The Reluctant Heiress

by Evelyn Richardson

  The earl turned to Rosalind. “Forgive me, my lady. It was exceptionally rag-mannered of me. I am at your service. If you will but engage me in conversation, I promise to leave our musician to her playing and the rest of the company to their enjoyment of it.” But Alistair did not allow himself to be led away before he had sneaked a conspiratorial wink at Sarah.

  Left alone with her music, Sarah sat motionless at the pianoforte for a moment before resuming her playing. She had been somewhat taken aback, but inordinately pleased by Lord Farringdon’s last gesture. It was infinitely reassuring to know that he was not completely under Rosalind’s thumb. In spite of herself, Sarah had rather come to enjoy the man’s company, and it was heartening to see that he appeared to see through her beautiful sister-in-law, at least to some degree. Unbidden, the image of the earl’s dark head bent over Rosalind in the garden rose again before her, bringing with it the oddest wish that it had been she, rather than her sister-in-law, who had been locked in his arms. Sarah shook her head vigorously and laid her hands purposefully on the keys. Mozart had a way of calming even the most disordered senses, and hers were certainly disordered at this particular moment.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Physically, Alistair might have been separated from Sarah, but his thoughts remained with her for the rest of the evening. Even after he had retired to his bedchamber, he stood for some time, gazing out of the window at the gardens below and thinking about her. What a rare person she was, so unlike any other woman he had ever known. Where the others were all artifice and superficiality, she was serenely herself, quiet, with hidden depths, surprises at every turn.

  Her company was both restful and stimulating at the same time: restful because one did not feel pursued the way one did with so many other women, and stimulating because she was interested in so many things beyond the empty trivialities of the latest on-dits. How delightful it was to be with someone who did not want anything except to share ideas, who did not appear to expect him to say or be anything but himself.

  Most women cared about the earl only in relation to themselves—how he flattered them, what his interest in them would do for their status in the ton, or what his patronage would do for them in the demimonde, but Sarah actually listened to what he had to say, pondered it and responded. That sort of interaction, Lord Farringdon had discovered, was equally or even more exciting than the most reckless of affairs he had pursued. Oddly enough, it was also in many ways more intimate because they were exchanging ideas that were the products of their personal reflections rather than the empty responses of the standard flirtation. Strange though it was, Alistair felt closer to Sarah in many ways than he had to others with whom he had shared more physically intimate liaisons or even those with whom he had had romantic connections.

  Loosening his neckcloth, the earl drew a long breath of the cool night air. He had not thought this deeply in quite some time, and he was rather enjoying the quiet moment of reflection as he surveyed the moonlit countryside. Suddenly, a rhythmic thud broke the peacefulness of the evening. Instantly alert, Alistair pulled back into the shadow of the drapery and squinted in the direction of the sound. Sure enough, in a few seconds, a horse and rider emerged from a clump of trees off in the direction of the stables. Of course the earl could not positively identify the Frenchman’s features at such a distance, but the size and shape of the man on the horse were more nearly equal to that of the chevalier than any of the other guests.

  Alistair grabbed the jacket he had just tossed into the chair, struggled back into it, and rummaged in a dresser drawer for a pistol and several neckcloths. It was a pity to ruin perfectly good neckcloths, but at the moment the earl could think of no other way to muffle the sound of Brutus’s hooves. No doubt Rogers would have some harsh words for him later, but what were a valet’s sensibilities when the safety of the country was at stake?

  Stuffing his pistol into his pocket and carrying his boots in one hand and the neckcloths in the other, Alistair crept down the hall, mentally reviewing a variety of excuses should he be caught. He made it safely to the drawing room, whose doors overlooked the lawn, allowing him an easy exit without having to pass by the servants’ hall.

  The stables presented a problem, as he had no idea whether the stable boys were given separate quarters or were expected to bed down with their charges. Fortunately, when he had first arrived, Lord Farringdon had seen to Brutus’s accommodations so he knew right where to find his mount. The horse whickered softly as his master approached. With relief Alistair noted that there were no stable boys in sight, and then hurriedly bound Brutus’s hooves, saddled him, and led him slowly from the stables. It seemed hours until they left the cobbles of the stable yard and reached the grass of the park. Pausing briefly, the earl glanced cautiously over his shoulder, but all was quiet. The great house, bathed in moonlight, remained dark, not even one window showing light.

  Hastily mounting Brutus, Alistair headed off in the direction in which the rider had disappeared. From his earlier visits to Tredington Park, Lord Farringdon had gained a rough idea of the countryside, which he had reinforced with his ride the previous morning. This knowledge, coupled with the suspicion that the Frenchman was going to meet with contacts from across the Channel, made it fairly easy for him to ascertain the way the chevalier had gone.

  It was a relief after the forced inactivity of observation to have his suspicions proven and to be able to act on them. After the social repartee of the drawing room where every word was overheard and analyzed by many ears, every gesture seen and interpreted by many eyes, it was wonderful to gallop across the silent countryside and to be doing something active and constructive at last.

  Off to his right rose the dark shape of a manor house. Ashworth, the earl thought, and he wondered briefly about Lady Sarah’s opinion of the evening. The road curved around the house, heading toward the coast, and as he rounded the turn, he saw a light flickering from a downstairs window. Evidently, she was still awake.

  Soon the scent of salt air stung his nostrils, and Alistair reined in Brutus to a walk as they approached the vast expanse of marsh ahead. He stopped and scanned the horizon, listening intently, but there was nothing except the sound of the breeze stirring the marsh grass, which rippled in the moonlight. Horse and rider advanced slowly, picking their way along the road, which had now dwindled to a narrow track. Alistair leaned forward, trying to pick out the dark shape of a rider against the silvery landscape. The Frenchman had a lead on him, but not that great a lead.

  They crept along this way for some time when at last Lord Farringdon saw it, a flicker of light, so quickly dowsed that he almost doubted his own eyes. At least they were on the right track. Leaning even lower over Brutus’s shoulders, he urged the horse on while straining to catch the slightest sound.

  The wind rustled through the grass, and Brutus flicked an ear, his nostrils flaring as though he had caught the scent of another horse. “Good boy,” Alistair whispered, stroking his mount’s neck. At last, he, too, was able to detect the faint sound of voices coming from what appeared to be the very depths of the grasses. There must be an inlet close by, Alistair reasoned, a perfect place for landing small boats unobtrusively.

  He slipped quietly down off Brutus’s back and led him carefully forward in the direction of the voices. Soon he was able to make out the dark shapes of horses and men ahead of him in the high grass. Still too far away to identify anyone or hear anything, Alistair crept forward as quietly as he could, trying as much as possible to make his movements sound like the soft breezes in the grass. At last he was within earshot, and there, sure enough, was the chevalier, his horse standing quietly beside him, in deep conversation with another man.

  The chevalier was clutching a small packet and gesticulating furiously while his companion, obviously a subordinate, but also obviously a gentleman, listened intently, nodding emphatically from time to time. A little bit beyond them was a rowboat pulled up into a narrow inlet in the marsh. A third man sat in the midd
le of the boat, leaning on the oars and staring vacantly off into space.

  “Ah.” Alistair let out a long silent sigh of satisfaction. It was precisely as he had expected. The Frenchman was passing information to one of his countrymen, who would no doubt slip quietly off to some French ship lying in wait off the coast, and, once across the Channel, ride straight to Paris and the emperor. He had known it all along! Now all Alistair had to do was to prove it, and the Chevalier d’Evron would no longer haunt the salons and drawing rooms of the ton.

  The earl was so intent on the chevalier, his treacherous behavior, and visions of the man’s ignominious downfall that he failed completely to notice a fourth man standing guard a little apart from the others. However, this man did see Alistair, and he made for him immediately, brandishing a bulky pistol and giving a warning shout to the others.

  Alistair threw himself on Brutus’s back, wheeled, and headed in the direction from which he had come at breakneck speed. Shots rang out, and he heard the sound of pounding hooves behind him. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he saw that the man, too, had grabbed a horse and was gaining on him, but the man’s mount was little more than a pony and no match for Brutus.

  Another shot rang out, and the earl felt a burning pain on his right side. Damn and blast! He had been hit. Now what was he going to do? Leaning low over Brutus’s neck, he urged his animal forward, soon outdistancing his pursuers, but now pursuit was the least of his worries.

  Alistair could feel the warm, sticky blood beginning to run down his side, and he was tiring rapidly. It hurt to breathe, and, what with the excitement and the exertion, he was forced to gulp in great quantities of air, which only exacerbated the pain. Grasping the reins with one hand, he gingerly felt his side, but could discern nothing beyond the fact that he was losing blood. At least the wound appeared to be peripheral enough not to have hit any vital organs, but it still left him with the enormous problem of getting it attended to without attracting any notice. Servants were bound to talk, and he did not want the news that he was suffering from a gunshot wound to reach the chevalier’s ears. The earl was reasonably certain that he had been unidentifiable to the men on the marsh, and he preferred to have it remain that way in order to carry out his mission of rendering the chevalier and his colleagues inoperative.

  Of all the blessed luck, he cursed to himself. No, actually that was not precisely true; of all the buffleheaded things to do, charging down on them without keeping a careful watch out for sentries. In his excitement at the opportunity to catch the chevalier in action, he had thrown caution to the winds, blundering in as stupidly as a raw youth who had never done this sort of thing before. Ow! He winced, as much from his own stupidity as from the pain that shot through him as Brutus, leaving the soft turf of the marsh behind him, stumbled on a rock in the rough track leading back to the road.

  The earl shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, and his eye caught sight of a light ahead of him. Ashworth! Sarah was still up. He sighed in relief. It was the perfect solution. From all that he had seen of Lady Sarah Melford, Alistair felt certain he could count on her to help him. There was something about her cool intelligence, her self-possessed air that made him sense he could rely on her assistance and her discretion.

  A great weight was lifted from his mind, and with the happy thought of comfort and aid, he urged Brutus toward the welcoming golden patch gleaming ahead of him in the darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the library at Ashworth Sarah sat at her desk, surrounded by books and papers, her pen in hand and a frown of concentration wrinkling her brow. Thaddeus had been urging her for an age to write down her opinions and share them with the rest of the world. At last the perfect opportunity had presented itself in the form of a book by Thomas Broadhurst that had captured her interest, Advice to young Ladies on the Improvement of the Mind. It addressed a topic dear to her heart, and in composing a critique of the book for The Edinburgh Review, she had seized the opportunity to express her own ideas. Of course she had not used her own name, and only the publisher was aware of her identity. He had obligingly sent her all letters addressed to the author of the review, and it was to one of these that she was struggling to compose a reply.

  Sarah was searching for a word that would give her a particular turn of phrase when she heard what she thought was a rap on the window. Do not be silly, she muttered to herself. You have an overactive imagination. It is merely a branch in the wind. But the rapping began again, more insistent this time. She turned around and started in astonishment, for there at the French doors leading to the garden appeared the figure of a man, his face gleaming ghostly pale in the surrounding darkness.

  Heart thumping rapidly, Sarah cautiously opened the drawer of her desk and as unobtrusively as possible, extracted a wicked-looking letter opener. Holding it slightly behind her so as to conceal it in the folds of her dressing gown, she crept toward the French doors. As she came closer, Sarah discovered, much to her astonishment, that her mysterious visitor was none other than Lord Farringdon, and that he appeared to be in some distress.

  She fumbled with the latch in her haste to let him in. It yielded at last, and she barely had time to swing one door open before he stumbled through. Sarah reached out and grabbed his arm, steadying him as she led him to a chair. It was only then that she noticed a patch of red staining his side. “My lord, this is an unexpected pleasure; is something amiss?” How she wished for the bottle of brandy that always sat on a side table in the library at Cranleigh.

  Alistair’s crack of laughter ended in a painful gasp. “A bleeding man invades her home in the dead of night and she asks if something is amiss. You are magnificent, Lady Sarah. Any other woman would have screamed, or fainted, or both.”

  Sarah colored with pleasure at this unlooked for praise, then in a voice unnaturally brisk to cover the self-consciousness she could not help feeling at being caught bare-footed en deshabille, she continued, “Perhaps, but that does not signify. We must see to your wound. If you will wait here, I shall find some brandy and some bandages.” With that she hurried from the room, her dressing gown billowing behind her.

  In no time she was back, brandishing a bottle of brandy, a glass, and quantities of bandages. Pouring a generous helping of brandy into the glass, she handed it to him. “Here, drink this while I fetch some water.” And she headed off again to return a few minutes later with a kettle that she placed gingerly on the dying embers of the fire before turning to her patient. “I am afraid that this is not very warm, but I did not wish to rouse the servants.”

  “No matter. I am just grateful for your assistance.” Alistair tried not to flinch as she eased him out of his coat and then his shirt.

  “Hmmm,” Sarah muttered thoughtfully as she examined the wound. More unnerving to her than the ragged flesh and blood was the sight of Lord Farringdon stripped to the waist, his broad chest bare, the muscles in his arms and shoulders glistening with sweat. She had never seen a man this way; it gave her the queerest feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she was oddly breathless. Uninvited, the image of those arms wrapped around Rosalind rose again before her. Hastily, she pushed it aside and concentrated on the path the bullet had torn.

  “You are lucky only to have been grazed, my lord—badly grazed, to be sure, but at least the bullet did not lodge inside you.”

  “Yes.” Alistair tried not to groan as she wiped away the blood. “And I was far enough away that the bullet was mostly spent.” He gazed down at Sarah gently sponging his side. What a woman! Not only had she not screamed, fainted, or raised the entire household, she had set to the task of nursing him in a most businesslike fashion without one question. Lord Farringdon could not think of a single female he knew who had not demanded an explanation from him for many things far more mundane than appearing injured on her doorstep in the middle of the night; yet beyond asking him if something was amiss, she had made no comment, concentrating instead on the immediate problem of attending to his wound.

&nb
sp; “There.” Sarah finished winding the bandage around his chest and stood back to admire her handiwork. “Now, if you will have another glass of brandy, I shall see what I can do to repair your coat.” And picking up the basin of water, his shirt, and his jacket, she hurried off, leaving Alistair to his own reflections.

  Somehow he had known that he could count on her to be this way. There had been something about her air of calm self-possession that had made the earl sense that Lady Sarah Melford was equal to almost anything. He glanced over at the desk where she had been working. It was littered with papers and books—a purposeful, masculine desk, so different from the delicate escritoires he had seen in numerous boudoirs.

  Unable to contain his curiosity, Alistair pulled himself out of his chair, wincing as he did so, and made his way over to the desk, where a half-written page lay open, a pen dropped in haste on top of it. “My dear sir,” it said, “as I wrote in my article, ‘A great deal has been said of the original difference between men and women; as if women were more quick, and men more judicious—as if women were more remarkable for delicacy of association, and men for stronger powers of attention.’ I assure you that I have had some experience in the education of both of the sexes and I ...” Even if he had not known it, he might have guessed the handwriting was Sarah’s; it was so like her—neat, but forceful, firm and compact with the words marching purposefully across the page. The topic, A Reply to Critics on ‘Advice to Young Ladies on the Improvement of the Mind’ was just the sort to engage her attention. Lord Farringdon began to read. Having conversed with Lady Sarah, he was not so surprised as he might have been to discover that a female could lay her arguments out in such a clear and telling manner. Really, it was quite good, he admitted grudgingly to himself, and he was sorry when he came to the blank spot at the end of the page. However, it was high time he was back in the chair, where she had placed him for it would never do to be discovered poring over her manuscript.