Mr Chadwicke has kindly agreed to stay and dine with us later.’
‘Yes, indeed he must,’ Julia agreed, as though feeling a little guilty over her previous lack of manners. In a quite sprightly manner she got up from her chair and smoothed her pearl-grey gown. ‘It is nice to see people from the old days. Sometimes I think I should love to have a chat with a friend about Almack’s or the latest rage drawing audiences at Drury Lane. Such wonderful parties we would attend! Vauxhall! Now there was a treat! Although it could be a little … scandalous.’ She gave a meaningful nod, her features momentarily animated by mischief. ‘Did you enjoy visiting the pleasure gardens, Mr Chadwicke?’
‘I did, Mrs Woodville. I remember having a very enjoyable evening there with you all.’
‘Indeed, we did have a good time!’ Julia corroborated. ‘Of course, your chum, Marcus, didn’t accompany us when he should have done. He was newly engaged to Deborah at the time,’ she remarked with a faraway smile at the fire. ‘But you were kind enough to take his place and escort us on that occasion.’
‘It was my pleasure to do so, ma’am,’ Randolph said, his eyes gliding to Deborah and lingering there.
‘It was bad of Marcus to stay away—’
‘You cannot blame him for that, Mama,’ Deborah interrupted on a constrained laugh. ‘At the time he was falling in love all over again with his future wife,’ she softly reminisced, very aware of a pair of predatory eyes on her.
‘At the time you were his future wife,’ Julia reminded her daughter pithily.
‘But I was glad that he didn’t want me!’ Deborah’s tone was sharpened by impatience, as usual, on hearing her mother snapping at her for having turned down the chance to be the Countess of Gresham. Her eyes darted to Randolph and for a moment were engulfed by a warm, honeyed look.
Lottie appeared, bearing the tea things. The young maid slid the tray on to polished mahogany and looked expectantly at Deborah. A small gesture from Deborah indicated that the girl was not needed to carry out the ritual of pouring.
‘Have you lately been in London, Mr Chadwicke?’ Julia asked, her tone bright with anticipation. She enjoyed hearing the newest on dits.
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Woodville,’ he answered.
‘Oh …’ Julia murmured with patent disappointment. ‘Well, never mind. After you have had tea you must take Mr Chadwicke to see the gardens, Deborah,’ she said. ‘We have a sunken garden, you know, sir. My late husband, Mr George Woodville, was a keen gardener. He knew the names of every shrub and there are acres of them to choose from. There is a pond, too, with a fountain and fish the size of pheasants.’
‘Are you not having tea, Mama?’ Deborah watched as her mother continued past her to the door.
‘I shan’t; I had some tea and seed cake not long before you arrived home and I don’t want to spoil my appetite. We must give our guest a good dinner this evening. I shall go and see what our Mrs Field has got in the still room.’ She paused. ‘I believe Basham was out shooting earlier this week. There should be plenty of game if the beef is all gone.’
Had Deborah cared to take a look into the corridor whence her mother had just disappeared, she would have seen the woman heading for the stairs rather than the kitchens. But she was too conscious of Randolph’s overpowering presence, and the apology owed to him for her mother’s bizarre behaviour, to follow her parent and find out what on earth was troubling her this afternoon.
‘I … I’m sorry my mother seemed a little unwelcoming at first,’ Deborah blurted as soon as the door had closed on Julia Woodville’s departing figure. ‘I assure you she doesn’t mean to give offence.’
A crooked smile acknowledged Deborah’s plea on behalf of her mother. Randolph had his own suspicions why the woman might not want him around without his friend, the Earl of Gresham, rendering him acceptable.
People of Julia Woodville’s age knew that the Chad-wickes had for generations regularly turned out a few reprobates. She knew, and no doubt her first husband, Viscount Cleveland, had also known, that a number of his paternal ancestors had been to blame for passing bad blood on to his brother, Sebastian. Had his great-great grandfather not been such a scoundrel, the barony, and the thousands of Suffolk acres that came with it, would have stayed with the crown.
‘You will have some tea, sir? Oh … and there are some cinnamon biscuits, too,’ Deborah said, spotting that Lottie had had the foresight to include them. Having received Randolph’s wordless assurance that her mother’s attitude had not bothered him, Deborah approached the tray and occupied her nervous hands with cups and saucers.
‘Thank you,’ Randolph said. He approached the fire and held out his palms.
‘Oh … please sit down if you would like to, Mr Chad-wicke.’ Deborah pointed a silver teaspoon at the twin fireside chairs. Once he had settled his large frame in one of them she handed him his steaming tea. Solicitously she moved a small circular table closer so she might put the plate of biscuits within his easy reach.
She took the chair that her mother had vacated opposite him, so that the fire was between them. Having taken a sip of her tea, and a nibble at a biscuit, she placed both down in a rattle of crockery. It was a good while until the hour to dine. Usually she and her mother would eat dinner at eight o’clock and it was not yet five. On those days they were not particularly hungry they might ask Mrs Field to simply prepare a buffet supper to be set out in the cosy parlour.
Deborah turned her face to the mellow autumnal light filtering through the glass, thus escaping a gaze that was as relentless as midsummer heat. ‘Would you like to take a stroll in the gardens after tea, sir?’ she asked politely whilst watching a blackbird on a branch cocking his head at her.
‘I’d like you to stop calling me sir and Mr Chadwicke,’ Randolph said softly. ‘Have you forgotten my name, Deborah?’
‘Indeed I have not, sir,’ Debbie returned coolly as she turned to look at him. ‘Neither have I forgotten that using it would imply a closeness that we no longer have. Many years have passed since we were friends.’
‘I’d like us to again be friends.’ When his gentle remark made Deborah appear to resume her interest in the garden, he continued suggestively, ‘I remember very well the last time we met. It was at Marcus and Jemma’s wedding.’
Deborah picked up her teacup and took a gulp from it. Oh, she knew very well what was on his mind. He was remembering how she’d shamelessly clung to his neck and had revelled in being kissed and caressed into insensibility behind a marble pillar. Perhaps he imagined that for old time’s sake she might again be persuaded to allow him to take a few liberties whilst he was in the vicinity.
To jerk her mind away from arousing memories she focused on the incident that had coupled them together far more recently. The business with the Luckhursts was in its own way equally disturbing to her peace of mind. Because of it there was much she still had to say to him. Her thanks and apologies were overdue. He had saved her from coming to harm, yet she had accepted his escort home, and his protection, with very bad grace.
She knew, too, that she ought to offer her condolences on his brother’s demise. But she would skirt about mentioning their past or when he would be leaving the area. She had been in his company for only an hour or so after many years spent apart yet, oddly, she knew how easy it might be for her to again feel his absence. That silly thought was chased away;
