by Sandra Heath
The horse was still as difficult a creature now as then, tugging at the bit and fighting its rider every inch. Sir Rafe reined in by the fallen tree and slipped lightly from the saddle, keeping an iron grip on the reins. He wore the pine green coat and cream breeches that gentlemen of fashion regarded as de rigueur for riding, and his auburn hair was bright in the autumn sunshine.
Peter remained quiet as a mouse as Sir Rafe began to search for something by the tree. He was very thorough, even going down on his hands and knees to feel underneath. What was he looking for? the boy puzzled. Whatever it was it eluded Sir Rafe, for with a foul oath he scrambled to his feet again, then bent to brush leaves from his breeches. He stood there for a moment, then plunged his right hand into his coat pocket and drew something out, which he looked down at in his cupped hand. Something small and white lay in his gloved palm. His fingers closed convulsively over it, and he closed his eyes for a moment, then replaced whatever it was in his pocket.
After that he widened his search a little, pushing the ferns and poking the moss and leaves with the tip of his riding crop. The minutes passed, and still he did not find what he was seeking. At last he took out his fob watch and looked at the time. Another curse escaped him, and he remounted the impatient horse to ride swiftly away in the direction of the Hall, which lay well over a mile to the south.
Only when the sound of the hooves had died completely away did Peter come down from the tree. He was filled with curiosity as he hurried over to the fallen tree, where the prints of Sir Rafe’s boots and horse were plain in the soft ground. After examining what seemed like every nook and cranny and finding nothing, Peter stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the tree as if suspecting it of willfully concealing what Sir Rafe had sought. How the boy wished he knew what had been searched for. And what the small white object was that the master of Temford Castle kept in his coat pocket.
Peter’s stomach grumbled suddenly. The stolen apple hadn’t even taken the edge off his appetite. Sir Rafe or not, there was nothing for it but to go home. With luck he could slip unseen into the kitchens, where the cook would give him something to eat. Maybe some toasted currant buns! Turning, he ran from the clearing.
Chapter 7
Emily hastened down from the long gallery the moment she saw Sir Rafe riding toward the house. She had assembled her embroidery in readiness in the grand parlor, and seemed the very picture of industrious composure when he was shown in a few minutes later.
“Why Sir Rafe, how good it is to see you again,” she declared, setting her needle down as if she had been stitching away for some considerable time. Then she extended her hand, which he swept gallantly to his lips. His touch was cold, she thought, and she had to remind herself that he had just ridden through the early autumn chill.
“My dear Mrs. Fairfield, how very charming you look,” Sir Rafe murmured, gazing into her eyes and continuing to hold her hand in a way that reminded her of his portrait.
“It is kind of you to say so, sir. Would you care for some refreshment?” She summoned a smile and politely withdrew her fingers from his grasp.
“A measure of brandy would do nicely after the ride here.”
"Then please help yourself, sir.” She indicated the decanter on the table behind the sofa.
He went to pour a large measure. “I trust I find you well, Mrs. Fairfield?” he said, and after a pause went on. “It is good to see you out of black, and a day early at that. May I presume to feel honored?”
She smiled again, but a little awkwardly, and avoided answering. “Er, how was London?”
“Well enough. Pitt is ill again. A surfeit of port. It is believed he will not last another year.”
“I hope that is not true, for Mr. Pitt is a great man. Britain needs him at the helm against Bonaparte.”
He glanced at her, but did not reply.
She cleared her throat. “Er, have your Foreign Office friends any news from Europe?”
“Sir Lumsley Carrowby says there are conflicting rumors. Some say the French have scored an astonishing victory over a huge Austrian force; others are adamant that not even the inept Austrians could have lost so resoundingly.”
“Where is it supposed to have happened?” she asked.
“Somewhere called Ulm, I believe. I cannot say for certain, but if the rumors are true, the French are now advancing on Vienna. Carrowby seemed to think there was truth in it.”
Emily had met Sir Lumsley Carrowby, who was a close friend of Sir Rafe’s and often stayed at the castle. His position in the Foreign Office meant that there was very little about the war that he did not know, and he was sometimes a little indiscreet with information that might have been better kept secret. “And what do you think, Sir Rafe? Do you agree with Sir Lumsley?” she asked.
“I do not know, Mrs. Fairfield, but I have little faith in anyone’s ability to take on the Corsican and win.”
She did not approve of praise being directed toward Bonaparte. “We will take him on and win, sir, that you may count on. The rest of Europe may flounder and fail, but Britain will stand firm. Mr. Pitt will stand firm. Lord Nelson will drive the French from the seas, and our army will drive them from the land.”
He smiled. “How very fierce and patriotic, to be sure,” he murmured.
“Of course, sir, for I do not hold with Bonaparte at any price. Nor does my mother.”
“Ah, the peerless Mrs. Preston. How is she? Also keeping well, I trust? And your son?”
“They are both in fine fettle, Sir Rafe. Peter has gone out in the park as usual, and Mama has some urgent shopping to attend to in Temford this morning.”
“Urgent shopping?”
“Well, no doubt you would not consider it thus, Sir Rafe, but to a woman the trimming of a gown is all important. With only a few days to go to the opening of the new assembly rooms at the Royal Oak...” Emily’s voice died away awkwardly, for it was clear he knew her family was avoiding him. She shifted a little uncomfortably.
He came around the sofa to stand directly in front of her. The smell of horse clung to his clothes, and she noticed some moss stains on the knees of his otherwise pristine breeches. “Mrs. Fairfield, the absence of your mother and son is of no real consequence, for they are not the ones I have come to see, are they?”
His directness disturbed her, and she felt color warming her cheeks. “No, I suppose they are not,” she admitted.
He swirled his glass, and the light from the windows caught the Agincourt ring on his fourth finger. There was a design cut into the gold, a rose badge—actually blue—she knew he had adopted as his own five or six years ago when he came into a contested inheritance through his mother’s family. Sir Rafe had not only become a much richer man as a result of this good fortune, but had acquired the ring as well, and the badge engraved upon it now graced his writing paper and flew from the turrets of Temford Castle. Emily could only imagine the resentful thoughts of the relative he had successfully disinherited.
Sir Rafe slid his hand into his right pocket to finger the smooth white quartz pebble he always kept there. It was his lucky charm, and he did not go anywhere without it. If fate was to favor him, then the pebble had to be touched. Yet fate had not favored him in the clearing, when he needed it most... He pushed this disagreeable fact from his mind and held the pebble tightly as he spoke again, interrupting Emily’s thoughts. “Let us not beat about the bush, Mrs. Fairfield. I have proposed marriage, and now that your year of mourning is over, I have come for your answer.”
Well, he was nothing if not direct, Emily thought. “You are still quite certain you wish me to be your wife, Sir Rafe?” Her heart wanted him to have changed his mind; her head willed the opposite.
His pale glance moved over her. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Fairfield; indeed I am more sure than ever.”
She was about to tell him she accepted when something perverse rose through her, and instead she found herself asking a very unlikely question. “Do you love me, Sir Rafe?”
The brandy stopped swirling, his fingers clenched over the pebble, and he stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wondered if you have any affection for me, sir.”
He exhaled slowly. “I have always had affection for you, Mrs. Fairfield.”
“You have always wanted me, sir, which is not the same thing.”
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I see that you do not beat about the bush either. Very well, I admit it. I have always desired you. I envied Geoffrey his nights, and I yearn to enter your bed. Is that honest enough for you?”
“It is honest, sir, but I still hear no mention of love.”
“Well, do you love me?” he countered.
She drew back. “No,” she confessed.
A light passed through his eyes. “The future is in the laps of the gods, Mrs. Fairfield. One thing I can promise you, I will not be tardy between the sheets. I have wanted you for so long that you may count upon my being ardent.” His fingertips stroked the pebble ...
She got up quickly to hide her agitation, and went across to the other side of the room to look out over the park. The thought of Sir Rafe’s ardency filled her with dismay. She didn’t want him to touch her at all! The realization was an icy shock, freeing an avalanche of cold fact that plunged down over her resolve and buried it. What could she say? What could she do?
He watched her, and sensed something of her thoughts. “My dear, you do know that I have your well-being at heart, don’t you?”
The new note in his voice made her glance uneasily back. “Yes, of course ...”
“And that I would never willingly do anything to harm you.”
“Yes.” She looked intently at him, wondering what he was coming around to.
He did not leave her on tenterhooks. “I fear there are things about Geoffrey that you do not know, important things that have a bearing now.”
“Things? What things?”
“To begin with, he had many gambling debts of which you do not know, debts that are over and above the forty thousand you already face. Lady Luck was seldom, if ever, on his side.”
Emily’s heart stopped within her. “Over and above?” she whispered.
He nodded. “His lOUs were, er, somewhat well known, shall we say? I myself have a considerable number of them. I have been able to prevail upon the other gentlemen involved to stay their demands for the time being, but their patience will not last forever.”
Emily gazed at him in alarm. “What are you saying, Sir Rafe? How much did my husband owe?”
“You do not need to concern yourself with that, my dear.”
“But I do! Of course I do! If these lOUs are called in, they will become my responsibility!”
He smiled a little. “If you are my wife, they will be my responsibility, my dear, and I am more than able to pay.” In the darkness of his pocket, his thumb smoothed the surface of the pebble, imploring it to work for him.
As far as Emily was concerned, he could not have made things more clear. Marry him and all Geoffrey’s debts, including those of which she had only this minute learned, would be entirely removed; decline, and her situation would worsen to a degree she had hitherto not even imagined.
He replaced his glass by the decanter and followed her to the window, then drew a slip of paper from the same pocket as the pebble. “Please examine this, my dear. It proves that I am telling you the truth.”
She took the paper unwillingly. Geoffrey’s spidery writing was unmistakable, bearing witness to the fact that he owed the sum of fifteen hundred guineas to Sir Lumsley Carrowby. “Fifteen hundred guineas?” she whispered.
“You may rip it up, Mrs. Fairfield, for I have settled with Carrowby.”
“So I am now in debt to you instead of Sir Lumsley?” She looked out again, just as Peter emerged from the boundary woods and began to run back toward the house.
“Please don’t view it in that light, my dear. I am telling you this as proof of the immense regard in which I hold you. If you will marry me, I will gladly settle every IOU Geoffrey ever wrote. And there were many, believe me.” He paused, clearly considering whether or not to say the next thing on his mind.
She solved his quandary for him. “Please go on, Sir Rafe, for I can tell there is something else of import you think I should know.”
“There is indeed something else of import, but I shrink from mentioning it for fear you will misunderstand. I do not wish to appear as if I am, er, blackmailing you into marriage.”
“Blackmailing?” She felt suddenly cold. What else had Geoffrey done? What else could he have done?
He cleared his throat. “This is a matter of great weight, Mrs. Fairfield, and believe me I do not pass it on lightly, but I wish you to know that I am at pains to be honest on all fronts.”
“Please tell me what it is, Sir Rafe.”
“Very well. You know that Sir Lumsley Carrowby is in the Foreign Office, and many of my other guests at the castle are politicians as well, among them even cabinet ministers. All of them are men of the highest importance, patriotic men who would lay down their lives for their country. Unfortunately, Geoffrey’s loyalty to Britain was perhaps not as complete as it might have been.”
Emily’s heart turned to stone. “What are you saying?” she whispered.
“That there was a little too much French blood in your late husband’s veins. On the night before he died he attended one of my gaming parties at the castle, and I caught him going through Carrowby’s private papers. I made him replace the documents as he found them, and I requested him to leave the castle immediately. For your sake, and Peter’s, I did not raise the alarm.”
Emily’s hand crept wretchedly to her throat. “No!” she breathed. “No, I will not believe it of Geoffrey ...”
“It is the unpalatable truth, my dear. I came here the next day to confront him. He admitted his treachery, but declined to discuss anything in the house, for fear that you or your mother might overhear. The wager about racing each other’s horses was concocted as a flimsy excuse to leave the house without arousing undue suspicion. When he set off like the wind on my thoroughbred, I confess I thought he was going to make a run for it, but my mount was no match for the black thoroughbred. I lost him in the woods. When I came back to the Hall and there was no sign of him, I became quite convinced he had decamped rather than face the scandal of exposure. He hadn’t of course, for he was dead because he had fallen from my horse.”
Emily stared, so stunned by what he was saying that she could not utter a word. She didn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. Not of Geoffrey. And yet, there had been times when he had voiced support for some of the French objectives. To hide her anguish, she turned to look out of the window again. Peter was coming nearer and nearer to the house. The wind blew his hair, his coattails flapped, and now and then he kicked out at a tuft of grass in that way boys have. He looked so very young, so very defenseless ...
Rafe set aside his empty glass, then slipped his hand into his pocket again, touching the pebble a little uneasily. Work for me! Be my aid! “Er, have you nothing to say?”
She swallowed, feeling so close to tears that she struggled to find her voice. “I... I find it very hard to accept that Geoffrey would do this awful thing, Sir Rafe.”
“Of course you do, my dear; indeed, it would not be natural if you did not find it so. But, painful as these facts are, they are the truth.”
Standing behind her, he took her gently by the arms. “Geoffrey’s activities are at an end now, and no good can come of raking over the ashes and spreading them on the world’s hearth. I have only told you because I do not wish to have secrets from you. I want you to know that I will protect Peter from the ignominy of knowing his father was a bankrupt traitor. A clean slate, Mrs. Fairfield—Emily ...”
It was blackmail, she thought, no matter how much he pretended it wasn’t. He had closed the trap around her as neatly as any poacher, and now, whatever her opinion of him, she had to do as he wished if her son was to b
e shielded. Her gaze did not move from Peter, and as the boy disappeared around the corner of the house she nodded. “Very well, Sir Rafe. I accept your proposal.”
She heard his breath escape on a long sigh. “Ah, my dear, you have just made me the happiest of men.”
And made myself the most unhappy of women, she thought, knowing that she now despised the man she had just consented to marry.
He took his hand from his pocket and moved away. “I think it best if we announce the match in public, don’t you? The Royal Oak assembly on Bonfire Night will be the perfect occasion.”
“Oh, but I... I wasn’t going to attend ...” she began, her thoughts still a wild confusion of opposing emotions.
“Well, perhaps you should reconsider.”
Again she felt the cold caress of blackmail.
“The year is at an end,” he continued smoothly, “and you have discarded mourning. Think on. A goodly portion of the county will be there, so it will be the perfect occasion. Then we can be married by special license a week after that.”
She began to feel as if she were careening downhill in a runaway carriage. “No! I... I mean, the betrothal can indeed be announced at the assembly if that is your especial wish, but I would like to wait awhile before the marriage itself takes place.”
“But why? Surely your debts need settling without delay?” His eyes had cooled.
Emily could not have been made more aware that financial salvation and the avoidance of horrendous scandal hinged upon bowing to his will. “Yes, they do need settling, Sir Rafe, but it is my birthday on Christmas Eve, and I would dearly like to remarry then.”
His expression cleared, and he smiled again. “A Christmas Eve wedding? I had no idea you were of such a romantic inclination, Emily.”
“You do not know me at all yet, Sir Rafe.” But I begin to know you, and what I know I find abhorrent...
“Just Rafe will do,” he stated.
