The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

  “As it happens, he fought a duel with the last man foolish enough to abduct me,” Cecily said with dignity.

  Verne eyed her with fascination. “How often does this happen to you?”

  “Twice in my life. The last was in broad daylight, and it could only have been a couple of hours before Alvan confronted him and challenged him on the spot.”

  She was trying to frighten Verne, if she could, but his face expressed more entertainment than fear. In fact, he sat back on the sofa beside her.

  “I’m very glad to hear it. Did Alvan shoot him?”

  “Well, he shot the man’s driver, who was a terrible villain and clearly didn’t understand the terms of a duel. But his accuracy scared C—this man—so much that he begged Alvan for mercy.”

  Verne was grinning openly now. “What did Alvan do?”

  “Hit him,” Cecily said with relish. “Twice.”

  “I wish I’d been there.”

  “You will be,” Cecily said sweetly, and Verne laughed, just as a maid came into the room.

  Although she looked very sleepy, she was fully dressed. A stickler might have noticed her cap was not quite straight and the hair beneath it escaping untidily. Cecily thought she had been asleep in her clothes, which was odd for a maidservant. But then, this was a very odd household.

  “This is Shilton,” Verne said, standing. “She is a lady’s maid. Shilton, this is Lady Cecily who will be staying with us for a few days,”

  “A few days!” Cecily repeated in outraged astonishment.

  Verne ignored her. “Are there any guest bedchambers made up?”

  “Just Miss Jane’s, sir.”

  “Well that will do for tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll need more. Show her ladyship to Miss Jane’s chamber and give her what help she needs.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shilton replied. She didn’t look remotely interested. Cecily could only suppose such requests in the middle of the night were common.

  “Good night, my lady,” Verne said, with the greatest civility he had yet shown her. He even held out his hand compellingly.

  She wanted to ignore that hand. She already knew its strength and its hardness. It was also surprisingly shapely for a man’s, the fingers long and tapering. She could walk past it and out of the room. But they were playing a part he seemed to think would ultimately save her reputation. She couldn’t see how, but with reluctance, she placed her hand in his. His fingers curled around it with gentle firmness and he bowed over it with more elegance than she had imagined he possessed.

  “Good night, my lord,” she returned, slipping her hand free, and walked out the room. For some reason, her heart was beating too fast again.

  Following Shilton upstairs, Cecily was finally struck by the oddity of a lady’s maid employed in what she had assumed was a bachelor establishment.

  “Shilton, who is your mistress?” she asked curiously.

  “Lady Verne, my lady,” the maid replied, without turning. “She’s dead.”

  Cecily shivered. Shilton must mean the Lady Verne who was supposedly murdered along with her husband, the current baron’s elder brother. She wished she could remember the story, but she had never paid much attention since she did not know the people concerned. Until now.

  “Then what ladies reside here now?” she asked.

  “None, at present. Save your ladyship.”

  At the top of the stairs, Shilton led her along a passage to the right, which, in the darkness, was undeniably eerie. The pale flames of the candles they each carried, flickered up the walls, occasionally illuminating alarming faces in portraits.

  Shilton opened a door and went in. With quiet efficiency, she set down her candle by the door, and lit a spill from the flame. She walked around the room, lighting candles until it was well illuminated.

  “Don’t you have a nightrail, my lady?” Shilton asked.

  “No. I have nothing with me.”

  “Miss Jane’s garments will be too small.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I shall sleep in my chemise for once. Who is Miss Jane?”

  “My lady’s daughter.”

  From the emphasis, Cecily took her to mean the late Lady Verne’s daughter. “The present lord’s niece?” she hazarded. It did not look like a child’s room. There were no toys or children’s books. Perhaps Miss Jane did not stay very often. Or perhaps she was grown-up.

  Shilton nodded, pulling back the bed clothes. She turned, and looked Cecily up and down.

  Cecily sighed and threw her shawl on the bed. “There is not much for you to do,” she said defiantly, showing the maid her semi-unlaced gown and stays.

  Shilton advanced and wordlessly unpinned her hair before helping her step out of her clothes. “I’ll clean the gown,” she said briskly, shaking it out and then closing the curtains while Cecily used the chamber pot and then thrust her hands into the bowl of cold water on the wash stand. “If your ladyship will wait a few minutes, I’ll bring you warm water for washing.”

  “There’s no need,” Cecily said hastily. “Bring it in the morning instead, if you please. I only want to sleep.”

  Shilton walked to the bed and held up the covers commandingly. Obediently, Cecily climbed in and lay down. Shilton walked around the room, blowing out all the candles again until she came to the one by the door which she picked up. By its solitary light, she looked drawn and haggard, almost tragic.

  “Good night, my lady.”

  “Good night, Shilton. And thank you.”

  Without a further word, the maid left, closing the door softly behind her.

  Considering whose house she was in and how she had got there, it seemed Cecily had got off very lightly. He even seemed determined to save her reputation. However, she lay awake for some time, listening to every sound in the house, wondering if the bedchamber door would creak open.

  *

  Cecily woke to disorientation and the distant neighing of horses. It took a moment before she recognized her surroundings, and the bizarre events of last night rushed back. She did not feel rested, for her sleep had been uneasy, scattered with moans and cries that might have been part of her troubled dreams.

  At least Verne had not come near her. Not that she had truly expected him to after he had sent for the maid to look after her, but the possibility had always been there. Thinking about it now, it struck her that his aim of seduction had seemed almost secondary. He had never revealed exactly why he had abducted her, except that he had mistaken her for a “hussy,” which seemed monstrously casual.

  And yet, he did not seem a monstrous person. Whatever he had done or would do, she had found him secretly rather likeable. Which perhaps was not surprising when Alvan counted him among the very select ranks of his friends.

  A knock at the door heralded the arrival of the maid, Shilton, bearing a jug of warm water. This morning, she looked much neater. She was a comely woman, something over thirty years old, but even in daylight, Cecily had the odd impression that darkness remained in her eyes. They were… haunted.

  She went through the motions of her duties almost mechanically, as if her mind was constantly somewhere else. But she had cleaned and pressed Cecily’s traveling dress to perfection and she dressed her with gentle precision before brushing and pinning her hair.

  “Where is his lordship?” Cecily asked abruptly.

  “Don’t know, my lady. He went out, but left orders for breakfast.”

  Drat the man. “Do you know when he will be back?”

  “No, my lady. We never know.”

  Cecily sprang to her feet. Did he expect her to kick her heels here while waiting for him to turn up and explain whatever drunken plan he had made for the rescue of her reputation? Well, she wouldn’t. She would simply ride back to the inn and brazen it out. No one knew her in this neighborhood, and surely she could rely on the Villins’ discretion?

  “Thank you,” she said abruptly to Shilton. “Is there—” She broke off as the faint rumble of carriage wheels reached her ears and hastened t
o the window instead. But her hope it was Verne returning swiftly vanished in recognition.

  This was her aunt’s carriage. With an exclamation, she bolted from the bedchamber, and ran along the passage. She charged down the staircase and across the gloomy entrance hall. Here, she more than half-expected the front door to be locked so she could not escape, but it flew open at her impatient tug.

  Lady Barnaby had stepped down from the coach and was moving purposefully toward the front door when Cecily launched herself down the steps and into her arms.

  “Oh, my dear!” Aunt Barny gasped. “My poor, sweet child! What has that man done to you?”

  Perversely, Cecily found herself defending him. “Why, nothing, of course! Apart from abducting me in the first place, which seems to have been mostly a matter of mistaken identity. But now he knows who I am, there is no question of him harming me.”

  Lady Barnaby drew back. “Beyond what has already been done,” she said wrathfully. “Where is the miscreant?”

  “I don’t quite know,” Cecily admitted. “But apparently there is breakfast.” She glanced back at the carriage horses, frowning as they were driven away to the stables. “They’re not our horses.”

  “No, the blacksmith is sent for, though, so they’ll be sent on.”

  “What did he say in his letter to you?” Cecily demanded, while her eyes were drawn at last to the state of the house. The center and the right of the building looked perfectly normal, if slightly neglected. But the wing to the left was merely a shell. Most of the roof had gone, and she could see only daylight through the glassless windows. Some of the stone was blackened, and Cecily finally remembered the full horror of the unofficial accusations against her host—that he had murdered his brother and sister-in-law by setting fire to their private apartments. That their daughter had escaped the blaze was considered something of a miracle.

  Even as she shivered with distress, Cecily thought it was also a miracle that the rest of the house had survived apparently undamaged.

  “I beg your pardon?” Cecily said to her aunt, drawing her toward the front door. She remembered she had asked about Verne’s letter to her, but had not even heard the reply.

  Lady Barnaby scowled. “He says you and he are to be married.”

  Chapter Four

  Cecily stopped in her tracks, one foot on the front step. “He says what?”

  “It’s not what I wanted for you,” Lady Barnaby said grimly, dragging her onward and into the house. “But I see no other solution. It won’t stop him receiving a piece of my mind, to say nothing of the worst dressing-down he’s ever endured in his miserable life.”

  She came to a halt in the hallway, glaring across at her host, who stood by the stairs in riding dress, a sardonic smile on his handsome face. Cecily’s heart bumped.

  “I look forward to it, ma’am,” he said with an elegant, yet somehow insolent bow. “Welcome to Finmarsh. I’m Verne.”

  “I know who you are,” Aunt Barny said regally, drawing herself up to her full height. “I shan’t sully my lips with what you are, for I suspect you know very well!”

  “Better even than your ladyship,” Verne assured her. “But you must be hungry after your early start. Please join me for breakfast.”

  Cecily and her aunt exchanged bemused glances but followed him across the hall to a sunny room at the back of the house, where a decent breakfast was set out on a sideboard. Politely, he poured them coffee, helped them to choose from the dishes available, and ushered them to seats at the table. Then, he fetched a cup of coffee for himself and sat opposite them.

  “Have at me, if you must,” he invited Lady Barnaby. “But I guarantee you will say nothing I have not heard before, or indeed told myself before. Besides, I understand that in all probability, Alvan is already on his way to shoot me. So, unless you feel it your duty to spend this time castigating me, we could use it more profitably by discussing how to minimize the damage.”

  Cecily and her aunt both gazed at him in fascination.

  “I’ll take that as assent.”

  “Don’t,” Lady Barnaby said at once. “For marrying my niece will not save her from scandal. It will only add to her troubles, especially if conducted in such a sudden, secretive way.”

  “You are quite right,” he agreed.

  “Besides,” Cecily put in, for it was important for this to be clear, “I have no intention of marrying you.”

  “No indeed,” he said with unflattering fervency. “I’m sure it’s the furthest thing from both our minds. I don’t mean we should actually marry. Just put it about that we are engaged. Name the date for a couple of months hence, and then at some point before that, you can cry off. No one will be surprised.”

  “And how do you explain how my niece met you, let alone consented to this engagement in the first place?”

  Verne shrugged. “Your horse went lame in my neighborhood, did it not? I stepped in to help.”

  “And we just happily stayed here without a hostess?” Aunt Barny said in disbelief.

  “No indeed,” he said in mock shock. “You both stayed last night at the Hart, and then drove over to Finmarsh this morning as invited. Many people will have seen your carriage with its coat of arms.”

  Lady Barnaby appeared to accept that with a thoughtful nod.

  “As for a hostess, I’m almost sure my late brother’s mother-in-law will be here by teatime. She may bring an army of female servants, but in case she does not, you would be well advised to send for your own people and your baggage. I understand they went on to London. If you send now, they might just make it here by nightfall.”

  Lady Barnaby closed her mouth.

  Cecily said, “You have done this many times before, haven’t you? Averted scandal at the last moment.”

  “Actually, no. I’ve never troubled before. But then, contrary to popular belief, it hasn’t been entirely my fault in the past.”

  “Is that an apology?” Cecily asked.

  He shrugged. “I’m trying to make the only one that matters. Words don’t make any difference to your situation.”

  “Neither will a fake engagement,” Cecily argued. “I thank you for your trouble, but if we are pretending, I have been with my aunt all this time, I have no need to engage myself to anyone.”

  “Actually, you do,” Aunt Barnaby said treacherously. “We have no reason to be here without an engagement, or at least a sudden attachment.”

  “Our lame horse,” Cecily reminded her.

  “We’d be on our way already if he had chosen to help us yesterday.”

  Cecily jumped to her feet. “Then, what are we waiting for? Let us go at once!”

  Verne regarded her with some amusement, sitting back in his chair with his coffee cup cradled in both hands. “It’s as well my feelings are not easily hurt.”

  “Actually, it isn’t well at all,” Aunt Barny said crossly. “I wish it happened to you more often. But he is right, Cecily. Word of our presence here will get out, and anything quick or secretive will only make matters worse. We will have to brazen out the engagement.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Verne advised. He finished his coffee and set the cup down in its saucer. “Alvan may still come and shoot me, and think how much fun that will be. We could marry on my death bed and all this crumbling grandeur could be yours.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll leave you to think about it.”

  His bow was more of a nod. Then he sauntered toward the door and went out.

  “You would think he got engaged every day,” Cecily marveled, loud enough for him to hear.

  The closing door paused. “Oh no,” he said provokingly over his shoulder. “Of course, you are my first, and my last.”

  Lady Barnaby scowled after him. “He isn’t taking this seriously.”

  Cecily, who believed to the contrary, spent some time arguing with her aunt over Verne’s scheme. Every instinct cried out against it, though she found it difficult to name her reasons, save for her dislike of dishonesty. Us
ed to winding her aunt round her little finger, she was appalled to find her immovable in this. What’s more, she declared that Alvan would agree with her.

  “Well, Charlotte will agree with me,” Cecily raged. “And we both know where that will lead.”

  “Not in this case,” Lady Barnaby said implacably. “Whatever it does to his friendship with Verne, he will understand it is the only way.”

  “It is not the only way and I refuse to do it!”

  “You needn’t be afraid of him,” Aunt Barny said. “I am here. And I’m sending for the maids and two more coachmen and grooms. And I shall write to Alvan later, once I have consulted further with Verne.”

  Cecily, unable to trust herself to speak with any civility whatsoever, left the room to seek some air. She stomped around the outside of the house, through slightly overgrown formal gardens, a kitchen garden, and stable yards. She encountered very few servants, either because there weren’t any or because they were all busy, and the peaceful exercise did soothe her nerves a little. However, she had only her shawl against a sharpening wind, so she decided against walking further, merely completing her circuit of the house, past the ruin of the north wing.

  The damage was worse from the back, with many stones tumbled to the ground and moss and ivy growing over the remains. The interiors open to the elements were blackened and unrecognizable as a baron’s apartments.

  She paused, both drawn and repelled by the scene of such tragedy. A blackened door on the first floor opened as she watched. The maid, Shilton, took a step inside, then halted unmoving.

  Cecily watched, curiously. The woman remained perfectly still yet somehow tense for several seconds and then she spun around and vanished from sight, closing the door behind her. Thoughtfully, Cecily walked on, taking a wide route around the corner to what was left of the side of the house.

  In front of her, several yards nearer the building, stood Lord Verne himself, gazing upward. The wind blew his wild hair back from his face. Somehow, he looked both untamed and world weary. Childe Harold, indeed.