‘I don’t like this, mistress, and so I tell you,’ muttered Betty as they waited for the summons to be answered.
‘No more do I,’ murmured Charity through smiling lips. ‘That is why I have brought you with me, for protection.’
They were shown inside through the ornate entrance hall and into an overfurnished drawing room. Charity adopted a stately pace and took the opportunity to note the layout of the hall—drawing room to the left, two closed doors to the right with the bust of Caesar in pride of place between them, sweeping staircase to the upper floors. She gestured to Betty to sit on the bench in the hall and wait for her.
She was left alone in the drawing room and immediately crossed to the double doors, peeping through into the dining room beyond. She had returned to the centre of the room by the time her hostess entered. Hannah was as overdecorated as her drawing room. Her yellow gown was in the latest mode, but bedecked with such an abundance of lace and ribbons that even when she stood still her gown fluttered and trembled of its own accord.
‘My husband is not at home.’
Charity heard the cold tone. She answered pleasantly and with total insincerity, ‘I am very sorry to hear that, but perhaps it is not such a bad thing. I came...’ She paused, looked away, her whole demeanour one of shy uncertainty. ‘I have been thinking about you since your visit to me.’ Hannah’s hostile look became tinged with bewilderment. Charity gave her a sad little smile. ‘Having no family begins to weigh upon one after a while.’
‘If I understand correctly, it was you who ran away,’ replied Hannah. She did not invite Charity to sit down, but continued to watch her carefully.
‘I was very young.’ Charity gave a sigh. ‘I realise now just how headstrong I was as a child. How headstrong I still am and prone to lose my temper all too quickly.’ She fixed Hannah with her most bewitching smile. ‘I hope you can forgive the hateful things I said to you the other day.’
‘I think it is your father you need to see. To give him your apology.’
‘You are very right, ma’am.’
‘But he will not be home for some time.’ Hannah moved towards the door. ‘Perhaps you could come back....’
‘Of course, but please, while I am here—’ She broke off, limpid blue eyes fixed upon Hannah’s face.
‘Yes?’
‘If I might see his Bible?’
Hannah’s brows shot up. Whatever she had been expecting, thought Charity grimly, it had not been this!
‘His Bible!’
Charity nodded, clasping her hands together before her in mute appeal.
‘Yes, if you please. The big leather-bound one. He used to read it to me every night.’ It was an effort not to shudder at the memory. ‘I would draw such comfort from seeing it.’
Hannah stared at her for a long moment, then with a shrug and a nod she went to the door. Charity followed her across the hall and through the second of the two doors. She found herself standing in a book-lined room with a large mahogany desk in the centre. Her father’s study. Her memory had not failed her. All her childhood she remembered her father keeping the family Bible in his study.
Along with the worn leather riding crop he had used to beat her.
No time to let the past weigh down upon her now. She needed all her energies for the task ahead.
‘Ah, here it is!’ She hurried across to a lectern by the window, noting as she did so that the study was above the kitchens and overlooked a small service yard. It was surrounded by a brick wall with a door leading to a back lane. The door would be locked, but the wall, although high, would not be impossible for a man to climb over. She laid her hands on the tooled leather cover of the Bible, saying reverently, ‘Father’s most treasured possession.’
She opened it and stared at the flyleaf, momentarily forgetting her role.
‘The Weston family record,’ said Hannah crisply, following her gaze. ‘Your name has been scratched out, but you will not wonder at that, when you consider the pain you have caused your father.’
Charity was gripping the lectern so hard that her knuckles had turned white, but she hoped the other woman would see that as a sign of grief and not the revulsion she actually felt to see the black scoring through her name, so heavy that it had scratched a hole in the page.
‘You are quite right,’ she answered quietly. ‘I have a great deal to repent, I think.’
But not running away from Phineas Weston. Never that.
She said, her voice a nice mixture of timidity and hopefulness, ‘Mrs Weston—Hannah—I wonder if you would let me...read a little from this holy book? I think it would help to—to soothe my soul.’ Without waiting for a reply, she carefully turned over the pages. From the hall came the faint sounds of knocking at the door. ‘Ah, Psalm Thirty-two, how appropriate.’ She put up her head and declaimed, ‘“Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered”.’
She continued to recite, even when the footman appeared. He murmured something to his mistress, who listened in growing irritation. She looked up at Charity as if to say something, then changed her mind and followed the servant from the room, leaving the door open behind her. As soon as she was out of sight Charity moved across to the desk while the words continued to fall from her lips without pause.
When Hannah returned to the study some five minutes later Charity was sitting at the desk, her head resting in her hands.
‘What in heaven’s name do you think you are doing?’
Charity raised her head and wiped away the tears that trembled on the ends of her lashes.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, but I was so overcome by the occasion that my legs refused to support me.’ She pushed herself to her feet. ‘I have angered you, I should leave.’
‘You should come back when Phineas is here to see you,’ replied Hannah, clearly uncomfortable. ‘I do not know what he would say if he knew you were here.’
‘Do you not think he would welcome this sinner back into the fold?’ Charity gave a sad little smile. ‘Perhaps you are right, ma’am.’ She went out into the hall, and Betty jumped to her feet at the sight of her mistress.
‘Are you staying in Beringham?’ asked Hannah as she showed her guest out. ‘Can I send a servant to fetch you when Mr Weston comes home?’
‘Alas, no. I will write to my father and we will appoint a mutually convenient time to meet.’ Charity put out her hand, then withdrew it again, saying with an arch look, ‘Ah, no. Perhaps we should not exchange such friendly gestures until we know my father’s wishes upon the matter.’ With a final, sad little smile Charity bid the astonished Hannah goodbye and sailed off down the street.
‘Oh, lordy, I don’t know when I have ever been so frightened,’ muttered Betty, hurrying along behind her.
‘I would have been a lot more frightened if Phineas had been present,’ retorted Charity.
‘Aren’t we going to look for Mr Durden?’ asked the maid as Charity turned into the inn yard to collect the gig.
‘No. It is better if we are not seen together here. We meet at Wheelston, as agreed.’
* * *
Ross was waiting in the stables when the gig drove into the yard. He called to Jed to see to the horse and strode out to help Charity to alight.
‘I was never more relieved than when I saw you leave Weston’s house,’ he told her, masking his concern with a tone of indifference.
‘No more so than I,’ she responded feelingly.
There was a hectic flush upon her cheeks and her eyes looked overbright. He wanted to fold her in his arms and tell her she was safe, but that could not be. If their suspicions were correct and they could prove Phineas to be a villain, then perhaps... He dare not even think so far ahead.
He suggested the maid should go into the kitchen, then turned back to Charity.
�
�Let us go into the house and you can tell me all about it. I left instructions for a fire to be kindled in my study, and refreshments to be waiting there for us—ratafia or brandy. I thought you might need something stronger than tea.’
They did not speak again until they reached his study. Ross went over to the side table, where decanters were set out in readiness, and as he filled two glasses he watched Charity from the corner of his eye. She paced about the little room, stripping off her gloves and then pulling them through her hands with quick, nervous gestures.
‘My father has done very well for himself since I left home,’ she said at last. ‘His house is overstuffed with every fashionable thing! Even my new stepmama is dressed in the highest kick of fashion, and very unbecomingly, too!’
She broke off, sending him a glance full of apology but he shrugged.
‘You may say what you like about Hannah. It is a long time since I thought of her with anything other than abhorrence.’
‘She is very pretty, but there is a hardness about her, a calculating look in her eye.’
‘She is a good mate for your father, then.’
He was pleased to hear her laugh, so much more natural than the brittle smile she had given him upon her arrival.
‘Yes, I think you are right. He will not be able to bully her as he did his other wives.’
‘And you had the opportunity to see the layout of the house?’
Her answering look positively brimmed with mischief.
‘Better than that. The diversion we planned worked very well. I was in the study when your messenger called, and Hannah was obliged to leave me alone for a while, but she thought I was reading from the Bible.’ Again she laughed, the sound raising his spirits like sunshine. ‘I gave a performance worthy of the great Sarah Siddons herself. I rattled off Psalm Thirty-two in the grand manner. I am not Phineas Weston’s daughter for nothing, and the psalms were drummed into me from an early age. However, it is fortunate that my new stepmama is not so familiar with the Bible as Phineas, for I pretended it had opened fortuitously at the Psalms, when in fact I was looking at Deuteronomy!’
She sank down in a chair beside the fire and accepted a glass of ratafia. Ross frowned when he saw the way her hands were shaking.
‘I should never have let you go there. It was not necessary—’
‘Oh, but it was for me. How can I be free of my past until I have faced it?’ Her smile widened. ‘And I have the letter.’
‘You stole it! But when Phineas discovers that—’
‘No, no, I knew if I took it that Phineas would notice and be on his guard.’ She laughed and pointed to her head. ‘It is in here. I memorised it. Now bring me paper and a pen and I shall write it all down for you.’
Chapter Ten
The sun was high in the cloudless blue sky when Ross rode into Scarborough. The restless waves of the German Ocean danced and glittered in the distance, and brought back all the old longing for the naval career that had been snatched away from him. Regret, bitter as gall, rose in his throat, but he forced it down. No point in worrying about what was past. It was the future that concerned him now, a future that might—if everything worked out—include Charity Weston.
During his ride to the coast he had recalled their evening together, how he had watched her as she sat at his desk, furiously writing down the letter she had memorised. She’d been too engrossed to look up and catch him off guard. He’d made the most of the opportunity, taking in the full glory of that shining hair, the long curling lashes that swept down over her eyes, the straight little nose and determined chin.
He’d wanted to kiss every part of her beautiful face, but most of all he’d wanted to kiss her mouth, to taste her again as he had in her dressing room, when her inexpert but fervent response had fired him with desire. He’d known other women, but none had roused him in quite the same way. He had watched her as she bent over the paper, and had thought how comfortable it was to have her with him. If only he could keep her there.
But what did he have to offer, save a crumbling estate and a drawer full of debts? Even if he could prove that Phineas was a spy, his own circumstances would not change. He remembered turning his eyes to the smoke-grimed ceiling, thinking he must be the most ineligible bachelor in Allingford.
Then some slight sound had brought his attention back to the table to see Charity sitting back in her chair, a little smile playing about those luscious red lips.
‘That is it. Complete, verbatim.’
She had covered two sheets of paper with elegant, sloping letters.
‘Surely not. How can you recall everything in such detail?’
‘It is a gift I have always had, to be able to read something and remember it easily, and my years in the theatre have only made it stronger. Trust me, this is word for word what was said in the letter.’
Trust me. He stared out now across the sunlit waves, smiling at the memory of Charity sitting in his chair, at his desk. His glorious golden girl. A cloud blocked the sun and the sudden chill brought him back to reality. She was not his and never would be, not while her father held such power.
He stabled his horse and made his way to a neat little house in a quiet side street, where he was informed by a bobbing maid that Captain Armstrong had gone to the spa to take the waters and had not yet returned. The delay was frustrating, but Ross realised it could have been worse, since his friend might well have left Scarborough without informing him. He therefore went off to while away a couple hours in the company of the seamen at the harbour.
* * *
When he returned to the house some hours later the same little maid informed him that Captain Armstrong was expecting him. He was shown into a small but comfortable parlour, where he found his friend sitting in a chair beside the window.
‘No, no, John, don’t get up,’ said Ross quickly, coming into the room.
‘Don’t think I could if I tried,’ came the laughing reply. ‘My energy is spent after going to the spa!’
‘You are taking the waters, I believe,’ said Ross, pulling up a chair. ‘Is that aiding your recovery?’
‘Aye, it’s kill or cure, my friend. Have you seen the place? The spring is at the bottom of a cliff. It’s ironic that one needs to be fit as a fiddle to get up and down all the damned steps! But enough of this—tedious stuff, to be talking of one’s ailments. Tell me instead what brings you back to Scarborough again so soon.’
‘A serious matter, John. You’ve stood by me since I left the navy in disgrace, so I wanted your opinion.’ Ross frowned. ‘All the way here I have been wondering how much to tell you,’ he said heavily. ‘It will make no sense unless you know the whole—’
‘Wait.’ John stopped him with an imperious hand. ‘Is this going to take long? Hmm, and if it is serious, too, then we will need to refresh ourselves. Will brandy suit you, or would you prefer grog?’
Having called to his maidservant to bring in the brandy bottle, the captain poured a generous helping into two glasses and handed one to Ross, commanding him sternly to tell him everything and look lively about it.
* * *
‘So there you have it,’ said Ross, some time later. ‘You may brand me for a villain, John, but my deeds pale into nothing compared to what I believe Weston is involved in.’
‘I’ll brand thee a fool,’ growled the captain. ‘Taking to highway robbery is the road to the gallows, nothing more, but I admit this Weston sounds a nasty piece. Never did like preachers using the Lord’s word to justify their bullying ways. But you say he’s been corresponding with someone in Yarmouth?’
‘Aye, someone purporting to be his brother, although Char—Mrs Weston says her father is an only child.’ Ross drew a folded paper from his coat and held it out. ‘This is the copy she made of the last letter we know of, the one that arrived for Weston two days ago.
’
He waited in silence while his friend took out his spectacles and read the document.
‘And you think this is all coded references to the military preparations?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ replied Ross. ‘Weston has no Cousin George and the family he says are gathering in Yarmouth could well refer to soldiers and ships.’ He saw the frowning look in his friend’s eyes and gave a snort of impatience. ‘Come, John, any naval man worthy of the name would know that Yarmouth is the ideal place from which to launch an attack upon Bonaparte’s northern fleet. And look at the names he cites—he says Richard and Robert are in town. Captains Dacres and Stopford, perhaps? And he says Uncle Sam is expected any day—that could be Commodore Sir Samuel Hood. And his very last line—he says James is expected to organise the festivities and he will advise him of the arrangements! If that isn’t a reference to Admiral James Gambier and the date he plans to sail, I don’t know what is.’
John returned his frowning gaze to the paper.
‘It could be so and you make a good case for it, Ross, but—’
He broke off, shaking his head, and Ross said sharply, ‘Well? Out with it, man.’
John took off his spectacles and fixed Ross with a solemn gaze.
‘This is not proof, Ross, it is no more than hearsay, since it was written out by Weston’s daughter. Have you considered that this young lady—if she is so estranged from her father as you suggest—might be seeking to punish him? She may have made it all up—’
‘No, never!’
‘Let us say she embellished it, then. Do you truly believe that she read this letter only once and remembered it all so perfectly?’
‘Remembering lines is her trade.’
John sat back in his chair, smiling slightly.
‘I know. I saw her when she played in Scarborough last year and was captivated. She is certainly a beauty, Ross, but for all that, can you trust her?’
At the Highwayman's Pleasure Page 19
