She stopped, breathless and confused, unable to meet the steady regard of his deep blue eyes.
“Isabella,” he said, in a low tone, “do you love me?”
She started, and turned pale. Whatever she had expected him to say it was not this.
“I am aware that it is not fashionable to speak of love to one’s betrothed,” he said, with a faint sneer. “You will, I am sure, forgive the lapse.”
She raised her head, giving him a brave, proud glance.
“We knew from the first that ours was a marriage of convenience, sir,” she replied, in an unexpectedly firm voice. “Neither of us has ever tried to pretend anything to the contrary.”
He nodded, and the sneer died out of his look.
“How convenient is it to you, Isabella? Do you hold me in dislike, as your little sister does?”
“Amanda? Does she? I had not observed.”
He smiled dryly. “She makes it plain enough. But let us leave her aside for a moment, and speak of ourselves. You have not answered my question.”
She shook her head. “No, of course, I do not. But —”
“Ah!” he said softly. “So there is a but?”
She hesitated, and he saw that her hazel eyes were clouded with trouble. “Between dislike and — and love — there are many degrees of feeling,” she answered at last. “I — it is difficult to say precisely what are my sentiments towards you, sir.”
“Cannot you bring yourself to call me Charles? That in itself might lessen the distance between us.”
“I will try to remember,” she said, with a sad little smile.
They had been sitting at some distance apart during this conversation. Now he stood up and moved over towards her, taking her hands in his. She looked up into his face, and scarcely recognised it. All trace of mockery had vanished, the eyes were deep and serious, and there was a hint of tenderness in the smile that touched his mouth.
“A marriage of convenience is a mockery, Isabella, but it is possible that ours might be something more. In all my life, I never yet knew any tenderness that was not purchased, save only for that given me freely by one faithful old woman. If I had —” a half-stifled sigh escaped him — “my story might, perchance, have been different. But it is not yet too late; you have the power to change all that, to make me forsake past follies, and live again in the sunshine of your love, my dear.”
The last words were spoken on a whisper. Her hands trembled in his. She drew them away, averting her face.
He waited a moment, striving to hide his disappointment. Then he spoke again, gently. “What do you say, Isabella? Can you give me any hope? I am prepared to be patient — I do not expect that you should love me all at once.”
“I — I don’t know.” Her voice trembled. “It may be so — it will take time —”
He nodded. “That is why you wish to postpone our wedding? I understand, my dear, and am content to wait.”
She looked up, suddenly made bold by the forbearance of his manner.
“But what of you, sir — Charles? I had thought that this was for you, too, a marriage of convenience. Mama said —”
“I will not insult you by idle pretence,” he said quickly. “It is true that I sought your hand without those feelings which should bring a man to seek a wife. But you are lovely, my dear, and also sweet and brave. It should be no difficult matter to love you. Indeed, I find at this moment —” He broke off, his eyes darkening with desire. Suddenly he stooped and gathered her into his arms, while his lips sought hers.
For a moment, Isabella remained passive, but the touch of his lips set her struggling like a wild thing. He released her quickly, cursing himself for a clumsy fool. He had been too impatient, the time was not yet ripe. Then he saw her face, and recoiled in dismay from the stark revulsion written on it.
“You lied to me!” he accused, bitterly. “Such strong aversion as you obviously have for me can never change. I release you from your promise to me.”
“No!”
It was a cry of despair. He stared at her, unable to believe his ears.
“You still wish to wed me?” he asked incredulously.
“I have given my word,” she answered, clenching her hands until the knuckles showed white. “It is for the best — Mama —”
“Do not commit the error of allowing your mother to choose your husband,” he warned her, with compressed lips.
She drew herself up proudly. Her face was pale, but her voice had steadied.
“I myself have chosen,” she said quietly. “I know what I am about. As you said yourself, it may work out very well in time.”
The cynical smile returned to his mouth, the mocking light to his eyes.
“Doubtless,” he said, and bowed ironically. “I must ask you to forgive my — er — romantic flight of fancy.”
Chapter IX: A Declaration of War
Charles Barsett partook of an excellent breakfast on the following morning, and was still at his toilet when Amanda and John were announced to him. His valet was just about to assist his master into a coat of red figured velvet with stiff, wide skirts; Mr. Barsett paused before easing himself expertly into the coat, and directed the manservant to show the unexpected visitors into the small withdrawing room. He then shook out his ruffles with a quick flick of his wrists, and sat down at the dressing table. His thoughts were busy as he stared at his reflection in the glass, so much so that he allowed his man to press a patch on to his cheek without making any comment.
The manservant had said that Miss Twyford had called. Isabella? To attend him here, in a bachelor establishment, escorted only by a man — a stranger to him — what the devil was the fellow’s name again? Webster, ah, yes, that was it. Who was this Webster? What did they both want with him? And what in the name of all that was wonderful could Isabella be thinking of? Even though they were betrothed, tongues would wag if someone should have noticed her arrival in this fashion. He consoled himself with the thought that it was as yet early in the day for the scandalmongerers to be abroad, and rose to descend the stairs to his visitors.
They both came to their feet as he entered the room. Amanda very properly sank into a curtsy. He recognised her with a quickly controlled start of surprise, and turned an inquiring look in the direction of her companion.
“How do you do, Miss Amanda? I am indeed honoured by this call. I believe I have not the pleasure of your friend’s acquaintance.”
“Oh, pray forgive me for troubling you at this hour of day, Mr. Barsett,” began Amanda, with a fixed bright smile that sat oddly on her usually mobile face. “John —this is John, you know — that is, I should say, may I present Mr. Webster? John, this is Mr. Barsett, who is to — but there, you know all that already —”
She paused for breath, and the gentlemen bowed solemnly to each other, John Webster looking slightly foolish.
“John is a very old friend of ours,” continued Amanda, having got her second wind. “He is our neighbour in the country, you know. He finds that he has to leave Town on urgent family matters —” she glanced fleetingly at John, but he refused to meet her eye — “and he does so wish to meet you before he goes. His father will be happy to have an account of Isabella’s future husband. You must realise that he has always held her in the very highest esteem.”
Charles Barsett bowed again, but said nothing. He was watching her curiously, a sardonic look in his eye. Something lay behind all this mummery, but what? He would give much to know. Perhaps the answer might emerge in the fullness of time, if he were only patient. Miss Amanda Twyford was a disconcertingly forthright young woman, after all.
“Pray be seated.” He waved his unexpected guests to chairs. “You’ll take some refreshment — a glass of ratafia, mayhap, Miss Amanda?”
She accepted with a gratitude that was touching, could he but have known her detestation of the beverage. Something a little stronger was offered to John Webster, and the order given to a servant.
“And now,” began Charle
s Barsett, urbanely, “what may I have the pleasure of doing for you, Miss Amanda?”
She seemed slightly taken aback. “Oh, why, nothing in the world. That is — our call is purely a social one, sir. As I explained, Mr. Webster so greatly desired to meet you before he left for home.”
Charles bowed in John’s direction. “It is not, I trust, unpleasant news that summons you from Town, Mr. Webster?”
“What?” said John, with a start. “Oh, no — that is to say — urgent family matters, as Amanda said just now, but nothing of an unpleasant nature, egad, no.”
Amanda shot him a withering glance. Surely he could do better than that, the poor ninny?
“That is fortunate,” said Charles Barsett dryly.
“Yes, oh, indeed,” stuttered John, anxious to redeem himself in Amanda’s eyes, which at present looked upon him coldly. “My father is in his customary good health — and my mother — I’m glad to say, and trust they will remain so for many a long year. They would not forgive me if I failed to make myself known to Bella’s — that is — Miss Twyford’s —”
Here he choked a little, tugged at his cravat, and broke off.
“Quite.” Charles eyed him courteously, but searching. “You and your family have been neighbours of my Lord Twyford for many years, I collect?”
“Ever since I can remember,” answered John.
“Then you will no doubt be almost better acquainted with my betrothed than I am myself,” remarked Charles with a faint smile.
“I — to be sure.” John’s reply was short and terse.
Amanda wriggled uncomfortably in her chair. She did not like the turn the conversation had taken, having some fears as to its outcome. She was about to break in with a change of subject but was spared her pains by the arrival of the refreshment. This created a slight diversion, and for a while the gentlemen safely debated the rival merits of claret and burgundy. She kept only half an ear on their discourse; she was wondering how to contrive a search of the house. Her problem would have been simpler, she reflected, if she had possessed any notion of what it was she sought: proof of Mr. Barsett’s wickedness, yes, but what proof? One thing was certain, however; she would never come at it by sitting here, listening to a rather dull conversation and sipping at a glass of this detestable ratafia. Her quick wits prompted a remedy for both her sufferings. With a skilful, though apparently clumsy movement, she tipped the liquid over her gown and on to the floor.
Her sharp cry of dismay drew the attention of the others, and Charles Barsett started to his feet.
“What’s amiss, Mandy?” asked John; then seeing the frantic efforts she was making to dab at the stain on her gown — “What ever can have induced you to be so clumsy?”
Charles Barsett smiled at this remark, which certainly bore out the story of a long acquaintance. He expressed his regret, and offered to ring for the housekeeper.
“Oh, no, there is not the least occasion to trouble her to come down from her room,” said Amanda hastily. “If you will have the goodness to direct me, I shall very easily find my way there alone.”
But unfortunately for her scheme, Charles Barsett was by far too good a host to permit this, and presently a comfortable looking woman bore the young lady away to repair the damage to her gown as best she might. Once in the housekeeper’s room, however, her attention to the stain was perfunctory in the extreme. She seemed anxious to be off again immediately, thought the woman, and wondered very much who this attractive girl with the honey-coloured curls could be. Whoever she was, she evidently was not of the peacock variety, for she did not regard her ruined garments in the least. She declined politely, but firmly, all the woman’s offers to conduct her downstairs again, and at least succeeded in leaving the room unattended.
She did not dare to poke about upstairs, however, for fear the housekeeper might emerge again, and descended the staircase as though to return to the drawing-room. Once in the hall, she paused, and looked about her. No one else happened to be about at that particular moment. The drawing-room door was immediately in front of her, and there were several other doors leading off the hall. She chose one at random, and heart beating fast, walked resolutely towards it. Stealthily she turned the knob, and opened it a few inches. If anyone was within, she could always say that she had mistaken the door. But one glance was sufficient to show her that the room was deserted. Considerably heartened by this discovery, she walked in, and softly closed the door behind her.
Then she hesitated, uncertain. What, after all, was she seeking? Her eye lit upon a small escritoire over against one wall, and her heart leapt. Letters, perhaps? Another letter from the mysterious Francis — one which would certainly reveal his identity, or his connection with the Abbey? The very thing! She started forward eagerly.
With one hand on the lid of the desk, she paused, the colour flooding her cheeks as an unwelcome thought occurred to her. Was this, after all, the kind of thing she ought to do? John, she knew, would not approve, and as for Isabella, and Mama — and Miss Brown! Was it not, perhaps, a trifle mean — underhand?
But if something was not done, and quickly, Bella would wed the wrong man. There was no one but herself to make any attempt to avert such a disaster. Besides, he was a monster — a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Were not his methods underhand, too? All’s fair, she reminded herself again, in love and war; and sometimes it was necessary to fight an enemy with his own weapons.
She squared her shoulders, and opened the desk. Its contents appeared innocent enough, tidily stacked away in sundry pigeon holes. She ran through them lightly, perfunctorily, yet missing nothing, and replacing everything as she had found it. She came across a stack of invitation cards; here might be something to the purpose! She turned them over quickly, scanning each one. Suddenly her eye caught a name she knew.
“Lord and Lady Twyford request the pleasure of your company at a ball to be given in honour of their daughter, Amanda —”
So Mama had sent out the invitations already! It was the first Amanda had heard of it. She paused in her task, momentarily diverted, staring at the card. How odd of Mama — and not very kind, not to have consulted her first.
Hurriedly she pulled herself together. She must get on; this was nothing to the purpose, and could be taken up at another time when she had more leisure. She finished her scrutiny of the other cards, found nothing helpful, and replaced them. As she did so, her eye fell upon a black, leatherbound volume which was lying in the next pigeon hole. She picked up the book, and opening it, scanned the title page.
Boulton’s Complete History of Magick.
Her pulse quickened. Here at last was something — not very much, to be sure, in the way of proof — but still, just a hint of the macabre connection that she had been certain existed. She turned excitedly to the flyleaf. On it was written a name, but not the name she had expected to see. She looked intently at the flowing hand, feeling that she had seen it somewhere before, and quite recently: ‘Francis Dashwood’.
It was a moment before she realised the importance of what she had found. Then in a flash it came to her just where it was that she had seen this handwriting before. Here, in all probability, was the true title of ‘Brother Francis’.
With trembling fingers, she turned a few pages of the book, and found herself staring at an illustration which made her blood run cold with horror. In a circle of seven guttering candles stood a fearsome warlock in ceremonial robes. In his predatory fingers he held aloft a white wand. From the shadows which closed all about him outside the light of the candles could be dimly discerned the repulsive, twining shapes of serpents with forked tongues, and ghastly twisted demons with staring, evil eyes.
She shuddered, her eyes rooted to the picture by some dreadful compulsion.
“Horrible, is it not? But never fear, the rest of the book is, I assure you, disappointing in comparison.”
The drawling voice brought her to her senses. She raised startled eyes, and found herself looking into the cool, amused face of
Charles Barsett. She could scarcely have been more dismayed by the appearance of the warlock himself.
The crimson flooded her cheeks.
“I —”
She wanted to beg his pardon, but the words would not come. Whatever could she find to say, she wondered desperately, to excuse her present situation?
“You should have told me that you wished for a book. I would have been happy to have supplied you, Miss Amanda. I fear you must have found my entertainment dull indeed.”
“No — I —”
He took the book gently from her nerveless fingers, replaced it, and shut the desk.
“The damage to your gown was effectively repaired, I trust?” he asked, conversationally.
She pressed a cold, trembling hand to her hot cheeks. “Ye-es, I thank you — it was nothing — it does not signify —”
“You were so long away,” he explained, in tones of gentle reproach, “that I felt it best to come and see if I could find you.”
“Yes — well, I — thought that perhaps you and John would be glad of a little time alone together. A female is sometimes a handicap to male conversation.”
“Not at all,” he answered gallantly.
“You were talking of wines,” went on Amanda, scarcely knowing what she said. “I — I felt that I should only be in the way if I returned —”
“You were mistaken,” he said, and his lips curved diabolically. “You must know that I am particularly addicted to the company of — er — curious schoolgirls.”
She drew in her breath sharply. She knew that the reproof was not undeserved, but this did nothing to lessen the sting of it. He was revenged indeed.
“So you do remember!” she accused, at once dropping all pretence.
“Yes.” He eyed her gravely. “I think perhaps, Miss Amanda, it is time that you and I understood one another. Do you agree?”
She faced him proudly. “I do indeed, sir.”
The Georgian Rake Page 10
