scandal trailing his coat tails, exactly how ideal will he be for me? But she knew it would be useless to argue: when Francis Devereux alighted on an idea, it would not be dislodged by even the mightiest earthquake.
Her uncle took her bowed head as acquiescence. ‘I will not force you into any marriage you do not wish to make, Lucinda,’ he said more amenably, ‘but I will expect that you treat with courtesy a man who has travelled here to make your acquaintance.’
The door shut behind him and she sunk on to the bed, numbed by the disasters that had befallen her. Cherished hopes had been shattered, a terrifying escape endured, and now the threat of a husband had appeared out of nowhere, filling the air with a black poison. Her uncle had said that he would not force her into an arranged marriage, but she was not stupid. She would be pressured, that was for sure, in all kinds of subtle ways. A man did not travel from London to be given a polite brush off. He would expect an answer and in the affirmative.
‘Is everything all right, Miss Lucy?’ Molly had returned from the stables and was peering anxiously around the bedroom door.
‘No,’ she answered bluntly. ‘My uncle wishes me to know that he has a guest arriving very shortly, a man I have never met, but one I am forced to greet with complaisance.’
‘Does he come as a suitor?’ the maid ventured.
‘He may choose to call himself such. I do not. The idea is preposterous.’
‘You may like him,’ Molly said hopefully.
Lucinda was well aware of the romantic notions embedded in her maid’s breast and tried to let her down gently. ‘That is most unlikely. He will be as the rest of his tribe—wealthy, idle and overindulged. From what Uncle Francis let slip, he may even be immoral.’
‘Sir Francis would never ask you to meet anyone disreputable.’
‘No, you’re right. My uncle is a puritan and if he has vetted and approved this man, he will be whiter than white and no doubt tedious beyond words. He will be prosy and dull. I shall probably fall asleep even as he talks to me.’
Before her mistress had stopped speaking, a sharp rap summoned Molly to the door. When she returned, it was to stammer, ‘Your uncle has sent a message, miss. The gentleman has arrived.’
‘Now! At this hour! What kind of person arrives at past ten in the evening?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure, but Sir Francis wants you dressed and downstairs immediately.’ She opened a closet door as she spoke and considered the array of garments within.
‘Shall I lay out the cream silk, miss? That complements your skin beautifully. And we can do your hair à la Meduse—little ringlets, like so.’ And she made a few passing feints in the air. ‘I’ve been practising these past weeks and it shouldn’t take long.’
Lucinda glared at her, shaking herself free of the depression which had begun to lap insidiously at her spirits.
‘Lay out the drabbest gown you can find, Molly,’ she commanded imperiously, ‘and search for that dreadful shawl the vicar’s wife gave me. I wish to look a complete dowdy! That should send him beetling back to London in a hurry, for he will want his money and title to buy something a great deal better.’
When she saw who stood in the flagged hallway below, Lucinda almost turned tail for the sanctuary of her room. She faltered on the final two stairs and, but for her uncle’s intervention, might have fallen. A state of frozen horror engulfed her. At this very moment she stood facing the man she had attempted to rob! She was incredulous, dumbfounded.
‘Allow me to present my niece to you, Lord Frensham—Miss Lucinda Lacey.’ Francis Devereux danced fussily around them. ‘Lucinda, this is the Earl of Frensham.’
‘Jack Beaufort,’ he said, bowing low over her hand.
‘My lord.’
Her tone was coldly formal and the curtsy she bobbed perfunctory. She was forcing herself to present an indifferent face, but it was a titanic struggle. To maintain composure when her mind was besieged by terrors! Had he recognised her? Was it possible that he saw, in the badly dressed girl before him, the highwayman of a few hours ago? Please, no, she prayed. She had recognised him immediately.
Slowly she emerged from the first sickening sense of shock and, under cover of her uncle’s monologue, snatched a covert glance. He wasn’t what she’d expected. Nor, she was sure, what her uncle had expected. The man appeared completely at his ease, his air of confidence pervading the vast hall and metaphorically rattling the suits of armour which punctuated its panelled walls in dreary sequence. His dress was elegance incarnate, down to the last burnished tassel swinging from his gleaming Hessians, and, if not precisely handsome, he made a striking figure. A small scar punctured his left cheek and the way that a lock of dark hair fell across his brow almost meeting it, gave him the look of a pirate. He needed only the eye patch and he would be complete. She could see why he had overpowered her so easily for, though tall, he was solidly built. His form told of many hours of punishing sport and she thought he would revel in it. Even his name—Jack Beaufort—had a piratical tang.
‘We are delighted that you were able to visit, your lordship,’ Francis Devereux oozed, his plump cheeks puffed with pride.
‘I am delighted to be at Verney Towers and to make your acquaintance.’ The words were right, but the man’s expression suggested otherwise. His was a smile of false pleasure, Lucinda decided.
‘It is a great honour to welcome you to our house, Lord Frensham, no matter what the hour.’
Sir Francis, she noted, was unable to resist a rebuke even to his prize guest, but the earl seemed not to notice. ‘I regret the necessity of arriving so late,’ he said smoothly, ‘but I was forced to hire a conveyance from the Four Feathers, an inn a few miles from here.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Devereux said eagerly. ‘We know the Feathers well. But why did you not continue the journey in your own carriage? I would have been more than glad to house your cattle.’
‘That is most kind, Sir Francis, but unhappily it was not possible.’ She saw a small smile appear at the corners of the earl’s mouth and knew that he was enjoying himself. ‘You see, I was set upon by a robber, a gentleman of the road as I believe they call themselves. He cut the traces and made it impossible for me to continue. I was forced to ride to the inn to secure help.’
‘But that is dreadful.’ Francis Devereux’s face was stricken. ‘Quite dreadful. A highwayman, you say. But we have not had highwaymen in Sussex for many a year.’
‘You have now,’ the earl remarked laconically.
‘But where did this dreadful event occur? Were you or your company hurt? What valuables were you forced to hand over?’
The questions rained down and she could see their guest exercising severe restraint to stop himself from laughing aloud. The ambush had disturbed her uncle acutely and he had forgotten his society manners in the clamour to know every last detail.
‘Please do not concern yourself. Nothing was taken and neither of us was hurt.’
‘Neither?’ Sir Francis looked puzzled.
‘I was travelling alone except for my coachman.’
‘Only
