she peered at the long driveway that led to the house as though willing her husband’s carriage to hove into view.
When they had travelled together from the hamlet of Fernlea, where Ruth lived, the air had held a cruel effervescence. But the breeze had kindly whipped the heavy clouds before it, giving them no chance to hover and shed their load. Within an hour of their arrival at the Manor the elements had turned against them. The wind had dropped, leaving the heavens concealed behind an unmoving blanket of sullen grey. The first gentle flurries had seemed harmless, but inexorably the dainty flakes had thickened and settled on the ground. Sarah and Ruth had taken turns at the window to report on the creeping progress of the frosting on the grass. Now the two women stood side by side, silently surveying the treacherous white landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see.
‘There is the tavern at Woodville.’ Ruth quickly attempted to comfort her friend. Sarah’s countenance had become as still and pale as the scenery they gazed upon. ‘If Gavin was close to home when the weather took a turn for the worse, I expect he instructed his coachman to pull in there.’ Again the suggestion was valid: Woodville was a small town situated about seventeen miles south of Willowdene and the King’s Head was a well-known stopping point for travellers going to and from London.
‘Yes, I’m sure he would have done that.’ Sarah managed a constrained little smile. ‘Gavin