Anne Herries

by Rosalynand the Scoundrel

  Surely he could not imagine any harm could come to Jared in this peaceful corner of England?

  Once again, she was intrigued by the situation at Orford Hall. Just who was Jared—and why did Mr Wrexham need to keep such a careful eye on him? It was often necessary to guard the children of wealthy or important men—but Mr Wrexham seemed particularly vigilant.

  They rode for almost an hour, alternating between a thrilling gallop and a brisk trot, before Damian insisted on accompanying to her own stables. She invited them to stay for some breakfast, but Damian refused, dismounting and coming to help her down.

  He stood for a moment longer than necessary with his hands about her waist. It was a rather pleasant sensation to be held thus, Rosalyn discovered. So pleasant that she allowed it to continue until she suddenly realised that he was staring at her very oddly. She drew away at once and he let her go, immediately catching the reins of his own horse.

  ‘Jared will be here at three this afternoon,’ he said as he looked down at her. ‘Rajib will accompany him, but he will not come into the house.’

  ‘Will you not take tea with us yourself?’ Rosalyn frowned as he shook his head. ‘Perhaps I did not make myself clear? The invitation was to both of you, of course.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Eastleigh. Perhaps I shall avail myself of your kindness another day—but today I have other business, so I must ask you to forgive me.’

  ‘Very well.’ She smiled at Jared. ‘I shall look forward to your visit, sir.’

  ‘I shall bring Sheba with me,’ the youth promised. ‘Then Rajib need not wait for me.’

  ‘There is not the least need for him to wait,’ agreed Rosalyn. ‘I shall be very pleased to walk home with you myself.’

  The satisfied expression on the youth’s face told her that her suggestion had found favour.

  ‘Until later, Jared.’

  ‘We must leave,’ Damian said, frowning slightly. He tipped his hat to her. ‘Your company this morning was much appreciated, Miss Eastleigh.’

  ‘I enjoyed myself.’

  She stood watching as they turned their horses and rode away, Jared leading at first but gradually caught by the man as they disappeared over the rise.

  Rosalyn discovered she was a little disappointed that Mr Wrexham had business elsewhere that afternoon, though she scolded herself for allowing it to matter. During a restless night, she had decided that she would not cut the connection, even though she suspected that everything was not quite what it seemed up at the Hall.

  Mr Wrexham could never be more than a slight acquaintance, of course. Just a stranger who had come to stay for a few months and would move on when summer was gone.

  Like a migrant swallow, she thought, watching a bird swoop beneath the eaves of the stables to a neat mud nest which seemed to be defying the laws of gravity and looked terribly vulnerable.

  In the autumn the swallows would be gone and so would Mr Wrexham.

  As she went into the house, Rosalyn heard voices. Good gracious! Could that be Aunt Susan? She had written to invite her aunt to bring her granddaughter Sarah Jane to stay, but she could not possibly have received the letter so soon.

  Going quickly into the parlour, she discovered that it was indeed her aunt. Maria was still wearing her dressing robe and looked flustered, though she had had enough presence of mind to ask for tea to be brought to the small parlour.

  ‘How lovely to see you,’ Rosalyn said and went to kiss her aunt’s cheek. ‘I wrote yesterday to tell you to bring Sarah Jane, but did not expect you for several days.’

  ‘Forgive me for descending on you like this,’ said Susan Buckley, pulling a wry face. ‘I was sure you would not mind my bringing Sarah Jane, so I did not wait for your reply. Tommy has gone down with the measles and Celia was at her wit’s end to know what to do. She was terrified that, even though we kept them apart, Sarah Jane would take it from him—and on top of her last illness, that might be too much for the poor child. She really was very poorly with the scarlet fever, you know. It quite pulled her down.’

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ Rosalyn said, immediately sympathetic. ‘You did very right to bring her straight to us. Where is she?’

  ‘Maria took her to rest upstairs, because she complained of a headache,’ Aunt Susan replied. ‘Sarah has always been so full of life. It upsets me terribly to see her like this.’

  ‘Yes, of course. It must—and you must be worried about poor dear Celia and little Tommy,’ said Maria. ‘You mustn’t worry, we shall take very good care of Sarah Jane—shan’t we, Rosalyn?’

  ‘Yes, certainly we shall.’ Rosalyn smothered a sigh. She remembered Sarah Jane as being a very dominant personality, and thought she would not be an easy guest, especially if she was feeling unwell. ‘How long can you stay, Aunt?’

  ‘I must leave again tomorrow,’ Mrs Buckley said regretfully. ‘Celia cannot cope without me. Besides, she is increasing again and ought not to go near Tommy while he has the measles. He cried so when I left, the poor darling. I would not have left him at all if it had not been so urgent.’

  ‘Must you leave so soon?’ Maria was horrified. ‘You will wear yourself out with all that travelling.’

  ‘I have no choice,’ replied Mrs Buckley. ‘Besides, I shall not rest until I know how Celia and Tommy go on.’

  ‘You must take the journey steadily, Aunt,’ Rosalyn said, agreeing with Maria for once. ‘It will not help either Celia or Tommy if you are ill yourself.’

  ‘Good gracious, my dear,’ her aunt said. ‘I am as fit as a fiddle. Travelling is nothing to me. When I was first married I did the Grand Tour, you know. I sometimes think I should like to travel now—but not until Celia’s children have grown up a little.’

  She put down her teacup and patted the sofa beside her, encouraging Rosalyn to sit with her.

  ‘I have done nothing but rattle on about my own affairs since you came in, my love. Maria tells me you have a new neighbour—and his pupil is an Indian boy. It sounds very exciting.’

  ‘Mr Wrexham and Jared have taken the Orfords’ house for some weeks,’ Rosalyn said with a smile. Goodness, Maria had been busy! ‘If you could stay longer you might have met them both. Jared is coming to tea this afternoon, but Mr Wrexham has business elsewhere.’

  ‘Wrexham…’ Susan Buckley wrinkled her brow in concentration. ‘Now where have I heard that name? I suppose he is no relation to the Oxfordshire family? Sir Robert Wrexham was a cousin of Earl Marlowe. I almost became engaged to Sir Robert when I was a gel…but the Earl did not approve of me. Neither my fortune or consequence was large enough to satisfy his pride—and naturally his word was law.’ An odd expression came to her eyes. ‘I always thought it served him right a little when his eldest grandson was sent away in disgrace. Now, what was the boy’s name? I cannot recall it…something odd, I believe.’

  A tingling sensation started in the nape of Rosalyn’s neck. ‘Why was he sent away?’

  ‘Oh, I never did know that,’ replied Mrs Buckley. ‘I was married and had a child of twelve years by then; my husband would not have sullied my ears with scandal—he was always so protective of me. Dear George.’ She sighed and looked sad for a moment as she thought of her dead husband. ‘But I do know it was thought very bad. Marlowe’s grandson could not have been more than seventeen or eighteen at the time. Oh, it must be all of twenty years ago.’

  ‘So he would be about seven and thirty now?’

  ‘Yes, I should imagine he must be.’ Rosalyn’s aunt looked at her. ‘How old is your Mr Wrexham?’

  ‘About that age, I would suppose.’

  ‘Has he spent the last few years in some outlandish place abroad?’

  ‘In India…’ Rosalyn shook her head as her aunt’s eyes lit from within. She had clearly scented an intrigue. ‘No, you are wrong, Aunt. I very much doubt if it is the same man.’

  ‘What is his first name—is it Damon or something similar?’

  ‘Damian, I believe.’

  ‘Yes! Yes, of co
urse. Damian.’ Her aunt was clearly intrigued. ‘The scandal was over a woman, of course. There was more to it—but I cannot quite remember the details. I think someone may have been killed. No, I am not sure of that. I do know that his father disowned him, said he would never allow him to return home while he lived, which he isn’t—living, I mean. Poor Lord Edward died soon after from a fall while out hunting. Not that I ever liked him. He was much like the Earl, a cold proud man as far as I can remember. Lord Jacob, his brother, was so much kinder—and their cousin, of course. I was quite attached to Sir Robert, I recall.’

  Rosalyn felt a little shiver down her spine. What could Mr Wrexham have done to make his father disown him? She carefully kept her voice level as she asked, ‘Do you still keep in touch with the family?’

  Susan Buckley stared at her. ‘Sir Robert died some years back. I haven’t spoken to Lord Jacob in years—but I know his wife. We speak when we happen to meet, which is once or twice a year, when Lady Ruth comes to Bath to take the waters. She has been an invalid for years.’ She hesitated, observing Rosalyn’s heightened colour. ‘Would you like me to ask her about her nephew Damian?’

  ‘Oh, no, of course not,’ Rosalyn cried. Suddenly, she did not want to learn that Mr Wrexham was a man she ought not to know. ‘It would be embarrassing if he heard…no, it is nothing to do with me. Besides, it all happened so long ago. If he has come back to England, the scandal must surely have been forgotten?’

  ‘I am not so sure about that,’ her aunt replied, frowning. ‘Some things are never forgotten or forgiven. If the tale was remembered…well, it might be awkward for you to know him.’

  ‘Mr Wrexham could not possibly be the man you are thinking off.’ Rosalyn was surprised to hear Maria’s instant defence of their neighbour. ‘He is a perfect gentleman. There must be some mistake.’

  Rosalyn hid her smile as her aunt’s brows rose.

  ‘Yes, Aunt Susan,’ she said. ‘I am sure there is a mistake. And if there is not…it is a very long time ago. I do not think we should stir up trouble where none exists, do you?’

  ‘No, perhaps not,’ Mrs Buckley agreed, making a mental note to do a little research on the mysterious Mr Wrexham when she returned to Bath. ‘Besides, as you say, it is not really our business.’

  It was not their affair. Rosalyn was determined not to let the old rumour disturb her peace of mind. Whatever Mr Wrexham had done in the past, it could not affect her or her way of life.

  She would put it from her mind. She would not give it another thought.

  Damian Wrexham looked about him as he paused outside the inn on the outskirts of Cambridge. He was tempted to walk away, wishing now that he had never agreed to meet his uncle—that the letter had never reached him in India. Or that he had not been fool enough to respond to the desperate appeal it contained.

  He sighed and pushed open the door of the sixteenth-century inn. His memory of Jacob Wrexham was one that could not be denied. Of all the family, Jacob was the only one who had lifted a finger to help him. If it had not been for his uncle, he would have been forced to leave England without a guinea to his name. How could he refuse a request for help from the man who had stood by him all those years ago?

  A musty smell of stale ale and neglect met him as he went inside. Surely they could have met somewhere decent? Damian glanced round, searching for the man he remembered. There was no one…no one but a rather tired-looking man in the corner. Surely that could not be his uncle?

  The man was standing up, smiling, walking towards him.

  ‘Damian?’ he said, a look of relief spreading over his face. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come.’

  ‘I gave you my word, sir. Whatever you may believe of me, I do not break a promise.’

  ‘No, Damian,’ Lord Jacob said. ‘I never believed a half of what was said at the time. I knew you were not capable of murder. Reckless, headstrong—but not a villain.’

  A wry smile flickered over Damian’s mouth. ‘Then you are the only one, sir. My father and grandfather both died believing it.’

  ‘No, Damian. Not the old man. Your father…’ Lord Jacob sighed. ‘He never forgave you, but Henry did…towards the end. He wanted you to come home. We tried to find you but, by the time we discovered your whereabouts, it was too late. He died with your name on his lips. He wanted your forgiveness, Damian.’

  ‘He had nothing to be forgiven for—except his stubborn nature.’ Damian’s mouth set hard. ‘He believed what he was told and acted on it, nothing more. My father always hated me…as you know. The old man seemed fond of me when I was a boy, but he refused to listen when I tried to explain. The fight was forced on me, Jacob. I killed Roderick Harrington, but it was a duel. I had to face him…’ He shuddered at the memory. ‘Well, you know. I told you in confidence, though you do not know the whole—no one knows the extent of it.’

  ‘I know that you did not deserve what happened to you.’ Lord Jacob took his arm. ‘Come and sit down, Damian. We have much to talk about.’

  ‘Could it not have been left to the lawyers?’ Damian was more disturbed than he cared to admit by this meeting. Cast out by his family, he had put his memories aside, throwing himself into the life of exile that had been forced on him. ‘I never expected to inherit anything. Why can I not simply sign the estate over to you?’

  ‘Can’t afford to take it off you,’ replied his uncle with a rueful smile. ‘Your father gambled away a fortune before he died—and the old man let the place go to rack and ruin. He seemed not to care after you left. I tried to help, but he would never listen to me.’

  ‘No…I remember.’ Damian smiled wryly. ‘What do you want me to do—pay the debts?’

  ‘Could you?’

  ‘Perhaps—if I thought it was worth it.’

  ‘I’d heard you’d made money.’ His uncle looked uncertain, awkward. ‘Is it any use appealing to your feelings for the family name?’

  ‘Good God, no!’ Damian laughed. ‘That means nothing to me. When I was younger perhaps…but now, nothing. I came because I owed you something—if you are in trouble yourself?’

  ‘I had expected the old man might leave what was left of it all to me. But his will is quite clear. I can only inherit if you are dead. Besides, there is only that old barn of a house—and debts. The land was sold or mortgaged long since.’

  ‘If I paid the debts, what would you do with the house?’

  ‘Sell it,’ his uncle replied promptly. ‘Without the land it is nothing more than a millstone around anyone’s neck. I wouldn’t want to live there—and nor would my son.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘I can’t sell without your signature,’ his uncle said. ‘And the debts will have to be paid eventually. If I have to find the money it will put a great strain on my personal finances—and I do not care to leave such a burden for my own son.’

  ‘And I am the heir, so I am responsible.’

  His uncle made no reply, but his expression showed that he did feel it was Damian’s responsibility.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Damian murmured, nodding to himself. ‘Leave it to me, Uncle. I’ll have a look at the house one of these days, and in the meantime I’ll arrange for the debts to be settled—providing a proper accounting can be made.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jacob looked startled. ‘I have already agreed them with the lawyers. You can’t want to be bothered with all that?’

  ‘I most certainly do,’ replied Damian. ‘I am aware that it is not quite the thing to take a healthy interest in money in your world—but my fortune was not easily earned and I do not intend to throw it away. I shall not pay anything that cannot be proven.’

  ‘You must do as you think best, of course.’

  ‘I intend to, sir.’ He saw the shocked expression on his uncle’s face and laughed. ‘If that is all, I believe our business is finished.’

  ‘Damian…won’t you even consider setting up a home in England? You could restore the house, buy back the land, take
your rightful place in society.’ Lord Jacob looked at him oddly. ‘Won’t you visit us…discuss the situation?’

  ‘There is nothing to discuss,’ Damian replied. ‘I came back for a purpose. When that is done, there will be nothing more to keep me here.’

  Yet even as he spoke, he knew that he was not speaking the whole truth. He had believed that he would never wish to live in England again, but now he was not so sure.

  Chapter Three

  Rosalyn had hoped to have Jared to herself when he came to tea. She had guessed that he was feeling lonely, missing the warmth and colour of India, and the people he loved—perhaps his family most of all. Now that her aunt had arrived, she accepted her hopes of a tête-à-tête were at an end.

  To her credit, Aunt Susan behaved exactly as she would with any other youth of her acquaintance. She pressed a dish of little, sweet almond cakes on Jared, together with the lemon barley water Rosalyn had herself prepared, as she began to quiz him.

  ‘How do you like England?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to school here?’

  Jared’s manner was polite but formal as he fended off her questions, though clearly uncomfortable to be the object of her curiosity. Rosalyn cursed the misfortune which had brought her aunt’s visit forward. Especially when Sarah Jane decided to put in a belated appearance.

  The girl was pretty in a fair, insipid way, her pink dress too frilly and ornate for Rosalyn’s taste. Sarah looked like a dressmaker’s mannequin—delicate, precious and unnaturally tidy.

  ‘Ah, there you are, dearest!’ her loving grandmother said, smiling on her indulgently. ‘I am glad you have decided to come down for tea. Are you feeling better?’

  ‘A little…’ Sarah Jane’s large blue eyes regarded Jared with a mixture of curiosity and hostility. ‘Who is he? His skin looks a funny colour.’

  ‘Sarah!’ Rosalyn admonished sharply. ‘Jared’s skin is a very nice colour. He comes from India, where the sun is extremely hot.’

  ‘Hasn’t he got a parasol?’