The Outcast's Redemption (The Infamous Arrandales)

by Sarah Mallory

  ‘Perhaps you should ride on, if you are afraid of me.’

  Afraid? Grace’s head was full of chaotic thoughts and feelings. He unsettled her, roused emotions she had thought long dead, but, no, she was not afraid of him. Quite the opposite.

  ‘I should,’ she said, gathering her reins and her disordered senses at the same time. ‘I shall!’

  And with that she set Bonnie cantering away.

  * * *

  Wolf watched her go, the skirts of her russet riding habit billowing and accentuating the tiny waist beneath her tight-fitting riding jacket. He had to admit it was a fine image. He had thought when he first saw her that her hair was the colour of pale honey, but out of doors, with the sun glinting on her soft curls, it reminded him more of ripe corn. And those eyes. They were a rich, deep blue. Dark as sapphires.

  With a hiss of exasperation he took off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. Bah, what was this, was he turning into some foppish poet? And, confound it, what had come over him to talk to her like that? He had said he was a lowly traveller, he should have touched his cap and kept a respectful silence.

  It might be wiser to eat in the kitchen this evening, but Wolf knew Mr Duncombe would be able to tell him more about his family. Ten years was a long time and Wolf wished now that he had kept in touch, but it had been his decision to cut himself off. He had thought he would never return to England, but that was changed now. He had a daughter, a responsibility. Settling his hat more firmly on his head, he set off once more for the vicarage. As the good parson said, the past was gone. He must look to the future.

  * * *

  Grace was determined to wear her most sober gown for dinner that night, but when Betty came up to help her dress, she rejected every one pulled out for her as too tight, too low at the neck, or too dull. In the end she settled for a round gown of deep-blue silk gauze with turban sleeves. Its severity was relieved with a trim of white silk at the neck and ankles and a run of seed pearl buttons down the front. She found a white shawl with blue embroidery to keep off the chill and, throwing this around her shoulders, she made her way downstairs to the drawing room.

  ‘Oh.’

  Grace stopped in the doorway when she saw their guest was alone. She had deliberately left her entrance as late as possible to avoid just such a situation.

  ‘Do come in, Miss Duncombe. Your father has gone to his study to find a book for me. He will be back immediately, I am sure,’ he said, as she came slowly into the room. ‘I hope you will forgive me dining with you in my riding dress, but I am...travelling light. And I had not noticed, until I changed for dinner, that this shirt is missing a button.’ Again that dark, intense look that did such strange things to her insides. ‘I hope you will forgive me. It hardly shows beneath the cravat, and at least, thanks to your housekeeper’s services, it is clean.’

  Her training as a vicar’s daughter came to her aid.

  ‘If you will give it to Truscott when you retire this evening I will see that it is repaired. I will have your other shirt laundered, too.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am, but Mrs T. is already dealing with that.’

  Mrs T.! She bridled at his familiarity with her servants, but decided it was best to ignore it. She turned thankfully to her father as he came back into the room.

  ‘Here you are, my son.’

  He held out a book and Grace’s brows rose in surprise. ‘The Mysteries of Udolpho?’

  ‘Mr Peregrine wanted something to amuse him if he cannot sleep,’ explained her father. ‘And he is unfamiliar with Mrs Radcliffe’s novel.’

  ‘I do not see how you could have failed to hear of it. It was a huge success a few years ago,’ remarked Grace.

  ‘I was out of the country, a few years ago.’

  Heavens, thought Grace. It gets worse and worse. Are we harbouring a spy in our midst?

  ‘Ah,’ cried Papa. ‘Here is Truscott come to tell us dinner is ready. Perhaps, Mr Peregrine, you would escort my daughter?’

  Grace hesitated as their guest proffered his arm, staring at the worn shabbiness of the sleeve.

  Oh, do not be so uncharitable, Grace. You have never before judged a man by his coat.

  And in her heart she knew she was not doing so now, but there was something about this man that disturbed her peace.

  ‘Do not worry,’ he murmured as she reluctantly rested her fingers on his arm. ‘I shall not be here long enough to read more than the first volume of Udolpho.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it,’ she retorted, flustered by his apparent ability to read her mind.

  His soft laugh made her spine tingle, as if he had brushed her skin with his fingers. When they reached the dining room and he held her chair for her the tiny hairs at the back of her neck rose. He would not dare to touch her. Would he?

  No. He was walking away to take his seat on her father’s right hand.

  * * *

  Wolf wanted to ask questions. Coming back here had roused his interest in Arrandale. His eyes drifted towards Grace, sitting at the far end of the table. It would be safest to wait until he and the parson were alone, but after ten years of resolutely shutting out everything to do with his family, suddenly he was desperate for news.

  ‘So Arrandale Hall is shut up,’ he said.

  ‘But it is not empty,’ said Grace. ‘A servant and his wife are in residence.’

  Wolf’s mouth tightened at her swift intervention and the inference that he wanted to rob the place. He kept his eyes on the parson.

  ‘Do you hear anything of the family, sir?’

  ‘Alas, no, my son. I hear very little of the Arrandales now.’

  ‘There was something in the newspapers only last week,’ put in Grace. ‘About the Dowager Marchioness of Hune’s granddaughter, Lady Cassandra. She was married in Bath. To a foreign gentleman, I believe.’

  Wolf laughed. ‘Was she indeed? Good for her.’

  Grace was looking at him with a question in her eyes, but it was her father who spoke.

  ‘Ah, yes, you are right, my love, but that can hardly interest our guest.’

  ‘No, no, of course I am interested.’ Wolf hoped he sounded politely indifferent, as befitted a stranger. ‘I take it there are no Arrandales living in the area now?’

  ‘No. The house was closed up in ninety-five. There was a particularly bad outbreak of scarlet fever that spring and old Mr Arrandale and his wife died within weeks of one another.’

  ‘Is that what they say killed them?’ Wolf could hardly keep the bitterness from his voice.

  ‘It was indeed what killed them, my son.’ The parson turned his gentle gaze upon him. ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘There had been some trouble earlier that winter, had there not, Papa? At the end of ninety-four,’ remarked Grace. ‘I was at school then, but I remember there were reports in the newspapers. The older son killed his wife for her jewels and fled to France. It was a great scandal.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘Scandal has always followed the Arrandales, my love. Not all of it deserved.’

  ‘You say that because your living is in their gift,’ muttered Wolf.

  ‘No, I say it because I believe it.’

  ‘But, Papa,’ said Grace, ‘you believe the best of everyone.’

  Wolf did not look up, but felt sure her eyes were on him. Mr Duncombe merely chuckled.

  ‘I look for the best in everyone,’ he said mildly, ‘and I am rarely disappointed. Do pass me the fricassee of rabbit again, my dear, it really is quite excellent.’

  Wolf wanted to ask about the child, his daughter. Had the parson seen her, was she tall, like him, or small-boned like her mother? Was she dark, did she have his eyes? The questions went round and round in his head, but he knew he must let the matter drop. When Mr Duncombe began to talk of more gene
ral matters he followed suit, but his long exile had left him woefully ignorant.

  ‘You appear singularly ill informed of how matters stand in England,’ observed Grace, clearly suspicious.

  ‘I have been living in the north country, they have little interest in what goes on nearer London. That is why I have come south, to take up my life again.’

  She pounced on that.

  ‘Oh, are you a local man, then, Mr Peregrine? I do not recall any family with that name hereabouts.’

  ‘No, the Peregrines are not local,’ he replied truthfully.

  The parson shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘My dear, it grows late and I am sure Mr Peregrine would like to join me in a glass of brandy. I do not often indulge the habit, sir, but since you are here...’

  Grace rose immediately. ‘Of course, Papa.’

  ‘If you wish to retire, Grace, I am sure our guest will not mind if we do not send for the tea tray.’

  Wolf knew he should agree with his host. They could bid Miss Duncombe goodnight now and he would be free of her questions and suspicions, but some inner demon made him demur.

  ‘If it is no trouble, a cup of tea before I retire would be a luxury I have not enjoyed for a very long time.’

  Grace looked at him, eyes narrowed.

  ‘You seem to be inordinately fond of the drink, Mr Peregrine.’

  ‘I believe I am, Miss Duncombe.’ He met her gaze innocently enough and at length she inclined her head, every inch the gracious hostess.

  ‘Of course Mr Peregrine must have tea if he wishes it, Papa. I will await you in the drawing room.’

  With that she swept out of the room.

  * * *

  As soon as the door was closed Mr Duncombe said, ‘Was that wise, sir? My daughter is no fool.’

  ‘I am aware of that, but I was not funning when I said I have missed life’s little luxuries.’ The old man’s brows rose and Wolf’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Not tea-drinking, I admit, unless it was in the company of a pretty woman.’ Wolf saw the other man draw back and he hurried on. ‘Pray, sir, do not think I have any thoughts of that nature towards your daughter, I would not repay your hospitality so cruelly. No, I have no interest in anything save clearing my name.’ He looked around to check again that they were alone. ‘On that subject, sir, what do you know of my own daughter?’

  ‘Alas, my son, I cannot help you. She lives with Lord and Lady Davenport, I believe. Doctor Oswald was dining here the night your wife died and a servant came to fetch him. When we met again Oswald said it was a miracle the baby survived. Your wife never regained consciousness.’ In the candlelight Mr Duncombe’s naturally cheerful face was very grave. ‘He told me, in confidence, that if it had not been for the missing diamonds the magistrate would have recorded your wife’s death as a tragic accident. Alas, both the doctor and the magistrate are now dead.’

  ‘So you have a new Justice of the Peace?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Loftus Braddenfield of Hindlesham Manor,’ the parson informed him. ‘And that is another reason you might wish to avoid being in Grace’s company, my son. She is betrothed to him.’

  Chapter Three

  Grace blew out her candle and curled up beneath the bedcovers. She really could not make out Mr Peregrine. She turned restlessly. In general Papa was a very good judge of character, but he seemed to have fallen quite under this stranger’s spell.

  She had to admit that dinner had been very enjoyable, the man was well educated and there had been some lively discussions of philosophy, religion and the arts, but he lacked knowledge of what was happening in the country. Surely the north was not that backward. Fears of Bonaparte invading England were never far away, but she thought if the man was a spy he would be better informed. Had he been locked up somewhere, perhaps? She was more thankful than ever that he was in the groom’s accommodation and that she had reminded Truscott to check the outer doors were secure before he went to bed.

  Perhaps he had been in the Marshalsea. Many men of good birth were incarcerated there for debt, or fraud. With a huff of exasperation she sat up and thumped her pillow.

  Such conjecture is quite useless. You will only end up turning the man into a monster, when he is probably nothing more than penniless vagrant, for all his talk of having business in Arrandale.

  But would he be in any hurry to leave, if they continued to treat him like an honoured guest? She settled down in her bed again. The man had clearly enjoyed his dinner and he had been eager to take tea with her after. A knot of fluttering excitement twisted her stomach as she remembered his glinting look across the dining table. It was almost as if he was flirting with her.

  Yet he barely spoke two words to her in the drawing room. Once the tea tray appeared he lost no time in emptying his cup and saying goodnight. She tried to be charitable and think that he was fatigued. Sleep crept up on Grace. No doubt matters would look much less mysterious in the daylight.

  * * *

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Truscott.’ Grace looked about the kitchen. ‘Is our visitor still abed?’

  ‘Nay, Miss Grace, he went out an hour ago.’

  ‘Goodness, what can he be up to?’

  Mrs Truscott smiled. ‘Well, you know what your father always says, miss. Only those who rise early will ever do any good.’

  Grace laughed.

  ‘It is quite clear you approve of Mr Peregrine! But never mind that. I have come down to fetch tea for Papa. We are taking breakfast together and then I am going to visit Mrs Owlet. Perhaps you would pack a basket for me to take to her.’

  ‘I will, Miss Grace, but it goes against the grain to be helping those that won’t help themselves.’

  ‘Mrs Truscott! The poor woman has broken her leg.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but if she hadn’t been drinking strong beer she wouldn’t have tumbled off the road and down the bank, now would she? And that feckless son of hers is no better. I doubt he’s done an honest day’s work in his life, not since the hall closed and he lost his job there.’ The older woman scowled. ‘It’s said there’s always rabbit in the pot at the Owlets’ place, courtesy of Arrandale woods.’

  ‘I am sure young Tom isn’t the only one to go poaching in the woods and there is more than enough game to go round, since the woods are so neglected.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Miss Grace. It’s breaking the law.’

  ‘Well, if the law says a man cannot feed his family when there is such an abundance of rabbits on hand, then it is a bad law.’

  ‘Tsk, and you betrothed to a magistrate, too!’ Mrs Truscott waved a large spoon in her direction. ‘Don’t you go letting your man hear you saying such things, Miss Grace.’

  ‘Sir Loftus knows my sentiments on these things and I know he has some sympathy with the poorer villagers, although it would never do for him to say so, of course, and I suppose I should not have said as much to you.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, Miss Grace, there’s many a secret I’ve kept over the years. Now, let’s say no more about it, for the kettle’s boiling and the master will be waiting for his tea.’

  * * *

  Later, when she had seen her father comfortably ensconced in his study, Grace set off with her basket. Mrs Owlet lived at the furthest extremity of the village, at the end of a small lane backing on to Arrandale Park. Grace stayed for some time, trying to make conversation, although she found the widow’s embittered manner and caustic tongue very trying. The sun was at its height when Grace eventually emerged from the ill-kept cottage and she stood for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Having spent the past hour sympathising with Mrs Owlet, Grace was not inclined to walk back through the village and listen to anyone else’s woes. Instead she carried on up the lane into the park. There was a good path through the woods that bounded the park itself, and from the
re she could walk past the hall and on to the vicarage. It was a well-worn path that cut off the long curve of the High Street.

  It was a fine spring morning and the woods were full of birdsong. Grace’s sunny nature revived and she began to feel more charitable towards Mrs Owlet. She had fallen on hard times when Arrandale House had been closed up. Now she lived a frugal existence with her son in what was little more than a hovel. It was no wonder that she was bitter, but Grace could not help thinking that less indulgence in strong beer and more effort with a broom would have improved her condition. Seeing her now, with her grubby linen and dirty clothes, it was difficult to think that she had once been laundress in a great house.

  Grace recalled Mrs Truscott’s dark mutterings about young Tom Owlet poaching in these very woods and she looked around her. Not that anyone could mistake her tall form in its blue pelisse for a rabbit, but she strode on briskly and soon reached what had once been the deer park. Arrandale Hall was ahead of her, but her path veered away from the formal gardens and joined an impressive avenue of elms that lined the main approach to the house and would bring her out very close to the vicarage.

  She had walked this way many times and always thought it regrettable that such a fine old house should stand empty. It was looking very grand today in the sunshine, but there was something different about the building that made her stop. She frowned at the little chapel beside the main house: the wide oak door was open.

  Grace hurried across to the chapel. It was most likely Mr Jones had gone in there for some reason, but it could be children from the village, up to mischief, and the sooner they were sent on their way the better. She stepped inside and stood for a moment, while her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Someone was standing by the opposite wall, but it was definitely not a child.

  ‘Mr Peregrine! What on earth are you doing here?’

  * * *

  Wolf turned. Grace Duncombe stood in the entrance, a black outline against the sunshine.