by Louise Allen
In the midst of the upheavals of her aunt’s infirmity and removal, the death in a driving accident of a brother whose face she could not even recall, and the sudden demise of her father from an apoplexy a mere two weeks afterwards, had passed as though they had been no concern of hers. The family solicitor had dealt with everything. After a precarious half-year in lodgings whilst the lawyer sold all he could find to settle Sir Humphrey’s debts, Antonia had finally received word that only the house and land remained. There were no male heirs that anyone could trace, so this meagre inheritance all came to her.
She was just reflecting, and not for the first time, on how fortunate she was that Donna had offered to accompany her to Rye End Hall, when she heard a boy’s voice raised in a yelp of pain. She ran across the clearing, pushed through a straggle of branches and found herself in the company of two urchins, neither of them a day over ten years of age.
One, a wiry redhead, was disentangling himself from the bramble bush into which he had tripped. His companion, an even grubbier child, was holding four limp-necked, and very dead, pheasants by the feet.
There was a long moment while the children stared at her, round-eyed with terror, then, as she took a step towards them, they dropped the birds and took to their heels.
Well. The local poachers certainly start young hereabouts, Antonia thought, stooping to pick up the still-warm pheasants. No doubt they were encouraged by a lack of keepering, for in the depths of debt Sir Humphrey had apparently discharged all his servants except for a cook and maid of all work. Still, the birds were hers, snared on her own land, and they would at least serve as supper tonight.
‘Caught red-handed,’ a triumphant voice said behind her. Antonia spun round and found herself confronted by two burly individuals in decent homespun, shotguns under their arms and a couple of terriers at their heels. ‘Did you ever see the like, Nat? A female poacher, as I live and breathe. You give us those birds, my pretty, and come along of us quiet-like.’
Chapter Two
Antonia opened her mouth to protest that she had just picked up the birds; then the thought of those two skinny, frightened children, and what would happen to them if these men caught them, kept her silent.
The two keepers advanced towards her, one taking the birds from her limp grasp, the other seizing her roughly by the arm, tearing the old gown even more. At the feel of his calloused fingers on her bare skin Antonia twisted and pulled away.
‘Let me go,’ she demanded.
‘Let you go? Oh dear, no. Not after we’ve caught trespassing, with snared pheasants in your hands.’ He grinned, exposing uneven teeth. ‘It’s your lucky day, my pretty, you won’t have to cool your heels in the village lock-up. Oh, no, our local magistrate is at home, and him being a conscientious Justice of the Peace, he likes to see a poacher whenever we catch one, especially one with his own birds. And he’ll like to see this one, won’t he, Nat?’
Both men eyed Antonia slyly. She was suddenly very aware that she was without bonnet or pelisse, that her old cotton gown clung around her legs and she was quite unchaperoned.
Who could they mean by the local magistrate and his own birds? This was Rye End Hall land, her land, but she sensed that arguing with these two about her identity was likely to be an exercise in humiliation. No, better to go along with it and get out of this wood as quickly as possible. Whoever this magistrate was, at least he would be a gentleman and she could make her explanations to him in decent privacy.
The keeper’s fingers were moving suggestively on her forearm through the tear in her gown. Antonia turned such a look of fury on him that he let go of her elbow, then, recalling himself, seized her painfully by the wrist instead.
The walk back through the woods was mercifully short, but by the time they reached the stable block of a big house she did not recognise Antonia was flushed and breathless, her hair tumbling about her face and her skirts torn and bedraggled.
Her captors marched her through the servants’ quarters, up the backstairs, through a green baize door and into a panelled hallway. A butler, alerted by the commotion, emerged from the dining room to hear the gamekeepers’ explanations. He looked her up and down with utter disdain, before departing to inform his master of the arrival of a felon for his attention.
Antonia stood, inwardly shuddering with mortification, forcing herself not to struggle and thus appear even more undignified and unladylike than she already must. After all, when in the presence of this gentleman, she could explain the circumstances of this unfortunate incident. And what was more, she fumed, she expected an apology for the behaviour of his keepers for their overzealousness in straying onto her land and their insulting familiarity with her person. That was better. Anger and indignation would stop her drooping with embarrassment.
When the butler finally reappeared to usher them in she straightened her back, raised her chin and stalked in with as much hauteur as she could manage in the circumstances.
She found herself in a study. The magistrate into whose presence she had been hauled was sitting behind a wide mahogany desk, his fingers drumming impatiently on the leather surface beside a pile of papers which had been pushed to one side.
Oh, no. Antonia stared in horrified recognition at the man she had seen only hours before. The Duke of Allington returned her stare without the slightest sign he had ever set eyes on her before.
‘Well done, Sparrow. You have enlivened what was proving to be a thoroughly dull day. I was hoping for a diversion from this tedious correspondence.’ His long fingers flicked the pile of papers dismissively. ‘A female poacher is more than I could have looked for. Thank you, you and Carling may go.’
‘What, and just leave her, Your Grace?’
‘I hardly feel she is likely to prove more than I can handle; or do you think she has a dangerous weapon concealed somewhere?’ The dark eyes were warm as he surveyed the clinging, bedraggled gown. Antonia had the sinking feeling that its dampness was doing nothing to hide her figure beneath. She felt herself blush, but she gritted her teeth, determined not to bandy words with him in front of the keepers.
With barely concealed reluctance the two men shuffled out, closing the door behind them. Antonia put up a hand to push the hair off her face and realised she had succeeded in spreading dirt, and what felt horribly like pheasant’s blood, all over her forehead.
Allington got up and came round the desk to look at her more closely. ‘You are certainly a novelty, my dear, and a considerable improvement on the usual crew who plunder my birds. At least, if you were cleaned up, you might be.’ He continued to stroll round her.
Antonia wondered just how foolhardy it would be to slap his face.
‘Now, what shall we do with you, I wonder?’ He came back round to face her and leaned against the desk. ‘I suppose you realise I could sentence you to hard labour for this? Your fingers would not be so nimble at setting snares after that.’
He lifted Antonia’s right hand, turning it over caressingly between strong fingers whilst holding her furious gaze with his eyes. Even in the midst of her anger, she saw the sudden surprise as his touch registered the soft skin where he must have expected work-hardened roughness.
Seizing her advantage, Antonia snatched her hand away and, in a swirl of muddy skirts, put a heavy chair between herself and the Duke.
‘You are no village girl, not with hands like that,’ he said slowly. ‘So who the devil are you? And what are you doing with my birds?’ he demanded, voice suddenly hard.
‘A lady, sir, and one who does not relish being manhandled by either you or your men.’ She spoke as she would to some buck who had behaved badly at a ball.
She saw the doubt strike him, then he rallied. ‘Damn it, woman, do you expect me to believe that? Look at yourself.’ His scornful stare swept from the top of her disordered hair to her boots emerging from beneath her muddy hem.
‘Kindly mind your language, Your Grace,’ Antonia said, sinking on to the chair with as much grace as if she wer
e at Almack’s, and not in danger of having her knees give way beneath her.
Marcus Renshaw sketched her an ironic bow. ‘My humble apologies, madam. I should have realised, from the moment I set eyes upon you, that I was dealing with a member of the Quality.’
Antonia looked down at herself, furious that she could feel the colour in her cheeks. Mud-caked walking boots were all too obvious below a torn and besmirched hemline. Her old and faded gown was ripped, there were bloodstains where the birds had touched the skirts and her elbow protruded through the hopelessly threadbare sleeve. Without her bonnet, her dark brown curls, always hard to manage, now cascaded about her shoulders and she could feel her face was filthy.
She glared at him, resenting his easy elegance. The Duke’s broad shoulders and long, muscular legs were set off to perfection by riding clothes… Antonia recollected herself, annoyed at the spark of attraction she had felt for an instant.
‘If I present a disordered appearance, it is no wonder,’ she retorted. ‘Having been set upon, dragged through the mire and brambles, I am amazed I do not look worse, And,’ she pursued, before he had a chance to reply, ‘All I was doing was walking in the woods.’
‘Trespassing on my land, in possession of my game’ His voice was flat, his face hard. ‘I expect my keepers to earn their wages. Madam,’ he added sarcastically.
‘Your land? I hardly think so, Your Grace. Those woods are Rye End Hall property.’
‘Not for these past five years.’ He regarded her with sudden interest. ‘What do you know of Rye End Hall?’
‘I own it,’ Antonia informed him coldly. With an effort she hid her dismay at the discovery that her father had sold off land. How much more had gone without her knowing? It had never occurred to her to check through all the deeds, only to look at the estate maps when the solicitor had handed them back to her. If woods so close to the house had been sold, what else might have gone?
‘You appear surprised, madam?’ It was a question, but his voice held more sympathy than previously. ‘Surely you have not been sold short in your purchase of Rye End Hall?’
‘I have not purchased it, Your Grace. I inherited it on the death of my father.’
‘Your father?’ Now he did sound taken aback. ‘You cannot be Sir Humphrey Dane’s daughter.’
‘And why not?’ Antonia’s chin came up defiantly. Whatever her father and her brother had become, the Danes were an old and proud family.
‘You know, the more I look at you, the more I can see a family resemblance. I can recall your grandfather visiting my own grandparents. He was a bit of a tartar and I was somewhat overawed by him. But you have to admit, Miss Dane, that your appearance, and the circumstances in which we meet, were much against you.’ He straightened and went to tug the bell-pull beside the fireplace. ‘Let me order you some refreshment, and then you must tell me how I may help you.’
Antonia realised just how hungry she was. They had set out from the Golden Fleece in Holborn before dawn and a hastily snatched meal of bacon and bread at Abbots Langley was hours in the past.
The footman made a valiant effort at disguising his amazement at being sent to fetch sherry and biscuits for the female who had just been dragged through the servants’ quarters as a common criminal.
When he returned with the refreshments she almost snatched at a biscuit, then recollected herself and nibbled delicately at the almond wafer. ‘You are very kind, Your Grace, but I am in no need of assistance.’
Marcus Renshaw possessed the irritating ability to raise one eyebrow, it seemed. He said nothing, but the quirked brow and the ironic twist to his lips, spoke volumes.
The eyebrow often worked and it seemed it was effective now. Miss Dane clearly felt goaded into an explanation she did not want to make. ‘I can see you wonder at my gown, Your Grace, but if one travels on the public stage, naturally one does not wear one’s best attire for the journey.’ His let his gaze travel to the torn sleeve and she added, ‘Your men tore my garment when they apprehended me.’
‘No.’ Marcus was not letting her get away with that. ‘It was already torn after the accident to the stagecoach.’
‘When I was dragged into your presence, you made no sign you had seen me before.’ So, she had been piqued by his apparent dismissal of her at the scene of the accident, had she?
‘You must forgive me,’ he said, sipping his sherry. ‘I remembered the tear, but not, I regret, you.’ It was a blatant mistruth. He had noticed her. The other passengers had looked at him and had seen a duke, a rescuer, someone to be attended to and obeyed. She had looked and seen not a title or a rank but a man and one she was making a judgement on, it seemed. That was novel and more than a little stimulating. What had she thought of the man?
‘Although, now I come to think of it, you had a bonnet and pelisse.’
‘I had laid them aside in the woods, just before your men came upon me.’
‘All the better to catch my pheasants, no doubt,’ he said drily, with a gesture towards the heap of feathers on the side table.
‘I have already told you, I did not know they were yours. And of course I did not catch them. I found them on the footpath.’ She was too defensive for that to be all the truth. She was protecting someone, he assumed.
‘Tsk, tsk, Miss Dane,’ Marcus admonished. ‘You really are a very poor liar.’ He was enjoying this too much, he realised. It was not a game, however provoking that lovely hazel glare was. He made his voice hard. ‘Let us stop playing. I believe neither that you caught those birds nor that you found them. Describe the culprit you had them of, if you please. You do yourself no favours in my eyes in protecting him.’
‘Liar? How dare you.’
And the hazel turned to green when she was angry, did it? What colour would those eyes turn in the heat of passion, he wondered.
‘And threats of being in or out of your favour count as nothing to me.’ Now she was upright and quivering with righteous indignation in the chair. ‘If I prevaricate, it is simply because I have no intention of delivering up to your tender mercies one of your unfortunate tenants, forced into poaching merely to stay alive.’
Now you go too far. ‘It is not my tenants who are starving, Miss Dane.’ Marcus stood up, deliberately looming over her where she sat. When he leaned down and put one hand on each arm of her chair, he saw her brace herself not to shrink back. She had courage even if she was misguided. ‘When you reach your inheritance, look around you and see the state in which your dear departed father left his people, before you come preaching to me of my tenants.’
She stared back, not flinching, but he could see the doubt forming. Was that true, she was wondering? Surely everything she knew about her father and brother warned her that it probably was. But even with the doubt she was still judging him, still despising him for his rank and privilege, not seeing the man.
Well, he would show her that man, give her something to judge. Marcus bent his head and kissed her full on the lips with a hard, possessive, deliberate sensuality. For a second she was too stunned to resist, then she broke away from the heat of his mouth, and slapped his cheek. Hard.
He straightened, ruefully rubbing his face. ‘I suppose I deserved that.’ Yes, I did. Inexcusable. Apologise, you idiot. ‘But I must confess, Miss Dane, that your… eccentricity quite robbed me of my good sense. I must apologise.’ No, not like that…
Miss Dane got up from the chair in a swirl of skirts. ‘I think my eccentricity, as you call it, has nothing to do with the matter. I believe that your overweening arrogance leads you to believe you can take whatever you want. Do not trouble to ring for the butler, Your Grace, I can see myself out.’
Ouch. That stung, but he was not going to let her get away with her own idiocy. Her hand was on the doorknob when he said softly, ‘Miss Dane.’
She turned to look at him, resistance clear in every line of her body. ‘What?’
‘Feed your tenants, Miss Dane, then at least they will not have to steal my property to survi
ve.’
Antonia swept past a startled footman who leapt to open the front door for her, down the shallow flight of stone steps and halfway down the gravelled drive before her anger calmed enough for her to slow to a stop. She might be shaking with fury, but there was no point in storming off into the Hertfordshire countryside without getting her bearings first.
Now she could see the front of the house she realised that she could recall it from rare visits as a small child with her grandfather. But her memories were of a far less elegant effect and it was obvious that Marcus Renshaw had applied both an admirable taste and considerable amounts of money to Brightshill.
The pleasure grounds were beautifully kept, with close-scythed lawns sweeping to stands of specimen trees. Through the copses she could see the glimmer of water where she could have sworn none had been before and the drive was bordered by Classical statuary, each pedestal nestling in a group of flowering shrubs.
'Insufferable man,' Antonia fumed aloud. She felt even more down at heel and grimy in this setting, the only discordant note in a perfect landscape. 'Well, I am glad of it. Serves him right if I lower the tone.' She realised she was scuffing the perfectly-raked gravel with her boot, to the betterment of neither. She was in danger of forgetting who she was, although after being mauled like a loose woman by that… that man, it was little wonder.
She shot a fulminating glance in the direction of the study window and there was the Duke standing at the casement, regarding her. Antonia straightened her shoulders, gathered up her frightful skirts in one hand and swept an elaborate curtsy to the semi-clad deity on the nearest pedestal. Looking closer, she saw he bore a quite remarkable resemblance to the Prince Regent, although without the corsets, a thought to revive her natural sense of the ridiculous.
