than the attempted robbery. ‘But my dear sir how could you be so imprudent?’
‘Lynton, my valet, will follow in a few days.’
Francis appeared to be working himself into a small paroxysm. ‘This robbery …’ he began for the third or fourth time.
‘Nothing was taken,’ the earl reminded him.
‘But it could have ended in disaster. We cannot have such a thing happening again, not in our quiet Sussex lanes.’
‘In fact, a quiet Sussex forest,’ Jack interjected, evidently hoping to annoy.
Sir Francis began to wring his hands. ‘But to have this threat on our very doorstep …’
She could almost see Jack Beaufort sigh inwardly. His host was not going to forget. She was sure that he had mentioned his adventure to see its effect, no doubt a small amusement in a vale of tedium. And now he had seen it and amusement was not the first word that sprang to mind.
In an attempt to deflect his host, he said, ‘I could always call in the Runners if you are seriously concerned. I have some small influence at Bow Street.’
The older man leapt upon the suggestion. ‘Yes, Bow Street. That’s the thing. I should be most grateful if you would do so, my lord.’
At these words, Lucinda felt her body stiffen. It was involuntary, the smallest of movements, and she prayed that her adversary had not noticed her recoil. She turned her head very slightly and met a pair of the deepest brown eyes. They wore a mere whisper of curiosity, but they were fixed intently on her. He had noticed, she thought, with misgiving, but what would he make of it?
It was clear that the girl had not liked the suggestion of a Runner. He could not imagine why that might be, but he hoped it might provoke her into speech. She had hardly said a word, standing mute and expressionless, beside her uncle. He was unused to such cavalier treatment, especially from a nondescript provincial. She was small and drab, but what else had he expected. She appeared to be dressed in a brown sack for that was all he could call it: a shapeless, mud-coloured garment that looked as though it had been worn to clean the scullery. Beneath his fascinated gaze, she had pulled a shawl of the vilest magenta stripes more closely around her shoulders.
She appeared nervous, too, or so he had at first thought. That was hardly surprising, ill dressed as she was and no doubt unused to company. She had almost tripped as she came down the stairs towards him. But straightening up from his bow, he’d been met by a pair of mutinous blue eyes. In the sparse candlelight of the bleak hall, they were pure sapphire. This was no shy ingénue, made uneasy by their meeting. Intrigued, he’d looked more intently at her. In response she’d averted her glance and quite deliberately looked through him. He was taken aback. He had no intention of making her or anyone else an offer of marriage, but she could not know that. She would imagine that he had come with courtship in mind and she was behaving as though he were the last man in the world she wanted to see. Miss Lacey was an enigma, but there was something, too, that was strangely familiar about her. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
Not that he wanted to, for he was already cursing himself for having embarked on this journey. He must have been mad to agree to his sisters’ suggestion. He’d risked robbery tonight—possibly worse—in order to visit a man he’d taken in immediate dislike and a girl who radiated disdain. Rescue could not come quickly enough. A fervid image floated in the air before him: Fielding racing his team of greys up the gravelled drive and pulling the coach to a welcome halt. He could almost smell the cloud of dust.
He’d had to get out of town: that was clear enough. London was getting just a little too hot for him, the duel a step too far. And the constant scolding of his sisters had become intolerable. At the time it seemed a clever ploy, disappearing from London society for a few weeks to allow the gossip to quieten, while at the same time fulfilling his family’s wishes. But now it no longer seemed quite so clever. In fact, it was quite possibly one of the worst decisions he had ever made. The sooner he was on his way to Merry’s and the congenial shooting party that awaited him, the better.
Verney Towers! The house was a barrack of a place, grandiose and uncomfortable in equal measure. Why had he allowed himself to be persuaded here? The scandal with Celia Burrage would have died a death soon enough. Ton gossip had a short life and, after all, he had done no more than many. His was not the first duel to be fought over an errant wife, nor would it be the last. But in future he would eschew the married ladies of his acquaintance, accommodating though they were, and find his fun elsewhere. That shouldn’t be too difficult. There were plenty of chère amies to keep the boredom at bay, barques of frailty more than willing to spend his money. As for his three taskmasters—he should be immune to his sisters’ reproaches by now. That they should imagine he would honour some insane pledge of their grandfather’s had seemed ridiculous when they’d told him. Now it left him speechless.
They might be rendered speechless, too, if they saw for themselves the bride they were proposing. It wasn’t that she was bad looking. Indeed, he imagined that those eyes could be fascinating when they weren’t so evidently affronted and the straw-blonde locks entrancing when not scraped into the most unbecoming bun he had ever seen. But they were of a piece with the rest of her appearance: she made no attempt to attract, no attempt to interest or entice. Nothing, in short, that would persuade him to stay a minute longer than he needed. As soon as his travelling coach was once more roadworthy, he would make his escape.
Chapter Two
Lucinda woke early the next morning to the sound of creaks and rustlings as the old house settled itself to endure the coming winter. A sliver of bright light encircled the window frame and she threw back the curtains to a perfect autumn day. The sky was a blue sphere, untarnished by even a wisp of cloud. The air was still, the trees motionless, standing tall and proud, clothed in their last glowing leaves. It was a morning to be out, out and away from these musty walls and from the memory of yesterday’s disasters.
She dared not think about Jack Beaufort and what he might do. If he were to recognise the figure that had ambushed him, she was powerless to save herself. He might have recognised her already—she felt a spark of terror pinch at her heart. He had certainly looked at her closely enough, but that might have been simple curiosity. He would wish to inspect the woman his sisters were proposing he make his wife. He must have suffered a gross disappointment. Even in her present dire situation, Lucinda had to chuckle at the likely effect of that hideous brown gown and the even more hideous shawl. If they had not completely repelled him, then her air of cold boredom should have completed the task. She wished now that she hadn’t acted quite so badly and not just because of her uncle’s inevitable scolding. She had to confess that the earl fascinated. He was quite different from any man she had met: he was fashionable, elegant, beautifully mannered, but so were others. He was a rascal, she thought, that was what marked him out—the scar, those eyes, the wicked enjoyment of seeing Sir Francis and his pomposity deflate with fear. But she must tread warily: she must never forget that he could undo her at any moment. Her future was in his hands.
But that of Rupert was in hers. She knew that she must plead with her uncle to change his mind, to pay the money that would liberate her brother. It would be a final appeal to his affections, though in truth he had none. Once he had issued a decree, this soft and flaccid man was granite. Rupert had to be punished and more brutally than ever. Francis had failed to bring him to heel, to inculcate in him the imperative of family honour, and for that there could be no mitigation. It was terrifying to feel that she alone stood between her brother and an early death, but today was a morning to shake off such black thoughts. She would ride far and away and consign Francis, his house and his guest to oblivion.
In
