The Silverton Scandal

by Amanda Grange

  ‘I know you don’t love him.’

  ‘And how, pray, would you know that?’ she demanded.

  ‘Because of the way you react to me.’

  She felt herself flush. There was a directness to his gaze that made her distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she returned. But instead of sounding defiant her words came out half-heartedly, because she knew full well what he meant.

  ‘Don’t you?’ he enquired.

  His eyes were boring into her own, and she was aware of the fact that she could not deny it.

  Gathering the shreds of her dignity, she said, ‘You will kindly remember who I am. And I would be obliged if you would not attempt to take any further liberties with my person,’ she added as he took a step towards her and instinctively she took a step back.

  ‘Oh? So that’s what I was doing,’ he asked mockingly. ‘I was taking liberties with your person. I must remember that the next time —’

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ she interrupted him.

  ‘No?’

  His sardonic glance unsettled her. It was bad enough that, against her will, her heart leapt at the thought there would be a next time. It was even worse that he seemed to know it.

  ‘Lord Silverton, you forget yourself,’ she said repressively.

  ‘Do I?’ His eyes looked down into her own, and he took her hands. ‘But all I am doing is speaking the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ she enquired, trying to ignore the heat that surged through her at his touch. ‘Your version of it, perhaps.’

  ‘Can you deny it?’ he asked, as he stroked the backs of her hands. There was still a trace of mockery in his voice, but there was a huskiness as well that made it difficult for her to think. ‘There is an electrical connection between us, Eleanor.’

  Try as she might, she could not deny it. Nevertheless, she could not give in to the magnetism he was exuding. Injecting the most scathing note she could manage into her voice she said, ‘That has nothing to do with love.’

  ‘Oh?’ His eyebrows raised. ‘I see.’ His voice became even more husky. ‘So it’s lust?’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said defiantly. Before realizing what she had said. ‘No,’ she contradicted herself hastily, feeling her heart beginning to race.

  ‘Then if you don’t lust after me you won’t feel anything when I do this,’ he said caressingly.

  He trailed his finger along her jaw line, and she felt as though he had drawn a flaming torch across her skin. She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Or this?’

  His finger stroked up towards her mouth, then traced along the line of her lips.

  Oh, it was heavenly! But she must not let him know it. With great difficulty she fought down the trembling that threatened to consume her.

  ‘No.’

  It did not end there. ‘Or this?’ he asked, as his hand grazed the side of her throat.

  ‘No!’ She stepped backwards out of harm’s way. She could not let him touch her again. It was driving her to distraction.

  By his expression he obviously knew it.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said.

  But there was no repentance or desire for forgiveness in his voice. Instead there was a note of triumph.

  ‘Believe me, Eleanor, it is better to discover your real feelings now, whilst you still have a chance to do something about it, rather than when it is too late,’ he said.

  His eyes looked directly into her own, and there was a moment of deep connection, as though his soul was speaking to hers.

  She knew that what he said was true. If she had really imagined herself in love with the writer of the letters - if she had, perhaps, intended to marry her correspondent - then his actions would have made her think again. But she did not imagine herself in love with anyone. The situation was far more complicated than that.

  ‘I know what my real feelings are,’ she said, recovering herself, and speaking with as much haughtiness as she could muster. ‘My real feelings are that no gentleman would treat a lady in the way you have just treated me.’

  His eyes flashed. ‘But then, I have never claimed to be a gentleman.’

  As if to prove it, he pulled her roughly into his arms, and then he kissed her.

  Her first reaction was to push him away, but the sensation was so exhilarating she did nothing of the kind. He was dangerous and dictatorial, but perversely he made her feel wonderful - warm and wanted and alive.

  ‘You . . . should not have done that,’ she said, when he let her go, thinking, And I should not have let you.

  ‘Oh, but you’re wrong. It’s exactly what I should have done. Because it was the only way to convince you, once and for all, that what you feel for your correspondent isn’t love. You couldn’t kiss me like that if you were in love with another man - no matter how much you lust after me,’ he added wickedly. Then his mood sobered. ‘I might not be a gentleman, Eleanor, but you are undoubtedly a lady, and you would never allow a man to kiss you like that if you had given your heart elsewhere. Give it up. Forget him. Leave the letters. Go home. There are forces at work here that you don’t understand.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She could no longer pretend that she was in love with the writer of the letters, but she had to make Lord Silverton understand why it was so important for her to reclaim them. If she did not, he would try to prevent her from looking for them, and would most likely put her into a hackney carriage himself. Unfortunately, there was only one way to make him understand. She would have to tell the truth.

  She looked up, lifting her chin as her eyes met his in a direct gaze. ‘You’re right when you say that I don’t love the writer of the letters. But you see, the letters aren’t mine.’

  ‘Ah.’ She saw the understanding dawn on his face. ‘But if they are not yours, then . . . ?’

  She gave a sigh. ‘They are my sister’s.’

  He nodded. ‘That explains it. And she has some urgent reason for retrieving them. She is to be married, perhaps?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. If the letters come to light it will cause both her and her betrothed a great deal of distress, and it might jeopardise her future.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said to himself, as though he had just realized something. ‘Miss Grantham. I should have recognised the name at once, but my mind has been on other matters recently. Your sister is to marry Charles . . . Charles Ormston, the son of the Duke of Brinsdale. I remember now.’

  Eleanor nodded.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘She has written some compromising letters?’

  ‘Some childish letters,’ Eleanor corrected him, ‘written when she was still in the schoolroom. But they include girlish protestations of devotion, and Charles’s family are very particular about such things.’

  ‘Indeed they are,’ he remarked dryly.

  ‘Yes. So you see, I have no choice. I have to find the letters.’ She turned her attention back to the papers that littered the room. ‘I hope they’re here, and that I can manage to find them before Mr Kendrick returns.’ She hesitated. ‘Will you be looking for your letters, as well?’

  He looked surprised.

  ‘It’s no use pretending,’ she said, sure that she had worked out the mystery of his strange behaviour. ‘I don’t believe your story about holding up the coach for a wager. If Mr Kendrick was blackmailing my sister, I see no reason why he would not be blackmailing other people, and it strikes me that one of them must have been you.’ She hesitated. ‘I can understand why you didn’t want to give in to him, and why you decided to get your letters back by other means, but even so, you should not have held up the coach.’

  He met her gaze, and she felt a disturbing hint of danger emanating from him. It was slight, but nevertheless it was there.

  ‘I am not accustomed to having someone tell me what I should and should not do,’ he said warningly. Then his eyes lit with a surprisingly teasing light. ‘But perhaps that is because I have never met
anyone brave enough to do it!’

  She smiled. She could well believe it! Then she sobered. ‘Even so, you should not have done it. The clergyman and the stout matron who were travelling with me were in fear of their life. You might have known they were not in any danger, but they did not.’

  The teasing light left his eyes. She could tell he did not want to talk about it. But she did. She did not approve of his actions, and was not afraid to say so.

  ‘There must have been another way. Could you not have simply paid Mr Kendrick’s price? For a man of your means it would not have been impossible.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he said softly, ‘Mr Kendrick declined to sell.’

  ‘‘Ah. I see. He meant to discredit you,’ she said thoughtfully, following her own line of reasoning. ‘Or the lady. Or both. Was it revenge?’

  ‘Let’s just say, he had another buyer.’

  Eleanor tried to digest this, but could not make sense of it. She had the disturbing feeling that she had not got to the bottom of the mystery, after all.

  ‘Let it go,’ he said softly. ‘Too much intelligence can be a dangerous thing —’

  ‘In a woman?’ she asked provocatively.

  ‘In anyone.’

  There was a change in the atmosphere and she was suddenly apprehensive. There was such a darkness about him that she felt as though she had stumbled into a puddle, only to find that instead of being two inches deep, it was bottomless. And that she was falling . . .

  ‘I’ll search the room myself,’ he said. ‘I’ll find your sister’s letters, as well as what I’m looking for, and then I’m putting you on the first stage heading back to Bath.’

  Eleanor felt her spirits sink. Once he put her on a coach she would never see him again. She did not know why that should matter to her, but it did.

  ‘In the meantime,’ he continued, ‘I suggest you go into one of the front rooms and keep watch at the window, so that you can warn me if Mr Kendrick returns.’

  She was about to argue when she realized that it made sense. Leaving Lord Silverton she went out of the study and crossed the landing, going into a large and well-proportioned apartment that was evidently used as a dining-room.

  It was a spacious room, and Venetian mirrors on the walls made it seem even larger than it was. It had a moulded ceiling and elaborate cornices, an inlaid dining-table surrounded by Hepplewhite chairs, and several damasked sofas. Mr Kendrick had spared no expense.

  Going past the table she walked over to the window. It was flanked by two red-damasked settees. She rounded the settees . . . and suddenly came to a stop. For there, sprawled on the floor behind the one at the left, was Mr Kendrick. And by the look of it he was dead.

  She froze.

  And then slowly she began to come back to life.

  Her instinct was to back away from him, and she took a few steps towards the door, but then she stopped. Although a knife was sticking out of his back, she could not be sure that his wound was fatal. He might just be unconscious. Despite her distaste, she knew she should make sure.

  She overcame her revulsion and knelt down beside him. She took his hand. It was cold and limp. She felt for a pulse. But even as she did so she knew it was futile.

  Dropping his hand she went back into the study, where Lord Silverton was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by a sea of papers. He looked up as she entered the room. ‘You’ve seen Kendrick?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘I was just getting started. I hoped I’d have longer. But if he is here then we will have to go.’

  ‘No. You don’t understand.’

  He looked at her more closely, and then his eyes became concerned. ‘You’re as white as a sheet,’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Mr Kendrick,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘I haven’t seen him, I’ve found him. In the room across the corridor. He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ he demanded.

  She nodded mutely.

  He dropped the papers he was holding and went over to her, taking her hands between his.

  ‘You’re freezing,’ he said, chafing them.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she protested.

  ‘No. You’re not. And it isn’t surprising. You’ve had a shock. But I must go and make certain for myself that Kendrick’s really dead. Wait here.’

  Before she could protest he was out of the room, and a few minutes later he returned. He gave her a brief nod. ‘You’re right. He’s been dead for some time.’

  He swept up the papers he had not yet had time to look through and looked round for something to put them in. A portmanteau was stored behind the desk. He put the papers inside, then closed the catch.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It’s time for us to leave.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we inform the authorities?’

  ‘We will. Or rather, I will. But right now I want to get you home.’

  She shook her head. The last thing she wanted to do right now was to get on a stagecoach. ‘I don’t think I can face it,’ she said. A reaction to events was setting in, and she felt suddenly weak. ‘The journey - if I could have something to eat first . . . ’

  He took her chin between her fingers and an unmistakeable look of tenderness lit his eyes. ‘I was not suggesting you should travel back to Bath. You’re not going to your home. You’re going to mine.’

  Chapter Five

  Her eyes widened in surprise. And then she shook her head. ‘I can’t go with you to your home.’

  ‘There is no suitable coach until the morning, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until you’re on it,’ he returned.

  ‘But I can’t spend the night beneath your roof.’

  ‘Whoever murdered Kendrick might not be far away, and if they suspect you know something you will be in danger,’ he said. ‘But you will be safe with me.’

  Reluctantly Eleanor nodded. Dangerous though Lord Silverton was, she knew he would protect her. He was used to dealing with perilous situations, and she was not. Besides, she was still suffering from the shock of finding Mr Kendrick’s body and she welcomed the chance to rest for a while in safety. Still, there was one last thing that worried her. ‘If anyone sees me —’

  ‘We will not go together, and as long as you make sure the street is empty before going inside then no one will know you are there.’ He gave her directions to Silverton House. ‘It’s less than a five minute walk away,’ he finished. ‘When my valet, Beddows, opens the door - the rest of the servants have not yet returned from my country estate, as my town house has been shut up over the summer - give him this.’ He took a signet ring from his finger. ‘He is a very discreet individual, and will let you in without asking any questions.’

  Eleanor hesitated. She could not help wondering how many other women had presented the ring to Lord Silverton’s "very discreet" valet in order to be admitted without any questions being asked.

  ‘And no,’ he said, reading her expression correctly and giving her a wolfish smile, ‘I don’t make a habit of this.’

  ‘I never said you did,’ she returned, flustered.

  ‘But you thought it.’

  The smile that went with his words was disarming, and despite herself she smiled in return.

  ‘Lord Silverton, too much intelligence is a dangerous thing,’ she said, using his own words against him.

  ‘In a man?’ he asked.

  She laughed.

  He laughed, too. ‘Touché!’ he said.

  He took her hand between his strong fingers. Then holding it up in front of him he slid the ring onto her finger.

  There seemed something intimate about the gesture. Her eyes flew to his, and she could tell from his expression that the same thought had struck him, too. Their gazes held.

  Then he dropped her hand.

  Standing back to let her go through the door, he said, ‘Go as quickly as you can but don’t run and don’t look round. I will be right behind you.’

  She went down the stairs and out into the stree
t.

  The day had become wet. Persistent rain fell from the lowering sky, and few people were braving the elements. Before many minutes had passed Eleanor had reached Silverton House and was knocking on the door.

  Controlling her impatience, she waited for an answer to her summons. It quickly came. She lifted her hand, but before she had a chance to speak, Beddows noticed the ring on her finger and opened the door wide to let her in.

  ‘Your master is following close behind,’ she said.

  He nodded wordlessly and closed the door.

  She had just time to undo the strings of her bonnet before the door opened again and Lord Silverton let himself in.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe we were noticed.’ He smiled. ‘Welcome to my home.’

  Eleanor felt a stirring of curiosity and found herself looking forward to seeing where he lived.

  Beddows took her cloak and bonnet, and then Lord Silverton led her into a small parlour at the back of the house. It was a cheerful room, with a bright fire blazing in the hearth. The furniture was somewhat battered but it was homely, and obviously well loved. A sofa was pushed back against the wall, its soft colours glowing in the firelight. There was a small table next to it. A couple of armchairs, one with the stuffing peeping out, flanked the fire, whilst a colourful rug lay in front of it.

  So there is warmth to his personality as well as hardness, she thought.

  She had seen flashes of it over the last twenty-four hours, but little more. Up until now, she had seen him only in dangerous or tense situations, but here she was seeing him in the relaxed environment of his home. Already it had changed him. He seemed more approachable. His face had lost some of its hard lines and planes. The masculine contours had softened, making him seem younger and more good-humoured. The thought made her blossom inside. It seemed the evening might be an enjoyable one after all.

  A brief twinge assailed her as she thought of the impropriety but she dismissed it. She was not a young girl, to be afraid of the company of a man. Nor did she feel herself to be in danger. Despite the fact that Lord Silverton had kissed her she did not feel intimidated by him, and knew that she could have stopped him at any time, if she had wanted to. To her shame, she knew that she had not.