Imperfect Pretence

by Imperfect Pretence (retail) (epub)

  ‘I suppose so,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘But please do not go yet. Take a little time to get to know him. You may find that there is a perfectly innocent reason for— ’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said grimly. ‘What innocent reason could there possibly be?’

  ‘I don’t know! There must be one, surely? Please, wait for a day or so. Don’t do anything in haste.’

  ‘While plots are being hatched against England?’ He sighed.

  ‘At least promise me that you will tell me before you take action.’ He nodded reluctantly in assent, and said no more on the subject.

  After he had gone – and he did not stay for long, the solemn nature of his suspicions rendering other conversation rather awkward – Constance sat in the garden wondering what to do. How she wished that Melinda was still there, so that she might consult her!

  She wondered what role Abdas Okoro might have in this strange affair. He and the duke had never really seemed to play the parts of secretary and employer. What if Abdas were implicated in this business? He had no reason to love England and Englishmen, after all. What upon earth would Melinda do if the man she loved proved to be a traitor? She decided to ride over and speak to her friend the next day. She could not reconcile it with her conscience to keep quiet over such a matter.

  ‘What a pity for you that Melinda was obliged to leave, my dear,’ said Miss Fellowes to her niece as they were waiting for dinner to be announced.

  Constance nodded. ‘She was so sorry not to have been able to see you first,’ she answered with perfect truth. In accordance with her promise, she had said nothing about her friend’s romance. Instead, she had made up a story about Melinda’s having received some news of her family, upon hearing which the duke’s secretary had escorted her home.

  ‘I do trust that it was nothing distressing,’ said Miss Fellowes, as her brother came in. Even in correct evening dress, he always looked as though he might have been digging the garden. He had a note in his hand which he gave to Constance.

  ‘This came for you,’ he said incuriously, before turning to his sister. ‘Were you talking about Miss Grayleigh’s sudden departure?’

  His sister made some response, and while the two of them were discussing the matter, Constance took the opportunity to read her note.

  I have decided to waste no time and to ride to the magistrate tonight. England’s safety is more important than your scruples.

  She gave an involuntary gasp which she managed to turn into a cough. Tonight! It had never occurred to her that he would act so quickly. While she was still taking in the contents of her note, the maid came to announce that dinner was ready, and she wandered in to the dining room behind her uncle and aunt, who were, by good fortune, still preoccupied with their own conversation.

  During the meal, Constance managed to give enough attention to her relatives’ remarks to avoid attracting notice. In reality, more than half her mind was preoccupied with the question of what she should do, given Snelson’s actions. When she had begged him to take a little more time, she had had no idea of what course to pursue. If she had been honest with herself, she would have admitted to hoping that he would not do anything, so she would be saved from making any kind of decision. Now, plainly she had to do something and she had to do it tonight. The only possible course of action that came into her mind was to warn the duke of the danger in which he stood. She thought that she knew how it could be done; but she would have to wait until after dark in order to carry out her plan.

  Mr and Miss Fellowes were never usually late birds. On this occasion, needless to say, when Constance was hoping for them to retire early, they seemed predisposed to stay up late, lingering over the tea tray until Constance was almost at screaming point. Then, just as it seemed as though they might go upstairs, Mr Fellowes said to his sister, ‘What do you say to a game of chess?’

  Constance only just managed to bite back a protest. Knowing, however, that this would only cause further delay and attract attention in precisely the way that she most wanted to avoid, she simply said ‘Well, for my part, I am feeling quite sleepy, so I will bid you goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, my dear,’ replied her uncle as he set out the chess pieces. ‘What was your note about by the way?’

  Constance had had some time to invent an answer to this question. ‘Just a suggestion from Miss Mawsby that we might go for a walk,’ she answered casually.

  In order to be certain that she would not be caught leaving the house, Constance waited for quite a whole hour after she had heard her aunt and uncle go to their rooms. When the house was quiet, she slipped a shawl around her shoulders, tiptoed down the stairs, and left by the back door, closing it softly behind her. That done, she hurried off to Beacon Tower. She was confident that the duke – or whoever he was – would still be downstairs. Ten o’clock at night might seem late to country folk; for someone used to town life, it would be rather too early to have retired.

  It never occurred to her that she might have difficulty in locating the room in which he would be sitting. The night was clear and the moon full. Naturally, he would be in the saloon at the back with the splendid view of the North Sea. Cautiously she made her way around the side of the house, anxious not to arouse any other person.

  She knew from local gossip that he had not taken on many servants. Mrs Hays lived in, but Davis walked up from the village with Jilly and the two young women who took their daily instructions from Barnes. As she rounded the corner of the building, the view that he would have from the saloon came into her line of sight, and she let out an involuntary gasp at its beauty. The moon, shining onto the sea from a cloudless sky, tinted the sea with shades of black, grey and silver; whilst the stars, dwarfed by the greater light, nevertheless filled the sky with a myriad of spangles.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Church,’ said the duke’s voice from behind her, causing her to jump. ‘Although you are, of course, more than welcome to admire the view from my garden, I am curious to know what you are doing here at such a time.’

  She turned at the sound of his voice, and at once, her heart began to race. He was in his shirtsleeves without a cravat, the shirt open to partway down his chest. His own dark hair hung loose about his shoulders. Constance’s mind had been doing battle with the suspicions voiced by Colin Snelson. Now, looking at him in the moonlight, it seemed quite impossible that he should be a duke. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered.

  He looked down into her anxious face. ‘Come inside,’ he said, his voice lowered. ‘You mustn’t be seen out here.’

  He led her into the saloon through the garden door, his hand under her elbow. Once the door was closed behind them, he drew her over to the window. The moon was still working its magic, transforming the world outside into a scene of extraordinary beauty. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘what is this about?’

  ‘You tell me,’ she replied. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘What makes you think I am not what I purport to be?’ he asked her. For a few moments she was tempted to take his words at face value. Then something about the way that he was looking at her, half quizzically, half speculatively, caused the fleeting hope that perhaps Snelson was mistaken to shrivel and die.

  ‘Almost everything you say and do,’ she answered in frustrated tones, watching him as he poured a glass of wine, which he offered to her, then drank himself when she shook her head. ‘No arrogant aristocrat would treat his secretary as a friend in the way that you do. You say you know little of the sea, but you wield a telescope like an expert and play a major part in a rescue. Although you play the dandy, you are never seen in gloves; you even wear your most dandified clothes as if you were a swaggering buccaneer. Now, to cap it all—’

  ‘Well?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘You look nothing like the portrait of the new duke.’

  ‘I see,’ he replied with a rueful grin. ‘It does not occur to you that perhaps Mr Snelson – who is doubtless your informant – may have been looking at the wrong portrait?’


  ‘It did occur to me,’ she said carefully. ‘But taken with everything else—’

  ‘Taken with everything else, you have a man who neither looks like a duke nor behaves like one. Rather a tenuous foundation on which to build an argument, I would have thought. Not everyone who becomes a duke was brought up to occupy that position; nor do all members of a family resemble one another.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Miss Church, I fully accept that you believe I have a case to answer. The question that I would put to you in turn is, why have you decided to confront me at this time of night?’ He put his glass down and walked slowly towards her. She took a couple of steps backwards. Swiftly, he closed the gap between them and caught hold of her chin. He was now all buccaneer. It struck her that he could be a very dangerous man. She met his gaze squarely, hoping that he could not feel that she was trembling.

  As if he could read her thoughts, he said, ‘Did it not occur to you that if I were indeed the villain that you think me, you are now in my clutches? I could easily make away with you – or do something even worse.’ He held her gaze with his own, and lowered his head; unmistakably¸ he intended to kiss her.

  Much though her foolish heart might leap at the prospect, however, she could not afford to forget the reason for her errand. Before he could carry out his intentions she said quickly, ‘Snelson has gone for the magistrate.’

  ‘What?’ he said, releasing his grip.

  ‘Snelson believes that you … you are a French spy or agent of some sort,’ she said. ‘He thinks that you are here to play your part in the enabling of an invasion fleet to moor nearby, perhaps at Weybourne. He has gone to Aylsham to see the magistrate, and bring back with him some volunteers to arrest you.’

  For a moment, Max was tempted to laugh out loud at the irony of Snelson’s suspicions. ‘So you have come—’

  ‘To warn you.’ Becoming fully conscious of the enormity of her actions, she could feel herself blushing a fiery red.

  ‘With what end in view?’ he asked her curiously.

  ‘So that you might escape.’

  ‘You suspect that I am an enemy of England,’ he pointed out. ‘So why are you helping me?’

  She turned away abruptly. ‘You may be a traitor – a thing that I find quite abhorrent,’ she said, her voice catching slightly. ‘But I cannot believe that you are a bad man. You saved Tommy Spencer, and you rescued all those people who might have been lost at sea. I do not want you to … to hang.’

  He grinned wryly. ‘I believe traitors are still hanged, drawn and quartered.’

  She turned back towards him, her face as white now as it had been flushed before. ‘Then for God’s sake, go!’ she exclaimed, clutching at his sleeve. ‘Go at once, before they come.’

  ‘That would be an admission of guilt,’ he pointed out, ‘and I haven’t said that I’m guilty.’

  ‘If you are not guilty, what are you doing here, pretending to be a duke?’

  He looked at her for a long moment. ‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Can’t – or won’t?’

  ‘Can’t,’ he answered wryly. ‘It’s a matter of honour, my dear.’

  ‘Honour!’ she exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air. ‘A fig for honour! It’s a word men use whenever it suits them, to justify duels and gaming debts and all kinds of other things that only bring heartache to those they love.’

  The last word seemed to hang in the air between them. He caught hold of her hands, and pulled her into his arms. ‘Constance, my dear,’ he murmured, as he lowered his head and this time, he did kiss her full on her mouth. She had been kissed twice before; once against her will by a gentleman who had overindulged at a garden party, and whom she had rewarded by pushing him into a nearby fountain. On the other occasion, she had permitted the familiarity chiefly in order to satisfy her curiosity. Neither of these experiences had been pleasurable. This time, however, she was conscious of a delicious invasion of all her senses, combined with a feeling deep down inside that this was where she belonged, and always desired to be.

  Eventually he drew back, still holding her in his arms. ‘So you want me to run?’ he said.

  ‘I want you to be safe,’ she replied simply, her heart in her eyes.

  ‘If I ran – would you come with me?’ Before she could answer, he turned her to look out of the window, holding her against him gently, her back against his chest. ‘Supposing all I had to offer you was a ship and a loyal crew, and the wide open sea?’

  Even whilst her blood stirred at the picture he conjured up, there was suddenly no time for her to think, let alone answer, for at that moment, they heard the sound of a door opening, followed by cautious steps. Max released her and held up his hand for silence, directing her with a movement of his head to step into the shadows to the side of the door. Moments later, Snelson came into view, a pistol in his hand.

  Seeing Max standing in the centre of the room, apparently alone, he said, ‘Well, Mr Imposter; are you now ready to disclose who you really are? Or should I say “monsieur”?’

  ‘Say what you like, but pray do not pollute my ears with that execrable accent,’ said Max in his most languid tones.

  ‘Execrable, is it?’ asked Snelson. ‘And how would you know?’ He took a step closer to Max. ‘It might interest you to learn that I have been to Aylsham to the magistrate.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ Max drawled, his hand going to his mouth as if to cover a yawn. ‘Is this story taking us anywhere, Snelson? I must confess myself to be at something of a loss, both as to the purpose for this conversation, and, more seriously, for your reasons for being in my house at this time of night. Are you drunk?’

  ‘Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ said Snelson, taking a step closer to Max. Constance, much alarmed at the turn that events were taking, looked frantically about her, and caught sight of a bronze figure on the cupboard next to her.

  ‘Like having my bailiff drunk in my saloon? Certainly not,’ Max responded. ‘Now get you gone before I become seriously annoyed rather than amused.’

  ‘Amused? Let’s see how amusing you find it when the magistrate arrives.’

  At this point, Constance, who had picked up the bronze figure, lifted it above her. Max, seeing her intentions, raised a hand, saying, ‘Wait!’

  Snelson, thinking that he was being addressed, said sneeringly, ‘For what?’

  Before either of the men could say anything more, Constance brought the figure down on his head, so that he crumpled to the floor. ‘Now will you flee?’ she said, turning to Max.

  ‘Indeed, I think that one of us should,’ he said, taking one step towards the fallen man. Before he could examine Snelson’s injury, however, he became aware that Constance had turned very white. The bronze figure slipped from her fingers, and fell to the carpet with a dull thud as she realized just what she had done.

  ‘Dear heaven, have I killed him?’ she asked, swaying alarmingly. He helped her to a chair, intending to look at Snelson as soon as she was seated. Before he could leave her side, Barnes appeared in the doorway, as dapper as always.

  The valet bowed courteously to Constance. ‘Good evening, Miss Church,’ he said formally. ‘I trust I see you well. Is your aunt in good health?’

  Constance, suddenly overcome with a most unsuitable desire to giggle at the incongruity of this conversation, responded to both questions in the affirmative. He observed the body on the floor. ‘Dear me,’ he said in his usual calm tone. ‘May I be of assistance in this matter, Your Grace?’

  ‘Mr Snelson has met with an accident,’ Max replied. ‘I was about to take a look at him when Miss Church became rather distressed, and my first duty is to her.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Barnes. ‘Allow me.’ He went down on his knees next to the fallen man in order to feel for a pulse in his neck. After a long moment, he looked up, his face solemn. ‘I think it were as well that the young lady left immediately,’ he said calmly.

  Max nodded. ‘I’ll take her home,’ he
said.

  ‘He is dead!’ uttered Constance, aghast. ‘Oh no, surely not! I never intended—‘

  ‘Of course not,’ Max agreed, almost as shocked as she. ‘Barnes, are you quite sure?’

  ‘There can be no mistake,’ Barnes replied. ‘Indeed, Your Grace, it would be wise to take the young lady away at once.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Max. ‘Come then, Miss Church.’

  ‘You should be gone too,’ she responded, pulling herself together with some difficulty. ‘He had sent for a party to take you into custody, remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ Max replied. ‘Let’s deal with one thing at a time. The first task is to get you to safety.’

  ‘So I should hope,’ said Barnes with dignity. ‘Allow me to help you on with your coat, Your Grace.’ The valet retrieved the item in question from a chair where it had been carelessly thrown, and with a reproachful ‘tsk tsk’, held it out for Max to put on. ‘I fear that I cannot see your cravat,’ he murmured, looking around.

  ‘No more can I,’ Max replied dismissively. ‘Are you ready, Miss Church?’

  ‘Oh! Yes … yes, I am ready,’ Constance replied, feeling as if she was inhabiting some strange, other world which bore no relation to reality. ‘But the magistrate … and—’

  ‘Fear not,’ said Max reassuringly. ‘Barnes is more than capable of coping with any circumstance that might transpire, aren’t you, Barnesy?’

  Something that might have been a faint wince crossed the valet’s features. ‘I trust so, Your Grace,’ he said primly.

  As soon as they were outside in the drive, Constance said, ‘What now?’

  ‘I’m going to take you home,’ Max replied.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, as if that is necessary,’ she answered impatiently. ‘Your safety is far more important.’

  ‘Nothing is more important than your safety,’ he responded, taking her arm.

  ‘I am perfectly safe here. My own home is barely half a mile away.’