The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

“Sir, it’s me,” the wounded man uttered. “Get him.”

  Every instinct urged him to do just that, to race after the fugitive, and find out what on earth was going on, for there was something very, very wrong here. But he could not leave Jerome.

  “Get who?” he asked grimly, gathering the injured man into his arms. “Who did this, and why are you here?”

  Jerome let out a sound that was half-groan, half-whimper. His eyes rolled. “Betrayed,” he whispered, and his head lolled.

  Verne staggered to his feet, carrying Jerome’s not inconsiderable weight, and swung toward the house. Which was when he realized Cecily had not obeyed him after all.

  She stood exactly where he had left her, staring at Jerome’s unconscious face. Verne had no time to waste on feminine vapors. But before he could tell her sternly to go back inside and say nothing to anyone, she spun on her heel and silently led the way back toward the side door, which she held open for him to carry in his burden.

  Before he could step inside, another breathless figure trotted into the light from the front of the house. Lord Torbridge. Verne almost groaned.

  “Lady Cecily!” Torbridge exclaimed in surprise. “Verne? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Verne said grimly. “This man has had an accident and I don’t want my family or Lady Barnaby upset.”

  He followed Cecily inside, hoping Torbridge would go back the way he’d come.

  Without being told, Cecily marched in the direction of the library and went in, holding the door wide. Verne nodded toward the connecting door to his private apartments, which she also opened.

  He walked through into the cramped hall and kicked open the door to the small bedchamber. Suddenly, Torbridge was there, too, helping him lower Jerome to the bed. There was nothing he could do about it now. In fact, he was glad of the help to lay down the injured man as gently as possible.

  “On his side,” Verne ordered. “Cecily, will you bring some light in here?” He hurled the last over his shoulder as he strode out toward his own bedchamber to fetch the water bowl.

  When he returned, Cecily had lit a lamp and several candles, and by their glow, Torbridge was easing off Jerome’s coat. Which meant he was in danger of discovering exactly what sort of accident had befallen him.

  Verne set down the bowl. “Thank you, Torbridge. Much appreciated. Would you and Lady Cecily be so good as to return to the drawing room? Mrs. Longstone is morbidly nervous of every accident at Finmarsh and I would rather she suspects nothing is amiss.”

  Torbridge straightened. “As you wish. My lady?”

  But Cecily sat down on the bed. “I imagine I’m more capable than either of you dealing with injury. I am not afraid of a little blood and I have been brought up to care for the sick and hurt. At the very least, I shall know if he needs a physician.”

  Verne shrugged, and after an instant’s hesitation, Torbridge left the room. The echo of his footsteps in the hall drifted back to them. Cecily tore open the shirt, and in spite of her words, could not hide a gasp of horror at the gory wound.

  “We must stop the bleeding,” she said shakily. “But I think I can safely say he needs a physician.”

  “Well, he can’t have one tonight,” Verne said. “He’ll have to make do with us.” Opening the cupboard under the window, he took out a box with piles of bandages, a needle, and silk thread.

  Cecily cleaned the wound as best she could, while he held the needle in the candle flame.

  “Is your stitching neater than mine?” he asked.

  Without a word, she cut a length of silk and took the needle from him. While she worked, he raised his eyes from Jerome’s wound to her face. It was paler than usual, a frown of concentration and perhaps pity on her brow. He couldn’t help admiring her calm efficiency, the steadiness of her hands. She was a woman in a thousand. Unique.

  She said, “Someone stabbed him and ran away.”

  “I know.”

  Her eyes flickered to him as she reached for the bandages. She made a clean pad and pressed it to the stitched wound. “Who was he? The man who did this?”

  “I don’t know.” He lifted Jerome so that she could wind the bandages around his body. “But I will find out.”

  She tied the ends of the bandage and stood up. Together, they covered him. Only then did she look at Verne fully. She touched Jerome’s hair. “I’ve seen him before. He’s the Frenchman you said goodbye to at the Hart the night I met you.”

  Damnation. He managed to smile. “Perhaps. But he is not French.” He emptied the bloody water from the bowl and poured in some clean, indicating she should wash her hands first. “You should return to the drawing room. I need to change.”

  Her gaze strayed back to Jerome. “Will he live?”

  “I hope so. If he does, it will be because of you.”

  “You don’t need to flatter me to keep me quiet,” she snapped. “You just need to tell me the truth.”

  “Later,” he said steadily.

  She curled her lip, dried her hands, and walked out.

  Verne followed her moments later, shrugging off his coat as he went. In his own chamber, he rang for Daniel, then hastily changed his shirt and donned a fresh coat.

  Daniel entered, just as he was about to leave.

  “There’s an injured man in the small chamber,” Verne told him. “Keep an eye on him and give him water if he wakes. Keep the other servants away.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Oh, and lock all the doors behind me. Stay awake.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Verne clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  He left once more by the side door, hurrying round to the stables, where he saddled Jupiter himself and then rode off at a gallop in the direction of the Hart.

  *

  The inn seemed fairly quiet as he handed Jupiter into the sleepy ostler’s care and strode in by the front door. From the taproom, Villin caught sight of him and immediately came to meet him, wiping his hands on his apron.

  “Evening, my lord. Pleasant surprise. Do you want the private parlor or will you take a mug of ale in the taproom?”

  Verne pretended to consider. “Who’s in?” he asked, nodding at the taproom door.

  “No one you know,” Villin replied. “Except the French gent.”

  Verne frowned. “What French gent?”

  “Mr. Renarde,” Villin replied in surprise. “Enjoying a mug of ale. Just like an Englishman.”

  Verne’s eyebrows flew up. “Is he, by God? When did he get back?”

  “He never left. Not since the night you were all in the parlor.”

  Thoughtfully, Verne drew his lower lip between his teeth, then strode toward the taproom. “Thanks, Villin. I’ll go in and drink some ale with him.”

  Looking at him, no one would have guessed that Pierre de Renarde had been born a Frenchman. He had none of the slightly desperate elegance, or the appearance of downtrodden bad luck that haunted many of his fellow émigrés. Instead, he looked more like a bank clerk with pretensions above his station. Verne had never quite understood how he had won Isabelle, unless it was his air of elusiveness that almost amounted to mystery. He was a knowledgeable and well-read man, of course, but if he had a sense of humor, he kept it well hidden. There were times when Verne thought unkindly that he had all the character of a not very busy snail.

  On the other hand, he had proved helpful in certain endeavors.

  He lounged alone in the corner with his ale, obviously deep in thought, though he straightened in apparent surprise when he saw Verne approaching.

  “An unexpected pleasure, my lord.”

  “Likewise,” Verne said amiably, dragging over a chair from the next table and sitting opposite him. “What are you still doing here?”

  Renarde shrugged, but did not look away. “Why, since my engagement diary is not full, I decided to stay on in the hope of seeing my wife. Who is, I hear, a guest at your house.”


  “Along with her cousins and other guests. It is all mind-numbingly proper.”

  “Ah, she has tired of you, too.”

  Verne regarded him sardonically. “Don’t play the wronged husband, Renarde, it doesn’t suit you. If you had remained faithful to her a week, things might have been different. But what is sauce for the goose, my friend, is also sauce for the gander. And vice versa. Meanwhile, if you wish to see your wife, call at the house, write her a letter. Don’t just sit here watching and listening to passing gossip.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Renarde mocked him.

  Verne accepted his ale from Lily Villin with a smile, and turned back to Renarde. “I didn’t come to discuss affairs of the heart. Or the pocket.”

  Renarde lifted his mug. “I didn’t think you had.”

  “Jerome is back,” Verne said.

  Renarde lowered the mug more slowly. A frown formed between his brows. “Back? But he’s only just left.”

  “He was betrayed, either on the way or when he landed. And he seems to have been pursued, for someone tried to kill him tonight.”

  “Mon Dieu… is he still alive? Where is he?”

  “Safe, and alive for now. But the others need to know.”

  Renarde nodded. “I’ll leave at first light. In which case, I should sleep now.” He drained his ale and rose to his feet. “I’ll bid you good night.”

  “Good night.” Verne watched him walk to the door. In particular, he watched his boots, which were muddy. It could have been old dirt—or new mud from riding full tilt back to the Hart from Finmarsh.

  Thoughtfully, Verne finished his ale. He contemplated another, but the urge to return to Finmarsh House was too strong. Jerome could die. If Renarde was not responsible, the culprit could still be waiting and watching.

  In fact, as he thought about recent changes in the neighborhood, the arrival of Lord Torbridge was a little too timely. He couldn’t quite imagine the mild, proper lord involved in such nefarious doings, but people had surprised him before. And chasing down here uninvited just to see Cecily was not really part of the character he portrayed to the world.

  He rose abruptly, throwing a coin on the table before he strode from the taproom. He should never have left her or Jerome.

  Chapter Ten

  In the drawing room at Finmarsh House, Cecily played around the keys of the pianoforte. She had already sung twice for the company, but she and Torbridge lingered at the piano while the others began a game of whist.

  “How is our wounded friend?” Torbridge murmured.

  Cecily picked out a key that was very slightly out of tune and pressed it twice. “Alive.”

  “And our host?”

  “I have no idea.” She spread both her hands across the keyboard and struck a couple of chords.

  “Forgive me,” Torbridge said, low. “But did you see what happened?”

  Cecily shrugged. “There was some kind of movement. He pushed me behind him, told me to go back to the house. I didn’t, of course. He dashed forward. I heard a sort of groan and then he was crouching over the poor man.”

  “Forgive me, Cecily,” Torbridge said again. “But could Verne have done it?”

  She stared at him. “Done what?”

  “Stabbed our victim.”

  “No! Someone else ran away into the darkness.”

  “Did you actually see that? Or was it just an impression you had?”

  “Both. You’re being silly, Torbridge, influenced by foolish gossip and an undeserved reputation. Of course Verne did not stab that man! If he had, why would he carry him into his own home and do his best to save him?”

  “Because you were there?”

  “Then why try to kill him in the first place?” she demanded.

  “Because he might say something no one should hear? Least of all you. I don’t know. I’m thinking aloud.”

  “He is not as black as he is painted, my lord,” Cecily said with dignity. “Far from it.”

  “I know, but he is painted very black.” Torbridge hesitated. “You don’t know him, Cecily. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

  That much was true. When she thought about the sudden flurry of events in the darkness before the wounded man lay at her feet, everything was blurry. She could have conjured up the indistinct figure she’d imagined running away… but she didn’t think so. Nor did she see Verne attack the victim. and she didn’t believe he had.

  “Neither do you,” she told Torbridge. “You are accepting his hospitality and yet saying such dreadful things about him.”

  “Dreadful possibilities,” Torbridge corrected. “No more.”

  She ran her fingers down the keys in an angry swirl. “What do you want me to do? Cry off my engagement already?”

  Torbridge sighed. “All I ask is that you are careful, that you do not marry him this week or next.”

  “There will be no marriage until after we have seen Alvan,” she said impatiently. “But that is my decision and Verne’s. You have no say in the matter.”

  “Of course I do not,” he said humbly. “I care only for your happiness.”

  *

  After she and her aunt had retired, Cecily sat on the edge of her bed, deliberately not ringing for Cranston. She counted to one hundred and then slipped out of her chamber and downstairs toward the library.

  Her heart thundering, she raised one hand to knock at the library door. Before she could touch it, it flew open, and Daniel appeared, halting his precipitous exit in surprise.

  “Daniel,” she said, trying to sound as if she had every right to be asking, “how is our injured friend?”

  “He’s quiet, my lady, but seems peaceful enough.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, my lady, not tonight. Maybe speak to his lordship in the morning.”

  “Very well. Good night, Daniel.”

  “Good night, my lady.”

  Well, that was awkward! But at least their patient had not died.

  Returning to her chamber, she gazed out of the window for some time, wondering where Verne was and what he was doing. If the attempted murderer still lurked in the vicinity. If Verne was in danger.

  But the night was still, and she could make out no one skulking in the darkness. Eventually, she sighed and rang for her maid. While she waited, she began to pull pins from her hair.

  A scratch sounded at the door. “Come in,” she said impatiently. Cranston didn’t usually trouble to knock, but staying at Finmarsh House seemed to have set her on edge. Obviously, the maid did not hear her, for she did not enter. Half-amused, half-annoyed, Cecily went to the door and threw it open.

  “Cranston, will you just—oh!”

  Verne stood there, looking very much as she had first seen him, with his coat open and his cravat loosened. His lips quirked upward in a spontaneous smile.

  “Forgive the interruption,” he murmured. “I wanted to be sure you are well.”

  “I’m quite well,” she said, catching nervously at the unpinned sections of her hair.

  His gaze followed her movement, drifting back to her face, her lips. She couldn’t help licking them, for his scrutiny made them dry. He stood very still, though his gaze drifted lower, and then, determinedly, back to her eyes. His own glittered with heat. Suddenly, she could not breathe.

  “Good,” he said abruptly. “Then I’ll bid you goodnight.”

  He swung away and strode down the passage. Bemused, Cecily stared after him until she saw Cranston come through the door from the servants’ stairs. She went back inside and sat down at her dressing table. She found she was smiling at herself in the glass as she removed the rest of her hair pins.

  *

  Cecily woke before it was light. If servants stirred, they were deep in the bowels of the kitchen and she couldn’t hear them. And yet, something had woken her. She lay very still, listening. A very faint sob reached her, followed by silence, and then another chilling wail, so muffled it might have been the wind. But she knew i
t wasn’t.

  She sat up and lit the bedside candle. It was not in her nature to leave anyone suffering if she could help. On the other hand, she had been caught often enough wandering this house in little more than her nightrail. She really didn’t want to run into Verne again. Truly, she didn’t.

  She rose and donned her dressing gown, with the cloak over everything, then picked up her candle and opened the bedchamber door. She could hear nothing now, but just to be sure, she crept as far as the servants’ stairs, then back again. As she made her way toward the upper hall, she thought she heard another cry, but she could not easily tell which direction the sound came from. She carried on to the dining room and drawing room—both empty—and then she saw the door to the other passage stood open. The one that led to the ruined north wing.

  The ruin was like a magnet for nighttime grief. With her heart hammering, she made her way toward it. She did not think the sobs were Verne’s. His grief had been silent and all the more shocking for it. How could anyone imagine him unfeeling? Of course, they would say it was guilt… and he would probably agree. But Cecily did not believe in his guilt.

  The draught reached her through the open door, long before she got to it. As she stepped through the door, her candle blew out and she halted in dismay. But there was another light, a bobbing lantern coming from the front of the ruin. It showed her a hooded figure walking around the edges of the damaged floor, sometimes from beam to beam.

  “Shilton?”

  The figure stopped, held the lantern higher with hands that trembled. “My lady? I’ve never told! I’ll never tell!”

  “Never tell what?” Cecily asked, startled.

  There was silence. The wind whipped at Shilton’s cap, blowing her skirts against her legs.

  “Lady Cecily,” the maid said, only just audibly.

  Cecily held out one hand. “Come back here, Shilton, where it’s safe. Mind your footing.”

  As the maid obeyed, Cecily saw she was shivering with cold. How long had she been out there?

  Cecily took the lantern from her icy hand and led her back into the passage, closing and bolting the door.

  “You shouldn’t have been in there, my lady,” Shilton blurted as Cecily urged her across the landing to the bedchamber passage.