* * *
Gil had been in Liverpool for two weeks and his enquiries about Sir Sydney Warslow had made little progress. He was again travelling as plain Mr Victor, having decided that a viscount asking questions would attract far too much attention, but even so he had learned nothing of import. He was reluctantly coming to the conclusion that Deborah’s suspicions about Warslow were unfounded. Perhaps her affection for her brother had led her to imagine that the fellow was a villain. Whatever the truth might be, Gil decided there was nothing to be gained by remaining here any longer.
However, before leaving Liverpool he wanted to see Deborah’s old family home. Despite the chill wind and an ominous blanket of low grey cloud covering the sky, Gil decided to walk to Duke Street.
It did not take him long and he soon reached a wide street lined with tall terraces, each doorway surrounded by an elegant portico. He located Meltham House and stepped across to the other side of the road to see it better. A thread of smoke rose from one of the chimneys, but the house looked closed up, with the shutters across the windows and the knocker removed. Gil regarded the building, trying to imagine it as the happy family home Deborah had described to him.
His valet had remarked that the young Lord Kirkster did not take his responsibilities seriously and Gil thought the house showed every evidence of this, with its faded paintwork and rusted railings. A wry, humourless smile twisted his lips. Who was he to criticise, when he had remained in the army and shirked his own family duties for years?
He re-crossed the road and stood, irresolute. He should go. There was nothing here for him. He was about to walk away when a homely-looking woman in a red cloak came bustling along the street and opened the gate to the area steps. She stopped, eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He touched his hat to her.
‘Good day to you, madam. Have I the right building? This is the house belonging to Lord Kirkster?’
‘Aye, it is,’ she said warily.
Gil smiled, glad she had approached from his right side, so his scar would not frighten her.
‘I am a friend of the family.’ This information did not appear to lessen the woman’s suspicions and he continued in as friendly a manner as he could. ‘That is, I am acquainted with Miss Deborah Meltham. My name is Victor, I met Miss Meltham in Fallbridge a few months ago.’ He nodded towards the house. ‘She told me she spent many happy times here as a child.’
The woman’s frown lifted a little. ‘Aye, that she did. This was a very happy house. In the old days.’
He could not help himself. He took a step closer.
‘I wonder…’ he shrank into his coat, as if to escape the biting wind and at that providential moment, fat drops of rain began to splash down ‘…could I step into the kitchen, until this shower passes?’ He drew out his purse. ‘I will, of course, pay you for your trouble.’
Her eyes widened, but after subjecting Gil to another searching look she gave a little nod and gestured to him to follow her down the steps. She opened the door into the basement kitchen. A quick glance showed him a clean and tidy room, at its centre a large well-scrubbed table. A cheerful fire burned in a grate, with a kettle hissing quietly over the flames and as they went in, a grey-haired man pushed himself out of a chair by the hearth.
‘Mr Wallis, this gentleman wanted to shelter from the rain,’ said the woman, waving the old man back into his seat. ‘He’s a friend of Miss Deborah’s.’
‘Is that so?’ said Mr Wallis slowly.
Gil removed his hat and smiled. ‘It is indeed so. I was just passing and had a fancy to see Miss Meltham’s old home. She has told me so much about it.’
‘Well, you can’t see upstairs,’ said the old man. ‘Everything’s locked up. Me and the wife lives here to look after the place.’
‘I perfectly understand,’ said Gil, putting his hat and gloves upon the table and sitting down. ‘But it is so cold and damp outside that I thought you might not mind if I took the opportunity to warm myself by your fire.’
He pulled a couple of coins from his purse and pushed them across the table. The woman’s eyes widened as the silver glinted in the firelight and her manner softened perceptibly.
‘P’rhaps you’d like tea, sir?’ she asked him, smiling for the first time.
‘I would indeed, madam, if it’s no trouble.’ He sat back while she bustled about. He must be careful not to appear too inquisitive. ‘You have been in the family’s service for some years, no doubt?’
‘Aye, sir, that we have,’ said the old man, tapping out his pipe and refilling it. As he held a taper to it he looked up, his eyes fixed on the scar on Gil’s face. ‘You a soldier?’
‘I was. Cavalry.’
The old man nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘I was in the navy for a time. Nothing like it for teaching a man discipline. I don’t hold with these young fellows who’ve nothing to do but drink and gamble their lives away.’
The woman gave a little tut of disapproval and frowned at her husband, who lapsed into sulky silence.
‘Does the family mean to return?’ Gil asked his hostess.
‘That we don’t know sir,’ she said. ‘His lordship lived here for a while, then upped and went off to Fallbridge.’
‘But that was no loss.’
Another sharp word from Mrs Wallis had her husband falling silent again. Gil pretended not to notice. He smiled his thanks as a cup of tea was put in front of him.
‘This is a big house for a bachelor,’ he remarked, stirring milk into his tea. ‘No doubt it was much more lively when the old lord was here with his family.’
‘Oh, aye, sir.’ Mrs Wallis smiled reminiscently as she sat down at the table and picked up her own cup. ‘Those was happy times, with the children laughing and causing such mayhem!’
‘What, even Miss Meltham?’ asked Gil, his brows raised in surprise.
‘Oh, yes, she was quite as reckless as her brother.’
‘Worse,’ put in the old man, grinning. ‘Many’s the time her sainted mother came looking for her when she’d slipped out. Off on her adventures, Miss Deb would call it, when she came back from the fair or the market or wherever it was that she’d been.’
The old woman sighed. ‘’Course, everything changed when the mistress fell ill. Miss Deb gave up her flighty ways and settled down to nurse her. The family moved to Fallbridge then, for the mistress’s health—and there Miss Deb has stayed ever since.’
‘But young Lord Kirkster preferred to live here, did he not?’
Gil felt the change in the room as he asked his question. The couple looked at one another, but did not reply. He drank his tea and waited, knowing there was more chance of them confiding in him if he stayed silent. His instinct proved right.
‘Aye.’ The old man scowled into the fire. ‘His lordship was here for a while, but it wasn’t like the old days. His father, God rest his soul, would never have allowed such goings on here.’
‘Young men are often a little wild, when they find themselves free of restraint for the first time,’ remarked Gil. ‘I saw plenty of that in the army.’
He smiled at the housekeeper, who was clearly fighting the temptation to share her grievances.
‘Led astray, he was,’ she burst out at last. ‘Those wicked, wicked men who called themselves his friends! I blame them for it all. And Miss Deb, bless her heart, when she found out, well, it was too late for her to do anything about it, save to take the young lord away to Fallbridge out of harm’s way.’
‘But they have not sold this house,’ Gil mused.
‘No, but I think his lordship will sell before long,’ replied the housekeeper with a sigh. ‘He is already moving out some of the furniture. His sainted mother would have been happy to sell it years ago,’ she said, leaning in confidentially. ‘Lady Kirkster was better born, you see, and never comfo
rtable with the fact that the family was in trade. She made the present lord’s father give up the business, but he kept his shares in one o’ the ships.’
‘Aye, the Margaret,’ put in her husband, puffing on his pipe. ‘She don’t sail to the Americas now, though. Keeps to coastal waters, delivering sugar all around the country. Quite a comedown for a fine, full-rigged ship like the Margaret. Why, his lordship’s grandfather would turn in his grave if he could see her now, and if he knew how his grandson had turned out…’
‘Aye, well, that’s neither here nor there,’ his wife interrupted him. She rose and looked pointedly at Gil. ‘And now, sir, it looks to me like the rain’s stopped, so you will be wanting to get on your way and we mustn’t keep you.’
Gil left them and walked quickly back to the inn. There was still a hint of rain in the air and the cloud hung low and heavy over the streets, but he was barely aware of it, for he was thinking of what he had learned about Deborah. He had been right about her, that air of restraint and dowdiness was not natural. It went back further than the injury to her shoulder, too, although he had no doubt that incident had had its effect.
She had devoted herself to looking after her family, first her mother and now Randolph. The reserve and dull clothes were something she had adopted as a protection against the unwelcome attentions of gentlemen such as himself. And he had to confess that with her severe gown and solemn demeanour he would not have given her a second glance if he had not been bent upon securing her for himself.
Regret at what he had lost reared up in him again and he savagely pushed it away. There could be nothing between them. Deborah might believe her brother innocent of seducing Kitty, but Gil had revisited the school, talked again to anyone who knew of his sister’s involvement with a rake. True, the description of the man could as easily be Warslow, but however much Gil wanted it to be the truth there was no proof and he had resigned himself to the fact that there might never be.
* * *
Deborah lay in her bed, listening to her maid’s gentle snores. She had formed the habit of locking her bedroom door since they had come to London and on a couple of occasions now someone had tried the handle in the middle of the night. She had not mentioned the incidents to anyone, but they had coincided with the nights Sir Sydney was staying at the house, so she had had a truckle bed made up for Elsie in her own room as a precaution.
She and Ran had been in Grafton Street for almost a month now, and life at the house was proving a trial for Deborah. Randolph alternated between almost delirious happiness and deep gloom. He refused to tell her why they had moved to town, except to say he wanted more entertainment. He also refused to explain who was financing the move, because although Ran’s name was on the agreement, Deb was increasingly convinced that Sir Sydney was paying for this house.
She felt she was mistress in name only and on several occasions she had been obliged to confront Mrs Enfield, who seemed to know very little of what was required of a housekeeper. Despite the severe black gown and cap, there was a blowsiness about the woman, and a familiarity in the way she looked at Sir Sydney, that made Deb wonder if she was perhaps his mistress. Not that it prevented him from trying to fix his interest with Deborah and her brother’s increasingly erratic mood was worrying. The more she asked him to confide in her the more truculent he became, as if he were uneasy, guilty, even, about what was going on.
Sir Sydney’s role as Ran’s guest was little more than a veneer now, but he had not yet gone beyond the bounds of propriety, and Deb was thankful for the support of her maid and her brother’s valet, both of whom had quietly pledged their help, if she should need it. And as spring gave way grudgingly to summer, she thought it a distinct possibility that she would need their assistance.
Ever practical, Deb began to wear a discreet but serviceable hatpin pushed into the hair coiled neatly at the back of her head. When she had sought out Gil to ask for his help she had told him that Sir Sydney would not risk offending Ran, but she was very much afraid that the time was rapidly approaching when Randolph would be powerless to protect her and she must be prepared for it.
Thinking of Gil only increased her feeling of loneliness. When she had written to advise him of her direction, she had asked him to direct any reply to the nearest post office, which happened to be the local apothecary. She had not said so in her letter, but she suspected the staff at Grafton Street would deliver any correspondence to Sir Sydney rather than herself.
It was impossible not to be disappointed that so far she had heard nothing from Gil. Perhaps his offer of help had been no more than lip service to a woman he had treated abominably. Her stomach twisted into a knot—a woman whom he pitied. She did not want to believe that and she had come away from their last meeting convinced that he was sincere. But she had to admit that all the evidence was against her and as time went on she was more and more inclined to think that her gut feeling about Gil was entirely wrong. She was coming to the lowering conclusion that Gil could not or would not help her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Good morning, Miss Deborah.’ Elsie came into the room with a cheerful smile and carefully placed a cup of hot chocolate beside Deborah’s bed. ‘Mr Miller said to tell you that his lordship intends to join you for breakfast. Now, what would you like to wear today?’
Deb sipped her chocolate while Elsie bustled around. The maid’s seemingly innocent message conveyed the comforting news that not only was Ran feeling well enough to get up early this morning, but she would not be alone and obliged to make polite conversation with Sir Sydney at the breakfast table. That and the bright sunlight shining into her room was cheering. She decided to put on her lemon muslin and it was in an optimistic frame of mind that she made her way downstairs.
The mood lasted only until Sir Sydney announced that they were going to the masquerade evening at Vauxhall that night. When Deborah declined, he gave his sly, oily smile.
‘But it is all arranged, Miss Meltham, is it not, Lord Kirkster?’
‘It is,’ said Ran, excitedly. ‘It is a high treat, Deb. We will be taking sculls across the water rather than getting caught in all the traffic on the bridge.’
Deborah had only gone out on a few evenings since they had been in London and on each occasion she had been less than impressed with the company her brother and Sir Sydney were keeping.
There were soirées and parties in houses that she soon realised were on the fringes of society. The sycophantic behaviour of those they met did nothing for Deb’s enjoyment. The women were heavily painted, the men loud and overbearing, but Ran accepted their overtures and when Deb remonstrated with him he merely shrugged and said she must accustom herself to society ways. The only pleasurable trip had been to the theatre, where they had had the seclusion of their own box, but the treat had not been repeated.
Sir Sydney gave a faint sigh at her hesitation.
He said, ‘Lord Kirkster tells me you have never been to Vauxhall, Miss Meltham. You may think it a little vulgar for your tastes, but I am sure there will be something there for you to enjoy. There is the orchestra, of course, and the tumblers, or the mechanical spectacles. I would be delighted to show you all of them…and more especially the Italian Walk.’
Deborah disliked the implication in his last words and was about to give him a sharp set-down when Ran interrupted.
‘Oh, do say you will come, Deb. We shall all be masked, after all, so there can be no impropriety.’
‘It is the masks that encourage impropriety,’ she told him.
‘But I shall be there to look after you. You have my word.’
If Sir Sydney had not been involved, Deborah had to admit that she would have been happy, even eager, to go to Vauxhall. She looked at Ran, who was clearly keen for her to join them, so at last she capitulated.
‘As long as you will escort me,’ she said to her brother and earned from h
im a grateful smile and an assurance that he would take care of her.
* * *
Randolph’s mercurial mood deteriorated during the day and by the time they reached Vauxhall he was sinking into the silent depression his sister knew so well. Their party was augmented by Mr and Mrs Wortleby, friends of Sir Sydney’s. They were affable to a fault, smiling at everything and gushingly grateful to be included in the party. Deborah gave up her attempts to stop Mrs Wortleby addressing her as ‘my lady’ and instead she tried to direct their attention away from her brother. When they reached the supper box, she sat beside Ran and when he slumped dejectedly over the table she asked him quietly if he would like to go home.
Sir Sydney was engaged in responding to the Wortlebys’ rapturous delight for the gardens, the supper box and the musicians, who were already playing in the rotunda, so Deborah took the opportunity to tell Ran that she was more than ready to leave.
‘No, no, I am very well,’ he muttered in reply. ‘And we have not been here five minutes, how would it look if we walk away now? I wish to heaven you would leave me alone, Deb!’
She relapsed into silence and gave her attention to listening to the orchestra and watching the throng of people passing by. There was no doubt the crowd was very colourful. There were dominos of every shade that covered a person from head to toe and some people were even dressed in fancy costume, but without exception everyone was masked. If she was allowed to sit here undisturbed all night, Deborah thought that the evening might pass quite pleasantly, but within moments of this thought Mrs Wortleby took a seat beside her and was determined to talk.
‘Well, your ladyship, and this is a very fine treat, is it not? La, ’tis years since I was at Vauxhall and it doesn’t change. It is still the place to find a beau. Why, even now we are being ogled by that gentleman over there in the purple domino.’ She pushed her hood back and put a hand up to her improbably black curls, reminding Deborah very strongly of a bird preening itself before a prospective mate. ‘Over there. Do you see him, standing in the shadow of that tree? I vow he has been watching us since we sat down.’
Winning the Mail-order Bride & Pursued for the Viscount's Vengeance & Redeeming the Rogue Knight (9781488021725) Page 37
