any longer, sir. Gone the way o’ the rest o’ y’r possessions.’
A peremptory knock on the door.
It heralded the entrance of a man driven by righteous anger and blunt discourtesy. His accusation followed without introduction.
‘So the tales in the village were right enough.’ The visitor slammed the door behind him, eyes narrowed into a glare. ‘What’s this? A nameless ruffian dragged from the high seas, and wearing my dressing gown?’
Lucius resisted the inclination to raise his brows at the intrusion, struggling to keep a civil tongue in his head. Nothing to be gained by taking the offensive. The man—a gentleman despite his lack of good manners—was perhaps thirty-four or -five, around Lucius’s age, clad in a fashionable greatcoat of indeterminate drabness reaching to his ankles, with innumerable shoulder capes, the whole magnifying his rotund appearance and short stature. His face was broad, his complexion florid, telling of a close association with Free Trade liquor. Lucius heard George clear his throat uncomfortably. So this was Sir Wallace Lydyard, owner of the dubious taste in garments. But Lucius did not appreciate the overt hostility, the sheer lack of good manners or breeding.
‘My apologies, sir,’ Lucius replied as he rose slowly to his feet. A cool chill, the curtest inclination of the head, a deliberate lack of recognition. He would not be reduced to such discourtesy but, by God, he would not ignore such rank ill manners. ‘The rumours you were so quick to take at face value are incorrect. I was an innocent traveller in France, injured and robbed through no fault of my own. Fortunately I was rescued by some gentlemen of the Free Trade.’ Now, deliberately, he allowed his brows to lift infinitesimally. ‘I was not aware that that entitled me to be painted as a ruffian of the high seas.’
‘No?’ Sir Wallace was not to be discouraged. ‘What is any law-abiding Englishman doing in a French port if not to England’s danger, when the French are our sworn enemies, even at this moment engaged in battle with our brave forces in the Peninsula?’
‘Urgent business of a family nature that can be of no possible interest to you, sir.’ The raised brows were superb in their arrogance. Lucius had had enough of slurs on his character. ‘If I am making use of your splendid garment, then I must offer you my thanks. My own coat is ruined or I should not have taken such a liberty. Perhaps you would be so good as to advise me of your name, sir?’
‘Lydyard. Sir Wallace Lydyard.’
Again Lucius managed the slightest inclination of his head, icily polite, a barbed and poisonous weapon to depress pretension and boorishness. ‘Lydyard. Let me make myself known, to clear any misunderstanding between us. I am Lucius Hallaston. Earl of Venmore.’
‘Venmore!’
‘That is so.’
Sir Wallace was flustered. ‘My lord…’ For once Lucius enjoyed the effect of his consequence with not a little malice. ‘Perhaps I was hasty.’ An unattractive flush mantled Lydyard’s features. ‘You’ll understand—the circumstances, your presence here at the Pride…’
‘I was unconscious when I was brought ashore. A bullet wound.’
Lydyard’s eyes suddenly acquired an unpleasant reptilian gleam, and his glance snapped to George Gadie. ‘Did you spend the night here, Gadie, to care for his lordship?’
George shuffled. ‘No, Sir Wallace. I did not.’
‘You were not here at the Pride?’
‘No, Sir Wallace. The Cap’n sent me home.’
‘So I heard correctly.’ Sir Wallace’s voice was soft, a slyness sliding across his features. ‘My sister stayed here last night, then.’
‘Aye, Sir Wallace.’
Lucius remained silent, unable to follow this line of exchange, even more when Lydyard’s speculative appraisal was turned on him.
‘You look much restored this morning, my lord.’
‘Well enough to take my leave,’ he replied curtly, yet with restraint. There were suddenly undercurrents in the room that made no sense to him, but his patience was at an end. No man addressed a Hallaston of Venmore in such an impertinent manner!
‘Knowing my sister, I suppose she spent the night at your side, in this room.’
A warning flitted across his skin, like a draught from an ill-fitting window. ‘Your sister, sir? I have no knowledge of your sister.’
With a grunt, Sir Wallace promptly turned on his heel and marched to the door. Opened it. ‘Jenny?’ he bellowed, followed by a distant reply of assent. ‘Tell my sister I wish to see her here immediately.’
Then he continued to stand beside the door, arms folded.
Lucius rummaged unsuccessfully through his incomplete recollections. He recalled Jenny, the dark-haired maid. But Lydyard’s sister? ‘As I said, as far as I have any memory of last night, I am not acquainted with your sister, sir.’
But Sir Wallace’s lips curled in marvellous disbelief. ‘Do you presume that your birth and title will allow you to compromise my sister? She spends a night here with you, in this very bedchamber, and her honour is besmirched.’ He lingered on the word. ‘However well bred she might be, however excellent her connections, she is unwed and, apart from myself, defenceless. What will her reputation be now? I had a marriage in line for her, but the bridegroom will surely cry off when he gets wind of this, my lord.’
‘As far as I am aware, my care was undertaken by the Captain of the smug—the sailing vessel that rescued me. Harry Lydyard, your brother.’
‘Ha! Such pretence does not become you, my lord!’
Light footsteps echoed on the stairs. Sir Wallace flung the door back.
‘Come in. Come in. There’s scandal in the air, with you at the centre of it, my dear sister. I should have known!’ His tone, Lucius noted, despite his expressed concern, was not that of a compassionate brother, but rather that of a hanging judge. ‘Once again you have put the Lydyard reputation in jeopardy, leaving me to smooth over the unpleasantness.’
A young woman stepped into the room.
So this was the Lydyard sister. Lucius cast a briefly appraising eye over her. Nothing like her brother in looks, thank God, but nothing more than a country girl with no hint of town bronze. Tall for a girl, her hair was dark, unfashionably long, tied carelessly with a ribbon to cascade in a thick mass of curls to her shoulders and beyond. A neat figure, fine boned and well proportioned. Pleasing enough features in an oval face with well-marked dark brows and a straight uncompromising nose. Her lips as this moment were tense and unsmiling. He would never have guessed at the relationship between the two, except that she did not refute her brother’s harsh welcome. Her dress was unfashionably full-skirted and high-collared, drab and plain in an unflattering shade of green. As Lucius was forced to admit, he would not have given the young woman, who looked nothing more than a lowly governess, a second look in a crowded salon in Mayfair. Yet she bore herself with a confidence and an elegant simplicity at odds with her garments. Perhaps because she was no schoolroom miss, but a lady of more than twenty years. She stood just inside the door, calmly waiting for whatever would happen next, her eyes firmly on her brother.
‘Miss
