“There is something very important that I have to tell you—”
“No, no!” Eagerly, Georgina interrupted his words, hoping to save him from the embarrassment of having to confess. “You don’t have to say anything—I know all about it and none of it matters now!”
“But how can you possibly know?”
“Mr. Mansell told me,” she stammered awkwardly, rushing to get her words out. “But there is no longer any need for you to worry about it—my uncle has provided me with a huge settlement—we will have more than enough for our needs, so you see…”
He looked momentarily confused as the gist of her words sank in. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” he asked in astonishment.
“Your lack of fortune was holding you back,” came her reluctant reply. “But now that I am to have money of my own….”
She heard a sharp intake of breath and her heart fell as she registered the stony expression on Latimer’s face.
“You surely cannot have assumed that now you are about to be an heiress I would not scruple to sue for your hand?” he said bitterly, turning away from her. “You clearly have a very poor opinion of me.”
DOROTHY ELBURY
lives in a quiet English village in Lincolnshire, an ideal atmosphere for writing her historical novels. She has been married to her husband (it was love at first sight, of course!) for forty-five years, and they have three children and four grandchildren. Her hobbies include visiting museums and historic houses, and handicrafts of various kinds.
The Viscount’s Secret
DOROTHY ELBURY
Available from Harlequin® Historical and
DOROTHY ELBURY
A Hasty Betrothal #176
The Viscount’s Secret #183
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter One
The Honourable Peregrine Nicholls tossed back the contents of his brandy glass and smiled sympathetically at his cousin.
‘The trouble with you, my dear Ned, is that you are far too romantic,’ he said.
Ignoring the withering scowl received in response, he continued unabashed, ‘Not that I’m averse to a little light dalliance meself, as you know, but, if you’re set on finding a wife, you’ll need to be a bit more compromising. That’s the third time you’ve cried off this Season and the old biddies are starting to mutter behind their fans.’
Edward Latimer, late of his Majesty’s dragoons, stretched out his long legs and eased himself into a more comfortable position.
‘Well, I’m damned if I’ll choose a wife just to suit the Patronesses,’ he said obstinately, a deep frown marring his otherwise attractive features. ‘There has to be someone out there who will see me as something more than the answer to her dressmaker’s bills.’
‘Fairy tales, dear chap!’ chortled Nicholls as he leaned forward and replenished the two glasses. ‘You know the score, Coz. When the time comes to set up your nursery, you pick a girl from a good family—pretty, too, if you’re lucky, but, above all, conformable. Otherwise you spend the rest of your life under the cat’s paw!’
Latimer shook his head. ‘I can’t accept that,’ he said firmly. ‘Besides which, if you settle for a featherbrain—however much of a beauty she might be—what sort of children could you expect to spawn?’ He reached for his glass and took a hefty swig of its contents. ‘I want more than that—someone who can hold a conversation about something other than the latest fashion. Someone who has a mind of her own. My mother, you may recall, was such a woman—read the papers, knew what was going on in the world and was always willing to argue her case. We used to have some rip-roaring family debates when I was a youngster. Father adored her.’ His eyes softened as he recalled the close relationship his parents had enjoyed before his mother’s untimely death some five years previously.
Nicholls nodded. ‘I know what you mean. Aunt Felicity might easily have stood for Parliament had she been a man.’ For a moment or two he regarded his cousin in abstracted silence, then, ‘What put you off this time?’ he asked diffidently. ‘The Cornwell chit was the Toast of the Town and, after two weeks of solid attention, the bets were all on you. What happened?’
‘Just something I chanced to overhear,’ said Latimer tersely. ‘It seems that the lovely Miss Eleanora Cornwell’s heart was engaged elsewhere even before the Season began but, since her odious parents have apparently invested their life savings in securing an advantageous match, the unfortunate girl was being browbeaten into encouraging my suit. Naturally, I rallied to her cause and bowed out of the running.’
‘Naturally,’ declared Nicholls in mock gravity.
‘Cut line, Perry,’ Latimer returned hotly. ‘Shackle myself to an unwilling partner? No, thank you. I’d sooner stay single.’
‘Your father might have a word or two to say about that,’ laughed his cousin. ‘You told me he’s been pestering you ever since you got back from the Continent and, I have to confess, for once I agree with him. After all, you are thirty years old and an only son and he, naturally, wants to secure the succession. As for myself, of course…’ he patted his portly stomach contentedly ‘…I’m eternally grateful that my own sire had the foresight to provide himself with two more replacements so that I don’t need to make any serious venture into petticoat territory.’
Latimer sighed. ‘You’re in the right of it, of course,’ he said regretfully. ‘But you have to agree that the London Season has become nothing more than a “Marriage Mart”. Personally, I find the whole idea of parents selling their daughters off to the highest bidder quite repugnant. If only there were some way I could be certain that the girl I finally settle on has a tendre for me and not for my cheque-book.’
‘Well, they ain’t all lambs led to the slaughter,’ Nicholls reasoned. ‘It’s true that some of ’em can’t wait to pull in a good catch, but there must be a few honest ones amongst them, surely? Though how to spot the difference is any man’s guess. Other than making out you’re a Cit or a flat, that is, and you’re too well known around town to get away with that.’
‘But I could try it somewhere else,’ mused Latimer, with a speculative gleam in his eyes. ‘Just pack up a few things and head off to the countryside and become plain Mr Latimer for a few weeks.’
The Honourable Peregrine looked aghast. ‘You’re not serious, Ned? I mean to say, racking up at some provincial inn without so much as a valet—please tell me you’re joking!’
Latimer stood up and, making a great play of adjusting his neckcloth, said good-humouredly, ‘I think I can manage to dress myself, Coz. I have been doing it for some years, you know. Eight years with the military gives a chap a pretty good grounding in the art of self-sufficiency. Besides which,’ he pointed out, ‘plain Mr Latimer wo
uldn’t have a manservant. Come to think of it, he’d probably have lodgings, rather than stay at an inn for weeks—or maybe he’d rent a cottage for the summer. Yes, by Jove! That’s it!’ And, filled with a sudden enthusiasm, he strode over to the table, picked up The Observer and began perusing its advertising columns, while Nicholls watched him in a fascinated silence.
‘Yes, look here,’ indicated Latimer with a satisfied grin. ‘Dozens of ’em. Take your pick—Hampshire, Buckinghamshire—pretty well anywhere you could think of. Let’s see.’ Quickly, he ran his eyes down the sheet, stopping every so often, only to shake his head and move on, until, at last, he let out a whoop of triumph.
‘Got it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Compton Lacey—now where have I heard that name before?—seems to ring a bell. Near the market town of Dunchurch in Warwickshire. Do we know anyone in that part of Warwickshire?’ he asked his cousin.
Nicholls scratched his head. ‘Not that I know of—believe we used to have an aunt in Stratford,’ he supplied helpfully. ‘Can’t recall anyone else but, I say, old man, you ain’t really set on doing this?’
‘Why not?’ retorted Latimer, busily scribbling down the information he had found. ‘Bit of an adventure, really—says it’s not far from the main staging route, so that’s convenient.’
‘You surely don’t mean to travel by public conveyance!’ gasped Nicholls weakly.
‘Absolutely!’ Latimer assured him. ‘Fits the part, don’t you see? Won’t attract attention—plain Mr Latimer taking a vacation and doing a bit of—what shall we say—painting? No, too much equipment needed. Sketching, maybe? I still have all my old sketchbooks and, thanks to all those years of old Bentley’s patient tutoring, I’ve a fair hand—or so I’m told. Yes, I’m sure that will serve! Plain Mr Latimer, itinerant artist.’
His cousin regarded him pityingly. ‘Good God, Ned! If you weren’t my kinsman, I’d say you were touched in the upper quarters,’ he offered rudely. ‘Besides which, thought the idea was to find the girl of your dreams? Shouldn’t think she’s likely to be living in some out-of-the-way village in the back of beyond!’
‘Nonsense, dear boy!’ Latimer replied cheerfully. ‘They come by their droves into town every week—dozens of hopeful mamas from the provinces, desperate to offload their daughters in their first Seasons, so that’s obviously the place to find them before they’re spoiled with too much town bronze. Bound to have assemblies and suchlike up there, where, who knows, I might meet the most perfect angel.’ Grinning, he savoured the thought. ‘Worth a try, at any rate, surely?’
‘No use asking me,’ groaned Nicholls. ‘You’re determined to go ahead anyway, whatever I might think, so I’ll just have to wish you “good luck”, dear boy—but promise me that you won’t do anything foolhardy?’
‘Would I ever?’ replied Latimer with a carefree grin, as he headed for the door.
By late afternoon on the following Saturday however, as he climbed wearily down from his bone-shaking journey aboard the London to Birmingham flyer, his enthusiasm for the venture had somewhat dimmed. Eight hours crammed between a very large lady on the one side and the boniest old individual ever known to man on the other, had reduced his tolerance to absolute zero, so it was with considerable annoyance that he discovered that his luggage was amongst the last to be unloaded.
Positioning himself to one side of the inn’s open doorway, he watched casually as the ostlers unhitched the horses and poled up the replacements whilst the elderly post-boy separated the belongings of those passengers who had alighted at the Dun Cow from those who were to continue their journey onwards.
As usual, with the arrival of the ‘Tally-Ho’, there were plenty of other onlookers, mostly youngsters, fascinated by the remarkable speed of the changeover and keen to see if the driver would achieve the current record of seventy-five seconds.
Latimer frowned as he observed one small boy, apparently intent upon examining the coach’s new braking mechanism, edging himself closer and closer to the vehicle.
‘Rupert—where are you?’
Hearing his name, the boy started and reluctantly turned away, just as a large portmanteau started to topple from the coach’s roof. The post-boy belatedly yelled out a warning and Latimer, with an almost superhuman effort, leapt forward and violently shouldered the child out of harm’s way.
The youngster howled in pain as he hit the cobbles, his eyes widening in horror as he witnessed the portmanteau bouncing heavily on the very spot where he had been standing.
Latimer bent to help the boy up, but found himself thrust rudely aside by a white-faced and angry young woman.
‘Take your hands off him this instance!’ she commanded, her voice shaking with fury. ‘How dare you treat a small child so?’
In astonishment, Latimer backed away from the clenched fists that seemed set to attack him and held up a hand to keep her at bay.
‘Hold hard, madam,’ he protested, as he endeavoured to indicate the badly dented portmanteau behind him. ‘I merely sought to remove the lad from certain injury.’
The girl’s eyes filled with dismay as they travelled from the fallen object and then quickly back to the child who had now risen to his feet and was nodding his head vehemently.
‘He’s in the right, Sis,’ he said shakily, scrubbing away at his tears with the back of his hand. ‘I heard you call and I didn’t see it falling.’ He turned to Latimer. ‘You were jolly quick, sir—I’m very grateful.’
Latimer smiled encouragingly. ‘Think nothing of it, young man. I hope you aren’t too badly damaged?’
He flashed a penetrating glance at the girl, whose cheeks were now stained with a delicate rosy hue.
‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir!’ she exclaimed, clearly horrified at her impetuous misjudgement of the situation. ‘A thousand thanks for your prompt action.’
‘Only too glad to have been of service, ma’am.’
He watched in amusement as, head bent, the young woman fell to examining the muddy grazes on her brother’s hands and vainly attempted to clean them with an ineffectual wisp of lace. Her cheeks were still faintly suffused with embarrassment and soft chestnut curls, which had escaped from beneath her bonnet in her hurried dash to the scene, were falling about her face. On a sudden whim, Latimer removed his own handkerchief from his pocket and held it out.
‘You might have more success with this,’ he suggested, overwhelmed by a sudden unfathomable eagerness to further his acquaintance with the girl.
‘How good of you.’ With a grateful smile she accepted the proffered handkerchief and, as their eyes met, a strange sense of excitement ran through him.
‘You must think me the most awful—’ she began, but whatever the rest of her sentence might have been was swept away by the raised voice of the approaching coach driver, brusquely demanding to know the reason for the delay.
A small crowd had gathered at the scene and was soon being entertained by a pithy exchange between driver and post-boy. Angry passengers who had been obliged to abandon their hot drinks at the call to board, were now forced to sit chafing impatiently as the seething driver berated the guard, rather less for any perceived incompetence or carelessness on the man’s part, it seemed, than for the hold-up having caused the driver to lose a large bet that he would beat the change-over record.
Jostled to one side, Latimer found himself separated from the boy and his sister; by the time he had managed to extricate himself from the growing mêlée they were gone. Somewhat crestfallen that no opportunity had arisen whereby he might have acquainted himself with either the girl’s surname or her place of residence, he wearily set about retrieving his own valise from the rear boot before entering the hotel to make enquiries about transport to the village of Compton Lacey.
A genial innkeeper assured him that, being market day, he’d have no difficulty getting a lift from any one of the villagers who were presently in his taproom and, should the gentleman care to partake of a little refreshment, he would endeavour to find someone who
could offer him a seat to his destination.
Latimer was only too eager to accept the landlord’s offer; ordering a substantial meal, he was directed to a large and comfortable dining room, where he sat mulling over his recent encounter with the vanished girl, experiencing once more the extraordinary sensation that had assailed him as their eyes had met. And such eyes! So dark blue as to be almost violet and fringed with the longest of dark lashes, too!
With a wry smile he remembered his cousin’s warning and wondered if it was within the realms of possibility that he could have met his ‘perfect angel’ already, only to have her slip out of his grasp forever. Hardly likely, but still? How could he find out who she was? He had no clue as to her address. And what of her appearance? Slightly above the height currently considered fashionable for a female, but certainly not lacking in gracefulness. And the unremarkable muslin gown she was wearing, he recalled with a smile, had failed to conceal the clearly curvaceous figure beneath. Plain chip straw bonnet, bedecked with a simple black ribbon. He frowned. Black? He then remembered that the boy, too, had been sporting a black armband. Clearly a recent death in the family. That could prove to be some help in tracing the pair and their manner of speech, too, had indicated that they were not of the lower class. So little to go on. He racked his brains. She had called out the boy’s name. What the devil was it? Cuthbert? Robert? Rupert! By Jove, yes, that was it! Rupert! Exhilarated, he downed the rest of his ale in triumph just as the innkeeper returned from his quest.
‘No problem, sir,’ was his cheerful message. ‘Mr Radley is just about to leave for Compton Lacey and will be happy to provide you with a lift to Blanchard’s Cottage—goes right past the gate, he does.’
It transpired that Andrew Radley was a prosperous young farmer who owned a large acreage that bordered the village of Compton Lacey. Latimer was gratified to discover that the gentleman’s means of transport was a smart gig drawn by a fine-looking bay. Radley himself was a large, ruddily handsome man with a confident and easy manner and, as the journey progressed, the two men were soon engaged in friendly conversation. Latimer briefly explained his presence and Radley, accepting his fictitious explanation without question, proceeded to supply his passenger with various useful bits of information about the village life and its inhabitants.
Dorothy Elbury Page 1
