The Devil's Daughter

by Marguerite Bell

  “Take your time,” he advised, his voice muffled by the curtains. “I have no pressing engagements this morning, as you should be well aware. The doctor has advised that I lie here for at least another few hours, and that is what I intend to do. After that we go on—to Hollowthorne.”

  “But would it not be wiser if you remained here for another night at the very least?” she suggested, when she had hurriedly washed in the almost ice-cold water, and extracted a dress from her valise which, although plain, was at least free from bloodstains and of a quite a pleasing shade of blue. When he saw her, with her neatly combed hair and a delicate colour in her cheeks which had been whipped into them by the sheer frenzy of her dressing, he actually nodded his head in a sort of approval.

  “I made some reference just now to beauteous females, Miss Yorke, but I should have added that you are near enough to being a beauty yourself,” he told her. He sniffed the air as if something pleasing had attracted his attention, and then demanded to know what perfume it was she used that was floating most beguilingly in the atmosphere. “It is as if a combination of roses and violets had determined to make a most brazen attack on my senses,” he remarked, his eyes twinkling a little alarmingly as he lay regarding her. “Nothing from Paris, I’m prepared to wager, but some homespun concoction of your own very likely which is just as deadly.”

  Harriet flushed delicately but quite noticeably.

  “It is nothing but toilet-water, my lord,” she protested. “A distillation of lavender flowers which is not in the least deadly and which I use constantly.”

  “Which is one reason why I know immediately when you enter a room.” He raised a finger and beckoned. “Come here!” he ordered.

  But Harriet refused to move from the spot where she was standing.

  The Marquis sighed.

  “I am not a patient man,” he told her, “and I am also a sick one, which should at least arouse your pity. Come closer that I may inhale the delicacy of your lavender-water.”

  “Have you had breakfast, my lord?” Harriet asked a little hurriedly, still declining to obey him.

  “Something revoltingly like a very thin gruel was brought to me about an hour ago,” he replied.

  And Fetcham has instructions to procure me a bottle of the landlord’s brandy—that will put more heart into me than anything else.”

  “On the contrary, my lord, it will do nothing of the kind. Yesterday you had far too much of that sort of thing, but today I shall see to it that you are fed with hot soup and nourishing beverages of that sort—”

  To her horror his hand reached out and she was caught by the sleeve and dragged close to the bed and within inches of his coarse pillow. He displayed a quite surprising strength as he partly raised himself on his pillow and drew her determinedly downwards until a lock of her hair became dislodged from its pins and fell across his face, and he laughed strangely as he buried his mouth in the little hollow at the base of her throat where her prim white fichu fell away from it.

  “Tantalizing little wretch!” he exclaimed, while his eager lips explored the warmth of her throat. “Don’t you know that by defying me you do yourself no good? You merely encourage a—a kind of devil in me!”

  “You—you are basely ungrateful, my lord!” she protested, as she fought furiously to extricate herself from his hold. “I have devoted myself for many hours to the task of looking after you, and in return you treat me as if I were a—were a woman of no account!”

  “A pretty jade, perhaps, but not of no account!” He laughed again, a trifle unnaturally, and as she saw the wild glint in his dark eyes she wondered whether he was suffering from a raging temperature, and whether, if she could reach the bell rope which had been improvised she ought to tug at it hard. And in any case his determination to detain her must be shockingly bad for his recent wound.

  “Let me go, my lord!” she implored. “You will do yourself an injury—”

  “You are as sweet as a whole garden of wild flowers,” he told her.

  “Let me go! Please!”

  And, surprisingly, he let her go. She fell back against the wall of the tiny bedroom and he lay looking up at her sullenly, the red glow in his eyes dying slowly while a sulky look disfigured his handsome mouth.

  “I apologise,” he said stiffly.

  The base of her creamy throat felt scorched by his wild kisses, and she was shaking so uncontrollably that she knew he must have seen how her fingers fumbled as she sought to straighten her fichu.

  “I think you must be suffering from a—from an increase of fever,” she said unsteadily.

  “Nothing of the sort. I am suffering from the disastrous effects of a too-pretty nurse.”

  “Then I will remove myself—”

  “You will do nothing of the kind!” He sat bolt upright against his pillows. “Attempt to run away from me now and I will have you relentlessly pursued. That I promise you! Not until I feel capable of doing without you altogether shall you escape me. You can think me a cad—you can think me anything you please...”

  “I do think you a cad, my lord,” she assured him shakily.

  His dark eyes glinted at her.

  “I have apologised,” he reminded her stiffly. “Do you wish me to grovel?”

  “No, my lord, merely to remember that at the moment I am without status or protection as a part of your entourage, and it is not entirely through any fault of my own. If you had remembered your duty to your wards none of this would have happened.”

  “If you had behaved like any normal young woman it would not have happened.”

  “Nevertheless, it has, and—and I will go downstairs now and interview the landlady about suitable sustenance for you...”

  “Then you had better wear this.” He briskly removed a plain gold band from his little finger and handed it to her. “It was my mother’s wedding-ring, and bearing in mind your unprotected state”—a cool curl to his lips—“and what even the landlord has apparently decided in connection with you, it will at least lend you a degree of respectability.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t!” she protested. “There is no need...

  “I assure you there is every need! Wives normally wear the badge which indicates their bondage.”

  “But I am not your wife!”

  “Put it on,” he insisted impatiently. “The third finger of your left hand in case you are unfamiliar with such things. And remember,” he added, with sudden cutting coldness, “it will not entitle you to be called the Marchioness of Capel. We are unknown here.”

  “You mean you have given a—false name?”

  “Fetcham had the common sense to do so. Now go and get yourself some breakfast, and be discreet if you are forced to converse with anyone inside the inn. Leave all the explanations to Fetcham.”

  “Very well, my lord,” she agreed, in a very quiet voice indeed, without directing another glance in his direction, as if that would have been too painful from her point of view. And although in obedience to his request she had slipped his ring on to her finger, she removed it as soon as she was outside his room and dropped it into a pocket of her gown.

  Her lips were set tightly, and she felt as if the skin at the base of her throat had been indelibly marked. To keep it company the colour flamed all over her cheek and chin and brow. Did he imagine she wished to be known as the Marchioness of Capel? Even if only for the brief time it would take them to remove themselves from the inn and reach Hollowthorne, where it would of course be unnecessary to continue such a piece of deception. Did he really and truly imagine that, even for so short a space of time, it would afford her pleasure—some sort of gratification—to be thus temporarily enobled? She who had been born simple Harriet Yorke and had been so outrageously ill-used that she was shaking still from the memory of it.

  To be dragged down on to his bed in such an uncouth way, and subjected to the touch of his lips!

  She entered the small parlour of the inn determined that nothing of the sort should ever happen agai
n. Despite his threat to pursue her she would leave him the moment he forgot himself again. The landlord’s wife, who must have been faintly surprised by her high colour, provided her with tea and a lightly boiled egg. Afterwards she went out into the garden to look for Fetcham, with the intention of getting him to swear (on oath if necessary) that he would not provide the Marquis with any more brandy, however insistent the Marquis himself might be.

  Later she returned upstairs and found Fetcham shaving the Marquis, and the two of them were discussing the advisability of an almost immediate departure from the inn. Harriet, who had no intention of spending another night under the strain of sharing a bedroom with Lord Capel, raised no objections. She agreed that as Hollowthorne was no more than twenty miles away the sooner they reached it the better. She occupied herself with gathering together the various items of their luggage that had been unpacked, and assisted Fetcham with the somewhat frustrating task of getting the invalid on to his feet.

  She did not assist with his dressing—remaining outside on the landing while this was in progress—but lent the invalid the support of her shoulder (inadequate as it was) once he finally emerged. Having successfully placed his hat on his head and a cane in his hand, she supervised his descent of the narrow staircase with a good deal of care. She felt reasonably certain he could have managed perfectly well without her assistance if he had made the smallest effort, but he did not appear to wish to make any effort whatsoever. He preferred to be considered very fragile indeed.

  As soon as they had entered the carriage Harriet slipped his ring back into his hand.

  “Take it, my lord,” she said. “I believe it is solid gold.”

  His shapely dark eyebrows arched a little.

  “You do not even wish to keep it as a souvenir?”

  “Certainly not. I cannot imagine any reason why I should wish to retain it, quite apart from the fact that I believe you said it was your mother’s wedding-ring. For that reason alone it must have a great deal of sentimental value for you.”

  The Marquis smiled and glanced at her a little oddly out of his night-dark eyes, making use of his sweeping dark eyelashes to give the impression that he was regarding her through them.

  “You are right, of course,” he agreed. “No other ring could have such sentimental value for me. But it might surprise you to know that I have known women who would have been delighted to keep such a ring, had they been presented with the opportunity, as a souvenir of having known me.”

  “I have no doubt of it, my lord,” Harriet replied. “But, as far as I am aware, you have not besought me to keep your ring, and I have no intention of ever being named amongst them!” Fetcham, who had heard every word of this exchange, coughed, and the carriage bowled out of the inn yard.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  The journey to Hollowthorne was accomplished well before dark. As the carriage turned in at a pair of gates which were leaning a little drunkenly from their stone supports, Harriet was able to make out the pleasing outlines of a house lying in a slight hollow which she recognised immediately must be centuries old.

  It was approached by a somewhat neglected drive bordered by thinning elms, and more trees rose in a protective cluster behind it. Steep gable ends and twisted chimneys rose against the last of the light. The same light was reflected in numerous diamond-paned windows, and altogether the effect was extremely pleasing despite an air of neglect which spread amongst the gardens surrounding them on all sides. Unpruned roses and overgrown borders caused Harriet to utter quite a sharp protest, and Lord Capel, who had been dozing throughout the last few miles—and whom she had treated with a good deal of wariness throughout the drive, maintaining as much distance as possible between them on the seat—opened an eye in faint surprise and enquired whether anything was amiss.

  “Nothing, my lord, save the condition of your grounds,” Harriet replied on a note of censure, “I am astonished that they are in such very bad shape.”

  The Marquis glanced around him with a faint air of distaste, and admitted that he had never thought very much of Hollowthorne.

  “I can’t remember when I came here last,” he confessed. “It is one of those properties which my family seems to have accumulated over the years, and it was an ideal spot for Bruce to recover his strength in when he came out of the army. And now it is to be my retreat also.”

  Harriet was not conscious of a need to console him or to offer any soothing rejoinders, for no one had insisted that he fight a duel with Greville Aintree. She leapt from the carriage as soon as the steps were put up and stood looking about her on the drive in front of the house with her chip-straw bonnet on the back of her curls, and an expression of honest approval on her lightly flushed face.

  A gentleman had emerged from the house and was standing in the porch, watching her. Harriet turned to him, and at once she knew who he was. He was so like the Marquis that it was really quite ridiculous, and yet he was plainly younger, and his hair was considerably lighter. He was wearing a dark blue coat of no very fashionable cut, although it fitted him rather well across the shoulders and drew deserving attention to the excellent way he held them; but to her horror she noticed that a sleeve was empty, and it was secured in some manner to the breast of his coat. Impulsively she stepped towards him.

  “Oh, I had no idea that you had lost an arm as well!” she exclaimed. “I am so very sorry! Lord Capel said merely that you had a limp—” And then realising what she had said she apologised. “Forgive me, my lord!” A bright blush suffusing her cheeks, she went on, “You must dislike it very much when your war wounds are discussed by an absolute stranger...”

  “A very enchanting one, if you will allow me to say so,” Lord Bruce returned, bowing formally over the hand which she offered, while a twinkle invaded his eyes. “And as for your being a stranger, well, that is soon remedied.” He made an attempt to click his heels. “Lord Bruce Wendover, at your service, ma’am! Am I to be offered a certain amount of enlightenment?”

  “Of course.” She smiled. “I am Harriet Yorke.”

  “Miss Harriet Yorke?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” The colour in her cheeks burned rosily. “Of course,” she repeated.

  “For the life of me,” he assured her, while the twinkle in his eyes became more positively recognisable as a twinkle, “I cannot think why it is so.” He cocked an eyebrow at the recumbent figure in the carriage. “That is my brother, is it not?” he asked. “Fetcham appears to be having some difficulty in inducing him to leave the carriage. Is he ill?”

  “Oh, no, my lord, he is wounded!” Harriet was immediately conscience-stricken because she had deserted the side of her patient, who, she had no doubt at all, was resenting it. “He has sustained a nasty wound in his arm—”

  “Don’t tell me he has been fighting in somebody’s war? I imagined we were enjoying a period of peace.”

  “It is nothing like that, my lord.” She darted back to the carriage to lend some assistance to Fetcham. “He was wounded in a duel! It is because of that we have come all this way from London. Lord Capel requires to remain for a while in seclusion here!”

  “Devil take me!” Lord Bruce exclaimed. “You mean he is running away from the law? Which means he despatched his man?”

  “Y-yes, my lord. Although we are not yet entirely certain—”

  “Upon my word,” the Duke of Coltsfoot’s younger son exclaimed in some amazement, “I have never known Rick to be as careless as that before. Either he is in love or his skill has deserted him.”

  The Marquis descended painfully to the gravel, and he glared with undisguised fury at his brother.

  “Do you have to engage my nurse in prolonged conversation, Bruce?” he asked. “When a man has lost as much blood as I have over the past two days, and has been consumed by fever, he expects to be supported on all sides—not deprived of his main prop!”

  “Very likely you are in the right of it,” Lord Bruce replied good-humouredly, at the same time off
ering him a shoulder to lean upon; “but it certainly does strike me that Miss Yorke is a somewhat inadequate prop. There is so little of her, and there is quite a lot of you. However, if she has been engaged to attend upon you as a nurse, that is a somewhat different matter, I suppose.”

  The Marquis exclaimed pettishly:

  “Damn it, she was not engaged to do anything at all! But why otherwise would I have brought her along with me?”

  Lord Bruce shrugged.

  “Your concerns have frequently, in the past, been a little obscure to me, Rick,” he told him. “So you mustn’t be entirely surprised if I am a trifle fogged on this occasion.” He nodded at the ancient manservant who had somewhat belatedly made his appearance, and urged him to lend a hand. “Get Mrs. Rawlins to prepare a room for Lord Capel, and a room must also be prepared for Miss Yorke. I’m afraid, Miss Yorke, that you will not be very much impressed by the comforts of Hollowthorne, for they are practically non-existent, but we will do our best to ensure that you are not actually uncomfortable. Of course, if I had had the least idea that I was to expect visitors I would have made some provision beforehand.”

  “That is perfectly all right, my lord,” Harriet assured him, as between them they manoeuvred the Marquis into the low-ceilinged sitting-room on the right of the most attractive hall, and he sank with an air of the greatest possible relief into the first available armchair. “But it is such a delightful house I’m sure I shall enjoy my very brief visit here—” she stressed, quite deliberately, the words “very brief visit”, since she had no intention that it should be anything else—“very much indeed, and I do trust you will not put yourself about on my account,” she added hastily.