Chapter Nine

 

 

 

‘That idiot ostler at the George has got a lot to answer for,' Hal said bitterly as John pulled up outside a set of plain iron gates between a pair of lodge-keeper’s cottages. ‘We must have wasted three hours lost in the highways and byways of Lincolnshire. It is probably too much to hope that, finally, this is Mr Fanshaw’s hunting lodge.’

Sophie said nothing, but looked at Hal’s tense, drawn face and realised that he was almost as apprehensive about what he might discover when he found Elizabeth as not finding her. ‘You must concede, all these little lanes with stone walls look very much the same when you go down them, and our map is not very detailed. It is not surprising that John has been having so much trouble following the directions.’

Hal merely grunted, his eyes on John as he talked to the man who had emerged in response to an energetic pull on the bell-chain that hung on the gate post. Then she saw his shoulders relax as John strode back to the horses and the man pushed back the gates to let them through.

‘This is the place, Your Grace,’ John called as he swung up on to the box again.

Sophie peered out of the window as the carriage moved up the short tree-lined drive to the front door of a modest-sized but handsome brick house. The drizzle had become heavy and the day had turned cold and gloomy, but there were no lights to be seen in the windows.

‘It does not look as though there is anyone at home,’ she said doubtfully.

But Hal swung open the carriage door and jumped down before the vehicle had come to a full halt. As he hammered on the door, Sophie got out too. She had every intention of sticking firmly to his side and being there when he came face to face with Justin Fanshaw. Whether she could stop murder being done, she had no idea, but she would try. After a long wait the door was opened by a respectable-looking woman of middle age, dressed in a black gown and crisp white lace cap. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘I believe this is the house of Mr Fanshaw?’

‘Indeed, yes, sir, but Mr Fanshaw is not in residence. I believe he is still in London.’ The woman regarded them steadily. It was obvious that was as much of her master’s business as she was prepared to disclose to a stranger.

Hal dug his card case from his breast pocket and offered her a card. ‘I am the Duke of Weybourne and this is –’ The hesitation was a second long, ‘This is my sister’s companion, Miss Haydon. Could you tell me, ma’am, is Mr Justin Fanshaw here?’

The woman’s expression stiffened, then she said in clipped tones, ‘Will you not come in, Your Grace, Miss Haydon? I am Mrs Watson, the housekeeper.’

She showed them into a well-furnished drawing room with a small fire burning in the grate and rang for refreshments. As soon as the door closed behind the maid she said, ‘Your Grace, Mr Justin was here. He left just before noon. The young lady – forgive me, Your Grace, but am I correct in assuming she is your sister? – left with him.’

She poured tea with a hand that was not quite steady, despite her outward composure. Then she burst out, ‘I am so sorry, Your Grace. If I could have kept her here I would have done, but she would not listen to me. And as for Mr Justin...’ Both her voice and her face hardened.

‘I realise it must be difficult for you, Mrs Watson,’ Hal said. ‘I can assure you I attach no blame to anyone except Justin Fanshaw for what has befallen my sister. But you must understand, I need to know where they have gone.’

‘I do not know, Your Grace. Would that I did. I have written to my master, and the groom took the letter to the receiving office just before your arrival. Mr Fanshaw will be deeply grieved, but I knew he would want to try and discover who the young lady’s family were and warn them. And here, like a miracle, you turn up upon the doorstep.’

‘I am sure you did all you could, Mrs Watson,’ Sophie said soothingly. ‘You must not blame yourself and I am sure your master will not blame you either. Did Miss Wyatt go with him willingly?’

‘I am afraid so, Miss Haydon. Last night I hoped that in the morning she would see sense, for they were quarrelling when they arrived. She was so tired and cold and I think rather frightened, poor lamb.’ She broke off at an inarticulate sound from Hal. ‘No, Your Grace, I do not think he had given her reason to be frightened of him. It was the realisation of what she had done.’

‘Where did she sleep?’ Hal asked. It sounded as though his teeth were clenched.

Mrs Watson looked shocked. ‘There will be nothing improper in this establishment while I am housekeeper, Your Grace,’ she said sternly. ‘Your sister had the best bedchamber and young Rose to sleep on the truckle bed at her side. That door was locked and I had the key, be assured of that.’

Sophie saw the look of relief pass over Hal’s features. So, Elizabeth was safe so far. She put her cup down. ‘Do you know where they have gone, Mrs Watson?’ But even as she asked she knew the answer – if the housekeeper knew, she would have told them by now.

‘No, Miss Haydon. He refused to tell me.’

Hal broke in. ‘Did they take a change of horses from your master’s stables?’

‘Yes, Your Grace, his best team, four matched Welsh bays. Mr Fanshaw had sent them up ahead to be rested for when he arrives next week. Oh, my goodness, what is he going to say about all this?’

'Are there any more carriage horses in the stables?' Hal asked urgently.

‘No, Your Grace, there were only the bays and Mr Fanshaw and Mr Richard’s string of hunters that came up at the same time. Mr Richard is the elder son,’ she added. ‘And a very nice young gentleman he is too.’

Sophie looked down so Hal would not see her expression. She had made her plans, and done her shopping, in Wellingborough, hoping that they would find riding horses at Mr Fanshaw’s. But this was better than she could have hoped for. Now all she had to do was to put Hal into a position where he could not stop her.

She made herself concentrate on the conversation.

‘No, Your Grace,’ Mrs Watson was saying. ‘Mr Fanshaw has no other houses north of here, nor any relatives I know of either. I cannot imagine where Mr Justin can be intending to take your sister.’ There was a rattle of hard rain against the windows as though underlining the mood inside.

‘Your Grace,’ Sophie asked, ‘Where shall we go next?’

Hal stood up and walked to the window where the dark clouds made the late afternoon seem almost as dark as night. ‘At this time of day, in this weather, with no change of horses and no idea where we are going, I think we must go back to the George in Stamford for the night.’

This did not suit Sophie’s plans at all. To her relief Mrs Watson said, ‘But, Your Grace, you must stay here. Mr Fanshaw would not forgive me if I did not offer you the hospitality of his house under these awful circumstances. Your man can stable the horses here and they will be rested for the morning.’

Hal looked dubious, but Sophie cut in quickly, ‘Please, Your Grace, it does seem like an excellent scheme, and I am very tired.’ She added cunningly, ‘It would be comforting to stay the night here, with Mrs Watson.’

For the first time since they had arrived Hal’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Watson. It may well be that a decent night’s rest will clear our minds and give us an idea of what to do, where to go.’

‘I am afraid that the groom is not yet returned from the receiving office, but if you would like to speak to your man and tell him to make whatever use of the stables he wishes for your horses, I will tell Cook to prepare dinner. If you come with me, Miss Haydon, I will show you to your room.’

 

Over dinner, which the housekeeper had set out for them in a small parlour, Sophie almost succeeded in diverting Hal’s attention from his worries with her enthusiasm for the suite of rooms to which Mrs Watson had shown her and the wardrobe that she insisted her mistress would expect her to use.

The result, as Sophie was clearly aware, was very fetching. She had chosen a gown in an embroidered lawn just a shade darker than her eyes. Made for a married lady, it was cut rather lower than Sophie was ever likely to have worn and she had pinned a lace fichu around her shoulders and over the swell of her breasts.

‘Is this gown not lovely?’ she enquired.

‘Very nice,’ Hal replied dryly, smiling at her over the rim of his wine glass. ‘One of the benefits of being a married lady. I imagine Mr Fanshaw is an indulgent husband.’

‘Indeed he must be. You should see her bedroom – it is in the very kick of fashion, and this is only a hunting lodge. There are two gold cherubs holding a gauzy veil over the bed and mirrors everywhere.’

Hal choked and set down his glass abruptly. ‘Indeed? I understand this is part of a suite?’

‘Yes, there is a very pretty sitting room too.’

The meal was excellent and the wine, which Sophie confessed she was unused to, was potent.

She stifled a yawn and Hal got to his feet. ‘Come along, bed for you, Sophie.’ He held out his hand and Sophie obediently took it.

‘Which is the door to your luxurious sitting room?’ he asked when they reached the landing. ‘This one? I am right next door: we have obviously been allotted the master suite by the status-conscious Mrs Watson.’

 

Sophie felt slightly giddy. ‘I am not used to red wine.’ It sang in her veins and she turned to face him, not quite sure what she was hoping for.

Whatever it was, she was disappointed. Hal merely smiled and said, ‘Sleep well, Sophie.’

She wandered through the sitting room into the bed chamber where the fire was crackling, the lamps lit and the bed turned down. The housekeeper had laid out a nightgown and peignoir, probably one of Mrs Fanshaw’s plainest, but even so, incredibly luxurious to someone who usually slept in sensible plain cotton.

Sophie slipped it over her head and it fell to brush her bare toes. The peignoir fastened with blue ribbons and the whole ensemble felt light and diaphanous as she twirled in it. Crossing to the mirror to unpin her hair, she caught a glimpse of herself in the cheval glass and gasped at the effect of the firelight on the fine lawn. It rendered it almost transparent. Sophie hastily wrapped the peignoir tightly around her: this was certainly a startling revelation into married life.

Perhaps, if she went through to the sitting room where there were no betraying mirrors, she could unpin and brush her hair without putting herself to the blush.

She was sitting with her head bent over, brushing out her curls when there was a slight tap on the door. Before she could call out it opened and Hal strode in. Sophie, half-hidden by the back of the sofa, gave a little squeak of surprise.

‘Oh, good, you are still up,’ he remarked, walking further into the candlelit room. ‘John said the parcel with my new shirts in was sent up to this room along with your shopping from this morning. Ah, is that it?’ He strode across to where the brown paper parcel was resting on a low chest right next to her and Sophie could see that not only had he taken off his coat and cravat but that his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. He picked up the parcel and began to turn. ‘You really should get changed and go to bed – My God!’ His deep blue eyes widened as he saw her properly.

She shot to her feet and the parcel slid from his hands to the boards as with one step he caught her in his arms, burying his face in her neck, nuzzling the softness under the clouds of newly brushed hair. His lips sought her earlobe, licking and nibbling, and Sophie gave a little gasp of pleasure as the new sensation coursed through her body.

Sophie slid her hands around him and felt Hal’s body, smooth, hard and very warm through the fine linen. She could not believe that a man’s skin could feel so supple and smooth, yet be so muscled beneath. And his lips, which were doing wonderful things on the sensitive skin of her neck, were hardening, sending messages which she did not understand but her body instinctively responded to. Her hands moved as if of their own volition up and round to trace the line of his spine, pressing and stroking as she arched against him.

Hal groaned in response as his mouth found and took hers with an insistence which took her breath away. It did not seem possible that he could hold her any tighter, but he pulled her closer still and she could feel the warmth of him.

I love you, she thought, then realised she had said it aloud, murmured it against his lips as she drowned in the intoxication of his kiss. For a moment she thought he had not heard, then he drew back, gazing down into her face.

‘What did you say?’ he asked, the words were sharp in that dreamy, intimate atmosphere.

‘No... nothing,’ Sophie lied.

‘I will go. I had not realised you were... I am sorry. I thought...’ But what he had thought she never knew because he was out of the door before he finished the sentence.

Sophie was left staring at the brown paper parcel of shirts. Had he heard, had he been able to read the movement of her lips against his? Oh, what have we done? He should never have kissed me, I should never have responded. Now he’s going to feel guilty and I’ve made a complete fool of myself. He will never take me with him now.

 

The following morning, after an interview with the housekeeper, Sophie sought out John in the stableyard. The results of a restless night had convinced her that if she was not to be left with Mrs Watson her only hope was to ruthlessly put her plan into effect.

‘There is no need to harness the carriage horses, John. His Grace has decided that we will make better progress if we ride and Mrs Watson has the authority to let us take Mr Fanshaw’s hunters. I think I would like that grey mare. Can we just have a look at saddles?’

Ten minutes later, leaving a very puzzled coachman scratching his head and eyeing the saddle-horse dubiously, Sophie slipped into the kitchen and took a rapid breakfast with Mrs Watson.

‘Oh, you can tell His Grace is a worried man,’ the housekeeper confided. ‘Almost snapped at me this morning when I asked him about breakfast.’

Sophie reflected, but did not say, that that was more than likely the result of last night’s encounter. Hal would probably be feeling better now if she had slapped his face then. She thanked Mrs Watson and asked for the loan of a pair of sharp scissors.

When she reached the yard, instead of the carriage and four, John was leading out three hunters, all in prime condition, and all saddled up. She ducked into the tack room with a quick wave to him.

Ten minutes later she heard Hal’s voice. ‘John? Where is the carriage? And where is Miss Haydon?’

‘She’s in the back there,’ John said evasively.

Seated on a bale of hay up in the loft above the tack room, Sophie cursed. If he had only been ten minutes longer. There was the sound of booted feet below, then the ladder shifted and Hal’s head emerged through the hatchway just as another hank of her hair fell to the dusty boards.

‘What the devil are you doing, Sophie?’

‘Oh, don't stand there gawping,’ Sophie snapped. ‘Come and help me, I can’t get to the back. I never thought it would be so hard to cut my own hair.’

Hal shook his head in apparent bewilderment, but scrambled up into the loft. ‘Why on earth are you trying to do?’ He picked up a dusty hank and stared at it.

‘I can hardly dress like this and have long hair, now can I?’ Sophie demanded, hot with exertion and annoyance.

She watched Hal’s gaze travel from her boots up her breeches-clad legs to the long coat which effectively skimmed over her curves, flattening them. She had tied a kerchief around her neck and a hat lay beside her on the bale.

‘But why are you dressed like that anyway?’ Hal demanded as she thrust the scissors into his hand.

Sophie eyed him defensively through the long strands of hair which still fell across her face. ‘You were the one who said I couldn’t ride side-saddle all day and you were the one who agreed we should take to horseback.’

Hal shook his head as if to clear it. ‘Sophie, that is not what I meant and you know it.’

‘Well, I’ve cut half of it now and it won’t stick back on. I can’t dress as a girl looking like this either,’ she argued.

They stared at each other and Sophie thought rather wildly that this was, at least, an effective way of putting aside the embarrassment of last night.

‘Sit down again,’ he ordered. ‘Goodness knows what John’s going to say when he sees you.’ And, taking the scissors, he began to cut.