place with the house full of visitors. Too easy to become trapped, no matter how well she knew it. She couldn’t risk being caught and giving Aunt Faringdon more ammunition.
But Max was here…why? Could he really be courting Celia? Max? Her gentle, tender Max? Did he know she was here? Oh, for goodness sake! Why should he?
She didn’t think she had told him who her uncle was. And apparently Max had left the village very early on the morning after her father’s burial. He would not have seen Lord Faringdon. And what if he found out she was here? She bit her lip. The only way in which he could help her would be to remove her from the Faringdons’ care. And he wouldn’t be able to do that, even if he wanted to. He might force them to treat her properly while he remained, but after he left— Despite the warmth of the day a chill stole through her. It would be worse than ever.
She couldn’t understand it. They didn’t want her here. They hated her. Why, then, did Aunt Faringdon refuse to write her a reference and let her go?
No. She must stay out of his way. Not that he was likely to recognise her after five years…she’d been a child. A thin, underdeveloped fifteen seen by a tallow candle. No. He would never recognise her.
In her dreams Max always knew her instantly, swept her up on to his horse and took her away. Lord Blakehurst was another matter entirely. Earls did not sweep indigent females up on to their precious bloodstock and carry them off to the obligatory happy ever after. Somehow she had to banish Lord Blakehurst and think only of Max. Otherwise she had lost her comforting dream.
The following evening Max, Earl Blakehurst, sighed with relief as the ladies left the dining room in the wake of Lady Faringdon. What in Hades had possessed him to accept this invitation? He hated gatherings like this. A veneer of pretension and affectation on the part of the ladies, concealing a solid core of hypocrisy. And the gentlemen were not much better.
Across the table young Godfrey Faringdon’s bragging account of some tale involving a lady’s companion at another house party grated on him. He gritted his teeth. In consigning Colonel Scott’s daughter to the care of her loving family, he had made a serious error of judgement.
‘Ah, Blakehurst? You there, old chap?’
He looked across the table to Mr Marlbury.
‘You’re being chased,’ said Marlbury, in a helpful spirit.
Max looked at him blankly. He knew that. Celia Faringdon’s subtlety at dinner had rivalled her mama’s. And as for her little stratagem this morning! He shuddered. That was the stuff of nightmares. Trapped. By a conniving little baggage!
‘The brandy!’ urged Marlbury.
‘Oh.’ Max became aware of Thornfield, to his left, attempting to pass him the brandy decanter. ‘Sorry, Thornfield.’ He poured himself a glass and took a cautious sip. He barely suppressed another shudder. Just as atrocious as the previous night. Lord. The things a man would do in response to a guilty conscience: attending ghastly house parties and drinking appalling brandy to name a couple.
‘I say, Blakehurst,’ said Thornfield in a low voice, ‘Miss Celia seems quite taken with you!’ He leered at Max. ‘Dare say you’ve only got to drop your handkerchief.’
Max gulped brandy. One thing he could guarantee: Miss Celia might be taken with him, but she would not be taken by him. His handkerchief would stay in his pocket. And he would stay out of the maze.
‘Of course, if that don’t appeal,’ went on Thornfield, showing remarkable percipience for a man in his inebriated condition, ‘you could always amuse yourself with Fanny Moncrieff or Kate Highbury. They won’t expect marriage.’ He attempted a lascivious wink.
Max returned a non-committal reply and reminded himself that he did, after all, bear a certain reputation. But had he realised that Lady Moncrieff and Mrs Highbury were to be present, casting their jaded, world-weary lures in his direction, then he would definitely have reconsidered his strategy in attending.
Oh, the devil! Too late for second thoughts now. He was here and he should have come years ago. Indeed, even being in the house had not yielded results. He had found out nothing, so he would have to ask his host point-blank. And how he was supposed to ask tactfully escaped him.
In the end, he eschewed tact, cornering his host as they left the dining room. ‘Faringdon, perhaps I might have a private word with you?’
Lord Faringdon blinked. And then smiled. An oily, triumphant sort of smile that put every nerve on full battle alert. ‘Why, of course, Blakehurst. My library is private. This way!’ He signalled to his son. ‘Godfrey, tell my lady that I am engaged on some urgent business with Blakehurst.’
Max eyed him with extreme disfavour. Good God! The man was fairly rubbing his hands in glee! What the devil did he—? The truth crashed over him. Faringdon thought he was about to make an offer. For Celia. Mentally cursing his own idiocy, Max followed his host to the library.
‘More brandy, Blakehurst?’
Max abandoned good manners. ‘No. Thank you.’
Faringdon favoured him with a conspiratorial grin and poured a glass anyway, thrusting it at him. ‘No, no, Blakehurst. This ain’t the same stuff we had in the dining room! Wouldn’t waste this on that lot!’
‘I’ve had enough,’ Max informed him coldly.
Faringdon stared. ‘Had enough? Oh, ah…yes, well.’ He took a sip himself. ‘To business, then. I take it, you like what you see. She’s had only the best, so…’
Max headed him off at once. ‘Lord Faringdon, I wonder if you could give me any news of Miss Scott?’
‘Miss Scott?’ The brandy in Lord Faringdon’s glass slopped over.
Max frowned at the reaction. Faringdon’s eyes flickered under his hard gaze. Fear.
He pressed on, relentless. ‘Yes. I believe her to be a niece of Lady Faringdon and under your care. Her late father was my C.O. and I thought to enquire after her.’ He pretended to examine a painting.
‘Oh.’ Disdain came through clearly. ‘I’m afraid she is no longer with us.’
Anger surged through Max and he swung back to stare at Faringdon. Just as he’d feared. Verity Scott had been bundled off God knew where. Somewhere her tragic story could not embarrass the socially ambitious Faringdons. He could see it now—packed off to be a companion to a cantankersome old hag, or immured in some foul girls’ school as a drudge. Well, he wouldn’t permit it!
He saw with satisfaction that Faringdon had paled and forcibly relaxed his hands. Clenched fists were not the best way to draw information out of a reluctant man. Not discreetly, anyway.
‘Perhaps you could give me her direction, Faringdon. I should like to pay my respects.’ What had they done to her? Could he help her? Might Lady Arnsworth, his Aunt Almeria, employ her?
Lord Faringdon said quickly, ‘I fear you misunderstand me, Blakehurst. When I said that Miss Scott was no longer with us, I meant that she has…that she is…’
Cold horror, laced with shocking pain, shuddered through Max. ‘She’s dead.’ Statement, not question, and something inside him tore apart as Lord Faringdon inclined his head in assent.
