Scandal and Miss Markham

by Janice Preston

  ‘I know. I am sorry. I am just...’

  Frustrated. Angry. Impatient.

  ‘I am listening.’ She mollified her tone. ‘Do you have a plan?’

  He gave her a twisted smile. ‘I am not sure plan is quite the right word. It is four days since I wrote to Leo. I would expect that whomever he sent to Yarncott to enquire into the fire at the inn will get here today. If we can prove my cousin was a guest at that inn the night it burned down, then we will have some proof that Jasper survived and the man buried was Henry Mannington.’

  He sighed, thrusting a hand through his hair. ‘It will not be easy to make any accusation stick.’

  ‘Then why not let me confront him? If you are with me, he cannot harm me. He might be so shocked he will let something slip.’

  ‘No! Absolutely not. I am letting you nowhere near that villain.’ He frowned and she thought she detected a hint of guilt in his eyes. ‘Thea...with everything that happened yesterday... I didn’t have a chance to tell you this. Mannington is throwing a house party at Crackthorpe Manor, starting this afternoon, with the Temples as guests of honour.’

  She swallowed. ‘How long for?’

  ‘Two days. Thea... Mannington has some business scheme that he has been dangling under Temple’s nose, as a carrot to a donkey. This party...this gathering...is more about business than pleasure. Temple is already keen to invest and I fear it is the same sort of scheme with which he swindled your father.

  ‘I am honour bound to warn Temple—although I worry he will see only the usefulness of Mannington and not realise the danger—but before I warn him I want to use this house party to snoop around Crackthorpe Manor and see if I can find any proof of Mannington’s real identity.’

  ‘So...’ her voice quivered despite her effort to prevent it ‘...you will be gone until tomorrow?’

  Vernon shoved back his chair and rounded the table to crouch by Thea’s side. He put his hand on her thigh and, in spite of her misery, she felt the echo of pleasure throb in her core.

  ‘I shall be back here tonight. The moon is nearly full and it is only four miles away. But...’ He leapt to his feet and paced the small parlour, back and forth. ‘You know the man, Thea. Would he compromise Cordelia to force a marriage, do you think? I worry my presence will drive him to take desperate measures if he thinks he might lose such a wealthy prize.’

  Their eyes met and any disappointment that he would be spending so much time away from her vanished beneath the sick fear she felt on Cordelia’s behalf.

  ‘Is he capable of such a thing?’

  ‘I think him capable of almost anything,’ Thea said. ‘You have to warn her...and her father, too, before you leave the Manor to come back here. They must be on their guard.’

  ‘I shall,’ Vernon said grimly.

  ‘What about the other guests? What if you are recognised?’

  ‘I doubt I shall be. I understand most of the guests will be businessmen and their wives. They do not move in the same circles as me.’

  Those words reminded Thea of the gulf that still yawned between the two of them, that Vernon, no matter how kind and no matter how much he appeared to desire her...

  And does he? Or is it merely that I am the only available female and I threw myself at him last night?

  He was an aristocrat. Brother to a duke. And Thea...she belonged in the same circles as those businessmen of whom he spoke.

  Her pain at that thought was submerged by the agony of Daniel’s death and her concern for the Temples, and it was utterly dwarfed by the thirst for revenge.

  ‘You must warn them but, before you do, please do what you can to find out the truth about Mannington.’

  She dropped her gaze to her plate, to hide the tears that had gathered without warning. How could she sit here, calmly discussing Daniel’s killer? She was aware that Vernon had regained his feet. He took her hands and urged her, too, to stand.

  ‘I know just what you need. Come.’ He grabbed her cap from where she had hooked it on the back of her chair and plonked it on her head, before urging her towards the door. ‘Let us go for a ride. I don’t know about you, but I find myself in need of a dose of fresh air and the rush of wind in my face. What do you say to a gallop?’

  She forced a smile. Staying indoors, sinking into the mire of her grief, would help no one. And the thought of getting away from the inn and spending time with Vernon, whilst she still could, was appealing. ‘I say let’s go.’

  Then she frowned. ‘Wait!’

  Vernon, halfway to the door, stopped and spun on his heel to face her, his brows raised.

  ‘Tell me again what Cordelia told you about Bullet,’ she said.

  ‘He ran off. Many of the people on the bridge who saw what happened raced down to the riverbank. They would have been shouting and screaming—enough to terrify the most placid animal.’

  ‘So why did he not come home?’ She clutched Vernon’s hand. ‘Do you not see? Daniel...he could have survived. He could have got Bullet and—’

  ‘And what? Thea.’ The pity in his green eyes made her heart sink. ‘If Daniel did survive, where is he? Why has he not been in contact? Bullet will turn up sooner or later. Come, enough of this. Let us go for that gallop.’

  * * *

  No sooner had Vernon left for Crackthorpe Manor that afternoon than Thea began to pace. She could not settle. She tried to read, but she could not concentrate. Instead, she picked over all that had happened since the day Daniel had left home. Their refreshing morning ride along the river—this time straight past the gipsy encampment—had temporarily assuaged Thea’s desperation to take action. Some action. Any action. But now she was once again cooped up in this inn whilst Vernon investigated Mannington.

  And the knowledge that he would also be with Cordelia Temple—the Temples had set off in Mannington’s carriage at noon—did nothing to help. Frustration and insecurity scoured her insides despite the night before. How could Vernon possibly prefer a woman like Thea over one like Cordelia?

  I wish I could go there and see for myself what is happening.

  Around and around the parlour she paced, like a caged animal. If only she could do something to help.

  Then she stopped. Stared at the window, her thoughts whirling.

  Bullet! What if...?

  Why did I not think of that before? What if Mannington has him?

  She would recognise him in an instant. To Vernon, he would just be another grey horse. She went to the window. The weather was fine but breezy, the heat not so oppressive since yesterday’s thunderstorm had cleared the air. Vernon had pointed out Crackthorpe Manor—its stone walls glowing a warm buttery yellow in the June sunshine—as they had turned away from the bank of the Severn and returned to the road that led from Worcester to Great Malvern.

  I am sure I can find it again.

  There was no one to stop her as long as she could evade Bickling and his inevitable awkward questions. She rummaged through her saddlebag and extracted the pistol she had packed when she left home to follow after Vernon. It occurred to her that she was doing the same thing—following him once again, against his express orders.

  Orders. Pfft. He cannot tell me what to do.

  A commotion arose in the street outside and she crossed to peer again from the window. A mud-spattered carriage had drawn up outside the Crown and, as she watched, one of the two men on the box jumped down and ran to let down the steps and open the door. An elegant gentleman with black hair emerged. He settled his hat upon his head then turned, reaching to help someone else from the vehicle.

  She leaned forward, wondering if these newcomers might recognise Vernon. A fashionably-dressed lady came into sight, pausing on the top step, and then Horwell appeared on the pavement below, bowing, and Thea spied Bickling hurrying out from the passage that led to the stables. H
ere was the perfect opportunity for her to leave without awkward questions and opposition. Determined to grab it with both hands, Thea did not stay to watch, but rushed down the stairs and out the rear door. She sped across the yard and into the stables, where she was brought up short by a figure standing in the shadows inside the door.

  ‘Oh! You startled me.’

  The man moved into the light. ‘Sorry.’

  Thea blinked. It was the Gipsy they had seen at the camp, the day they first met the Temples.

  What is he doing here?

  A groom coming out of the tack room at the rear distracted her, and when she looked again, the Gipsy had vanished.

  ‘Yes, master?’

  She shook the puzzle of the Gipsy from her mind. ‘Saddle the black, will you?’

  It was done in no time. She was up in the saddle and riding away from the Crown within ten minutes of first thinking of the idea and without being noticed by either Bickling or Horwell, both still occupied with the smart couple and their companion, an elderly, stooped man with white hair.

  Thea kicked Star into a trot. She would ride to Crackthorpe Manor. Tether Star somewhere out of sight and then...somehow...she would search Mannington’s stables. Without being seen. Her heart faltered.

  What if Mannington sees me? Recognises me?

  Stop this! He’ll be busy with his guests, as will his servants, too busy to notice one extra strange face around the place. She fingered the hard shape of the pistol in her pocket, gaining comfort from it.

  * * *

  She found Crackthorpe Manor with little difficulty. The house and stables were sheltered on three sides by a narrow belt of woodland and Thea approached the buildings through the trees, not bold enough—or foolish enough—to ride up the main carriageway. She tethered Star to a sturdy sycamore in the middle of the belt and continued on foot to where the trees gave way to smooth, verdant lawns. Here, she could see the stable yard set to the side and behind the house, at a distance of a hundred yards or so. All appeared quiet there but, from the far side of the house and over the sounds of leaves rustling in the breeze and the birdsong, she could make out the faint drone of conversation and the occasional guffaw of laughter. The guests had arrived, then, and the party had begun.

  She examined the stables again, noticing a track leading behind them and through the trees. Did she dare? She could look around openly and search for Bullet, and where better to hide Star than in plain sight? She ran back to her mare and leapt into the saddle and soon found that track. She pulled the peak of her cap to shade her eyes, and headed Star towards the stables.

  As she rode through the stone pillars of the gateway a groom emerged from the barn.

  ‘Afternoon,’ she said, deepening still further her already deep voice. ‘I’ve brought a message for my uncle, Lord Boyton. He is a guest here.’

  ‘Boyton? Oh, him. He’s the one with that pair of blacks.’ A note of envy crept into his voice. ‘’andsome pair, they are, and no mistake.’ The groom took Star as Thea slid to the ground. ‘D’you know the way?’

  ‘Yes. Are there many guests? Their horses must keep you busy.’

  ‘There aren’t too many: them from Birmingham shared carriages and the guvnor sent our carriage to Worcester to bring some others, so it’s not too bad.’

  The groom led Star into the barn and into a vacant stall where he tethered her before loosening her girth. Thea followed, trying to penetrate the dim interior with eyes accustomed to bright sunlight, searching for Bullet.

  ‘I’m trying to persuade my uncle to buy me a grey hunter,’ she said. ‘Do you have any greys here?’

  ‘Greys? Only the dappled mare down there and she’s a pig. Don’t like ’em myself...too much hard work to keep ’em clean.’

  Disappointment dragged at Thea. This had been a waste of time. She had been foolish to think...the phrase clutching at straws came to mind. She should return to Worcester. But she had told the groom she had brought a message for Vernon. He suspected nothing now, but he would think it odd if she left without seeing Vernon first.

  ‘I had better go and find my uncle,’ she said. ‘Thank you for taking care of my mare.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Vernon’s bad feeling about this house party—and about Henry Mannington’s intentions towards the Temples and, in particular, Cordelia—intensified as he was introduced to his fellow guests. It seemed that Henry Mannington harboured greater ambition than Jasper Connor ever had. Not content with attempting to reel in Samuel Temple, it appeared—from the snippets of conversation Vernon overheard—that all the guests here were eager to invest in this ‘opportunity of a lifetime’. Mannington was clever. He had clearly prepared his ground in advance...he had no need to use further powers of persuasion. His guests seemed quite capable of selling his scheme to each other and, simultaneously, themselves. It was depressing there were so many fools in this world. Mayhap they deserved to be fleeced.

  Vernon sipped his wine and wandered along the terrace to the corner. Mannington had sent his carriage to convey the Temples to Crackthorpe and they had been here since noon, sharing luncheon with their host before the remaining guests arrived. Cordelia—looking, it had to be said, a little uncomfortable—had been persuaded to step into the role of hostess, as there was no lady of the house. Vernon had not had a chance to speak privately to her; Mannington had kept her occupied and mostly by his side.

  He propped his shoulders against the wall and planned how and where to begin his search. On this side of the house four French windows faced on to the terrace, the two furthest from him standing open. They led into a salon, through which Vernon had been shown upon arrival.

  Most of the guests were outside, although a couple of the ladies remained in the salon, complaining of the bright sun and the brisk breeze. Altogether there were twenty people in attendance, including himself and Mannington, but only five of them were women. Temple was holding court in the middle of the largest group gathered on the terrace, but... Vernon straightened, every muscle tensing ready for action...there was no sign of either Mannington or Cordelia.

  They were here five minutes ago.

  He sauntered along the terrace, heading for the open windows, peering again through the other windows he passed to see if they were inside that room—a corner room, furnished as a sitting room, with two further windows that overlooked the rear of the house. There was no sign of either Mannington or Cordelia and Vernon’s concern mounted. Then, as he neared the first of the open windows, he released his pent-up breath as Cordelia stepped through, Mannington on her heels.

  ‘Miss Temple.’ Vernon bowed. ‘I thought you had deserted me.’

  He caught her flash of relief before her face relaxed into a smile. ‘Lord Boyton, how pleasant to see a familiar face.’

  Behind her, Mannington’s smile widened but it did not reach his eyes. Vernon proffered his arm.

  ‘Would you care for a stroll in the garden?’

  Mannington stepped forward, between Vernon and Cordelia. ‘Miss Temple is eager to rejoin her father, Boyton.’ He turned to Cordelia. ‘If you care to see the garden later, Cordelia, I shall be delighted to escort you. I can tell you anything you wish to know about the flowers growing there.’

  ‘You must be a keen plantsman, to be able to put a name to so many flowers, Mannington,’ Vernon drawled. He had caught a glimpse of the abundantly stocked borders on his approach to the house. ‘Most impressive in such a short period of time.’

  ‘A short period of time, Lord Boyton?’ Cordelia’s smile was perplexed. ‘How so, when this is Mr Mannington’s family home?’

  ‘It is?’ Vernon held Mannington’s glare. ‘I must have misunderstood. My mistake.’

  A muscle leapt in the side of Mannington’s jaw.

  ‘I suggest you pay more attention to the facts in future,
Boyton,’ he said silkily, ‘or you might discover that misinformation can result in all kinds of unfortunate consequences.’

  Vernon was conscious that Cordelia had paled as she looked from one man to the other. He laughed and leaned close to put his lips to her ear, drawing a scowl from Mannington.

  ‘It would appear our Mr Mannington does not take kindly to being teased, Miss Temple,’ he said, loud enough for Mannington to hear. ‘It is, I fear, a serious shortcoming for a man to have no sense of humour.’

  ‘Come, Cordelia.’ Mannington cupped her elbow in a proprietary manner and indicated the group that included her father. ‘I shall escort you to your father.’

  Vernon maintained his polite smile as Cordelia shook her head and pulled her arm from Mannington’s grasp. She smiled at him, patted his hand, and said, ‘No, you go ahead, sir. I know how eager you are to discuss business, but I shall be of more use entertaining your female guests. Go on, now.’ She made a shooing motion with hand.

  Reluctance in every line of his body, Mannington stalked off to join his other guests. Vernon recalled Cordelia’s look of relief when she had first seen him.

  ‘Has he been bothering you, Miss Temple?’

  ‘Only in as much as he appears to believe there is an understanding between us, which I have assured him is not the case. It is nothing I cannot handle, however.’

  ‘I trust you are correct. Remember my warnings about fortune hunters and, please, take care.’ On the drive over to Crackthorpe, a question had begun to plague Vernon. ‘I apologise for resurrecting an unpleasant memory, but I must ask...on the day that man drowned in the Severn, did Mannington call upon you during the day? Or later that evening?’

  She stared up at him. ‘Why, no. He was due to dine with us, but he did not keep his appointment and then, later, he sent word that he had left Birmingham later than intended and hence arrived home too late to join us.’

  Vernon’s pulse kicked. At last! Their first proof... The maid at the Royal Hotel had told them Daniel was angry at missing Mannington, who had left Birmingham early that day. Not late. And the information settled a discrepancy that had nagged at Vernon: Mannington had been in his carriage; Daniel’s assailant had left on horseback. Vernon hadn’t been able to reconcile the two. But...what if Mannington had driven straight home, then ridden back to Worcester to dine with the Temples? And what if he had then come face to face with Daniel at the far side of that bridge? Witnesses had spoken of an altercation...the two men running...shouting...raised fists and the slash of a knife. He cast a swift glance at where Mannington stood talking to his guests.