The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

  “Yes, And somewhat careless in his dress.”

  “Handsome?”

  Cecily thought about it. “Not really. Though one doesn’t really notice… he has a distinctive countenance, dramatic, dark…” She smiled. “The first time I saw him, he reminded me of Childe Harold, which thoroughly disgusts him!”

  Charlotte smiled. “You like him,” she observed.

  Cecily watched Spring zig-zag across the path, following his excited little nose. “Is that so surprising? Alvan likes him, too.”

  “He never abducted Alvan. To my knowledge.”

  “They have some things in common,” Cecily offered. “Loyalty. Adventurous spirit. And they both have very different faces they show the world.”

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” Charlotte said softly.

  Cecily slid a sidelong glance at her. “Did Alvan fascinate you?”

  “From the beginning.”

  Cecily opened her mouth to ask more. But there was no point. She suspected she already knew the truth of her own feelings. It seemed to be falling on her, crushing her, filling her with terrifying power and even more terrifying helplessness.

  “I thought so,” Charlotte murmured.

  Cecily closed her eyes. “What am I to do, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte gave her a friendly nudge. “Cheer up. You are engaged to him after all!”

  Cecily laughed.

  *

  Despite her laughter, it was true she was engaged, in the eyes of the world, at least, until she said otherwise. The knowledge kept coming back to her throughout that day and those which followed. Excitement built with the growing certainty of her love. To have him, to marry him, all she had to do was not break the engagement, for he would not be so ungallant as to do the breaking.

  Marriage to a reluctant husband was not, of course, appealing. But there had been moments at Finmarsh… she could not pretend he loved her, but he did desire her. It was up to her, surely, to turn that desire into love. If she could.

  Oh, I could. Behind the mask he longs for love and trust, and I can give him those things. If only he wants them from me.

  Toward the end of her fourth day at Mooreton Hall, she wrote to him.

  *

  Verne did not rejoice in the return of peace to Finmarsh. Torbridge departed for London the same day Cecily left, and the Longstones were gone by luncheon, taking Jane with them. Although glad to see the back of the latter, Verne found the house intrusively quiet. He missed Jane’s engaging, childish chatter. But more than that, he had grown too used to walking into a room and seeing Cecily there, to hearing her ready laughter and bright conversation.

  Moodily, he stared into the brandy decanter, then pushed it across the desk and sprang to his feet.

  Rebuilding the north wing became an urgent project and was under way the day after his guests left. Which took care of the unbearable silence, at least in the hours of daylight, and kept him busy, as did his fruitless inquiries into the traitor who had tried to kill Jerome and himself. But at least there were, so far, no further attempts, and Jerome was still alive.

  One day, he visited the isolated farm where he had installed Jerome. When he discovered the spy awake and eating gruel fed to him by the farmer’s pretty daughter, he was finally hopeful of discovering the truth.

  “Good to see you looking better,” he observed. He glanced at the suddenly nervous daughter. “And so comfortable.”

  “A man must eat,” Jerome observed, his voice just a little weak. “But I believe I’ve had enough for now. Let me speak to his lordship, Jenny.”

  Relieved, the girl fled, taking her bowl of gruel with her.

  Verne pulled a stool up to the bed and sat. “What happened?”

  “They were waiting for me. I barely got ashore.”

  “Not a regular patrol?”

  “Oh, no. They knew exactly where and when to expect me. I was on the run for days before I found a friend of Captain Cromarty’s to take me back. Only I don’t know who to trust back home. Someone at the Hart betrayed us even before I left, so I couldn’t go there. I was trying to reach you when someone got me from behind.”

  “Who was it?” Verne demanded, sitting forward. “Did you see?”

  Disappointingly, Jerome shook his head. “No. I head your voice and moved toward it, for I knew by then someone was following me. They knew I was back.”

  “Then if they tried to kill you, they must fear you know something that threatens them.”

  Jerome curled his lip ferociously. “I know one of them is a traitor and sent me to be slaughtered.”

  Verne scowled at his feet for a moment, then raised his eyes to Jerome. “How do you know it wasn’t me? Or my men who attacked you on my instruction?”

  Jerome gave a grim, crooked smile. “I didn’t. My plan was to spy on you and try and find out because my instinct said you were the least likely traitor. But I never got that far. The fact that you looked after me exonerates you.”

  “Which doesn’t bring us much farther forward,” Verne said in frustration. “We need to know which vessels sailed to France just before yours… and which came in after. I’ll make inquiries, while you get well again.” He stood. “Take care, get well, and leave Jenny alone!”

  *

  Despite the distractions of his building work and his inconclusive inquiries among the local seamen, he found his thoughts haunted by Cecily. He even dreamed of her. They weren’t only lustful dreams. Sometimes, it was just her laughter in the distance. Sometimes, she was merely beside him doing everyday things like reading, eating, or playing the piano.

  Every morning when Daniel brought him his post, he waited for his letter of dismissal from her. He thought it would be witty and good natured, nothing he could not leave lying around to be read by the curious and the gossips. He would even enjoy it in a perverse kind of way.

  But when the letter did come, he spent a long time merely staring at it. Daniel had brought it with his first morning coffee which he preferred to consume in bed, and it sat by the saucer, seeming somehow larger than the newspaper and the tray beneath.

  He curled his lip. Come, Patrick, take your congé like a man.

  Sighing, he picked up the letter and broke the wafer.

  He read it twice to make sure he hadn’t missed anything the first time, for it was mostly amusing anecdotes about her journey and reunion with her brothers at Mooreton Hall. She mentioned the havoc caused by the duchess’s pet dog in the rose garden and on the dining table, which made his lips twitch. And she asked after him, Jane, and the Longstones, and Shilton, to all of whom she asked to be remembered. She inquired about “the Hart matter” which he took to mean Jerome and the shot which had so nearly hit him. But nowhere did she call off their engagement.

  Well, she had barely been gone a week. Another week with her family before being convinced of his total unsuitability would no doubt appear more convincing. Oddly, it seemed like a weight off his shoulders, almost like a stay of execution.

  He laughed at himself, raised the coffee cup to his lips, and read her letter for a third time. She did indeed write as she spoke. Her vital character shone out of it with enough force for him to imagine her saying the words. Sitting on the edge of his bed, perhaps… or in the bed, beside him, curled into his shoulder after making love with him for hours…

  And then her final sentence broke into his dull brain like a hammer.

  I shall close now and in case you change your mind, I shall not write again until I hear from you.

  For several seconds, he did not breathe.

  Was he wrong?

  In case he changed his mind about what? Going to the Alvans’ ball? No, that made no sense. The only way it made sense was if he were to change his mind about their engagement. She would not write again to break it until she heard from him that he still wished her to.

  He exhaled in a rush. Was he an utter coxcomb to even imagine she truly wished to marry him? Why the devil would she? He had insulted her, abducted h
er, inconvenienced her in the extreme, and come close to ruining her reputation. And truly, in the eyes of the world, being engaged to him was only one step better than being abducted and ravished. He had done her no favors.

  Letting the letter slip from his fingers onto the tray, he threw back his head, pressing it into the pillows. Just for an instant, he returned to his earlier vision of her waking in this bed with him. Every morning. Married to him. His companion, his friend, his wife. His lover. He could have that. He could have her.

  One of Shilton’s wails broke into his sweet, impossible dream. This was a house of insanity, of fire and damage. He had taken on a burden he could not lay down whenever it suited him. Dear God, even without that, his character was very little better than his reputation. He could not inflict himself upon any gently bred girl, let alone Cecily, and expect her to share his very well-deserved disgrace.

  Oh yes, it was a delightful dream, but not one he could ever indulge in reality. He closed his eyes and let the pain and longing wash through him.

  Then he rose and yelled for Daniel to see to Shilton.

  He would not write back.

  Chapter Twelve

  While she waited anxiously for Verne’s reply, Cecily helped Charlotte prepare for the upcoming ball and mulled over the many mysteries surrounding Finmarsh and its master. Most urgent from her point of view, was who had tried to kill him.

  One morning, over breakfast, it struck her that the shooting at the Hart was not necessarily related to the attack on Jerome or his involvement in the smuggling of spies into France.

  She paused, with her fork half in her mouth, then slowly lowered it back to her plate. What if, like her, Verne was blinded by the French matter? What if the motive for the attempt on his life was far more mundane?

  “Alvan,” she said abruptly, “who is Lord Verne’s heir?”

  Alvan didn’t lift his gaze from his newspaper. “His cousin, while he has no sons. Why?”

  “I’m just curious. Who is his cousin?”

  Alvan glanced up at her. “Henry Longstone, of course.”

  “Henry?” She stared at him. “But surely he is merely the late Lady Verne’s brother?”

  “Half-brother. He took Longstone’s name when his mother married again, but his own father was a Verne, a distant cousin of Arthur and Patrick.”

  She put her hand to her head. “Why did I not know this?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter?” Julius suggested. “After all, your engagement is entirely fake.”

  “Talking of which, have you written yet to tell him so?” Alvan asked with a frown.

  Cecily shook her head. “Not yet. Do you know Henry Longstone? What sort of man is he?”

  “No idea,” Alvan said. “Never met the man to my knowledge. Don’t think Verne likes him much, though.”

  “I know the Longstones,” Charlotte interjected. “Mrs. Longstone is a friend of my mother’s.”

  “And Henry?”

  “I never had much to do with him. I suspect I was beneath his notice.”

  “More fool him,” Cecily said cynically. “I’m sure you won’t be now.”

  “What, will they come to the ball, even though Verne doesn’t?” Charlotte asked in surprise.

  “I expect they would prefer it that way.”

  Lady Barnaby spread butter on her toast, “With Verne out of the way, they probably think Henry has a chance with you. Even with Verne there, they were throwing him at you.”

  “Why?” Cecily wondered. “For my fortune? Or to prevent Verne marrying and producing an heir that would cut Henry out of the title?”

  “It needn’t be either of those reasons,” Charlotte pointed out. “You are ridiculously beautiful and charming.”

  Cecily blinked. “Thank you. I think.”

  Julius chortled through his bacon until Lady Barnaby scowled at him. Cecily rose from the table with a murmured excuse and hurried from the breakfast room. She needed to talk to Verne about this discovery… and yet, it was no discovery to him. He must always have been aware of Henry’s interest in his life and death, though of course, he would never mention it. None of it made Henry a murderer, or even an attempted murderer. But the anxiety caused Cecily to feel sick.

  She wished he would write and tell her all was now well and all perpetrators in the hands of the authorities. She wished he would write and tell her they might as well continue their engagement, that he would come to Mooreton Hall after all.

  But he did not write at all. She waited anxiously for every delivery, but nothing came. Her slightly hectic spirits began to droop. She should have known. Lust was not love. He could satisfy it anywhere without the constriction of marriage. She cringed when she thought of what she had written so blatantly. Then she worried she had not been clear enough. She almost wrote again, but pride prevented her. In any case, she knew in her heart he would have understood perfectly. He simply wanted the episode over with. As she should.

  Only she didn’t. She ached and worried for him. She missed his moody, black brow and his unexpectedly dazzling smile. As hope faded into loss and something very like grief, she waited until the last possible moment.

  Only then, five days before the ball, did she write him a cool letter of dismissal.

  *

  The moon was new and the weather stormy when Verne saw Jerome’s replacement aboard Captain Cromarty’s intrepid smuggling vessel and watched it battle the waves and the wind to avoid the rocks, those both above and below the sea. This time, it was done quietly, with no one but his government contact “S.” and himself involved in the planning. Even so, every one of Verne’s nerves was on high alert until the ship had safely sailed and he had arrived back at Finmarsh House soaked to the skin.

  The house looked much eerier through the driving rain. The swinging lanterns at the front threw flickering light and shadows everywhere, and without the north wing, most of which had been carefully dismantled before rebuilding could take place, the place was lopsided and unfamiliar.

  On nights like this, it was easy to believe in damnation and ill-omens. He only hoped it didn’t affect the poor devils he’d just waved out to sea.

  Daniel materialized at the front door as he always did, and took Jupiter’s reins from him, ploughing against the wind toward the stables. Verne ran up the steps and inside. Closing the door behind him, he peeled off his soaked cloak, hurled it over the coat stand, and stomped off to his rooms to change.

  He saw the letter at once, propped up on his library desk, and he recognized the writing. He didn’t pause, but strode past it, threw open the door to his apartments, and hastened to his bedchamber.

  Dried and changed into a comfortable old shirt and breeches and soft shoes, he walked back into the library and warmed his hands before the fire, lit despite the warmer summer weather. Daniel had known he would come back soaked to the skin.

  He straightened slowly and went to the cabinet to pour himself a brandy. He’d been a little more abstemious of late, but tonight, he felt he deserved it. Only then did he lift the letter from the desk and sink into the armchair by the fire to read it.

  He knew what it would say—more or less exactly what he had expected her last letter to say. He was wrong again.

  There was nothing of Cecily in these cold, formal few lines, which ended their engagement because she had realized they did not suit and would be happier apart.

  Verne knocked back his brandy in an effort to feel something, even the familiar burning of spirits down his throat. But it seemed he was completely numb.

  *

  The following day, he remembered the last of his duties in the matter, and sat down to write a letter to the Longstones. At least they would be pleased, and they still had their invitations to the Mooreton House ball, so they had a double win to celebrate.

  I am sorry to inform you that Lady Cecily has put an end to our engagement to marry, and that therefore I will not be attending the Duchess of Alvan’s ball. Please, therefore, make your own arran
gements to travel, although you are still welcome to borrow my coach if you need it.

  Yours etc.

  Verne

  That covered everything. “Daniel!” he yelled, folding and sealing the short missive. “Have this taken over to the Longstones, will you? Tomorrow will do.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Daniel said, picking up the empty decanter with a sniff of disapproval before he accepted the letter from Verne.

  “And take your Friday face out of my sight,” Verne said irritably.

  “Certainly, sir,” Daniel said again with the shade of insolence that had first drawn Verne to his odd, all-purpose servant.

  Verne watched his retreating back as far as the library door before he said, “By the way, Daniel, you might like to know that I am no longer engaged.”

  Daniel turned. “I never supposed you were, sir.”

  Verne smiled sourly. “You’re sharp enough to cut yourself.”

  Daniel ignored that. “Which isn’t to say as you shouldn’t be,” he remarked.

  “Shouldn’t be what?” Verne asked, frowning.

  “Engaged,” Daniel said mildly, and left the room.

  *

  The rain had gone off and the wind dropped by the time Verne left the house the next day to ride to Finsborough, so the men were working away on the north wing, painstakingly placing each usable stone, and replacing those too damaged to be any use. He left them to it.

  It was market day in the town, so it was busier than usual. Verne pushed through the crowd, too inured to the stares to pay much attention to anyone. Only as he emerged from the bank with his business completed, did he catch sight of a face he knew. Isabelle de Renarde, fingering a piece of cloth while she looked directly at him.

  He nodded curtly and went on his way, but to the dismay of the stall holder, she abandoned her fabric and hurried to intercept him.

  “Patrick. What brings you out on a market day?”

  “Business,” he replied shortly.

  “Setting your affairs in order in case you feel the urge to abandon this life?”

  He curled his lip. “You have read my letter, but I assure you I am not remotely suicidal.”