Harlequin Historical November 2013 - Bundle 2 of 2

by Carol Arens

  ‘May I come in?’

  His mother stood on the threshold, her aubergine satin incongruous amid the rough furnishings of the estate office. He stood up as she walked into the room, but did not invite her to take a seat.

  ‘I will not stay long,’ she said, having understood his mood exactly. ‘l have come to speak to you of your young friend.’

  He stiffened. ‘What of her?’

  ‘She is a lively young lady, is she not? Intelligent, sharp. Beautiful, too. You could do far worse if you should be hanging out for a wife.’

  ‘I am not,’ he said shortly.

  ‘That is a pity. I think she would suit you well.’

  He shifted irritably on to one foot. ‘Cut to the chase, Mama, what is it you want?’

  ‘For once, dearest Justin, I want nothing. But you do, I think.’

  He did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Forgive me for being blunt, but your knowledge is imperfect and I would ask you not to interfere.’

  ‘I have no intention of doing so. I have come merely to remind you that intransigence is like to lose you what you most want.’

  ‘I thank you for your concern, Mama. However, there is no need for you to bother yourself further.’

  ‘In other words, mind my own business. I will, I promise, but it seems to me that the pair of you are behaving rather stupidly. Like star-crossed lovers. But you are not in a play, my dear, this is real life, and as an old hand at it you should take my advice and not play too long.’

  ‘Is that all?’ He was wishing his mother at the other end of the world.

  ‘It is all—a simple message. You love her—I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice—but you wish to deny it to yourself.’

  He refused to look her in the eyes, fixing his gaze some distance away at a broken floorboard.

  ‘You love her,’ his mother continued inexorably, ‘and love does not come easily or often. Do not let it slip through your fingers.’

  Her skirts swished through the doorway and she was gone. He closed the door loudly behind her and grabbed a cluster of files that had been gathering dust on a nearby cabinet. He would work on these, he decided, anything to keep his mother’s voice at bay. If he knew Lizzie so little, how could Lavinia be an expert? Whatever she might claim, his mother was simply interfering and no doubt enjoying it. She must already be bored with Chelwood and looking for something to enliven her day. He opened the first file.

  But what if she were right and they were both of them behaving as stupidly as she said? What if the fears that had been tormenting him for the past hour were will-o’-the-wisps? A heaviness sapped at his spirits—it would change nothing, he thought. He had flirted for a short while with the idea that his future might be different, yet he knew that it could not be. He owed too much—to Lucien Delacourt who had been both mother and father to him, to his army comrades who had supported him through thick and thin. He must keep to the path he had chosen. His mother had advised him to marry, but she took no note of loyalties, of duties that must be met. To Lavinia, the military was what men played at until they found something better. She had nagged his poor father to distraction until he had given up the world he loved, and for what? He closed the file and returned it to the pile with a loud smack, sending clouds of dust rising thickly into the air. Yet in one thing she was right, damn her. He had never felt so deeply for any person on earth as he did for Lizzie Ingram, and he knew that he never would.

  But he must forget such feelings, he thought grimly, put behind him the role of lovesick swain, and return to the life he knew. Chelwood was in better shape than it had been for years and he need tarry no longer. In the next few days he would hand the reins to Mellors and say goodbye to his neighbours. They would not be surprised for he had already hinted at his departure. A few hours more and he would be packed and ready to leave—back to a man’s world. That’s where he belonged and where he would stay.

  A sudden squall of rain beat at the window. The weather had turned and a storm was setting in. He sat for long minutes staring through the glass, then, irritated by his lack of action, he picked up the piece of paper lying crumpled at the side of the desk and smoothed it out to read again. Rosanna had been swift to keep her promise and their meeting was already arranged for this very night. But there were hours yet to pass before eleven struck and he did not know how he was to fill them. He must put aside his warring emotions and hold to the fact that tonight at last he would discover Gil’s fate and tomorrow he would brave one last encounter with the woman he had loved.

  Once again he sat down at the battered desk and this time took up his quill. His note to Brede House took some time to compose and several wasted sheets lay in the paper basket before he was satisfied with the result. He kept the note crisp and neutral, merely informing her that he had heard from Rosanna and that their meeting was tonight. If it was convenient to Miss Ingram, he would be at Brede House at midday on the morrow when he would convey whatever information he had garnered.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lizzie turned the note over again and for the hundredth time read its cold, unfeeling message. It was clear now that when Justin called tomorrow, it would be their last meeting. In a short while she would hear through acquaintances no doubt, that he had left Chelwood Place to return to Spain and that would be the end of everything. How had it come to this? Twenty-four hours ago she had lain within his arms, deliriously happy, yet now... She let the note drift to the bed and wandered to her window. The rain had stopped, but mists were already stealing out of the twilight and an ice-cold moon was rising in the sky. Winter had arrived and all she had to look forward to was this quiet house and the narrow, loveless life that went with it. A sheaf of drawings was laid on the window seat and she flicked idly through the pages, stopping at one that she had hidden well from sight. The sketch had been done only that morning, just before she set off for the fair—she and Justin entwined in each other’s arms—and she could not tear her eyes from it. Slowly, overwhelmingly, waves of sorrow built and toppled within her. But then Hester’s voice was sounding from below, calling on her to attend Mrs Croft, and she hastily stifled the sobs that threatened.

  ‘You called for me, Mrs Croft. Are you ready to retire?’

  Henrietta was propped upright in her favourite fireside chair, her feet raised on an old brown-velvet stool. A bright fire burned in the grate and, despite the gloomy furnishings, the room looked warm and welcoming.

  ‘Not quite ready, my dear. I shall read a little while longer I think, but I have news for you. Good news.’

  Lizzie was quickly alert. Had Justin regretted the cold note and sent another message, one that sought to make amends? A ripple of joy spread itself outwards, radiating through her whole body.

  ‘A message has arrived,’ Mrs Croft continued. The rippling grew intense and she looked eagerly across at the old lady. ‘Two messages, in fact. They came this morning, but in some strange fashion became entangled with my books from the circulating library. Hester has only just this minute found them.’

  If they had come this morning, neither could be a message from Justin. Lizzie’s joy died as instantly as it had flamed.

  ‘Who are they from?’ She tried to infuse her voice with interest.

  ‘From Clementine, my dear. She promised to pass on any news she had of your father, and she has done exactly that.’

  For a moment, Lizzie was stunned. ‘How is he?’ she stuttered. ‘He is not...’

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, Elizabeth, he has suffered no harm. On the contrary, he has been given leave. And from what you say, it is not before time—the poor man has had little respite from the fighting.’

  ‘My father is returning from Spain?’ She was still trying to grasp the news.

  ‘He is. Is that not wonderful, my dear? And Clementine writes that she has given him our direction
and he will be with us as soon as he can make passage across the Channel. I must get Hester to clean and tidy the large room next to yours,’ she muttered, a little flustered at the thought of this new housekeeping. ‘At the moment it is full of odds and ends and we must make sure it looks a deal more inviting for Colonel Ingram’s arrival.’

  Lizzie could not bring herself to speak. For years she had been longing for this moment and now it had come, she was struck dumb. Somehow the Colonel’s homecoming was not as welcome as it should be. She felt a traitorous guilt. She should be ecstatic and she wasn’t. She knew why, of course. Her heart was broken and she wanted no one to know, least of all her father. He would be unsympathetic. He might even be angry with her that she had become involved with a fellow officer. He would think that she was up to her old tricks again and still could not be trusted. And she would have to put on a shiny face, a façade that pretended she was whole and that whatever she had enjoyed with Justin Delacourt had been a silly diversion.

  Henrietta was looking at her thoughtfully. ‘It is good news, I hope, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It has taken me by surprise, that is all.’

  ‘Naturally it has, my dear. But you will have a few weeks, I imagine, before your father is here, a few weeks to plan how you will spend your time with him. While he is with us, you are to have a holiday.’

  ‘I cannot do that, Mrs Croft.’ Feeling the way she did, to be always with the Colonel would be torture.

  ‘You can and you will. I insist.’

  ‘You are most kind,’ was all she could murmur.

  ‘Now tell me about your afternoon.’

  It was the last thing she wanted, but she had already allowed her feelings to show too much. She sensed the old lady’s sharp eyes on her and wondered if Hester had been telling tales. The maid had returned early from the fair and, when Lizzie had come through the door, had stared in surprise at the young woman’s flushed face.

  ‘It was a very large event,’ she began, ‘but then I imagine you know that—I was surprised at its size...’ Her voice trailed off. Really, she could not bear to think of the afternoon.

  ‘And Justin? He was there to escort you—escort both of us, if I remember rightly. I trust he proved a helpful guide.’

  ‘We met as arranged.’ It was inadequate, but even so Lizzie could not keep the quaver from her voice.

  ‘I have always found Justin excellent company and today is likely to be one of the last times he can play host,’ Mrs Croft said carefully. ‘James Armitage called while you were out. His wife is still deeply distressed for there has been no news of their son. And now James thinks there never will be. He mentioned that Justin is preparing to return to the Peninsula very shortly and when he goes, Caroline’s last hope will go with him.’

  ‘Sir Justin is to leave Chelwood so soon?’ The lump in her throat was so large that she felt sure she would never again be able to swallow.

  ‘Why, yes, my dear. He was always set on returning to Spain once Chelwood was on its feet. I fear that we must get ready to say goodbye to him.’ Her voice was kindly, but firm. She is telling me to abandon any foolish hopes I may have cherished, Lizzie thought.

  Mrs Croft settled herself more comfortably. ‘Could you pass me the newspaper, Elizabeth? I will read the political columns. They are bound to make me sleepy, but you need not see me to bed this evening—Hester is on hand to help.’

  Lizzie could only nod miserably and walk towards the door, but her hand had barely turned the doorknob when Mrs Croft said abruptly, ‘Stop! I had almost forgotten’, and began to rummage in the folds of the bedspread.

  ‘Here, my dear, here it is—the other message.’ Lizzie walked back to the bed and took the proffered envelope. ‘Clementine enclosed it with her letter. It must be important for she paid extra for it to be delivered. You must read it immediately!’

  * * *

  Once in her room, she tore open the envelope and drew out three closely written sheets. The handwriting was vaguely familiar and when she flicked the pages to find a signature, she knew why. Piers, Piers Silchester! She skimmed his hundreds of words, sentence after sentence, hoping she was happy, feeling sure the sea air must be bracing, imagining her employer to be a woman of generous spirit. She frowned, trying to find a purpose. And there it was—on the final page.

  ...But even the most benevolent employer, Miss Ingram, must leave you wishing for your own establishment and it is for that reason that I have dared once more to approach you. Miss Bates has given me kind permission to write and ask if you might now be willing to consider my offer of marriage...

  She dropped the letter on the floor, too agitated to read more. At this lowest ebb of her fortunes, nothing could be less welcome than the renewed attentions of a man for whom she felt so little. She would rather stay a companion until she was eighty than agree to Piers’s proposal. He was offering her an establishment, he said. She did not want an establishment, she wanted a home. He was offering her affection, but she did not want this cautious, tepid love. She rejected the limp sentiments, the mediocre emotions that filled the pages before her. She wanted fierce love, words that scorched the very paper they sat upon. She wanted Justin’s words of love, only Justin’s.

  But she would not get them, ever. Listlessly, she sank down on to the window seat, a shawl draped around her shoulders to keep warm. There was no point in going to bed for she would not sleep. All she could do was sit and think. The letter was soon forgotten, her mind too busy replaying the angry exchanges with the man she loved, too busy questioning why they had quarrelled so badly. But why question the unreasoning fury she’d felt? He was a soldier and she did not trust him. Experience had taught her to doubt: her father had abandoned her, Victor had taken gross advantage of her youth and now Justin. Perhaps, she thought mournfully, she did not deserve a man who was true, who would take her heart, but keep it safe. She might be pretty and lively and spirited, but that had not been sufficient to keep her father by her side. So why should it be any different now she was a grown woman? If she were honest, she had never quite believed it would last, never quite believed that a beautiful man such as Justin could be hers. And it appeared she had been right to doubt him, even if she’d jumped to conclusions and was wrong about Rosanna. He was planning to leave Rye and very soon, yet he had said nothing of it; she’d had to learn the news from her employer. Justin had enjoyed her and was moving on, that was the sum of it. Their quarrel today had given him the perfect excuse to walk away.

  She heard the clock in the hall strike eleven. Two hours had passed, yet she’d hardly noticed. The house was deathly quiet and she wandered over to the bed and lay down on the coverlet. There was no possibility of sleep, but she must rest. She would need to have herself under control when Justin came calling. Something scratched at her neck and she extracted his abandoned note and held it up to flickering candlelight. Three letters in one day and not one of them had brought joy. His words seemed even more coldly indignant than before. If he were going to meet Rosanna, might it really be true that she had new information? But why then had the woman chosen to meet him at night—because she was as scared of Chapman as she’d said or because she hoped to make Justin her lover? But what if Rosanna really were scared? One thing was certain: the tow-headed man was villainous and if he knew his lover was confiding a dangerous secret to Justin, he would not hesitate and—what?—would he kill her?

  The nape of her neck prickled. That man was capable of murdering anyone. She had always hoped, Justin, too, that somewhere Gil was a prisoner, kidnapped and kept out of sight until the gang had finished their smuggling operations along this stretch of coast. But what if Chapman had not kidnapped Gil, what if he had killed him? The idea had lurked at the back of her mind for weeks and she suspected similar thoughts had plagued Justin. Neither of them had ever spoken of it, unwilling to give life to such a dreadful outcome, but they bot
h knew that if the gang had killed the excise man, they would not hesitate to kill Gil if it was necessary. He would be costly to guard all these months and any ransom money was uncertain. Why, in fact, would they not kill anyone who knew too much—including Justin?

  Justin had been part of Chapman’s gang. It was all very well for him to say that he was a pillar of the community and safe from retribution, but had not Gil been such a pillar? Her thoughts were now roaming the darkest of alleys. Suddenly it seemed more than possible that Justin was in danger. If Chapman had decided that his erstwhile gang member was too much of a threat, how would he kill him? He could hardly storm Chelwood Place or accost his victim in full view of the town. No, he would lure him to a lonely spot where his cries would go unheard and his body never found. She began to feel very uneasy. Might that actually happen? Of course not, she scolded herself, Justin was far too good a soldier to fall into such a trap. Unless...Rosanna. Of course, Rosanna. Chapman would get Rosanna to lure him, either with her beauty or by dangling the hope of more information. Her stomach lurched as the thought scissored its way through her. The meeting tonight, the meeting that Rosanna had arranged—and in an instant she knew that Justin would learn nothing, only that he had been betrayed.

  She scrunched the note into a fierce little ball. He was facing death! She was almost sure of it and she could do nothing to help him. She had no idea where they would meet or when—it was pitch-black now and they could be anywhere. Perhaps on the marshes? From her previous experience, she knew it would be hopeless to try to find them there. But after what had happened last night, would Justin return to the marshes? Surely he would be suspicious of any suggestion by Rosanna that they meet there. No, it was not the marshes, but where? Her gaze intensified as though she could break through the uncurtained window and fly on wings to his side. The cove! The thought dropped into her head out of nowhere. The cove beneath the garden of Brede House. It had to be. She knew it for a haunt of the smugglers and she knew that no one else visited. Mrs Croft and Hester hardly ever ventured into the garden, certainly not once darkness had fallen, for it held such bad memories for them. So what better place to commit foul murder than a quiet cove below a deserted garden with a convenient river running by.