don’t necessarily wish to possess it! Thank God—here are the gates. I suppose it is too much to hope that Charlie Witham has learned moderation since I was last here. So I warn you, you will have me to reckon with if you lead Nick into trouble, or make him miserable. My nephew is the apple of my sister’s eye, God knows why!’
They were received warmly by their host, who could hardly believe his good fortune in snaring one of London’s most elusive bachelors as a guest. Marcus Carne tended to move in circles of Society that Lord Witham and his friends, who would never have been admitted to them, apostrophised as devilish dull, riddled as they were with clever johnnies—academics, politicians, reformers and the like! But they found Carne himself perfectly sound. In fact, they termed him a Nonpareil.
He belonged to all the right clubs, was a first-class, if rather ruthless, cardplayer, and could hold his wine with the best of them. His skill with horses was legendary, and his life as an officer under Wellington had provided him with a fund of good stories, though he never bored his company with talk of the battles.
And, though he was what was generally called ‘a proper man’s man’, he was equally popular with the ladies—not only with the frail beauties such as Charmian Forrest, who lived on the fringes of society, but with perfectly respectable dowagers and debutantes, too. His good looks and lazy smile, his air of knowing what he was about—such things appealed to the ladies, of course.
And he had another virtue that even outclassed his looks, his charm, his manliness, his straight dealing and all the rest. Marcus Carne was quite disgustingly rich. Once his cousin Jack fell at Waterloo, it was inevitable that Marcus would inherit the Carne title—his uncle had, after all, been in his seventies when his only remaining son was killed. But who would have thought that old Lord Carne would have amassed such a fortune to leave to his nephew—especially as Jack and his brothers had, in the short time allotted to them, done their best to disperse it!
However, Marcus was a different kettle of fish altogether from his wayward cousins. Though frequently invited, he was seldom seen at the sort of gathering Lord Witham enjoyed. And though he was not afraid to wager large sums at the gambling table, he had a regrettable tendency to win. In spite of this, however, his reputation was such that he was welcomed wherever he went.
So Lord Witham paid Marcus the compliment of conducting him personally to one of the best bedchambers, indicating with a wink that Charmian was lodged close by. Marcus waited patiently till his host had finished listing the delights in store and had gone to see to his other guests, then he summoned his valet, who had arrived with the valises some time before, and changed.
Suter busied himself discreetly about the room, obviously expecting his master to go down to join the company. But Marcus was in no hurry to meet the ramshackle bunch Charlie Witham had undoubtedly assembled for several days of cards and drinking. Instead, he went over to the window, which overlooked the park behind the Court.
It was nine years since he had last been at Witham. At that time there had still been three cousins available to inherit their father’s title. He himself had been an impecunious junior officer on leave, with no expectations except through promotion on the battlefield. His room then had been much less imposing—what else would he have expected? The view from its window had been the same, though. And the signs of neglect and decay, which even then had been evident, were now greater than ever. He wondered if that bridge had ever been repaired…Probably not. Nine years…
Nine years ago Francesca Shelwood had, for a brief while, filled his thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. Curious how one could forget something which had been so important at the time. Seeing the girl again had brought the memories back, memories which had been swamped under the horrors of the campaigns he had fought, and the turmoil and sea-change in his fortunes which had followed.
He had never expected to succeed his uncle. But first Maurice and Ralph, Lord Carne’s twin elder sons, had both been killed in a coaching accident, then Jack had fallen at Waterloo. Lord Carne himself had followed them soon afterwards, and Marcus had, against all the odds, succeeded to the title.
Francesca had changed surprisingly little. How well he now remembered that intriguing surface air of discipline, the tight control of her mouth and face, which might lead the uninitiated to believe her dull—hard, even. He knew better. The real Francesca’s feelings could suddenly blow up in rage, or melt in passion…His blood quickened even now at the memory of her total response to his kisses.
How absurd! Nine years of living in the world, three of them as a very rich man, had provided many more sophisticated affairs. None had been permanent, but few had lasted for as short a time as one day—yet he remembered none of them with half as much pleasure. How could he have forgotten?
From the first moment, he and Francesca had felt no constraint in one other’s company. Their initial encounter had effectively done away with the barrier she customarily put up to protect herself from the rest of the world. It was difficult to retain an air of cool reserve when you have just sent a perfect stranger flying into the river! But he rather thought that, even without that sensational beginning, he would have found the real Francesca. From the first he had had a strange feeling of kinship with her that he was sure she had felt, too.
He pulled a chair up to the window and sat down, his eyes fixed on the untended lawns of Witham Court without seeing them. The years faded away and what he saw was the sun, glinting through the leafy branches of the trees down on to the stream which formed the boundary between the Witham and Shelwood lands. He had come with his cousin Jack—he would never in those days have been invited for himself. Jack’s father had begged Marcus to go with his son, for the play there was deep, and Jack a compulsive gambler. It hadn’t worked.
Heedless of Marcus’s attempts to restrain him, Jack had wagered vast sums, more than he possessed, and had lost to everyone, even including his cousin. After a disastrous night of yet more hard drinking and gambling Jack, quite unable to honour his debts, and mindful of his father’s words the last time he had asked for more money, had attempted to shoot himself—a dramatic gesture, which his cousin and friends had fortunately frustrated.
Marcus smiled wryly. Jack had survived the attempt to take his own life, but it hadn’t done him much good. Just a few years later he had fallen at Waterloo along with so many other, better men. Marcus blanked out the thought of Waterloo—the memory of that carnage was best forgotten. He got up and went to the door.
‘There you are, Marcus! I was just about to send someone to look for you. Charlie’s waiting for us.’
Marcus suppressed a sigh, then smiled. ‘How charmingly you look, Charmian. That dress is particularly becoming. Do you know where Nick is?’
Later that night, when the company was relaxing over an excellent supper, he was reminded again of Francesca. Charmian brought up the incident on the road that afternoon.
‘And then we met this scarecrow of a girl! Nick pushed her into the ditch, and I swear it seemed the best place for her!’
She looked magnificent in a wine-red silk dress, her black hair piled high and caught with a diamond aigrette given to her by Marcus in the heyday of their relationship. An impressive array of other jewels—trophies from her many admirers—flashed about her person, but they glittered no more brightly than her dark eyes. She was in her element, flirting with Marcus, making the others laugh with her wicked comments on London life, and teasing a besotted Nick about his driving, laughing at him over her fan.
Nick flushed and muttered, ‘The horses were scared of the thunder. And she just stood there. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Oh, but, Nick darling, you were marvellous, I swear! Then Marcus
