Amy shrugged her shoulders eloquently. ‘I know my chances of making a good marriage are diminishing by the day. After all, it’s seven years since I had my Season, such as it was. Perhaps I need this practise as an abigail. Who knows? I may end up doing it for real one of these days.’
‘Nonsense. I shouldn’t allow it. Nor would John. You could always make your home with us. The boys would love it.’
‘Your sons already have a splendid governess looking after them. They do not need another.’
Sarah ignored her. ‘And I should love it, too.’
‘A companion, then,’ Amy said flatly. ‘I shall obviously have to watch Miss Saunders, to see how a lady’s companion should behave. Shall you be as much of a harridan as Miss Lyndhurst, do you think?’
‘Of course. How could you think otherwise?’ Sarah tried to keep her face straight, but failed.
And Dent, the pious lady’s maid, soon joined in the laughter.
Amy had barely left the Mardons’ bedchamber when she almost collided with a small black-clad figure coming out of the door to the backstairs.
‘What—? Oh, it’s you again, Miss Dent. Thank goodness.’ The housekeeper was puffing hard from the exertion of rushing upstairs. She shot a searching glance down the hall towards the main staircase. There was no one in sight.
‘Is everything quite well, Mrs Waller?’ Amy said politely. ‘You look a little put out, if I may say so.’
‘Aye, and so would you be if—’ She stopped short, glancing round impatiently. Still no one. ‘I’ve been trying to find that highty-tighty footman who’s supposed to valet Mr William. Heavens knows where the man’s got to. Got ideas above his station, I dare say, since Grant was turned off. It should be the valet’s job to move Mr William’s things up here, not mine. Nothing is done yet, and Miss Lyndhurst will be getting more testy by the second.’
Amy smiled and nodded at the older woman. She hoped it struck the right note of confidence, and sympathy. ‘Yes, indeed she will.’ Amy was glad to see that the housekeeper was relaxing a little now. It was an opportunity not to be missed. ‘I left Miss Lyndhurst and her companion in the ladies’ sitting room, as you know, ma’am, and Miss Lyndhurst…Well, to be frank, ma’am, she looked fit to explode if her room wasn’t made ready in two shakes. It’s an impossible task for you, on your own, without Mr William’s valet. Might I offer some assistance? At least until the new valet turns up?’
‘You are very kind, Miss Dent. You, of all people, know that I can’t trust the maids with Mr William’s fine things. If you would help me with the folding and so on, we could be done in a trice. I just have to give the maids their instructions first, about making up the bed and airing the new room. And then we can make a start on packing up for Mr William.’
‘Of course, Mrs Waller. I should be glad to help. Indeed, I’ll go and make a start now, shall I? While you’re dealing with the maids? I’ve had the sharp edge of Miss Lyndhurst’s tongue once already this morning. The sooner we can make her room ready, the more chance we shall all have of avoiding her censure in future.’
The housekeeper beamed. ‘You are a treasure, Miss Dent. Thank you. I shouldn’t be but a moment or two…provided those girls are where they ought to be. Flighty pieces, most of ’em, I may tell you. If I didn’t keep my eye on everything, there would be dust and dirt everywhere. ’Tweren’t like that when I started out in service.’
‘Nor when I started,’ Amy said, nodding vigorously. ‘We were taught the value of hard work. And standards. Cleanliness is next to godliness.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Mrs Waller. ‘I—But I must go. I will join you in Mr William’s room shortly.’
‘Er…which is Mr William’s room, Mrs Waller?’ It would not do for the housekeeper to think that Amy already knew exactly where all the guests were housed.
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Dent. I had forgotten for a moment. Of course, there’s no reason for you to know. Mr William is in the yellow bedchamber, next to the ladies’ sitting room. He is to move up here, to the room above the Major’s.’
‘Excellent. I shall go and get started.’ Amy led the way back across the hall to the door to the backstairs. At the last moment, she stood aside. ‘After you, Mrs Waller,’ she said. It was a clear acknowledgement of the housekeeper’s status below stairs. Mrs Waller flushed with pleasure and then, with a murmur of thanks, stomped off down to the basement.
Amy followed her down as far as the first floor. She had five minutes, ten at most, to start searching Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s room. On this occasion, at least, she had a cast-iron excuse if she was caught. And the redoubtable housekeeper to be her witness.
Amy quickly laid aside the first pile of shirts and took up another. Mr Lyndhurst-Flint certainly did not stint himself on the quality of his linen. She paused for a second to smooth her palm over the beautiful fabric. Her brother, Ned, had nothing half so fine. They could not afford such luxury. Indeed, Amy could begin to play the part of an abigail only because the Devereaux household lived in straitened circumstances. She knew how to do menial tasks because she had had to learn to do many of them at home.
Carrying the pile of shirts, Amy moved to the little writing table by the connecting door. It was an untidy mass of papers. Grant might have tidied them, knowing his master’s habits. But the young footman who had temporarily taken the dismissed valet’s place probably would not dare.
Amy glanced quickly towards the door. It was safely closed. And with the shirts in her hand, she would appear to be busy with the packing, if Mrs Waller should appear.
Amy pushed the papers about, trying to see what they were without disturbing them too much. Bills, mostly, and large ones at that. A letter or two, containing nothing of note. An invitation. And under them all, a part-finished letter from Mr Lyndhurst-Flint himself! Amy drew it out and began to scan it. It was—
Voices came from the corridor just outside! Men’s voices. Hastily Amy returned the sheet to its place and crossed to the door, catching up yet more of the linen as she did so.
The voices were clearer now. With her ear placed shamelessly against the heavy wood, she could make out every word.
Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s voice came from just beyond his own door. ‘It was not a happy occasion, Anthony, though I am glad I was present. Had I not been, they might have called for the pistols there and then. Think of the scandal it would have caused! Frobisher was as drunk as a wheelbarrow. He could barely stand. And Marcus was little better.’
‘We have scandal enough as it is, William,’ replied Major Lyndhurst acidly. ‘What the hell did Marcus think he was doing?’
‘I have no way of knowing, I’m afraid. He was in a very strange mood that night. That I will say. Never heard him say such things before. Perhaps it was the drink. Marcus has always been so very insistent on the importance of duty, and loyalty—especially to you—that I was shocked to hear him refer to you as he did. And then, to couple it with such remarks about Georgiana—’
‘What? What did Marcus say about my wife?’
‘I…I can’t remember precisely, Anthony. Pray do not glower at me like that. It was not I who spoke slightingly of your wife, I assure you.’
‘Are you telling me that this quarrel between Marcus and Frobisher was over my wife?’ The Major’s voice had sunk to a venomous whisper.
‘I—Well, yes. I can’t remember exactly what was said. I had had quite a few glasses myself. I seem to recall that Frobisher took Marcus to task for what he had said. Can’t remember the way of it, exactly. But I do remember Marcus’s threat. No one could forget that. He stood there with his lips drawn back, like a dog baring its teeth, and his eyes blazing. He looked like some kind of fiend. And he said that, if he ever laid eyes on Frobisher again, he would kill him. He meant it, too. If I’d been in Frobisher’s shoes, even drunk as he was, I’d have taken myself off and kept my head down. Obviously, he didn’t, though. Or he wouldn’t be at death’s door now.’
‘Damn Frobisher!’
<
br /> ‘Anthony! The man may be dying! And if Marcus really is responsible, we should—’
‘Enough, William! I have no desire to hear anything more on this subject. I do not permit anyone—anyone—to speak of my wife.’
‘But what are we going to do about Marcus? He will surely be found sooner or later. And, if Frobisher dies, Marcus could hang.’
There was no reply. Amy could hear retreating footsteps. It sounded as if Major Lyndhurst had stalked off without another word. Mr Lyndhurst-Flint was alone.
Amy went quickly back to the clothes press, offering up a silent prayer that Mrs Waller would arrive soon. For, if Mr Lyndhurst-Flint chose to enter the room, Amy would have no defence against his vile advances.
Recognising the housekeeper’s voice in the corridor outside, Amy let herself relax once more. She was safe from Mr Lyndhurst-Flint. For now.
Marcus was thoroughly bored. And frustrated. It had been weeks now, and still there was no news. Why could it not have been resolved by now? It had seemed so simple at the time.
It was not simple. Not simple at all. And the delay was threatening Marcus’s relationship with Anthony. If only Anthony knew the whole story of what had happened…but no one would dare to tell him. It was impossible to repeat such fearful insults to any man of honour. If Anthony learned what Frobisher had said of him, Anthony would certainly demand satisfaction. There would be even more bloodshed.
Marcus cursed silently. It was his own fault. He should have been better prepared. He should have given Anthony a plausible version of the quarrel, one that Anthony would accept without question. As it was, Anthony had listened to Marcus’s hastily concocted account and had claimed to be convinced. But as the days passed, Anthony’s doubts about Marcus’s assurances had clearly begun to grow. Marcus could not blame him. In Anthony’s place, he would have thought the same, no matter how close their friendship.
Marcus resumed his pacing up and down the dressing room. It was not much, but at least it was exercise of a kind. What he would not give for a good gallop in the fresh air!
At the mere thought of the joys of fresh air, Marcus sneezed loudly. Good grief! He couldn’t be sickening, could he? That would be the last straw. He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief. He had none. Yet another consequence of his hasty flight from London. He was already subsisting mostly on linen borrowed from Anthony so that the lower servants would not suspect his presence in the house. Since he was already wearing one of Anthony’s shirts, he might as well borrow his cousin’s handkerchieves as well.
He pulled open the top drawer of the chest and pushed aside the pile of carefully laundered handkerchieves, looking for the most worn.
But Anthony had no old or worn ones at the bottom of the pile. Instead, he had a tiny miniature of a pretty dark-haired lady, with a very fair complexion.
Intrigued, Marcus lifted the portrait out of the drawer to have a closer look. She was quite lovely. And also very young indeed, probably just out of the schoolroom. It was only then that Marcus realised, with something of a shock, that this must be Anthony’s mysterious wife, the woman who had deserted him while he was fighting for his country on the field at Waterloo.
Why on earth had Anthony kept it? Surely he could not love a woman who had treated him so foully? Not a word had been heard from her in four long years. She had done nothing to scotch the vile rumours that had become common currency among the ton. Frobisher, deep in his cups in that gaming hell, had parroted them without a qualm. That Anthony Lyndhurst had murdered his wife after catching her with her lover. That Anthony Lyndhurst had ensured that his wife’s lover fell on the field at Waterloo. That Anthony Lyndhurst, for all his wealth, was not a man whom a gentleman would wish to know.
Lies! Every word of it! There was no more upright and honourable man in England than Anthony Lyndhurst, as Marcus well knew. But the ton much preferred a juicy rumour to respectable truth. Those lies had acquired a status by virtue of constant repetition.
And because the woman had refused to appear to prove them wrong!
Marcus turned a little towards the window in order to look more closely at a woman who was clearly a stranger to duty and loyalty. He tried to find signs of duplicity or vice in her features. But he could not. It was a sweet face, with hazel eyes gazing candidly towards the portraitist. There was no sign of the woman she had become. Perhaps she had been corrupted by—
The door slammed with incredible violence. ‘Marcus!’ Anthony thundered.
Marcus looked up with a start. Anthony was clearly furious. His whole body was stiff with anger. He threw Marcus a look filled with hatred and, it seemed, disgust. Then he strode forward and snatched the portrait from Marcus’s frozen fingers, before pointedly turning his back.
Marcus was shaken. He had rarely seen Anthony so affected by anything. Anthony was always in control. Yet there had seemed to be a tremor in his fingers when he seized the portrait. And now, there was a rigid set to his shoulders that suggested he was struggling to master some powerful emotion.
‘Anthony, forgive me,’ Marcus began, taking a step towards his cousin and touching him lightly on the arm. ‘I had not intended to pry. I found it when I was looking for—’
Anthony shook off Marcus’s hand. He did not turn. ‘I have no wish to discuss what you were doing or what you intended, Marcus. You have betrayed my trust. Think yourself lucky that I, at least, have enough family loyalty not to betray you.’
Marcus was so shocked he could not speak. This was Anthony, his cousin, and his closest friend. He must not allow a rift to develop between them, especially over a traitorous woman. He took a deep breath, preparing to make an abject apology.
It was too late. Anthony pushed the miniature deep into his pocket and marched out of the room without a word.
And without once looking back.
Chapter Three
Amy rested her elbows on her bent knees and her chin on her hand. She had to come to a decision. So far, she had achieved nothing worthwhile. There had been that half-finished letter in Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s chamber, to be sure. But that held no clue to Ned’s whereabouts.
The only place left to search was the Major’s bedchamber. She had already checked all the others. And the office and the library downstairs.
She shifted uncomfortably on the thin mattress, but she knew she had no right to complain about her accommodation. She had a room to herself. Quite a spacious room, too, with a view of the lawn and, beyond it, the mile-long grassy ride leading to the North Lodge. Could Ned be somewhere in the woods flanking the ride? Injured? Perhaps even—? Amy shuddered. She could never begin to search all those woods. There were acres and acres of them.
She had to concentrate on the house. She would have to return to Major Lyndhurst’s bedchamber. And its mysterious occupant.
Amy felt her skin growing hot at the memory. It was embarrassment, of course. It must be. She had been such a fool to stand there, rooted, and let him put his hands on her…
Oh, dear. No. This was not the way to save Ned.
She swung her feet round on to the floor and stood up, automatically reaching for her spectacles and smoothing her skirt. She searched her mind for a few appropriate biblical sayings, preferably from the Old Testament. Amelia Dent was the kind of person who would delight in fire and brimstone, and the mortification of the flesh. Flesh…Amy swallowed hard at the vivid picture conjured up by that word, a picture of that naked man…If only he had been fat, or old, or ugly. But he was none of those things.
And he might still be there, waiting, ready to pounce on her the moment she entered the room. She could not go back there.
She must. She had no choice.
Not for the first time, Amy wondered why she had not confided in Sarah. Surely Sarah would have been able to tell her about the dark stranger? But, then again, perhaps not. For if Sarah knew about him, she would have said something, would she not? Sarah did not keep secrets from Amy. And she would be hurt to learn that Amy had kept a se
cret from her.
The truth was that Amy felt bound by that stupid promise. And, if she were honest with herself, she was intrigued, too. Why had he forbidden her to say anything to Major Lyndhurst? The Major, of all people, must have known there was a stranger in his chamber. And the Major’s valet, too. He must have—
Amy paused in the act of straightening her cap. Yes, Timms must know. Amy had heard him telling one of the young housemaids not to go into the Major’s bedchamber to clean unless Timms himself was there. It had seemed very strange at the time. Amy had assumed that Timms wanted to keep a protective eye on the Major’s belongings, that he was concerned that the maid might break things. But what if it were more than that? Smoky. Yes. It was smoky. And Ned had used that very same word in his letter.
The answer must be in Major Lyndhurst’s bedchamber.
And, as soon as the guests were safely downstairs, Amy was going to find it. No matter what the risk.
By the time Amy stood once more outside the Major’s bedchamber, she had persuaded herself that the dark stranger would certainly be gone. It was days since her encounter with him. It was impossible to believe that the Major was concealing the stranger on a long-term basis. The man might have been there for a day or two, no doubt for perfectly good reasons. Whoever he was, he must be gone by now. There was no risk of encountering him while she searched the Major’s room. It was absurd to think otherwise. Nevertheless, Amy had to take several deep breaths before she could force herself to turn the handle and enter the room.
She found herself alone. She gave a very audible sigh of relief and sagged back against the door, gazing round anxiously. The screen was folded back. There was no bath. There was not even a modest fire in the grate. The curtains stood open to the garden and the distant lake, letting in the golden evening light. It was a normal—and perfectly empty—bedchamber.
Yet she hesitated by the door, listening intently. She could see into part of the dressing room, but she could not be sure that it, too, was empty without going in. And what if he was there?
A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season Page 12
