“Neither should you,” Cecily scolded. “Why do you keep going?” Detaching her cloak, she swung it around the trembling maid’s shoulders.
Wild eyed and astonished, Shilton stared at her. “Her ghost is there.”
Cecily didn’t need to ask whose ghost she meant. It had to be Marjorie’s. She urged the maid into her bedchamber and closed the door before lighting another candle. “Does she speak to you?” Cecily asked, pushing Shilton into the armchair. She knew instinctively that denouncing the existence of ghosts would not work.
Shilton nodded. “Which is why I know you shouldn’t go there at all.”
“Neither of us should,” Cecily said tartly. “It’s dangerous.”
“Not for me. But he likes you. Anyone can see that, and she’s noticed. She knows. She won’t let that pass.”
Presumably, Shilton was talking about Verne and their engagement, which Cecily could hardly explain was false.
“Why would the late Lady Verne be concerned about such things? Not to blow my own trumpet but in most circles, I am considered quite a catch.”
“Of course you are, my lady.”
Cecily sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her. “You think Lady Verne would not want the current lord to be happy?”
Shilton shook her head. “Not in that way.”
Cecily drew in her breath. “Do you imagine she means him ill because he started the fire? But he didn’t, Shilton.”
“Of course he didn’t,” Shilton said. “She knows perfectly well he didn’t.”
“Then what do you imagine she holds against him?” Cecily demanded.
Shilton’s brows flew up. “Nothing. Nothing at all. That is why she does not like your presence.”
Cecily gazed at her. “She is jealous of me?”
A look of fright leapt into Shilton’s face. She jumped to her feet. “Don’t go thinking ill of him. There’s no need.” She tugged off the cloak. “Thank you for the warmth, my lady. Promise me you won’t go into the north wing again.”
“Promise me you won’t.”
“Not unless she calls,” Shilton said vaguely and wandered out of the chamber, leaving Cecily to gaze after her in frustration and unease.
*
Even Cecily baulked at asking Verne if he had been conducting an illicit love affair with his brother’s wife, and she was not prepared to gossip with anyone else. Besides, she told herself repeatedly, it does not matter. Your engagement is false and he has no intention of seeing you again. He will not come to Mooreton Hall.
Then why did he kiss me?
Because he could. Because men like him kiss easily.
But he cares a little, she pleaded. Why would he have knocked on my door last night, looked at me in that particular way, if he does not care?
Because you are his friend’s sister. He does not want harm to befall you… or for further attention to be drawn to him, his house, his family, and whatever he gets up to at the inn. This is all about the Hart, not the heart.
Accordingly, at breakfast, she suggested an expedition. “It’s such a beautiful morning, why don’t we ride to the shore? We can have luncheon at the Hart—or tea if you would rather ride a little later.”
The younger people exclaimed with pleasure over this idea, while Verne merely watched Cecily in silence, his expression sardonic.
“Wouldn’t you prefer Finsborough?” he said at last, “It’s a pretty town, with shops and a beautiful old church. And many more salubrious places to eat. Besides,” he added, as though this fact was bound to tip the scales in his favor, “I have business in Finsborough.”
“Then you should see to your business while we ride on the beach,” Cecily replied at once. She met his gaze with a hint of defiance. “And you may still meet us at the Hart.”
His eyes narrowed, but there was amusement as well as irritation there. “Is that a command, my lady?”
“Of course it is!” she said, smiling. “Let us start as we mean to go on.”
Henry let out a crack of laughter. “Why, I believe you have met your match, Verne!”
“Indubitably,” Verne agreed. “I am, of course, at my lady’s disposal. Let us by all means go to the beach. There are some pretty views, for those who care to sketch.”
Only as they all left the breakfast room to prepare for the expedition, did he murmur in her ear, “What are you up to, minx? Why are you so determined to go the Hart?”
“To discover what happened to your patient, of course,” she replied, low, smiling and nodding to Mrs. Longstone’s advice about their departure. “How is he?”
“Alive. Daniel will fetch the doctor from Finsborough. But he was not attacked at the Hart. What is it you hope to discover there?”
The others were heading upstairs to change for riding. Cecily lingered beside him until everyone was gone. “What you were all doing there the night I met you,” she said steadily, “and who tried to kill your patient.”
Verne raised his black eyebrows. “Those are big questions no one at the Hart will be able to answer. You could try simply asking me.”
“I have,” she retorted. “You never answer.”
He shrugged. “They are not all my secrets to tell, but you may ask me what you wish, and I’ll answer what I can.”
Cecily inclined her head in a mocking kind of way, for she wasn’t sure she believed him and hurried on the staircase while Verne turned right toward his library. After a few steps, she couldn’t help turning to watch him over her shoulder. There was no sign of Verne, but at the door of the breakfast room stood Lord Torbridge. She had not noticed he hadn’t left with the others. Now, she wondered guiltily what he had overheard and how it might color his opinion of their host.
*
Although the ever-present Daniel was left behind, a surprising number of male servants accompanied the expedition. Both Lady Barnaby’s and Mrs. Longstone’s grooms rode with them, as did a couple of large stable lads who, presumably, served Lord Verne.
“Why do we have all these fellows?” Torbridge murmured to Cecily. “It’s not as if they’re carrying luncheon hampers.”
Cecily wondered the same thing, for her aunt had only ordered the presence of one of their grooms. The other said Lord Verne had instructed him to be there, too. Did he expect another attack?
“I almost feel we have a military escort,” she told Verne as they walked their horses along the forest path.
“Better safe than sorry,” he murmured.
“But what if he returns to the house to finish off your patient?” she asked anxiously. “My aunt and Mrs. Longstone are there alone.”
“They are protected, too.”
She glanced at him. “I did not know you had so many servants.”
“Oh, there are a few I can press into service when the need arises.”
“Like those two?” She indicated the burly stable lads whom she couldn’t recall ever seeing before.
“Indeed.” He met her gaze. “Ask your questions before you burst.”
A breath of laughter escaped her. “Why am I never offended by your quite improper remarks?”
“Obviously because I’ve never been quite improper enough.”
“Well, I shan’t encourage you,” she said hastily. She paused, trying to get her thoughts in order. “Was last night’s attack anything to do with your meeting at the Hart when I first met you?”
“I suspect it was.”
“Why was he attacked?”
“To silence him, I imagine.”
“About what?” she pounced.
“I won’t know until he tells me.”
“Hmm. What were you all doing at the Hart that night?”
“Talking. Planning.”
“Planning what?”
He smiled faintly. “I can’t tell you that. The secret is not mine alone.”
“You are infuriating.” She drew in her breath. “Does it involve France and the war?”
He nodded once.
Her heart
sank. “You thought I was a spy,” she said, low. “That is why you abducted me.”
“The timing misled me. I’m sorry. I thought I needed to keep you away, both from Jerome and whoever you were meant to report to, until he was well away. It was not the finest hour, even of my life.”
She waved that aside. Somehow, it had become unimportant. “Why were you speaking French? Is he French?”
Verne shook his head. “Why do you think that?” he challenged.
She sighed. “I thought at the time you were French spies in England. Now, I think…” She met his gaze. “I think your Jerome is a British spy who was sent to France by you and those other sinister gentlemen at the Hart.”
He smiled, a quick spontaneous burst, like sunshine. “I am not at liberty to say and you must not speak of this to anyone.”
“Oh, I won’t,” she assured him. “But what is your role in all of this?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Mainly, I know the smuggler captains who can cross safely between France and England.”
“I won’t ask how.”
“My youth has been misspent. Sailing on smuggling vessels is great fun when you’re fifteen and ripe for trouble.”
She could imagine him as that wild, reckless youth. In fact, she could quite easily imagine him committing similar follies today. “Why do you think they attacked Jerome?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said with a hint of grimness. “Nor do I know why he came to Finmarsh. He shouldn’t have done that.”
She understood at once. “He should have gone to the Hart. That is why you don’t want us there. You think something is wrong at the inn.”
“It’s one possibility,” he agreed. “The other is that something is wrong at Finmarsh.”
Emerging from the wood, he urged his horse into a gallop. As she followed, instinctively racing, euphoria flooded her, not just from the speed of the gallop, but because he was trusting her.
Only later did she wonder what could be wrong at Finmarsh.
*
When Verne had fallen into his role of passage arranger for the shady, if undeniably brave, spies going into France and French territories, he had never imagined it would touch his family or guests. For one thing, he never had guests. For another, what was left of his family had as little to do with him as possible. Yet here he was, escorting all of them—along with the beautiful heiress masquerading as his betrothed—on an expedition of pleasure when he had no idea of the risks or who presented them. It was not comfortable.
He itched to ride on alone to the Hart to ask some more questions about Pierre de Renarde’s stay—and to make sure he had gone. But his other equally unlikely suspect was Lord Torbridge, and despite the guards he’d arranged for the expedition, he could not bring himself to leave Torbridge alone with the others.
Or was he just jealous of the man’s older friendship with Cecily?
He brushed that aside with irritation and gritted his teeth, trying not to watch too obviously for signs of attack from within or without their little group. It made him nostalgic for the days of loneliness and nights of solitary drinking when he could hurt no one but himself.
Led by Cecily, they walked on the beach, built castles in the sand, and admired the view which was duly sketched and described. Verne and his men acted as sheepdogs, unobtrusively—he hoped—keeping their little herd together until it was time to ride on to the Hart.
“You’re very silent,” Cecily observed as they neared the inn. Verne had been leading the way, watching the path ahead, and she had urged her mount alongside his.
“I am a man of few words.”
“Pithy and occasionally scathing words,” she agreed, “which have been quite absent this last hour. One would almost think you had something else on your mind.”
He cast her a lascivious look. “You know I have.”
To his delight, she flushed, although her determined little chin came up and she retorted, “You needn’t bother with that fustian. No one is close enough to hear or see.”
“You are.” Even as he said the words, he wondered what the devil he was doing.
It was second nature to flirt with a beautiful woman who understood the rules of the game. But Cecily did not. Misjudging her in the first place is what had led to this mess, and yet some unkind or simply lustful part of him seemed to be still trying to win her. He had kissed her, not once but several times, each sweeter than the last. His courtship was becoming dangerously real, which was neither fair on her, nor good for either of them.
Witty, amusing, and light-hearted, she was also well-read for a lady, thoughtful and intelligent, kind and vital, with rich layers he longed to explore. She was a breath of fresh air of life in his bleak existence. Her laughter was pure music, her eyes so deep and so brilliant a man could happily drown in them.
She saw the best in people, in him, but he must not allow her to imagine the bad was not still there. Overwhelmingly there. The truly worrying thing about their relationship was not that he had kissed her, but that she had kissed him back.
Not only was she unafraid of him, she liked him. And as Alvan’s sister, she was bound to be loyal by nature. He had to draw back from this, from her, before it was too late for either of them.
He glanced back over his shoulder. Quite a gap had developed between them and the main party, so he pulled Jupiter to an abrupt halt. Cecily was more right than she knew. For all sorts of reasons, their flirtation should be solely for public consumption.
A sharp crack rent the air, and Jupiter reared, whinnying with fright. At the same time, something whizzed past Verne’s ear. He acted on pure instinct. As soon as Jupiter’s front hooves landed on the ground, he pushed him forward and seized Cecily’s reins, dragging her with him at a gallop.
Her mount, as startled as Jupiter, was happy to bolt.
“To the inn!” Verne yelled for the benefit of those behind as well as Cecily.
Fortunately, there were no hysterics. She seemed to understand the need for speed, to reach shelter before whoever had fired the shot had time to reload.
Verne spared one glance over his shoulder. His men were protecting Jane, one holding the leading rein while they all galloped after him and Cecily. As satisfied as he could be, he searched the surrounding countryside for movement, for any sign of the shooter.
He thought it had come from the trees to the left, and he was sure there was movement there now. Someone running, which was good. Perhaps he no longer had to worry about stray shots hitting Cecily, Jane, or his other guests. But he had to squash ruthlessly the urge to pursue, for there could still be others out there, and he still needed to protect.
They galloped into the inn yard under the slightly bemused stare of Jem the ostler. Verne threw himself out of the saddle and reached up for Cecily.
Wide-eyed but surprisingly calm, she demanded, “Was someone shooting at us?”
“At me,” Verne said carelessly, swinging her to the ground. “But I’ve no idea how good his aim is.”
“Whose aim?”
Verne resisted the compulsion to hug her close. “That is what I would like to know.”
Releasing her, he cast an anxious eye over the others now entering the inn yard. No one was missing. Which meant nothing, of course. Torbridge could have henchmen. So could Henry. Or even Isabelle.
He turned to Jem, inquiring as to the inn’s current patrons, but apparently there were no overnight guests—Renarde had indeed gone—and only a few locals lurked in the taproom.
“Let’s go in,” Verne said, with one last glance toward the trees. It was a hard decision to make—to stay with the rest of the party or to ride out in the hope of catching the shooter…and risk him doubling back. He suspected they would all be safer away from him. And yet, he could not draw attention to the fact someone was trying to kill him. Too many questions would be asked, and the smuggling of spies in and out of France could only work in secrecy.
Chafing at the bit, he entered the inn, joining th
e others in the private parlor from which he had sent Jerome to France only a week ago.
“What the devil is going on?” Henry demanded. “Why the sudden bolt?”
“There was a shot,” Verne said vaguely. “It frightened the horses.”
Henry curled his lip. “We all heard it. The horses all started but only you bolted for cover.”
Cecily opened her mouth, clearly about to take issue with this contemptuous interpretation, until Verne sat down beside her at the table and warningly pressed his knee into hers. Her eyes flew to his face instead, but he could see no offense or fear in her eyes, only a sweet, startled desire.
Dear God, how do I give her up? Her warmth, her softness made him ache.
To Henry, he said only, “Well, it was fun in the end, making a race of it. Ah, Mrs. Villin,” he added as the innkeeper’s wife appeared. “A luncheon, if you please, and I expect the ladies would like a room to refresh themselves.”
A little later, when the ladies and Jane had gone upstairs, Verne left Henry and Torbridge to traduce him in peace and strolled off to the taproom in search of Villin. But he learned little more than he already knew. Renarde had indeed packed up and left early this morning. He had even payed his bill. No other strangers, let alone foreigners, had stayed at the inn recently, or asked questions about him.
“And Renarde,” Verne pursued, accepting a mug of ale from the innkeeper. “Did he write any letters, receive any messages?”
“Not using any of our people,” Villin replied. He hesitated. “He did go out late, though, every evening.”
“Including last night?”
Villin nodded once. “I don’t gossip about my patrons, my lord,” he said sternly, “and I wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone but you.”
“Did he walk or ride?” Verne demanded impatiently.
“Walked, usually. Last night, he rode.”
So, he could have ridden over to Finmarsh, tried to kill Jerome, and returned to the inn before Verne came looking. Only there was little motive. The man hated Bonaparte more than the British did. Verne could swear that was genuine. Was it possible he had only been pursuing, or even spying on, his wife? But if he had been around the grounds of Finmarsh House, wouldn’t he have seen or heard something? A man was entitled to walk or ride where he chose. Avoiding the marshes, of course.
The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3) Page 34
