‘Oh dear God!’ Max exclaimed. ‘Well, I suppose it was marginally better than the other way round. But do you realize what you have done?’
‘My dear fellow—’
‘This is the lady that I have been hoping to make my wife,’ said Max. ‘Despite doubting my identity, she rushed to warn me of the magistrate’s coming, which is why she struck Snelson over the head. In order to get her away quickly, Barnes told her that she had killed the man, and I, in my anxiety to protect her, did not look for myself to see if it was true, fool that I was! Then with all the business of the magistrate coming, your arrival and the urgency of your errand to London, I was obliged to hurry off without sending her word that Snelson was only stunned. God alone knows what agonies of mind she has gone through; and now I find that you have told her it was all for a jest!’ He stared at his cousin for a few moments before striding to the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Alistair asked him.
‘To find her, wherever she may be, and try to sort out this bloody mess.’
Alistair raised his glass. ‘Good luck with that,’ he murmured to empty air.
Max strode off to the stables in search of a mount. There were plenty of horses that he could use whilst Filigree enjoyed a well-deserved rest. Logic dictated that he ought to rest himself. He had had one decent night’s sleep over the past three, and even that – the one that he had spent in London – had been short, owing to his desire to set off in good time. What was more, he had no idea where to begin to look for Constance. None of these considerations counted for anything when weighed against the need to find her, in order to dispel the erroneous impression that Alistair had given. The safety of the realm could go hang; he needed her to know the truth – or at any rate, as much of it as he knew himself.
He turned the corner to walk into the stables and stopped short; for she was there in front of him, stroking Patch and thanking the groom for his assistance. All at once, from being desperate to tell her his story, he was lost for words.
Constance had just returned from visiting Melinda’s home. Unable to sleep, she had set off in good time that morning in order to solicit her friend’s opinion. Her visit had not been well timed, although Mrs Grayleigh had been very pleased to see her. ‘Dear Abdas has taken Melinda for a drive,’ she disclosed, thus providing some heartening reassurance with regard to her attitude to her prospective son-in-law. ‘I have been so excited about preparing for a wedding that I have quite worn her out, I fear.’ She had no idea of their destination, confiding that they had told her not to expect them until later in the day.
There was clearly no point in waiting, so after a brief chat with Mrs Grayleigh, Constance had set off back to Beacon Tower. It was fortunate that she knew the journey well, for she drove largely by instinct, giving no attention to her surroundings. The hoped-for opportunity to discuss Max’s behaviour with Melinda had failed to materialize, and she felt no more settled than before. She did not know what to do or where to turn.
Then, as she was on the point of walking home, having finished her conversation with the groom, she turned and saw Max coming towards them. ‘Miss Church,’ he said, bowing with more energy than grace.
Ever since Max’s departure, she had felt as if she was living a strange half-life; rather like someone trapped in a corridor, with the door of the room that she had just left locked behind her, whilst the door that she wished to open also resisted her entry. Guilt over Snelson and anxiety about Max had, with each new revelation, turned to an overwhelming sense of betrayal. She had gone through so many emotions that she felt as if she had been run through the laundry maid’s mangle; and all because of a jest!
She opened her mouth to acknowledge his greeting. As she did so, however, it suddenly occurred to her that she did not know how to address him. She took a deep breath. ‘You will forgive me for not returning the courtesy, sir,’ she said, offering a curtsy so perfunctory as to be almost non-existent. ‘You have the advantage of me, since I have no idea who you are.’ She turned her back, and set off at a brisk pace.
‘My name is Max Persault,’ he said, moving quickly to her side and keeping step with her. ‘I am the cousin of—’
‘The Duke of Haslingfield; yes, I know,’ Constance interrupted. ‘He told me all about it.’
‘He did?’ For a tiny moment, Max was conscious of a surge of relief that perhaps Alistair had actually told her the truth about their masquerade. Then as he looked at her stormy face, he realized his mistake.
‘Oh yes,’ Constance replied, her tone rather brittle. ‘He has explained everything to my satisfaction.’
‘He has?’ said Max cautiously.
‘As soon as I saw him, I understood why I had never really believed that you were a duke,’ she answered. ‘He has the word aristocrat written all over him; whereas I knew you to be a dandy brute right from the very beginning.’
Her words brought back to him all the memories of how ludicrous he had felt in his adopted role, and he could not suppress a chuckle. From the moment that it left his lips, he knew that he had made the crassest possible mistake. She whirled round to face him. ‘Of course, you would laugh! It has all been so terribly amusing, has it not? Fooling a whole community of honest people for a jest!’
‘A jest! How could you think it?’ he asked incredulously, forgetting for a moment how plausible Alistair could be when he chose.
‘Oh no, of course, I was forgetting; you were running away from your creditors. Another set of honest people of whom you have made game!’ She turned to continue her journey; he stopped her by catching hold of her arm.
‘Now who is being dishonest?’ he demanded. ‘You talk of all these people whom I have let down; what you really mean, Miss Church, is that you are angry because you think I was making game of you. You are simply annoyed because your pride has been hurt.’
For a moment, she felt almost unable to breathe. ‘My pride? Do you really think that that is what this is about?’ She took a deep breath. ‘I was torturing myself because I thought that I had been the cause of Colin Snelson’s death; and all the time, you knew that he was still alive.’
‘I didn’t know; I swear,’ he replied.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said swiftly, pulling her arm from his grip and walking on.
‘It’s true. Think, Constance; Barnes examined him; I did not. You know that this was so. When I brought you home, I, too, believed that he was dead.’
‘And when you went back to Beacon Tower?’
‘I’ll admit that I did discover then that he was alive; but by that time, the magistrate and his party were arriving, and I had to deal with them.’
‘You could have come and told me afterwards. You knew how anxious I was.’
He looked at her for a long moment. ‘I was obliged to go on an errand for Alistair,’ he answered.
‘Conniving at his illicit activities, no doubt,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said decisively. ‘I have not been honest with you, I admit; and for that I apologize. But my activities have not been dishonourable, I swear.’
She paused and turned to him again. ‘The ironic thing is that if you had told me from the beginning that you were in debt, I would not have condemned you. I have some funds of my own; I would even have tried to help you.’ Another shadow passed across her face. ‘Was that why you asked me to … to…? No, of course not,’ she concluded bitterly. ‘My small inheritance could never cover your debts. No doubt your suggestion that we go away together was yet another jest. Have you shared it with your cousin? I’m sure he, with his predilection for amorous intrigue, would find it vastly amusing.’
‘It was no jest, I promise you,’ Max declared, catching hold of her by both arms, this time, and pulling her against him. ‘We can go now if you wish it: today; and I will prove to you that I am worthy of your trust.’
Again, she pulled herself away. ‘Too late, Mr … what was your name, again?’
‘Persault.’
‘Mr
Persault. Goodness, what a mouthful! If I cannot remember it, I doubt if I should ever learn to spell it! No, you are too late, I fear. Mr Snelson has long been a suitor of mine, and thanks to your outrageous conduct, I now perceive his worth.’
‘Does he know yet that you hit him over the head?’ Max asked suspiciously.
‘True love always forgives,’ Constance replied, her head held high, quite proud of the fact that her colour did not change as she practised this little economy with the truth. ‘We are anxious to have the banns read as soon as possible. You may come and hear them if your conscience is sufficiently clear.’
‘And what of your conscience?’ he demanded, venturing to catch hold of her again, this time by the wrist. ‘Does it permit you to marry one man whilst you are in love with another?’
‘In love?’ she echoed scornfully. ‘Perhaps I was naïve enough to believe it for a few brief hours; blame the romance of the moonlight. Now, I hate and despise you, more than I have ever despised anyone. Go back to your gambling and your posturing, for I have no desire to see you ever again as long as I live!’
They stared at one another for a long moment, before she whirled round and ran in the direction of The Brambles. Max watched until she was out of sight before walking back to Beacon Tower.
Constance’s satisfaction at having given him a piece of her mind lasted until she got back to her room. ‘I won’t cry over him again,’ she said out loud. ‘He’s not worth it.’ Nevertheless, despite her words, her eyes filled with tears at her disappointed hopes. That might be the last time that she would see him. He had thoroughly shed his duke’s disguise and could not be mistaken for anything other than some kind of adventurer. His dark hair had been confined imperfectly at his neck, and his clothing had been practical and hard-wearing rather than elegant. His hands… . She thought of his hands gripping her shoulders. As usual, he had been without gloves. On the little finger of his right hand, he had still been wearing the signet ring of the Duke of Haslingfield. Obviously, he had not yet given it back.
This thought took her back to one of the first times she had seen him. He had been getting out of the carriage, accompanied by Field, the dismissed valet. Then, too, he had been without gloves. He had been sporting the same signet ring. He had also been wearing one of rose gold, inset with a pearl. It had not been on his hand today.
Mentally, she gave herself a little shake. What did it matter how many rings the man wore? she told herself severely. Most probably, he had pledged it whilst gaming with somebody. She tried to dismiss the subject of the rings from her mind, but it would not go away. She had seen someone else wearing the rose-gold ring, and quite recently, too. When had that been? Could it have been Max on a previous occasion – when they had been at the lighthouse, for example? Rack her brains as she might, she could not recall.
Chapter Twenty-three
After having been summarily rejected by Constance, Max walked back slowly. A man with more experience of women might have taken some comfort from the vehemence of his dismissal. Max’s knowledge of the female of the species was somewhat limited. The majority of his time was spent at sea in an exclusively male environment. On shore, he generally had business matters to attend to, after which he would usually pay a visit to his mother and his sister. Whilst there were always females who, for a consideration, would attend to a man’s physical needs, romantic attachments had never played much of a part in his life. He therefore was inclined to take Constance at her word. She hated him; she never wanted to see him again. He could see why. Very well then; he would not pester her with his unwanted presence. He would bid farewell to his cousin, return to London and get back to sea as soon as could be managed. At least the Lady Marion was one female who would not break his heart.
He found his cousin at the desk in the book room, making some notes. Haslingfield looked up and eyed his face dispassionately. ‘You don’t look like a man for whom the phrase “I wish you joy” would be entirely appropriate,’ he remarked.
‘Perceptive of you,’ Max answered, heading straight for the decanter and pouring himself a glass of brandy, which he swiftly emptied and refilled.
‘A bath and a change of clothes after your long ride might have made a difference,’ Alistair murmured.
‘Alistair, are you fond of these glasses?’ Max asked in an even tone.
‘As I saw them for the first time the day before yesterday, I’m largely indifferent to them,’ he replied.
There was a shattering sound followed by tinkling as Max’s glass smashed against the fireplace. ‘Any more bloody stupid remarks of that nature, and the decanter will follow it,’ said Max.
‘Oh, pray don’t do that,’ said Alistair, looking up at his cousin. He had displayed no reaction to the sound of breaking glass. ‘The brandy in it is rather good.’
Max gave a bitter chuckle, took two more glasses and poured brandy into both then took one over to Alistair. ‘Would that my troubles could be solved by filling a bath with water,’ he said. ‘No, she is now convinced that I am a heartless deceiver. What’s more, you were right about Snelson. She has engaged herself to him and even invited me to stay for the banns.’
‘Which invitation you refused, I take it.’
Max shook his head. ‘I’ll not stay and see her wed another,’ he declared. ‘I’ll trespass on your hospitality this evening, if I may, and then be gone by first light.’
‘Stay for as long as you please,’ Alistair replied. ‘Only for God’s sake, have a bath and dress yourself properly.’
Max did as his cousin suggested, reflecting that this would probably be the last night that he would spend at Beacon Tower. The two men had never been in the habit of frequent visiting. Chances were that the next time they met it would be in London, or perhaps at Haslingfield. Playing the duke had had its amusing side, apart from the damage done to his personal life. All in all, though, Max decided it was probably a blessing that he was not a duke in good and earnest. He would be neglecting his principal seat in preference for this much smaller residence overlooking the sea.
He had never felt the need of a home apart from his ship. Here, at Beacon Tower, he had begun to feel the desire to settle, preferably in a place like this. It was not to be. Constance’s decision had seen to that. He would have dinner with Alistair, then retire in reasonable time and leave early the following morning.
‘I won’t promise to see you off,’ Alistair remarked as they sat over their brandy after the excellent meal prepared by Mrs Hays. ‘Will you go straight to London from here?’
Max shook his head. ‘I must ride over and bid farewell to Abdas,’ he replied. He had told his cousin the story of Abdas’s courtship. In so doing he had revealed more about his own feelings than perhaps he realized. Alistair sat at ease, his legs crossed negligently, asking the occasional judicious question, and all the time working on the information he received with a brain that was far more acute than most of his London acquaintances would ever have supposed.
‘This agonizing confirms me in the belief that I am much better off having no heart at all,’ he concluded eventually. ‘Believe me, coz, when eventually I marry, it will be entirely for my own convenience. Anything else is just too uncomfortable to contemplate.’
In the event, Alistair did bestir himself to join his cousin for breakfast, wandering down negligently in his dressing gown. Max was not able to set off as early as he would have liked, owing to the fact that he was to call upon the Grayleighs. ‘Farming family or not, they will hardly be pleased if you knock on the door at seven in the morning,’ Alistair pointed out.
His departure was very different from his arrival, Max reflected, as he rode out of the stable yard dressed in comfortable riding clothes, the essentials packed into two saddle-bags. ‘Barnes will send the rest on,’ Alistair had promised. ‘To where should he address them?’
‘To the Lady Marion in the Port of London,’ Max had replied. ‘Or you might as well keep them if you wish. When would I have cause to be so dan
dified on board ship?’
‘They wouldn’t fit me,’ Alistair had declared frankly, ‘unlike your ring, to which I have become rather attached. Quite the only thing of taste that I can remember seeing you wear of your own volition.’
Alistair stood on the doorstep until Max was out of sight. He was about to go back inside when a man who bore all the appearance of a working farmer approached, having walked up the drive. Engaging in conversation on his threshold when not properly dressed was not normally an activity in which Alistair indulged. He nodded distantly to the man, said, ‘You’ll be wanting the stables, no doubt,’ and turned to walk into the house.
‘Sir? Beg pardon, sir?’
To be hailed in this way was even more unusual, and Alistair’s curiosity was piqued. He turned round. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Beg pardon, sir, but I was hoping for a word with His Grace,’ said the man, turning his head to look in the direction in which Max had gone.
‘You are speaking to him,’ Alistair replied. ‘How may I be of service?’
The man looked round again, hesitated and turned back, twisting his hat in his hands. ‘Well, I … beggin’ your pardon, sir, I’m sure you’re a very fine gentleman an’ all, but—’
‘But?’
‘But I was ’opin’ to speak to His real Grace, if you know what I mean.’
There was a short silence. ‘As opposed to the counterfeit one,’ Alistair murmured. ‘Today is not convenient for … ah … “His real Grace”. Come back tomorrow.’ Turning his back on the mystified tenant farmer, he walked back inside, ascended to his bedchamber and rang for his valet. ‘Ah, Barnes. Have a message sent to … Bramble Cottage, is it?’
‘The Brambles, Your Grace.’
‘Ah yes, The Brambles. What would I do without you to put me right? Have someone go there to find out who is within. If the aunt and uncle are there, get them out of the way with some message; it doesn’t matter what.’
‘For how long, Your Grace?’
‘Long enough for me to deal with Miss Church,’ Alistair replied in an even tone. ‘My cousin has been rather careless. She knows far too much for her own good.’
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