you won’t go out alone,’ he demanded harshly.
She nodded.
‘Say it.’
‘Promise,’ she muttered with bad grace.
The finger that had hovered a fraction away from her lips returned to gentle a reward on her plump pink skin. Abruptly he took up the reins. A second later he’d urged the horse in to a sedate trot towards the house.
Chapter Four
‘I’ve brought a guest home today, Mama.’
Julia Woodville had been tackling a Gothic tale with some apathy so was happy to hear someone novel might brighten her mundane routine.
Usually she spent the mornings at her sewing and taking a constitutional in the garden. The weather was now too fresh to spend a lengthy time outdoors so today she’d limited her stroll to the paths on the southern side. The spare time till luncheon had been whiled away at her writing desk. She liked to keep in touch with her friends in London. She better liked having their replies to learn what was going on in the beau monde, although their gay news always made her sadly yearn to be a part of it.
The afternoons were customarily employed in reading. She enjoyed scanning the ladies’ journals and appreciated a good book. But the romance Deborah had got her from the circulating library this week was not one to hold her interest. Julia Woodville gladly let it drop to her lap. Myopically she squinted at her daughter and at the fellow stationed behind her.
Deborah approached her mother’s chair positioned close to the log fire. Having removed her straw bonnet, she tossed it to the sofa and combed a few fingers through her tangled flaxen locks to try to bring some order to them. She was conscious she probably looked unattractively dishevelled after the thundering pace Randolph had set on the short ride to Woodville Place. Her other chilly digits were held out to the glow in the grate. It was a gloriously bright yet invigorating day in mid-October. Draughts were stirring the curtains at the casements, making warmth from the flames very welcome within the parlour’s solid stone walls.
‘Who is it, dear?’ Julia hissed in an undertone. ‘Is the vicar again come for tea?’ Julia Woodville’s failing eyesight allowed her to see little more than a gentleman’s silhouette. Yet she could read the print in her books very well. She peered past her daughter again, feeling a mite deflated. The vicar was a nice enough chap, but his sister was better company and this fellow seemed to be alone.
‘No, it is not Gerard. It is an acquaintance from London. He is presently in Sussex on business.’
Julia’s interest re-ignited with the information. It was her constant wish that they might return to the metropolis and live a mean approximation of the wonderful life they’d once known. She’d accepted that they could never recapture the sumptuous existence her first husband had provided for them both, but a small neat villa on the fashionable outskirts would suffice, she’d told Deborah. Unfortunately their funds would not suffice, Deborah constantly told her, even for that modest dream to be realised.
Now that the visitor had come closer Julia could see that it was indeed not the vicar. Gerard Davenport was nowhere near as tall and broad as this gentleman seemed to be. But she couldn’t fathom his identity. His features were still indistinct, although he seemed to have a good head of light-coloured hair.
‘It is Mr Chadwicke. I expect you must remember him. He is a friend of the Earl of Gresham.’ Debbie introduced him rather breathily. ‘I expect you remember that when we lived in London with Papa he would sometimes visit us with Marcus.’ Deborah knew that mention of the Earl of Gresham was likely to disgruntle her mother. Julia Woodville had never quite come to terms with the fact that her daughter had spurned an earl. Even knowing that Marcus had been as keen as Deborah to end their betrothal had remained a minor setback to a grand match in Julia’s mind.
‘Yes, I do remember him,’ Julia whispered after a long pause. She picked up her book rather agitatedly, then put it back in her lap. It was opened once again.
Deborah turned and gave Randolph a rather apologetic smile. She knew her mother tended to suffer with her nerves depending on her mood, but that didn’t excuse this rather rude reception. When they’d lived in town Randolph had been a visitor to their Upper Brook Street mansion. At times he’d arrive alone, but more usually he’d call with his friend, Marcus. She could only recall her mother greeting Randolph charmingly in the past. Surely he could have done nothing in the interim to upset her?
‘How are you, Mrs Woodville?’ Seemingly unperturbed by her inhospitable welcome, Randolph approached Julia’s chair to courteously offer her a hand, ‘I’m well enough, thank you, sir.’ Having given a limp shake to his firm fingers, Julia drew her shawl closer about her. ‘You are back, then, from foreign lands.’
‘I am,’ Randolph concurred. ‘It is good to be home.’
‘And that brother of yours? Is he home too?’ Julia once more looked agitated and the book was picked at with fidgeting fingers.
‘Sebastian is dead, Mrs Woodville.’ The information was given tonelessly.
That news caused Julia to look thoughtful. ‘Must we remember to address you as Lord Buckland? Or did your brother get himself a son?’
‘I have a nephew and a niece,’ Randolph informed her in the same neutral, polite way.
‘So you ended up with nothing at all, then …’ Julia appeared not to require a response to that. She flicked pages in her book as though hunting for an interesting excerpt.
Deborah had listened to this exchange with her jaw dropping in astonishment. Her mother seemed to be acting very oddly this afternoon. But it was not just her mother’s unfathomably churlish attitude that had startled her. In just a few short minutes she’d learned a good deal about Randolph’s relations that had come as a shock.
When they had been close friends years ago, Randolph had been happier to speak about his sister than his brother. At the time Emilia Chadwicke had been a schoolgirl of about ten. Deborah guessed that she now would be about seventeen and preparing for her début. His father had long been deceased but, as far as she was aware, his mother was still alive and living in Suffolk with her daughter.
As for Randolph’s older brother, she’d heard rumours that Sebastian Chadwicke constantly caused trouble for his family. Randolph had confirmed his brother existed and was a nuisance, but Deborah had discovered very little else about him—Randolph had always seemed reluctant to discuss him. Deborah’s friend, Jemma, was married to Randolph’s friend, Marcus, so little snippets had come her way over the years to add to her suspicion that the fellow must be a very bad sort. In contrast to his errant sibling, Randolph had always been sought after in society and had been known as a personable gentleman. Debbie could recall feeling glad that Randolph had not been unfairly treated because of his brother’s notoriety. Yet now it seemed her mother was doing just that.
The news that Sebastian Chadwicke had died had not come her way, neither had she been aware that the fellow had at some time married and produced children. But then, after seven years apart, she no longer had any right or reason to make enquiries through their mutual friends about Randolph’s life or his kin. Neither had it been very right of her mother to pry. But having done so, at least she should have offered a brief condolence on learning of Randolph’s loss, no matter that the deceased was rumoured to have been a rogue. It was very out of character for her mother to overlook etiquette.
