“I know you are trying to provoke me, sir—”
“Indeed? I thought the reverse was true for once!” Guy exclaimed.
“Very well!” Sarah met his eyes. “I’ll admit that I said something that I deeply regret! Pray accept my apologies, my lord!”
The dance had ended, but Guy was still holding her hand. They were standing on the edge of the dance floor, surrounded by couples milling about, yet it seemed to Sarah that they were entirely alone. When Sarah looked up into Guy’s eyes she saw an expression of desire overlaid by wicked mischief. So strong was the conviction that he was about to kiss her that Sarah took an instinctive step backward.
“Do not worry.” Guy spoke so only she could hear. “I will not do it—at least, not here! But the temptation, Miss Sheridan, is acute.”
Color flamed into Sarah’s face as she realized he had read her thoughts. “Believe me,” she said with as much composure as she could muster, “so is the temptation to slap your face!”
Praise for Nicola Cornick’s recent titles
The Virtuous Cyprian
“…this delightful tale of a masquerade gone awry will delight ardent Regency readers.”
—Romantic Times
The Larkswood Legacy
“…a suspenseful yet tenderhearted tale of love…”
—Romantic Times
Lady Polly
“…a solid, cozy read with many delightful characters…”
—Romantic Times
DON’T MISS THESE OTHER
TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:
#627 CHRISTMAS GOLD
Cheryl St.John/Elizabeth Lane/Mary Burton
#628 BADLANDS LEGEND
Ruth Langan
#629 MY LADY’S HONOR
Julia Justiss
The BLANCHLAND SECRET
Nicola Cornick
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
NICOLA CORNICK
Lady Polly #574
The Love Match #599
“The Rake’s Bride”
Miss Verey’s Proposal #604
The Blanchland Secret #630
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter One
Mr Julius Churchward, representative of the famously discreet London lawyers of the same name, had a variety of facial expressions he could draw upon, depending on the nature of the news he was imparting to his aristocratic clients. There was sympathetic but grave, used when breaking the news that an inheritance was substantially smaller than expected; there was sympathetic but rueful, for unsatisfactory offspring and breach of promise; finally, there was an all-purpose dolefulness, for when the precise nature of the problem was in doubt. It was this third alternative that he adopted now, as he stood on the doorstep of Lady Amelia Fenton’s trim house in Bath, for if the truth were told, he knew nothing of the contents of the letter he was about to deliver.
Mr Churchward had travelled from London the previous day, stopped overnight at the Star and Garter in Newbury and resumed his journey at first light. To undertake such a journey in winter, with Christmas pressing close upon them, argued some urgency. The morning sun was warming the creamy Bath stone of Brock Street but the winter air was chill. Mr Churchward shivered inside his overcoat and hoped that Miss Sarah Sheridan, Lady Amelia’s companion, was not still at breakfast.
A neat maid showed him into a parlour that he remembered from a visit three years before, a visit during which he had conveyed to Miss Sheridan the disappointing news that her brother Frank had left no estate to speak of. At the back of his mind was an occasion some two years before that, when he had had to proffer the even more depressing intelligence that Lord Sheridan had left only a small competence to keep his daughter from penury. Miss Sheridan had borne the news with fortitude, explained that she had very few material needs and gained Mr Churchward’s admiration in the process.
He still felt the inequity of her situation keenly. A lady of Miss Sheridan’s breeding should not, he felt, be reduced to acting as companion, even to so benevolent a relative as her cousin, Lady Amelia. He was sure that Lady Amelia was too generous ever to make Miss Sheridan feel a poor relation, but it was simply not fitting. For several years Mr Churchward’s chivalrous heart had hoped that Miss Sheridan would make a suitable match, for she was young and looked well to a pass, but three years had gone by and she was now firmly on the shelf.
Mr Churchward shook his head sadly as he waited in Lady Amelia’s airy drawing-room. He tried hard not to have favourites; it would have been quite inappropriate when he had so many esteemed clients, but he made an exception in the case of Miss Sarah Sheridan.
The door opened and Sarah came towards him, hand outstretched as though he was a great friend rather than the bearer of doubtful news.
‘Dear Mr Churchward! How do you do, sir? This is an unexpected pleasure!’
Mr Churchward was not so sure. The letter he carried seemed to weigh down his document case. But such misgivings seemed foolish in the light of day. The parlour was bright with winter sunlight; it shone full on Miss Sheridan, but she was a lady whose face and figure could withstand the harshest of morning light. Indeed, her cream and rose complexion seemed dazzlingly fresh and fair and her slender figure was set off to advantage by a simple dress of jonquil muslin.
‘How do you do, Miss Sheridan? I hope I find you well?’
Mr Churchward took the proffered seat and cleared his throat. He was astonished to find that he was nervous, too nervous to indulge in talk of the weather or the journey. He bent to unbuckle his case and extracted a letter in a plain white envelope.
‘Madam, forgive my abruptness, but I have been asked to deliver this letter to you. The manner in which the request came about is quite extraordinary, but perhaps you would wish to read the letter first, before I explain…’ Mr Churchward was unhappily aware that he was rambling. Sarah’s wide and beautiful hazel eyes were fixed on his face with an expression of vague puzzlement. She took the letter and gave a slight gasp.
‘But this is—’
‘From your late brother. Yes, ma’am.’ Mr Churchward groped for his all-purpose solemn expression, but was sure he was only achieving the anxious look of a man who was not in complete control of the situation. ‘Perhaps if you were to read what Lord Sheridan has written…’
Miss Sheridan made no immediate attempt to open the letter. Her head was bent as she examined the familiar black writing and the sunlight picked out strands of gold and amber in the hair that escaped her cap.
‘Are you aware of the contents of the letter, Mr Churchward?’
‘No, madam, I am not.’ The lawyer sounded slightly reproachful, as though Francis Sheridan had committed a decided faux pas by leaving him in ignorance.
Miss Sheridan scanned his face for a moment, then walked slowly over to the walnut desk. Mr Churchward heard the sound of the letter-opener slicing through paper and felt relief wash over him. Soon they would know the worst…
There was silence in the little room. Mr Churchward could hear the chink of china from the kitchens, the sound of voices raised in question and answer. He looked around at the neat bookshelves laden with works he remembered from Blanchland; books that Sir Ralph Covell had dismissively thrown out of the house he had inherited from his second cousin, Lord Sheridan; books that Sarah had gladly retrieved for her new home.
Miss Sheridan did not speak at all. Eventually she crossed to the wing chai
r that mirrored Mr Churchward’s on the other side of the fireplace and sat down. The letter fell to her lap; she looked him straight in the eye.
‘Mr Churchward, I think I should read you the contents of Frank’s letter.’
‘Very well, madam.’ Mr Churchward looked apprehensive.
‘Dear Sal,’ Miss Sheridan read, in a dry tone, ‘if you get this letter I shall be dead and in need of a favour. Sorry to have to ask this of you, old girl—fact is, I’d rather trust you than anyone else. So here goes. I have a daughter. I know that will surprise you and I’m sorry I never told you before, but to tell the truth, I hoped you’d never need to know. Father knew, of course—made all the usual arrangements, all right and tight. But if he is gone and I’m gone, then the child needs someone to turn to for help, and that’s where you come in. Churchward will tell you the rest. All I can say is thank you and God bless you.
‘Your loving brother, Frank.’
Miss Sheridan sighed. Mr Churchward sighed. Both were thinking in their different ways of the insouciant Frank Sheridan who would have fathered a child so lightly, made cheerful provision for her future perhaps, but not really given the matter the thought it deserved. Mr Churchward could imagine him dashing off such a letter before he went off to join the East India Company on yet another mad attempt to make his fortune…
Sarah’s voice broke into Mr Churchward’s thoughts. ‘Well, Mr Churchward, can you, as Frank suggests, throw any more light on this mystery?’
Mr Churchward sighed for a second time. ‘I confess, madam, that I did know of Miss Meredith’s existence. Your late father…’ He hesitated. ‘Lord Sheridan came to me seventeen years ago to ask me to make arrangements for a certain child. I thought…’
‘You thought that the child was his own?’ Sarah said calmly. For a moment, Mr Churchward could have sworn that there was a twinkle in Miss Sheridan’s eye, a look that was surely inappropriate for a young lady when confronted with the evidence of some improper connection of her family.
‘Well, I assumed—’ Mr Churchward broke off unhappily, aware that it was dangerous for lawyers to make assumptions.
‘It was a natural supposition,’ Sarah said kindly, ‘especially since Frank could have been little more than eighteen himself at the time.’
‘Young men…wild oats…’ Mr Churchward made a vague gesture. He suddenly realised the impropriety of discussing such a matter with a young, unmarried lady, cleared his throat purposefully and pushed his glasses up his nose. He deplored the necessity of giving Miss Sheridan this information, but there was nothing for it. Best to be as businesslike as possible.
‘The child was placed with a family in a village near Blanchland, I believe, madam. The late Lord Sheridan paid an annuity to a Dr John Meredith each year during his lifetime and…’ he hesitated ‘…left a sum to him in his will. Dr Meredith died last year, at which time his widow and daughter were still resident near Blanchland.’
‘I remember Dr Meredith,’ Sarah said thoughtfully. ‘He was a kindly man. He attended me when I had the measles. And I do believe he had a daughter—a pretty little girl some seven or eight years younger than I. She went away to school. I remember everyone saying that the doctor must have some private income—’ She broke off, a rueful smile on her lips as she realised that the mystery of the doctor’s finances was now solved.
The arrival of some refreshments—a pot of coffee for Mr Churchward and a strong cup of tea for Miss Sheridan—created a natural break in the conversation and gave the lawyer the opportunity to move smoothly forward.
‘I do apologise for springing such a surprise on you, Miss Sheridan—’
‘Pray do not, Mr Churchward.’ Sarah smiled warmly. ‘This is none of your doing. But I understand from Frank’s letter that you were to contact me if Miss Meredith was in need of help. In what way may I assist her?’
Mr Churchward looked unhappy. He reached for his bag again and extracted a second letter. It was smaller than the first, the paper of inferior quality, the hand round and childish. ‘I received this three days ago, Miss Sheridan. Please…’
Once again, Sarah read aloud.
Dear Sir,
I am writing to you because I am in desperate need of help and do not know where to turn. I understand from my mother that the late Lord Sheridan gave her your direction, instructing her to contact you should either of us ever be in dire need. Please come to me at Blanchland, so that I may acquaint you with our difficulties and seek your advice.
I am, Sir, your most obedient servant,
Miss Olivia Meredith.
There was a silence. Mr Churchward was aware that he should have felt more at ease, for provision for illegitimate children and difficulties raised by said children was very much a part of Churchward and Churchward’s business. Never before, however, had he been confronted by the situation in which an errant brother had asked his younger sister to offer help to his by-blow. Frank Sheridan had been a likeable man, but thoughtless and devil-may-care. He had indubitably put his sister in a very awkward situation.
‘Miss Meredith makes no mention of the precise nature of her difficulties,’ Sarah said thoughtfully. ‘And when Frank wrote his letter he would have had no notion of the sort of help she would need—’
‘Very difficult for him, I am sure, madam.’ Mr Churchward still looked disapproving. ‘He wished to do the right thing by the child without knowing what that would be.’
Sarah wrinkled up her nose. ‘I fear I am becoming confused, Mr Churchward. May we go over this once again? I shall call for more coffee and tea.’
The pot was replenished, Sarah’s cup refilled, then the maid withdrew once again.
‘Now,’ Sarah said, in her most businesslike voice, ‘let us recapitulate. My late brother left a letter with you to be despatched to me in the event of a plea for help from his natural daughter, Miss Meredith. Frank was, I suppose, trying to guard against my niece being left friendless in the event of his death.’
‘I assume that to be correct, madam.’
‘And there has never been any request for help until three days ago, when you received this letter from Miss Meredith?’
Mr Churchward inclined his head. ‘All contact with Dr Meredith and his family ceased on your father’s death, ma’am. I believe that Lord Sheridan left them a sum of money—’ Mr Churchward’s lips primmed as he remembered that it was a not-inconsiderable sum of money ‘—in order that the child should want for nothing in the future. Why she has seen fit to contact us now…’
‘The help Miss Meredith needs may not be of a financial nature,’ Sarah observed quietly, ‘and she is still my niece, Mr Churchward, despite the circumstances of her birth.’
‘Very true, madam.’ Mr Churchward sighed, feeling reproved. ‘This is all most irregular and I am not at all happy about it. For you to have to return to Blanchland is the most unfortunate thing imaginable!’
Once again, the lawyer thought that he detected a twinkle in Miss Sheridan’s eye. ‘Certainly, Frank asks a great deal, Mr Churchward.’
‘He does indeed, ma’am,’ Mr Churchward said fervently. He shuddered, thinking of Sir Ralph Covell, the late Lord Sheridan’s cousin, who had inherited Blanchland Court upon Frank’s death. In the following three years Covell had turned the place into a notorious den of iniquity. Gambling, drunken revels, licentious orgies…The tales had been wilder each year. It seemed impossible to believe that Miss Sarah Sheridan, respectable spinster and pillar of Bath society, would ever set foot in the place.
‘Your cousin, Sir Ralph Covell, is still in residence at Blanchland, Miss Sheridan?’ Mr Churchward asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.
‘I believe so.’ The warmth had gone from Sarah’s voice. ‘It grieves me to hear the tales of depravity at Blanchland, Mr Churchward. It is such a gracious house to be despoiled by such evil.’
Churchward cleared his throat. ‘For that reason, Miss Sheridan, it would be most inappropriate for you to return there. If your b
rother had known what Covell would do to your home, he would never have suggested it. Besides…’ Churchward brightened ‘…he has not actually asked you to go to see Miss Meredith yourself! You may advise her through an agent, perhaps—’
Churchward broke off as Sarah rose to her feet and crossed to the window. She gazed into the distance. The bare trees that lined the Circus were casting shifting shadows onto the pavements. A carriage rattled past.
‘Perhaps someone could represent your interests at Blanchland,’ Churchward repeated, when Sarah did not speak. He was desperately hoping that she would not ask him to be that person. His wife would never stand for it. But Sarah was shaking her head.
‘No, Mr Churchward. I fear that Frank has laid this charge on me alone and I must honour it. I shall, of course, gratefully accept your advice when I have ascertained the nature of Miss Meredith’s problem. I imagine that it should be easy enough to find the girl and see how I may help her.’
Mr Churchward was ashamed at the relief that flooded through him. There was an air of decision about Miss Sheridan that made it difficult to argue with her, despite her relative youth, but he still felt absurdly guilty. He made a business of shuffling his papers together and as he did so he remembered the piece of news that he had still to impart. His face fell still further.
‘I should tell you, ma’am, that I took the liberty of sending a message to Miss Meredith to reassure her that I had received her letter. By chance I passed my messenger on the road as I made my way here. He had been to Blanchland and was on his way back to London.’
There was a pause. Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘And?’
Mr Churchward looked unhappy. ‘I fear that he was unable to find Miss Meredith, ma’am. The young lady was last seen approaching the front door of Blanchland Court two days ago. She has not been seen since. Miss Meredith has disappeared.’
Blanchland Secret Page 1
