Glancing down, Giles studied the pale fingers lying against the blue fabric of his jacket; then, with a strange smile, he covered her hand with his own.
“There is no need to pity me, my dear.” His gaze lifted to meet her softened hazel eyes. “It taught me to be self-sufficient and able to appreciate those friends I do possess.”
Lost in the probing gaze, Roma found it a struggle to catch her breath. He was so handsome, so utterly irresistible. Quite beyond anyone she had ever encountered before.
With a nervous motion, she jerked her hand free and gazed desperately at her empty plate.
“More champagne,” he inquired, his voice annoyingly composed. But then, why shouldn’t it be? He was not the one assaulted with these ridiculous bouts of awareness.
“Thank you, no.”
“At least have another apricot tart?”
Gathering control of her nerves, she forced herself to lift her head. She was behaving like a skittish schoolgirl, for goodness’ sake.
“I have eaten three already. One more and I shall be beyond all shame.”
“Fustian. There is no need to act the dainty female with me, my dear.”
“No.” She smiled with wry amusement. “I suppose you already think my behavior to be shocking?”
“Quite shocking,” he mocked.
“Well, you needn’t think that your opinion matters a wit to me.”
“I am painfully aware that it does not,” he replied, his darkly lean features surprisingly set in lines of self-derision.
“Giles …”
“Yes?”
Once again overwhelmingly conscious of his potent appeal, Roma hastily rose to her feet. Being seated so close together in this isolated place was far too intimate for her peace of mind. It made her remember all sorts of feelings she was determined to forget.
“Shall we take a stroll?”
He paused and then heaved an audible sigh, as if regretting her sudden retreat, but after the barest hesitation he was rising to his feet and graciously offering her an arm.
“By all means,” he said in smooth tones. “You can pick wildflowers while I describe the delectable soiree your aunt has devised to introduce me to the neighborhood.”
Roma glanced at him in horror.
“Oh, no …”
Eighteen
Two days later Lord Carlton turned his stallion off the main path and into the increasingly familiar copse of trees. He could never have supposed on that stormy night weeks ago that he would willingly return to the overgrown thicket. But then again, he never would have supposed he would be besotted over an ill-tempered, unruly chit, or that he would be using every nefarious trick he could contrive to lure her into marriage.
Moving through the lengthening shadows, Giles ruefully recalled his carefully calculated attempts to repair the damage done by his impetuous proposal. He had never meant to allow the words to spill past his lips. After all, he had been grimly aware of the response he would receive. The merest suggestion of marriage was enough to make Roma bolt like a terrified rabbit. And indeed, she had all but disappeared from Rosehill after his reckless words. But for far too long he had waited for some sign, some hint that she considered him more than a necessary encumbrance. Was it any wonder his sorely tried patience had momentarily faltered? He could only hope the more lighthearted picnic had managed to soothe her ruffled emotions.
With an exasperated sigh at his wandering thoughts, Giles forced himself to concentrate on the thickening trees. He would find himself knocked off his mount by a low branch if he did not have a care, he warned himself sternly. Hardly the thing for a noted Corinthian.
Entering the small clearing, he glanced about and then frowned with mild impatience. He had requested Jameson meet him in the copse at precisely eight o’clock. It was unlike the staunchly competent groom to be anything but punctual.
“Jameson?” he called in a low voice.
There was a rustle from above and without warning, a solid form dropped from a branch to land on the spongy ground. Giles stiffened as he regarded the tattered breeches and smock, briefly wondering if he had stumbled upon a local thug hoping for an easy picking. Then the familiar countenance put the absurd thought from his mind. Only the most mutton-headed thief would wait in such a remote location for a potential victim.
Straightening, the groom gave an instinctive tug on the rough smock, as if he forgot he was not in his usually pristine uniform.
“Good evening, my lord.”
Giles arched an amused brow. “Practicing to be an owl, Jameson?”
“Simply ensuring you were not being followed, my lord,” he explained with his usual unflappable dignity.
With a fluid motion, Giles dismounted and regarded his servant with open admiration.
“You are worth your weight in gold, Jameson.”
“I do my best, sir.”
“What do you have for me?”
The groom grimaced as he gave a reluctant shrug. “Unfortunately I have discovered very little,” he admitted in regretful tones. “No one appears to find anything suspicious in Mr. Allendyle’s absence.”
Giles was torn between a mixture of relief and frustration. He wanted the damnable mess to be over and done with, but at the same moment, he was realistic enough to sense that the fact William’s disappearance remained a mystery was all that kept Roma out of danger.
“I suppose we should be thankful his disappearance has gone unnoted,” he grudgingly conceded. “For the moment Roma should be safe enough.”
Jameson gave a slow nod of his head. “Yes.”
“Is there anything else out of the ordinary?”
There was a pause as Jameson gave the question serious thought.
“I am attempting to discover more on an unknown gentleman who occasionally appears at the local inn and demands a private parlor.”
Giles brows lowered. “Yes, I have heard of the elusive guest.”
“The innkeeper refuses to admit that he knows anything beyond the fact that the man arrives without warning and never remains more than a few hours.” Jameson allowed his distaste for the fat, insatiably greedy proprietor to mar his impassive countenance. “He claims that the man pays in advance and never creates a mess. Precisely the type of guest he has no wish to offend with impertinent questions.”
Giles own features reflected the groom’s disapproval. He had visited the inn on more than one occasion and had been offended by the man’s oily smile and groveling manner.
“I can well imagine. The innkeeper struck me as a man singularly devoted to acquiring his blunt with as little effort to himself as possible.” He crossed his arms over the width of his broad chest. “Do any of the regulars have an opinion on this gentleman?”
Jameson shrugged. “A few presume that the man comes to indulge in a secret tryst with a maiden who is smuggled through a back door. Others have claimed that he is a highway robber who is lying low from the constables.” Jameson gave a derisive snort. “I even had one bloke tell me that he was convinced the stranger was the illegitimate son of a local lord who comes to demand his quarterly allowance.”
Giles couldn’t help but chuckle at his groom’s condemning tone.
“If you were a betting man on which supposition would you lay your money?”
“None, my lord,” he replied promptly.
“Why?”
“In the first place you could not hide a young maiden traveling across the countryside to a remote inn.” He explained without hesitation. “And in the second a highway robber would not chose a public inn to hide from the law.”
As always Giles was impressed with his groom’s swift grasp of the pertinent facts. He had always felt it was a shame the man had not been born into a position that would allow him a role in the government. He would have been a shrewd asset. But then again, he had to admit he wouldn’t know what to do without his most trusted servant.
“What of the illegitimate son?”
Jameson cleared his thro
at in a disapproving manner. “It has always been my experience that any gentleman of means would have his lawyer deal with such a delicate task.”
“Precisely,” Giles agreed, his gaze narrowing in a thoughtful manner. “So why would a gentleman ride to an isolated inn and hide himself in a room?”
“A mystery, my lord,” the groom was forced to admit.
“such behavior attracts far too much attention to be of use to any man indulging in illegal activities.”
Jameson nodded “Quite right.”
“Unless …” Giles came to an abrupt halt as he was struck with a brilliant flash of insight. “Damn, of course.”
“What is it, my lord?”
Giles paced across the small clearing, attempting to arrange his tumbled thoughts into a semblance of order. Beneath his restless feet, a tiny animal burrowed through the tall grass and into a fallen log.
“Unless he wishes to attract attention to the fact that he is at the inn to distract people from realizing he is not there at all.”
Not surprisingly, Jameson frowned in puzzlement. “Not there?”
“It is a conjurer’s trick.” Giles attempted to be more concise. “Just consider, Jameson, if you wished to perform some covert activity in this remote area. It would be impossible to avoid being noticed by the locals. Strangers are too rare not to attract some notice.”
“True enough, sir.”
“So, if you can not avoid detection, the only choices are to discover a legitimate means of staying in the area, or …”—he paused for dramatic effect—“diverting attention from your real purpose.”
A dawning comprehension slowly glinted in Jameson’s eyes. “Yes.”
Giles restlessly paced back across the clearing.
“This gentleman has ensured that all speculation is centered on the mystery of what he could be doing in the locked parlor. They never consider the notion he is using their distraction to slip out the window and complete his activities with no one the wiser.”
Jameson gave a low whistle as he considered the devious scheme. “I think perhaps I should have a closer look at that parlor.”
“You might want to check and see if the window has been recently greased.”
“Very good.”
Knowing the groom could adequately investigate the inn, Giles turned his thoughts to other matters.
“Is there anything else I should be aware of?”
A distinct gleam entered Jameson’s eyes, even though his features remained stoically impassive.
“To own the truth, most of the customers are devilish reluctant to discuss anything beyond the shocking engagement of Miss Allendyle.”
“Indeed?” Giles drawled. “And how does the wind blow, Jameson? Am I judged to be a suitable fiancé?”
“I fear that it is as yet undecided. Miss Allendyle is a favorite among the neighbors, and many are of the opinion she is deserving of a husband who is of the first consequence.”
Giles felt a twinge of bittersweet longing. “I could not agree more, Jameson.”
“Neither can I, my lord,” the groom surprised them both by admitting.
With a faint shake of his head, Giles returned his attention to the matters at hand.
“Did you make any inquires about Lord Scowfield?”
“Yes, and for all that he has a title, I can tell you he is not as well thought of in the neighborhood as the Allendyles,” Jameson swiftly responded. “Doesn’t like to rub elbows with the common folk, unless it happens to be a pretty barmaid, if you know my meaning.”
Unfortunately Giles knew his meaning all too well. Not that Scowfield was the only gentleman to seek his entertainment among the local servants. Still, he had always considered the notion of playing the grand signor decidedly contemptible.
“But no suspicion of illegal activities?” he demanded.
Jameson shrugged. “Seems to keep to himself. Not many who know much of his movements.”
“It is to be hoped that I shall know more after tonight,” Giles said. “I managed to force a dinner invitation from dear Freddie. Quite a reluctant one, I might add. He doesn’t appear to care for guests.”
“Shall I follow you?”
Giles gave the offer a moment of thought. “Yes,” he at last decided, realizing that it would be foolhardy to take any unnecessary risks. “Although I would prefer that no one suspect we are acquainted.”
“I have met Lord Scowfield’s head groomsman. Perhaps I will call on him tonight with his favorite bottle of gin,” Jameson suggested with a hint of a grin.
Giles reached out to give him a grateful pat on the shoulder. “Wait for me just beyond the gatehouse at midnight.”
“I shall be there, sir.”
Giles allowed his hand to linger on his groom’s shoulder, his expression becoming somber. “Take care, Jameson. I shouldn’t know how to go on without you.”
A surprising blush stained the pleased man’s lean cheeks.
“Oh … yes. Thank you, sir.”
Grasping the reins of his horse, Giles vaulted into the saddle; then with a wave at his groom, he turned to retrace his steps to the pathway.
Once more headed in the proper direction he attempted to review the brief conversation with Jameson. He was determined to ensure that he had missed nothing. With careful precision, he pieced together the various facts and suppositions as if the mystery surrounding William Allendyle were a gigantic puzzle.
If only there were not so many pieces missing, he thought with a flare of frustration.
Turning onto the tree-lined road, Giles allowed himself to be diverted by the vast parkland surrounding him. Between the trees he could glimpse the closely scythed lawn, classical temples and marble statues scattered about. In the distance a large lake glittered with the soft crimson light of the setting sun. And centered in the framework of nature loomed a classically austere hall with a portico of towering Ionic columns that formed a shallow bow.
A most impressive home, he had to admit, and one that must cost a small fortune to keep in such prime condition.
Halting in front of the waiting groom, Giles dismounted and allowed the servant to take the reins. Then, plucking a tiny twig from the sleeve of his claret kerseymere coat, he crossed to the large door being opened by a stern-faced butler.
“Lord Carlton.” The silver haired man gave a stiff bow. Then, taking Giles’s hat and gloves, he motioned across the vast entry hall. “If you would follow me, my lord.”
Giles followed the stiffly upright form down the long gallery with its bronzed candelabra-form pillars and marble busts placed in niches overhead. The Pompeian style was continued in the blue and buff drawing room, with one wall devoted to a display of Grecian urns and pottery. Across the room antique draperies were arranged to allow a glimpse of the mirrors beneath, and on another wall the fireplace boasted a gratework of gilt bronze.
“Fine establishment,” he congratulated as he turned to regard the butler standing in the doorway.
“Yes, sir. It was built in the early seventeen hundred’s by the fourth earl,” he explained. “I will inform Lord Scowfield you are here.”
“Thank you.”
Waiting until he heard the butler’s footsteps recede down the gallery, Giles moved across the room to more closely inspect his surroundings. With blatant disregard for propriety he pulled open drawers and leafed through papers in the hope of discovering some clue to William Allendyle’s whereabouts. Unfortunately he had to at last concede that there was little to discover in the room beyond the knowledge that Scowfield possessed as fine a taste in his furnishings and art collections as in his architecture. A fact that Giles found oddly annoying.
Standing next to the shelves that held the urns, he was on the point of risking a quick glimpse through the adjoining room when he suddenly noted the chess table situated beside a klismos-style chair. Leaning forward he studied the black and white carved pieces situated on the board. Clearly a well-matched game was in progress, he acknowledged wit
h a flare of excitement.
At that moment the door opened and Giles turned to watch the thin, rat-faced man enter the room. As always Lord Scowfield’s appearance was impeccable. Tonight he had chosen an exquisitely molded coat of pale green and breeches in a soft dove hue. Giles was forced to admit the man could as easily fit into the salon of the finest hostess in London as this remote country seat.
Discovering his guest standing across the room, Lord Scowfield arched an inquisitive brow.
“Interested in Grecian urns, Carlton?”
“I am interested in a great many things.” Giles forced himself to smile in a bland manner, even as he covertly allowed a gold pocket watch to drop behind his back. Then, with a negligent motion, he waved toward the small table at his side. “Exquisite chessboard. Do you play often?”
Only the barest flicker of discomfort was allowed to mar the Scowfield’s cool composure before he was calmly pulling out a snuffbox and busying himself with the task of securing a small pinch.
“No. Unfortunately I rarely entertain.”
The brief betrayal was enough to convince Giles he was on the right trail.
“How unfortunate. Quite a large home for a man to rattle around in on his own,” he drawled. “I would imagine it would be deuced lonely.”
Scowfield shrugged with seeming indifference. “Not at all. I prefer to be on my own.”
“Do you? I suppose it has it’s benefits,” Giles deliberately allowed himself to admit, his gaze narrowing to intimidating slits. “One is not obliged to be constantly tripping over another’s toes, or to be having one’s movements under constant surveillance.” His smile was without humor. “You are quite at liberty to do whatever you might choose with no one being the wiser.”
Much to his credit, Lord Scowfield met the subtle thrust with a cold smile. “Quite right. Although I would hasten to add that I rarely indulge in any behavior that I would fear to be put under surveillance.”
“No?”
Abruptly moving to the heavy mahogany sideboard, Scowfield held up a crystal decanter.
“Brandy?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Pouring two generous portions, Scowfield crossed the room to hand Giles a glass; then, raising his own, he regarded his guest in a mocking fashion.
Lord Carlton’s Courtship Page 20
