Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1)

by May Burnett

  Durwent regarded her with a frown, as though weighing the likelihood of her speaking the truth. “In that case, you might be very helpful in showing me the rest of these grounds.”

  Was that distrust in his voice? Had he asked Paul about Mrs. Jones? If so, of course her old friend would disclaim any knowledge of her alias.

  “It would not be seemly.”

  “Nonsense. We are outdoors, why should it be unseemly? And you are a married woman, not some sheltered debutante.”

  “True,” she admitted. “But I don’t know you, Sir. We introduced ourselves in a somewhat makeshift fashion.”

  He smiled. Why did a man she distrusted have such an open, attractive smile? “Ask me whatever you like. My life is an open book.”

  “Are you here on behalf of Buckley?” She kept her eyes on his, alert to the slightest reaction.

  “Buckley? Who is that?” His look of innocent surprise was so genuine that she began to doubt her conclusions. Could his presence really be a mere coincidence?

  “You really don’t know?” If only it were so!

  “Upon my honour, I am not here on behalf of any other man than myself. I never heard of this Buckley. Why do you ask?”

  She shrugged, unwilling to expound her private troubles to this near-stranger, but more than half convinced that he was not in Buckley’s service after all. His denial rang true.

  “In that case, I am willing to show you the estate, what I remember from my visits in years gone by. You will see that I am quite familiar with the grounds.”

  Durwent offered his arm, as though they were a gentleman and lady strolling about Hyde Park. After a momentary hesitation she put her hand on it, and pointed in the direction of the vegetable gardens. She might as well see if there were other supplies to which she could help herself. The small strawberries would hardly feed a sparrow.

  “There is the folly.” She pointed at a slightly lopsided wooden building with open piecework walls and a shingled roof. “It was already fairly dilapidated years ago. As children we played hide and seek in there.”

  “You and the Selbingtons? I suppose you would have been much of an age with the oldest son.

  So he did know Paul and his sisters. “Yes.”

  “Did you also play with the Trellisham girls? They would have been a few years older than you.”

  “It is not polite to make such judgements, Mr. Durwent,” she said primly, secretly flattered at his estimate. “Yes, I played with them sometimes. That was before I fell on hard times.” She sighed dramatically for good measure.

  “Tell me about the three sisters, please.” Why would he want to talk to her of other women? Men almost never did that in her experience.

  “Why? What interest can you have in them? They are very ordinary, dull people.”

  “Not everyone can be as fascinating as you, Mrs. Jones.”

  He was eying her fichu, which had slipped a little when she picked the berries, exposing a vertical rim of skin from her bosom to her shoulder. Cherry restrained an impulse to straighten the cloth and raised her chin a little.

  “I don’t want any of your flattery, Mr. Durwent. Why this interest in the Trellishams?”

  He shrugged carelessly. “A business matter.”

  Cherry could not imagine what that might be. Since Buckley had bought up all of Max’s debts to hold over her head, Durwent could hardly be another creditor. Was he working for Buckley after all, and toying with her? Or was this attractive and likable man as harmless as claimed? She would pretend to take him at face value, and see what happened.

  “The most handsome sister is Miss Patience Trellisham. You will soon meet her and Mrs. Spalding, the former Prudence Trellisham, if you settle here. They and the Selbingtons in the Vicarage are the only gentry within walking distance of this estate.” She kept her voice indifferent, as though discussing the most remote of acquaintances.

  “What of the third sister?”

  She only maintained the careless expression with an effort. “Charity Trellisham married ten years ago and moved to London. She came to visit once or twice in recent years.”

  “When you were a child, did you get on with them?”

  “They were not quarrelsome or vindictive, but I don’t have any particular insight into their characters.”

  They emerged from the trees, and she led him leftwards. “This is the vegetable garden.” She scrutinized the pitiful remains with a critical eye. “It looks like the rabbits have feasted on the lettuce and cabbages.”

  “But there are some spring beans over here,” Durwent said, surprising her by this botanical knowledge. “And look, here is a patch of carrots.”

  “How would a London man recognize a carrot plant without seeing the root?”

  “My mother had a vegetable patch much like this, if better kept.” He frowned. “I understood that the gardener was still living here. Why would he let the garden get into such as state?”

  “You can ask him yourself,” Cherry suggested. “That is his house over there.” She pointed to a half-brick, half wooden structure leaning against the back wall of the stables. “I will take a turn through the orchard in the meantime. No need for him to see us together and gossip.”

  “Very well.” Durwent made no protest as she went to inspect the unripe apples, just forming from the recently fallen blossoms. The trees were in better shape than the vegetable garden, though they had not been properly trimmed this last winter.

  Durwent joined her only minutes later, his face a grimace of disgust. “I found the man dead drunk, with an empty bottle of French cognac.”

  “He must have helped himself to the Hall’s cellars. With nobody here to keep an eye on things for all these months, it’s little wonder. Paul will have to dismiss him; too bad for his children.”

  “It’s the fellow’s own fault. Does this gardener have a wife?”

  “I heard she ran away years ago. There were two or three half-grown boys.”

  “Maybe the boys can stay on in some capacity. The man must clearly go. It is in circumstances such as this, with temptation within reach and no supervision, that the quality and character of an employee is proved.”

  She looked at him sideways. “You speak like a man with experience.”

  “All too much. No matter how many eager applicants there may be, it is surprisingly hard to find good people who can be trusted to do the right thing without constant control.”

  That was what Max had also said more than once, in almost the same words, in the early days when they still talked about his wine company. More evidence that Durwent was a respectable businessman?

  “This path leads to the Dower House, and this other one to the hog farm. Some days the wind brings the smell right to the house, but mostly it blows in the other direction.”

  “And what of the saw mill?”

  “The same path, a little beyond the hog farm. You cannot miss it. But I heard there is not enough water to move the wheel any more, except after heavy rain, since they built the canal over Trepsham way.”

  “So the saw mill is useless?” Durwent did not seem overly concerned.

  “You will have to see for yourself, but that is what people have been saying. Closing Lobbock Manor and the saw mill within the last year cost many local people their livelihood.” Cherry was surprised how knowledgeable she could still sound, after living in London all this time. Prune’s letters had kept her up to date on local events.

  “Is the staff of Lobbock Manor still available for hire, excepting the gardener of course?”

  “I expect most are still close by, waiting for just such an occasion. It has only been half a year since Sir Jasper died.”

  Durwent nodded thoughtfully. Could he be planning to open the house up again? They were standing on the path towards the hog farm, under a beech, and the sun was throwing speckled patches of light through the foliage onto Durwent’s dark, short hair and sober dark grey raiment. No other person was in sight; the only noise was the chirp
ing of birds.

  “You were not among them, by any chance, Mrs. Jones? Maybe as the housekeeper?”

  She had momentarily forgotten her disguise and fanciful story. “No, I have never been a servant in my life. Nor would I want to be.” It came out more haughtily than she intended.

  He was looking at her hands. What was he thinking?

  “I understand. You are not made for drudgery and hard work.” Why was he looking at her so intently? It made her breath come faster, in quick little spurts, and her heart was speeding up.

  “I am going to kiss you,” he said conversationally. “Unless you tell me no.”

  Her head whirled. She should refuse. Of course she should … it was only four months since she’d buried Max. Durwent might be working for Buckley after all, though she was coming to think it unlikely. He wanted an illicit affair with her, and would not respect her if she let him kiss her. He thought she was married …this was a very bad, a terrible idea …..Where could it lead?

  Throughout her confused thoughts she had not made her lips tell him the one word that would have stopped him. He approached slowly, as she watched out of wide-open eyes. She nervously passed the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. That proved to be a mistake, for the next moment his mouth, warm and firm, was pressed upon hers, and all thought went from her head. He kissed so well – passionately, carefully, warmly. His kiss was like a promise of forbidden delights, of an intimacy she had not enjoyed for so long, since before the estrangement from Max. What harm if she gave in, for just a few minutes, and opened her lips the tiniest bit?

  He did not accept the implicit permission to go further, and she was half disappointed when he drew back. After nearly a minute of careful breathing he had sufficiently mastered himself to bow and say in a low voice, “I beg your pardon. I don’t know what overcame me. I will do my best not to take advantage of you again.”

  Take advantage? Did he think she was some helpless little girl unable to decide for herself if she wanted to be kissed?

  “Then I shall have to take advantage of you, Sir.” She placed her hand at his nape, and drew his head downward for another kiss. He came willingly enough, and she was satisfied to feel his pulse racing under her hand on his neck. Durwent was as strongly affected as she herself. He did truly desire her; not that she’d had any doubts. It was her gift, to make men desire her. He was one of the few men she had met who could make her desire him in return.

  When they stopped, after more than two minutes, both were out of breath.

  “I must leave,” he said after a while, regret heavy in his voice, “I have an early dinner invitation I cannot ignore. When can we meet again?”

  “It’s not a good idea,” she objected weakly. “Nothing good can come of this attraction.”

  “Those two kisses were the best I have experienced for a long time.” He sighed. “If it is your conscience that misgives you, I understand.”

  She hesitated, torn between desire and prudence. But she had never been the prudent sister. “Well, I am very fond of strawberries. I usually come here to pick a few in the early afternoons.”

  “Can you make your own way back home?”

  “Oh yes.” She was relieved he would not insist on escorting her. He must not guess that she had entered through that door in the wall.

  As he left, she looked after him. This could never be more than a pleasant interlude. She should not have kissed Durwent, but she could not bring herself to regret it. It was so long since she had felt a man’s passionate desire, and allowed herself to respond. And why not grasp at a momentary pleasure that harmed nobody, after all?

  She slowly retraced her steps to the door in the wall.

  Chapter 12

  Upon returning to the inn Jonathan found a written note from Mrs. Selbington, the vicar’s wife, confirming the dinner invitation for six o’clock. It was already past five, so he had no time to lose. For the first time he missed his valet.

  While he washed, put on a fresh shirt, and deftly knotted his neck cloth, his thoughts kept straying back to the red-headed Mrs. Jones. That woman was dangerous. When he’d discovered her picking berries in the deserted grounds of Lobbock Manor, he’d felt an impulse to offer her diamonds and rubies to let him kiss those sweet lips. Fortunately he had not acted upon it, as he now thought that it would have been taken as a deadly insult.

  Or would it? She confused him. Did the husband really exist? Was she some local strumpet, no better than she should be, as he had initially thought? Her simple dress and self-confident manner contradicted that theory. She neither exhibited the shame of the habitually shunned, nor did she invite male admiration by her attire. In fact, Mrs. Jones seemed not to care how she dressed at all, with that old-fashioned bonnet over her hair, and a washed-out, ill-fitting dress. Possibly she was so secure in her power over men that she did not need to care. A red-haired Jezebel whose freely given kiss he would never forget, especially that second one… Mrs. Jones was the kind of woman who could enslave a man and make him overthrow all his long-cherished plans.

  To actually lie with her would be to risk lifelong regret, when he was next to his still unchosen, well-born wife. Just as well that Mrs. Jones was married, so that nothing more could come of their attraction than a brief flirtation, or – just possibly – a tempestuous affair. Since he was here on family business, he would resist even that temptation and put her completely out of his mind.

  Jonathan arrived at the Vicarage punctually at six. He had passed and noted it when he first arrived in Bellington, a two-storied modern building opposite the ancient church.

  A prim parlour maid in a starched blue dress led him to a drawing room very full of strangers. The tall older gentleman who greeted him had to be the vicar, Dr Selbington. His resemblance to his son Paul was unmistakeable. And his three grown up daughters Mabel, Melissa and Gertrude – Paul’s co-heiresses – all came from the same Viking mold, tall and blond, with blue eyes and ingenuous expressions. Had any of them been lost as an infant, it would have been child’s play to identify them.

  The second Mrs. Selbington was a good-looking matron of forty, some twenty years younger than her husband, with auburn hair beginning to grey at the temples. Jonathan bowed over her hand and thanked her for the invitation. She and her step-daughters assured him that on the contrary, he was considered their benefactor for buying their late uncle’s estate. None of the three young women exhibited the slightest hesitation or doubt about the projected sale.

  “We have more guests coming,” his hostess told Jonathan, “your future neighbours, Sir Charles and Lady Spalding, and Miss Spalding, as well as their son Matthew with his wife Prudence and sister-in-law, Miss Trellisham.”

  “I look forward to making their acquaintance,” Jonathan said, more sedately than he felt. Two of his potential sisters! With any luck he’d be able to identify his twin before the evening was over.

  Within minutes the Spalding party was ushered in by Paul Selbington, who immediately presented him to the new arrivals as the purchaser of the Lobbock estate.

  Sir Charles Spalding was a thin stick of a man in his early seventies, with a mouth bent downward in a perpetual sneer. His wife was some ten years younger, and Miss Spalding turned out to be an elderly aunt.

  The younger Spaldings and Miss Trellisham were hanging back and chatting with the Selbington girls. From the side of his eyes Jonathan noticed blonde hair piled on the head of a regal-looking woman in green, who looked younger than thirty; and a shorter, chubby woman with brown hair and a comfortable air, dressed in a modest light blue gown. Even indoors she stood arm in arm with her husband Matthew, a young man of average looks with a pronounced stutter. The ‘voice of the blood’ remained silent, as he had feared. Of course he had not yet seen the third sister.

  “It will be good to have someone living in Lobbock Manor again,” Lady Spalding told him with a friendly smile. “A house will fall to rack and ruin if it stands empty for any length of time, and there are many people
in the parish eager for work.”

  Before he could reply, Sir Charles, who had been regarding him out of piercing blue eyes with a hostile expression, said, “Are you a London man? Why would you want to settle in this area?”

  Jonathan remained unruffled. He had dealt with all kinds of rudeness in his commercial career. “I am originally from Lancashire and grew up in a Vicarage, much like this one. But London is indeed my current home. Do you not like the diversions offered by the capital, Sir Charles?”

  “Hmpfhh.” The man’s only answer was a snort.

  “Where in London do you reside?” Mrs. Selbington asked quickly.

  “I have recently purchased a house in Mayfair and will be moving there shortly.”

  “A new house in town and a new country estate?” Paul Selbington said. “You will have your hands full.”

  “Your wife will also have much extra work,” Lady Spalding said. “What does she think of all these changes?”

  “To my regret, I do not as yet have a wife, Ma’am.”

  Gertrude and Melissa Selbington simultaneously turned their heads in his direction, and regarded him with redoubled interest.

  “Then you surely must be in urgent need of one,” Lady Spalding said. “It was a great pity that Sir Jasper never remarried, after he lost his young wife so tragically all those years ago. The Hall has not felt the hand of a housewife in decades, and badly needs it, I venture to guess.”

  Jonathan bowed. “I shall do my best to follow your advice, Milady.”

  “Balderdash,” Sir Charles interjected with a derisive look. “Marriage is a fool’s game.”

  To Jonathan’s surprise, all the others completely ignored this rude remark, and went on talking as though the man had not just publicly insulted his own wife, and all the married persons present in the drawing room.

  “Matrimony has its good points,” Paul Selbington said thoughtfully. “It all depends on the right choice, of course.”

  “Indeed, it can make or break a person. We have all seen many examples of good and bad matches,” the Vicar agreed. “Sometimes when I perform a wedding ceremony, I can already tell which it is going to be.”