James was guiding her towards the buffet table and towards his wife. She wondered if Caroline Armitage would remember seeing her from the time she had rushed wildly from Brede House. She hoped not. James was a charming man and no doubt his wife was equally charming, but she could have wished to be talking to someone else. In the light of what she now knew, it would be difficult, painful even, not to blurt out the most dreadful suspicions that had begun to fester.
Caroline came towards her, a gentle smile on her lips. Lizzie saw with relief that the woman had not recognised her, but it was a relief that was shortlived, for she found herself forced to make polite conversation with a woman whose heart she knew was breaking beneath the social mask she wore. Yes, Lizzie was enjoying living in Rye. She found the countryside pleasant and the sea air invigorating. Mrs Croft was a dear lady and a kind employer. She would love to visit Five Oaks and there was no need to send their carriage for her. She was a keen walker and who knew, she might meet Mr Jefferson and his cart—though she kept the latter thought to herself.
‘Can I get you some food, Miss Ingram? A glass of champagne?’ James was at her side.
‘Champagne would be very pleasant, but I am not hungry, thank you.’
She could not eat, not while she had this information gnawing away at her, not while she was in the company of the Armitages. It was fortunate that just then Caroline’s attention was claimed by acquaintances who had recently arrived and, for the moment, Lizzie felt she could relax.
While James busied himself fetching the champagne, she looked around. A mixed gathering of people were clustered beneath the drawing room’s three fabulous chandeliers, enormous crystal constructions, which tonight blazed with the light of a thousand candles. She had not seen this room on her previous visit and the space was stunning. A bank of arched windows to the rear of the house looked out upon acres of rolling lawn, while another bank of windows in the opposite wall gave on to the gravelled carriageway which wound a sinuous path through flowering shrubs and ancient trees. Between the two sets of windows, there were beautifully carved, oak-panelled walls, smothered in intricate pattern—fruits and flowers and what looked to her like fleur-de-lys. Had not Mrs Croft told her that Delacourt was a French name? Such a very old family must have come from Normandy and was still living in the place they had first landed. The carving became even more elaborate in each corner of the room: snakes, she was sure, coiling themselves around wooden pineapples and through wooden palm leaves. She wondered if any Delacourt ancestor had travelled beyond Europe. She had hardly spoken to Justin of his family and suddenly she wanted to know everything about them. That was stupid of her, too, for once she had spoken her piece, she would walk out of Chelwood’s front door and never come back.
James Armitage was steering his way around the knots of chattering people, holding aloft several glasses of champagne. Lizzie was dismayed to see that he was not alone, but accompanied by a fresh-faced young man, eagerness writ large on his face. And just behind him, more young men appeared, as though the fetching of the champagne had signalled a barrier being lifted. It was the last thing she wanted: she had no wish to attract attention, no wish to be forced into rebuffing advances. Tonight was too important. Thankfully she heard the first strains of the violins and cello being tuned—the music would save her.
‘We should take our seats, Miss Ingram. The recital is about to begin.’
Caroline had returned and was shepherding her towards three rows of chairs which had been laid out in the shape of a semi-circle. In front of the chairs, a playing space had been created and a temporary dais erected. The quartet had already settled themselves and their music. Glass in hand, Lizzie slid quietly into a seat on the edge of the furthest row. The news she was carrying had begun to feel like a burning brand and she was desperate to unburden herself, but she had no idea how long she would have to wait. After welcoming everyone to Chelwood and introducing each member of the quartet by name, Justin had disappeared! She could do nothing but settle herself to listen, though her mind was everywhere but in the room.
* * *
Five minutes into the ‘Air’ from Suite in D, she felt a strong hand on her arm. Slipping noiselessly from her seat, she followed his figure into the hall. He walked to the far end of the flagged passageway and stopped outside a room she remembered well.
‘We should not be disturbed here.’
The library looked much the same as it had done on the day she had trespassed at Chelwood. Why had she been tempted to do such a foolish thing? Because her vanity was so overweening that she could not bear to think a man she admired did not similarly admire her? She felt ashamed at her shallowness, but she had been amply punished since, for with every one of their encounters, she had become more and more spellbound.
A fire had been lit in the immense stone grate and its heat was ferocious. She was temporarily stunned by it and stepped as far away from the hearth as she could.
‘We could walk on the terrace if you would prefer,’ he offered. ‘I have a shawl here, should you need it.’
She was touched that he had thought to keep her warm and responded with more grace than she had so far managed that evening. ‘I would like that very much. The air is quite still and the moon bright enough to light our footsteps.’
The sultry heat of the library was left behind as they passed through the long doors which led on to the terrace. She had not noticed them on her first visit, but that was hardly surprising. It had been a vexatious morning.
‘The shawl is your mother’s?’ she ventured, as he placed the gorgeous length of Norwich silk around her shoulders.
‘It is. It would appear she has her uses at last—her dress, her shawl.’
‘She certainly had a taste for the luxurious. Her clothes are still elegant despite the passing years.’
‘They are clothes befitting a beauty—a diamond of the first water, or so I’m told.’
‘Lady Delacourt must have had many suitors.’ She should not be prolonging the conversation, she scolded herself. She should say her piece and leave.
‘Dozens, though she treated them with indifference.’ Justin seemed as unwilling as she to confront the troublesome business between them. ‘My father was one of her most ardent admirers and felt himself lucky that he was the man ultimately to win her. As it turned out, he was anything but lucky.’
‘But surely she must at some time have been in love with Sir Lucien?’
A sardonic smile lit his face, encouraging her to make her case. ‘If she were the beauty you say, she could have married the most prestigious of titles and become the mistress of a vast estate—she could even have become a duchess! Plenty of beautiful women have over the years. Instead she chose to come to Rye. There must have been a very good reason.’
‘There was, but it was not love. She was certainly a beauty, but she didn’t “take”—I think that’s the phrase—so that when Sir Lucien met her she was already in her second Season and without an offer to her name.’
Lizzie puckered her forehead. ‘Not a single offer—how strange! I understood that acclaimed beauties in ton society always make splendid marriages. Are you sure you have it right?’
‘Quite sure. I had it from my old nurse—she did not share Mrs Croft’s discretion, alas, but she did know everything there was to know about the inhabitants of Chelwood Hall. She put my mother’s failure down to her waspish nature. Even the most adoring of men will baulk at living with a termagant.’
‘But not your father?’
He could not stop the sigh that had been building. ‘It was my father’s misfortune to fall deeply in love with her. Lavinia’s younger sister was due to be presented the following Season and I imagine that she was desperate—bitter that her beauty had not won her the matrimonial prize she thought she deserved—so that when my father made his offer, she accepted. The Delacourt name was, after all, a
n ancient one—they came from France with William the Conqueror.’
‘I am impressed! But surely the family must have liked the match, or they would have intervened.’
‘The “family” was, is, very small—just my father and grandfather at the time. My father was a grown man, he had been a soldier for years and my grandfather a semi-invalid. He was hardly going to question his son’s choice.’
‘And how did he like his new daughter-in-law?’
‘He didn’t. They were forced to live together at Chelwood while my father served abroad and that proved intolerable. My father never blamed my mother, but it became clear to me as I grew up that she had pressured him greatly until he promised to sell out and return to Chelwood. The army was his life, but he gave it up for her. For nothing, as it turned out.’
‘It does not seem a happy household.’ Her tone was thoughtful and he wondered at her interest in a history that was best forgotten. ‘I imagine, though, that Lady Delacourt was glad when your father returned to live at Chelwood.’
‘Intermittently glad, perhaps.’ He was trying to be honest. ‘My grandfather died a few years into the marriage and my father inherited the title. That kept her content for a while and naturally he lavished money on her. She spent whatever she liked and the estate suffered for it—even then, it was a struggle to keep things going. But life no doubt became tedious for her. Rye is a small place and the spread of gentry in this part of Sussex very thin. She craved company and when she had done her duty by finally producing an heir, she chose the fun and gaiety of the capital.’
‘And your father—did he go with her?’
‘That was not a choice. He would never have been happy in town, but he agreed to her staying with friends. The visits to London grew longer and more frequent and the times she returned to Chelwood fewer and fewer. Then they stopped altogether—that’s when the lovers began.’
He saw the soft brown of her eyes darken with shock. He should not be telling this tale of unhappiness to such a young woman and one he barely knew.
‘Shall we walk?’ He offered her his arm once more and side by side they strolled along the terrace, its flags washed by moonlight and with the faintest scent of a few late-blooming roses. Above, the night sky was a sheet of polished glass, its ebony sheen broken only by a sprinkling of wayward stars.
‘You cannot wish to hear more of this, Miss Ingram. Tell me instead how I can serve you.’
But for the moment Lizzie seemed to have forgotten her mission. ‘As a boy, did you know of your mother’s—activities?’
If she wanted the truth, she would have it. ‘I could not escape knowing,’ he said simply. ‘She was the talk of the county—my father, too. One lover followed another until he could stand the humiliation no longer. They were divorced on my twelfth birthday.’ Imagine how that felt, he almost said, but bit the words back. ‘It was a shameful business. My father took the blame and allowed her to divorce him. Of course he did. She made a fool of him to the very end.’
‘And now?’
‘Now she lives in London—though given her scorched reputation, somewhat reluctantly, I imagine. But Europe is off limits and has been since the war began. I believe she has actually married her latest lover. No doubt she was getting a little old for dalliance and eager to strike while her cicisbeo’s feelings ran high. He is obscenely wealthy, I’m told, so what more could she want? She has money, position and half-a-dozen estates. She need never be bored again.’
He closed his lips. He must say no more of the woman who had wreaked such unhappiness and wished he had not allowed himself to say as much. Lizzie Ingram had pierced his armour and he did not understand why he had let her do so.
He stopped and turned to her, his face pale and his hair almost silver in the spectral light. ‘So, Miss Ingram. The information you have for me?’
‘I understand that you are sceptical of anything I might tell you,’ she began stiffly, ‘and I would not again have exposed myself to your disbelief if I did not think that what I have to say is important, indeed critical to finding your friend.’
His expression mixed impatience with the slightest spark of interest. ‘I hope that I am fair minded enough to listen impartially to whatever you have to say. If you have indeed discovered something that will lead me to Gil, I will be most grateful.’
‘It is not gratitude that is required, but action,’ she returned swiftly and then regretted the stinging nature of her response. ‘What I am trying to say,’ she appeased, ‘is that the situation is urgent. Rosanna—’
She was sure that she heard him tut. ‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he said hastily. ‘Please continue.’
‘Rosanna has a lover. No, not Gilbert Armitage, though I believe he thought himself favoured. She has a lover called Thomas Chapman.’
She saw that the name had some meaning for him. ‘Thomas Chapman is the grandson of a man who was hung for killing an excise man.’
‘Yes, it’s an old story.’
‘It is not only a story. It is a fact. People here know the Chapmans’ history and by all accounts his grandson is as violent and cruel as his ancestor.’
‘Forgive me, but I cannot see a connection to Gil.’
‘You will,’ she said with certainty. ‘Thomas Chapman heads a gang of smugglers. I know you believe that smuggling is extinct along this coast, but you are wrong. Ask any of the local people and they will tell you differently. I’ve seen the gang myself, sitting in the Mermaid Inn, their loaded guns on the table for all to see. I also saw Rosanna with them, but at the time I thought only that she was a barmaid, nothing more.’
‘And now you think she is more intimately connected with Chapman?’
‘She is his lover—there is no doubt of it. I saw them yesterday at the market, walking boldly together, arm in arm, openly kissing each other.’ She flushed a little at the frankness with which she was forced to speak, but he appeared to notice nothing untoward.
‘Your friend—’
She broke off what she was saying as he began to pace along the terrace. After a few yards, though, he turned back, his voice spilling with frustration. ‘What has any of this to do with Gil?’
‘Don’t you see?’ she said impatiently. ‘Your friend hoped he was Rosanna’s sweetheart. No doubt he bought her gifts, showered her with money. He hoped he was the loved one, but her heart belonged to Chapman and still does—and his heart is as black as coal. Together they used Gil’s devotion against him.’
Her words had an effect. Justin was looking distracted, his hand cleaving a path through well-ordered locks and rumpling its bright strands into dishevelment. ‘I found letters,’ he began. ‘Letters that Gilbert had written.’ She stared at him for this was the first she had heard of them.
‘Who were the letters meant for?’
‘I have no notion, only that they were written to a woman he loved—page after page filled with his innermost feelings. I read only a little. I could not...but I got the general idea. Whoever he was writing to, she meant a great deal to him. But he did not send the letters.’
She pounced. ‘Which means that he was unsure they would be welcome. He had doubts about Rosanna, he suspected she loved elsewhere!’
Justin leaned on the walled balustrade and looked out on to the peaceful garden, the bushes of the parterre transformed in the moonlight into a small army of magical soldiers. ‘That is pure speculation. We cannot even be sure that Chapman and Rosanna are lovers.’
‘Of course we can,’ she said scornfully. ‘As sure as anyone can be. Even a soldier should be able to recognise desire when it is walking down the road.’
It was his turn to flush. ‘I see you have made a study of them.’
‘I did not. I was too nervous yesterday to look at them closely. But so was every other person on the street. People were terrified.
Chapman is evil, Justin.’ In her excitement, she had called him by his first name and reached out for his arm to clasp it tightly. ‘I have no idea how far your friend was involved with the gang, whether he was simply pursuing a hopeless love for Rosanna or whether he allowed himself to be pulled into their wrongdoing. But whatever his involvement, I am convinced that’s where you will find the answer to his disappearance.’
He shook his head, trying for clarity. ‘I cannot believe that Gil would ever do such a stupid thing as to involve himself with a crew of miscreants.’
She stamped her foot. ‘Whether he helped them or not, it hardly matters. He is in danger—surely you can see that. He may have got close enough to discover something they wished to keep hidden. He was a friend of the excise man who died, remember, and not one person in Rye believes that death was accidental. If your friend knew something the smugglers wanted to conceal, then they would need him to disappear. They may have kidnapped him, may even have carried him over the water.’
When he said nothing, she grabbed his arm quite roughly. ‘We need to rescue him!’
‘Who is this “we”? You do not even know him.’
‘It feels as though I do. And I am desperately sorry for his parents. I want to help.’
‘You may have done so, though I find it almost impossible to reconcile the man I knew with what you say.’ He was looking thoughtful again. ‘You might as well know that the Armitages mentioned to me that money has gone missing from the family accounts. They are also missing a ring, one that belonged to Gil’s grandmother.’
She looked triumphant, but he was not quite ready to concede. ‘That does not mean anything on its own, of course. The ring could have been lost anywhere. Gil might not have withdrawn the money.’
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