She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. A dark presence watching her pick wild flowers with heavy eyelids and a cynical smile. The bunch she had gathered looked scrawny and thin. She could hardly give up now, yet this was the last thing she wanted to be doing.
So why was she? Because he’d made her feel as if her skin didn’t fit, as if she needed to do something with her hands or find them back on his shoulders while she offered her mouth to be kissed. Because it had all felt so wonderful and made her forget.
His kisses made her feel hot all over and dizzy. For those few moments she had forgotten all her worries.
She still didn’t know what he planned with regard to her search of Gorham Place. If he was going to report her to the local authorities, surely he would have done so first thing this morning? At the very least, he would have already spoken to Lady Keswick. He’d done neither, which meant she was safe. For now.
She glanced down at the letter in her basket, the rounded handwriting of her sister, the crossed and recrossed lines spattered with inkblots revealing her agitation. Everything that could go wrong had done so. She’d gone to the post office, hoping Lady Keswick might have heard from her friend and found a terrified letter from her sister instead.
Why, oh, why had she borrowed that money?
Her heart stopped beating. She stared at the flowers trembling in her hand as she fought against the roiling in her stomach. She didn’t want to be picking flowers. She wanted to run. To hide.
But she couldn’t. She needed money. Lots of money.
Mechanically she picked another handful of flowers.
She’d known borrowing money was a risk, but the school fees were due and the doctor had refused to attend Sam without some payment on his account. With Grandfather deaf to her pleas for help and her certainty that Father would leave her well provided for, the decision had been simple.
That was months ago. Now the usurer had gone to the school demanding payment, waving the note she’d signed under the headmistress’s nose and threatening debtors’ prison for them all.
Meg’s letter was frantic.
Why had Father broken his promise? She understood why he’d married again, but he’d promised he’d take care of his first family. She’d looked everywhere in that house. Everywhere.
A flash of something passed through her mind. A long narrow staircase leading down into the dark. The cellar. She hadn’t looked in the cellar. Or the attic.
Could she possibly have missed the most obvious places after all? Grandfather would never go in the cellars or the attics. Father might not have been very practical, but he wasn’t a fool.
The urge to run and look swept through her. She could be there and back in a flash.
‘Are you done, Mrs Travenor?’
She whirled around. Stanford. She’d forgotten all about him. And Digger. She couldn’t go haring off to Gorham Place in the middle of the day; she’d be missed. And she could not for a moment let Stanford know she planned to go back. She had to let him think he’d won. That she was happy with her lot and enjoying his company. It was the only way to allay his suspicions.
She looked down at the flowers. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m almost done.’
She inhaled deeply, drawing in the air for the strength to get through one more day, the way she had when Father left them at the school, the way she had when he died.
Swiftly, she snapped off another stem and another. Added some greenery. Bound the bouquet with a twisted length of columbine. She marched back to the man watching her from beneath lowered lids. Her heart gave a lurch. He was just so blasted attractive. If her life had taken a different turn, they might have met in a ballroom in London. He might even have become her suitor.
Something hot and uncomfortable filled the back of her throat. Tears? Over a man like Stanford? Never. She was worried about her predicament. About her sisters.
And whatever it took, she would get them out of this mess.
Stanford straightened at her approach. He flicked a blossom with a dismissive finger. ‘Pretty enough, but not nearly exotic enough for you.’
A thrill raced through her blood. Unwanted heat, because she knew it meant nothing. He was amusing himself with a drab widow. For now, she’d play his game. She held his gaze and smiled boldly. ‘Flattery, my lord?’
He blinked as if startled, but recovered swiftly, flashing her that suave smile. ‘Never.’
She grinned at him. ‘Save it for Lady Keswick. She loves that kind of thing.’
‘And you don’t?’
The velvet was back in his voice. The soft teasing that drove something inside her into a wild flutter. Calm. She must remain in control, not let him get too close, while letting him think she might succumb to his charm.
And hoping she didn’t.
She cast him an admonishing look and started walking. ‘What woman does not like a compliment or two, my lord?’ she responded airily. ‘Or man for that matter. When it is sincerely given.’
He fell in by her side, leading the dog. ‘Are you saying I am insincere, Mrs Travenor?’
‘With you, I think it is hard to tell.’
His brow furrowed. ‘So you think I am sincere some of the time, or never at all?’
She laughed. ‘I think you reveal very little of your real thoughts, to be honest.’
His expression was arrested, sharp. ‘Nor do you, I think.’
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘We all have things we prefer to keep private.’
‘I suppose you are wondering what I will do about last night?’
His directness startled a gasp from her lips. She shot him a quick glance. ‘I suppose I am.’
They reached the other side of the clearing and entered the cool of the woods.
‘I’m no telltale, Mrs Travenor. You found nothing. You took nothing. You assured me your search is over. So why don’t we forget all about it and enjoy what appears to be shaping up as a perfect summer’s day?’
Her stomach dipped to her shoes. She felt nauseous. He’d said exactly what she wanted him to say and she felt sickened by yet more falsehood.
They emerged on the lawn at the back of the house. She stopped and turned to face him, forcing herself to smile. ‘Thank you.’
Dark eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘Gratitude is a good place to start, Mrs Travenor.’ His mouth curved in a sensual smile.
Staring at that mouth, she swallowed, unable to move. He was warning her he wasn’t done with her. Reminding her that she only had to lean forwards a little to experience all those wonderful sensations in his arms.
She turned her head away, seeking to break his spell, but nothing shielded her from his heat, or the scent of his sandalwood cologne, a deep sensual musky scent that teased at her senses. She backed up, stumbling over Digger, who growled. ‘Then we can be friends?’
A soft laugh greeted her words. ‘It’s not friendship I want, my dear Rose. But it will do for now.’
Her heart rattled back to life. It seemed they’d reached some sort of understanding. He would chase and she would run. Oh, how she wished she could stand still.
By two in the afternoon, all the guests, including a rather wan-looking Lady Smythe, gathered in the drawing room looking for something to do. There would be no escape for Rosa today.
‘It is such a lovely day, why not ride out to some local beauty spot?’ Mrs Mallow suggested.
‘Why not a picnic?’ Fitzwilliam said, his round face beaming. ‘On the shore.’
The sea was a bare two miles away. ‘I love the sea,’ Mrs Phillips enthused.
‘There are no bathing machines there, old girl,’ her husband said.
‘A walk on the beach would be pleasant,’ Mrs De Lacy said. ‘After a day indoors.’ She turned to Lady Smythe. ‘That is, if you feel well enough?’
Lady Smythe smiled. ‘I thought I was going to have one of my sick headaches, but the powders Lady Keswick sent along did the trick. I am feeling much more the thing.’
‘Then it is agreed,’ Lady Keswick said, beaming. ‘A picnic on the shore it is. Rose, please ask Cook to put up some baskets. Have two carriages prepared. The ladies can drive, the men can ride. A sea breeze will do us all good.’
‘I must change,’ Lady Smythe said.
‘I’ll need my parasol,’ Mrs De Lacy announced.
The party broke up to prepare and Rosa started off to complete her tasks. ‘A moment, Rose, if you please.’
She had never heard such a stern note in her employer’s voice. Had Lord Stanford broken his word? Oh, why had she trusted the man? She should have gone to Lady Keswick first thing this morning and owned up. With sinking heart she went to stand before her employer. ‘Yes, my lady.’
The elderly lady peered up at her. ‘Are you quite well? You have dark shadows beneath your eyes.’
Lack of sleep. ‘I am fine.’
Lady Keswick frowned. ‘It’s not one of these young reprobates upsetting you, is it? You are worth ten of any of them.’
If only it was something so simple. She shook her head. ‘Perhaps, like Lady Smythe, I was affected by the stormy weather.’ Hope sprang into her mind. ‘Though I would prefer to stay at home today and rest, if I may.’ She could slip out to Gorham Place.
‘Nonsense, young lady. A sea breeze will put colour in those pale cheeks of yours.’
No point in arguing. Her employer never listened.
Lady Keswick cocked her head on one side. ‘And don’t wear black. You will be far too hot. I must say, I really am tired of those widow’s weeds of yours. Too gloomy by half.’
‘But—’
‘Your husband passed on more than a year ago. It is time you came out of mourning. You impressed Phillips with your singing yesterday, now impress him with your looks. Ellie told me you have other gowns.’
The maid assigned to help her dress. Rosa bobbed a curtsy. What could she say? And Lady Keswick was right. Because if she didn’t find the will, she needed a way to make more money than she would ever make as a companion.
Impressing Mr Phillips might indeed be the best course of action. Not that he would think her any great beauty.
Chapter Six
It was a surprisingly short time before the company was ready to leave, the ladies in the carriages and the gentlemen on horseback. If anyone was surprised to see Rosa dressed in a muslin of pale peach and a chip-straw bonnet instead of her usual black, they were too polite to say. Or perhaps no one had noticed. After all, she was barely more than a servant in this house.
Happily, all seemed in high spirits—even Lady Smythe seemed to have regained some of her colour. She had chosen to wear a white muslin sprigged with forget-me-nots and looked less like a married woman and more like a young débutante. She allowed Lord Bannerby to pay her outrageous compliments as he helped her into the carriage. Stanford had merely raised a careless eyebrow.
Was the young matron trying to make him jealous? If so, it wasn’t working. And for some reason, Rosa felt glad as he rode along beside the carriage which she, Lady Keswick and Mrs De Lacy occupied. Mr Fitzwilliam rode on their other side and the rest of the gentlemen accompanied the second carriage. Two liveried grooms sat behind each carriage, their role to carry the baskets and blankets to the chosen spot on the beach and help Lady Keswick into her chair.
After half an hour, the carriages turned a corner and the sparkling blue of the sea spread out before them. The white sails of ships plying the coast added to the charming picture.
‘Did I not tell you Camber Sands was one of the loveliest spots in all of England, Mrs De Lacy?’ Lady Keswick said. ‘It was the reason I bought The Grange. I love the sea.’
The widow smiled. ‘You did, my lady. And you were right.’
The coachman drew the carriage off the road and into the sand dunes. ‘It is lovely,’ Rosa agreed. She’d known that before they set out. Another reason she had thought to cry off. Too many memories.
‘Charming,’ Mrs Phillips said, joining them as they walked across the dunes to the beach. ‘Simply delightful.’
While the footmen unpacked the food, the sunshades and the blankets under Lady Keswick’s eagle eye, the party walked to where the sea lapped on the long stretch of golden sand.
Gulls wheeled overhead in anticipation of crumbs. Rosa had the urge to take off her sandals and paddle as she had as a child when her parents visited this beach.
Happy times and, surprisingly, looking back was not as painful as she had expected.
‘May I say how delectable you look,’ a dark voice murmured behind her.
Delectable. He made her sound edible. A thrill of something dark ran through her as she swung around to meet Lord Stanford’s mocking gaze.
‘I am delighted to see you out of mourning.’
‘At Lady Keswick’s request. She thought I would find the heat of the sun unbearable.’ Why explain? From the look on his face, he thought she had dressed for his benefit, and to her shame, she had wondered about his reaction as Ellie had helped her dress.
‘Then we have the sun to thank for a lovely sight,’ he said smoothly.
The man was a practised rake and seducer. Such pleasantries would drip from his tongue for any female on whom he set his sights, but still, the compliment pleased her. More fool she. Because no matter how she tried to retain a calm appearance, her passions ran hot beneath her skin. Why shouldn’t she enjoy the attentions of a handsome man for one afternoon? As of tonight, her time here was done. Just for one day she would like to forget her troubles, pretend she was an ordinary young woman out on a picnic with her peers.
She twirled her sunshade and smiled at him. ‘You are very kind.’
His expression warmed. ‘Shall we walk?’ He held out his arm. She rested her hand on it and strolled beside him.
The party wandered in twos and threes along the beach, while Lady Keswick sat queenlike in her wheeled chair beneath a sunshade.
‘Is this not just divine?’ Mrs Mallow called out as she strolled towards them on Mr Hapton’s arm. Her peacock-blue muslin gown left nothing of her lower limbs to the imagination as the wind moulded it to her form.
‘It is, indeed,’ Stanford said, raising his voice to carry over the hiss of breaking wavelets. ‘The sand is so flat when the tide is out, I thought we might play a game of cricket after lunch. The ladies against the gentlemen.’
‘Capital idea,’ Fitzwilliam said, bringing Mrs De Lacy to join them.
The widow hooked her arm through Rosa’s. ‘You do play, don’t you, Mrs Travenor? And may I say, it is so good to see you out of black. Not that it didn’t suit you,’ she added hastily. ‘But that shade of blush looks stunning on you.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Lord Stanford said with a wink and a devastating smile.
Her heart picked up speed. Her breathing shortened. She felt as if she was in a runaway carriage heading downhill. Dash it all, no matter what her head was telling her about him, her stupid heart basked in his approval.
Lunch over, most of the party once more dispersed along the beach. Garth remained stretched out on the sand, peeling an orange for Lady Smythe. He’d deliberately chosen to sit beside her on the blankets, hoping for a quiet word. Penelope had looked thoroughly nervous when he sat down. And so she should.
Mrs Travenor, on the other hand, didn’t know the meaning of fear. He glanced at her seated beside Lady Keswick, her fingers drawing patterns in the sand, her thoughts clearly far away.
In her dreary blacks, she had been exotically unattainable. In peach-coloured muslin, it was as if an orchid had bloomed. His first sight of her waiting to board the carriage had taken away his breath. She’d dressed her hair differently, too, no doubt to accommodate the fetching straw bonnet’s low crown and wide brim. Black curls framed her face, and a low knot of thick black ropes nestled at her nape.
He wanted to see that hair unbound. Spread around her shoulders. Preferably her naked shoulders.
He handed another orange segment to Lady Smythe, aware o
f Rose’s darting glances and puzzled expression.
Inwardly, he cursed.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t keep two women dangling, but he would have preferred to devote his whole attention to Mrs Travenor. Penelope was a self-imposed duty, but one he could not abandon. Not and look at himself in the mirror, at any rate.
‘You don’t look well, Penelope,’ he murmured so no one else could hear. ‘You don’t belong here. Why not go home?’
She bit her lip, then lowered her voice. ‘Home to what? Mark has gone away on business.’
He wanted to curse.
She twisted the ends of her bonnet’s ribbons around her fingers. ‘Mark doesn’t care what I do and I don’t care what he does.’
He blinked at the bitterness in her voice. And the hurt.
It occurred to him that the blame wasn’t all on one side. Not once in the year of Penelope’s come out had she behaved with anything but utmost decorum until she met Mark. For all her brave smiles, she was clearly out of her element here. Why hadn’t he seen that? ‘What did Mark do?’
She turned her face away. ‘Why would I tell you?’ she said in a low voice. ‘You are his friend. You would just take his part.’
A cold fist clenched in his gut. Dear God, was she about to cry? He looked around desperately for some help. Rose studiously avoided his gaze, though Lady Keswick was watching him with narrowed eyes.
‘Look, Penelope, I don’t know what Mark did, but—’
She pushed to her feet. ‘I’m going for a walk. And no, I don’t want your company. Or anyone else’s.’ There really were tears in her eyes.
Damnation. He didn’t deal with crying women. They cried. He gave them diamonds and left.
‘Go with her, Rose,’ Lady Keswick said, suddenly.
Garth glanced at her in surprise.
‘See if you can find out what is wrong with the poor dear,’ the old lady said. ‘You know how these things are for young brides.’
Lady Rosabella's Ruse Page 8
