uttered in a quiet voice that matched his mild demeanour. There was no hint that Miss Havenham had told him of their meeting. Surely if she had done so his welcome would have been less cordial?
Lucas took a seat, accepted a glass of wine. After all, that was the civilised thing to do. It did not imply that they must therefore be upon good terms. In the past he had shown equal courtesy to a captured French officer, knowing that if they met on the battlefield they would neither of them have the slightest hesitation in killing the other.
But this is underhand. Havenham doesn’t know you are his enemy.
The thought was unwelcome, but Lucas pushed it aside. Havenham’s conscience should tell him that retribution would come, one day. He dragged his attention back to what his host was saying.
‘I regret my daughter is not here to greet you. She is gone on a visit of duty that could not be put off.’
‘That, sir, is my loss,’ murmured Lucas. So she was avoiding him? Well, there was plenty of time to renew that particular acquaintance.
‘No, no, she is eager to meet you.’ The old man smiled. ‘She will want to see the new owner of Morwood. The house has been empty since before she was born and she has grown up running free in the grounds.’
‘Really? I am surprised you allowed her to wander so far from home.’
‘It is safe enough. She was always accompanied by a servant, or her brother, when he was alive.’ A hesitation, a flicker of pain, quickly brushed aside and Havenham continued. ‘Now she is grown, of course, she does ride unaccompanied, but I do not worry about her going there. The locals never venture on to the estate. They believe it is haunted.’ The old man fell silent, looking dreamily into the fire.
‘And is that what you believe too, sir?’ Lucas prompted him. ‘Is that why you have never done anything with it?’
‘No, but it holds painful memories for me.’ Lucas saw another shadow of pure anguish cross the lined face, then Samuel seemed to shake himself out of his reverie and said brightly, ‘But that is all in the past now. You are about to bring Morwood alive again and I am very glad of it.’
Lucas stayed for no more than the required half hour, fending off questions he did not wish to answer and making enquiries of his own about Morwood. All the time part of him was marvelling that he could sit so calmly exchanging pleasantries with a man whom he had hated for so many years. A man he planned to destroy.
Annabelle had been thankful to escape from the house and from a meeting with Mr Monserrat. She would have to meet him sometime and part of her was a little ashamed that she was putting it off, but she stifled the quiet voice that was her conscience and went in sunny spirits to call upon the elderly Mrs Hall. However, when she sat down to dinner that night she could not forbear asking her father about his visitor.
‘I am sorry you missed him,’ said Samuel as he took his seat opposite her. ‘He has great plans for the manor, and I am glad of it. I should have done more with the house…’
‘And is this Mr Monserrat a gentleman, sir?’ Annabelle prompted him in an attempt to dispel his wistfulness.
‘Oh, I think so, my dear, although he is very dark. He was a soldier, you know, at Waterloo and before that in the Peninsula. I have no doubt the hot sun is responsible for his complexion, he is almost swarthy.’
She was about to say that could not account for his black eyes and hair, but she remembered, just in time, that her father did not know she had met their neighbour.
‘In fact, he reminds me of someone.’ Her father leaned forwards, a slight crease in his brow as if he were trying to catch some fleeting thought. He smiled and shook his head. ‘No, it will not come and is probably a nonsense. But you shall see for yourself when you meet him.’
‘I will indeed.’ Annabelle turned her attention to her food, hoping that it would be some time before she was obliged to see Mr Monserrat.
Samuel had been looking forward to dinner with the Rishworths, but when Annabelle had helped him into Mr Keighley’s carriage, she knew he would be comparing it unfavourably with their own well-padded barouche, which was now stored away at the back of the coach house.
‘Mr Havenham, welcome, sir, and Miss Havenham.’ Lady Rishworth greeted them with her usual jolly smile before turning to welcome Mr Keighley, who followed them into the drawing room. A number of guests had already arrived, all of them known to Annabelle. She considered it a misfortune that the closest was Mrs Kensley, a widow as colourless as her grey garb but with a waspish tongue. She gave Annabelle a false smile as she expressed her surprise at seeing them there so early.
‘I had thought you would be walking here tonight, Mr Havenham, and did not expect you for a good half hour yet.’
‘No, no, ma’am, Mr Keighley was good enough to call for us.’
Annabelle admired her father’s calm and good-natured response.
‘But it must be such a blow to lose your own horses,’ the widow continued. ‘Times are very hard indeed when Oakenroyd must close its stables.’
‘They are not closed, ma’am,’ Annabelle corrected her. ‘It is only the carriage horses that have been sold. Old Simmons the coachman gave notice that he wanted to retire and we decided that we would not replace him for a while.’
‘My dear, you do not need to explain to me.’ The widow patted her arm and it was all Annabelle could do not to pull away from the condescending gesture. ‘So many Stanton families are struggling at present. No doubt you are regretting spending all that money on your presentation…’
Annabelle’s ill humour disappeared and she laughed at the absurdity of the remark.
‘My dear ma’am, that was two years past. But since you mention it, I do not regret a groat spent on a London Season.’ She continued, knowing what the widow’s next comment would be, ‘Neither do I regret returning unmarried. It means I can look after my father and be mistress of Oakenroyd. What more could I ask for?’
Annabelle watched with no small measure of satisfaction as Mrs Kensley blinked and opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. She was well aware that the widow had prepared any number of sympathetic and patronising comments, but none would be appropriate now. Her father touched her arm.
‘My dear, let me present our new neighbour to you.’ Annabelle’s head came up. ‘Mr Monserrat, my daughter, sir.’
So he was here and looking very different from their previous meeting. In The confines of the Rishworths’ commodious drawing room he looked even larger than she remembered. The superb cut of his black evening coat did nothing to lessen the width of his shoulders, and the snowy whiteness of his cravat and shirt-points accentuated the deep tan of his skin. His hair, black as jet, was brushed back from a face that was more rugged than handsome with heavy brows that gave his aquiline features a rather hawkish look. She could more readily believe him a soldier than a courtier, yet when he made his bow to her she could not fault it.
‘We have met,’ he said, not taking his eyes from her. ‘I am glad to see you are none the worse for your little tumble, Miss Havenham.’
‘Tumble?’ Samuel was immediately on the alert. ‘When was this?’
She glared at the man, but he met her
