Marcus’s next conscious act was to blink in the full glare of the morning sunlight as Bain pulled back the drapes at the long casements with their view east over the park. ‘Another fine morning, Your Grace. I trust you slept well. Shall I direct them to send up your bathwater immediately?’
Bain, an immaculately-trained valet, was well used to carrying on a one-sided conversation with his master, who was never talkative much before eleven in the morning. Encouraged by a grunt, he ushered in footmen carrying hot-water cans and began gathering up discarded clothing from the day before.
So well-schooled was he and so discreet that Bain had been known to retrieve intimate articles of feminine apparel and return them to the wearer’s lady’s maid perfectly laundered and without even a quirk of an eyebrow.
Later, when he must have noticed the faint bruise on employer’s cheek, he did not comment, beyond wielding the cutthroat razor with extra care.
Marcus met Anne sweeping downstairs an hour later, clearly with every intention of bearding her brother. She encountered him in the hall, dressed for riding and pulling on his gloves as he gave orders to Saye, his groom.
‘And tell Welling to come with us, you can both ride over to Sir George Dover’s and collect that bay gelding I bought off him last week. It is unbroken and will need both of you to bring it home.’ He broke off to kiss her cheek. ‘Good morning, Anne. I trust you slept well?’
‘Marcus, must you go out now? I particularly wished to speak to you.’ It was a demand rather than a request.
‘I shall be back later.’ He had no doubt she intended to lecture him on the subject of Antonia. Well, by the time he returned, her lecture would be redundant, and she would be too pleased with his news to scold him.
Marcus made his escape and gave the horse its head on the fine cropped down land grass as he cut across the parkland to the Dower House, the grooms behind him. The sound of the church clock striking ten reached him faintly over the pounding of three sets of hooves. The sun, though warm, was still tempered by the fresh early morning air and the prospect of bringing the smile back to Antonia’s face lent urgency to the ride.
The old, twisted chimneys of the Dower House came into view behind a stand of trees. At the gate he turned in the saddle. ‘Wait here, Saye.’ What instinct prompted him to keep the two grooms he could not say, something perhaps about the unwonted stillness of the normally bustling house.
Surely they are not still abed, he thought, as the heavy knocker dropped from his hand onto the old oak door. Jane appeared and dropped him a curtsy, her cheeks even pinker than normal.
‘Good morning, Your Grace.’
‘Good morning, Jane. Is Miss Dane at home?’
Jane’s pretty country complexion grew more rosy. ‘No, Your Grace.’
‘Well, may I speak to Miss Donaldson?’ So Antonia was angry with him still. That was not to be wondered at.
‘Miss Donaldson is not at home, Your Grace,’ Jane recited with the air of a child repeating a lesson.
Marcus’s lips tightened. ‘Do you mean,’ he enquired with dangerous civility, ‘that the ladies are not here, or that they are not at home to me?’
This threw the maid servant into even more confusion than he might have expected. ‘Yes. Er, no. That is…’ She took a deep breath and said desperately, ‘Miss Donaldson said as I was to say, that they aren’t at home, Your Grace.’
He fought the impulse to shoulder past the girl into the house, nodded curtly, turned on his heel, vaulted into the saddle and urged his horse into a gallop.
After the first quarter of a mile Marcus reined back to a more temperate pace, smiling grimly at his own mood. He was not used to being thwarted but he was uneasily aware of how hurt Antonia must be feeling, and storming around the Hertfordshire countryside was no remedy. He would go back and write her a note.
He pulled up where the lane crossed the Berkhamsted road and watched the approaching grooms. If he sent the note with Josh Saye, who was courting young Jane, there was a good chance it would reach Antonia, more so than if he took it himself.
The men had just reached him when a gig driven by young Jem came bowling round the bend from the direction of the town. The lad’s cheerful expression changed into a look of alarm tinged with shiftiness the moment he saw who was at the crossroads.
A sudden suspicion made Marcus snap, ‘Stop that gig,’ and the two grooms moved their mounts into the road.
Jem tugged his forelock and shifted uneasily on the bench seat. Marcus, still unsure why he had stopped him, urged his horse alongside the gig, then saw a beribboned hat box on the floor.
‘Where have you been, boy?’
‘Nowhere, Your Grace,’ Jem said sullenly.
'You speak proper.’ Saye lifted a hand. ‘Or I’ll thicken your ear.’
‘Do not bully the lad,’ Marcus intervened. ‘What is your name, boy?’
‘Jem… Your Grace.’ Still he would not look up.
‘Jem, ah, yes. You work for Miss Dane, do you not?’
'’Yessir.’
‘And have you been driving Miss Dane this morning?’
‘Couldn’t say, sir. Your Grace.’ Jem’s face was almost crimson.
‘That is all right, Jem, you do not have to tell us anything you do not wish to. What a pity Miss Dane forgot her hat box,’ Marcus said sympathetically.
‘No, she didn’t forget it, she said there weren’t no room in the ch – ‘ He broke off, one hand clapping itself to his mouth.
‘No room in the chaise?’ Marcus finished gently. ‘So your mistress has hired a chaise, has she? And where is she bound?’
Saye advanced to the side of the gig. ‘You speak up when His Grace asks you a question, boy, or I’ll have your ears off.’
‘You can boil me in oil and I won’t tell you nuffin about Miss Dane,’ Jem stammered.
‘Stop bullying the lad. He is only being loyal to his mistress and no doubt following her instructions. Here, lad.’ Marcus fished in his waistcoat pocket and sent a half sovereign spinning through the air to the startled boy. ‘Do not worry, Jem, you have kept your silence well, now be off back to the Dower House.’
The lad needed no urging and was off down the road as fast as the elderly horse could go.
Marcus used his spurs and sent his mount cantering off towards Berkhamsted.
The King’s Arms was the only hostelry in the town that hired out carriages, but enquiries there were met with little information. Yes, Miss Dane had hired a chaise and four with two postilions, but no, neither the landlord nor the ostlers could say which direction she had taken.
‘We’ve been very busy, Your Grace,’ the landlord explained apologetically, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘Market day, you see.’
Marcus was standing in the inn yard, fists on hips, sizing up the possibilities: east for London or west for Aylesbury, when Mr Todd the curate walked through the arch. ‘Oh, good morning, Your Grace. Why, all local Society seems to be abroad in Berkhamsted today. I was gratified to see Miss Dane earlier. Such a charming young lady, such an ornament to our little town.’
‘Mr Todd, good morning to you, I trust I find you well.’ Marcus regarded his curate with a speculative eye. ‘Splendid sermon last Sunday, I hope you intend to stimulate us again this week.’ Marcus had, in fact, dozed through most of Mr Todd’s interminable prosing on the subject of the Ephesians, but he did not want to cause gossip by pouncing too readily on the subject of Miss Dane.
‘Thank you, Your Grace, you are too kind. I was, in fact, intending to enlarge upon the theme of the dangers of heathen imagery...’
Marcus allowed him to prate on until he drew breath at last. ‘I am glad to hear Miss Dane succeeded in finding a suitable chaise. Now, where was it she was going? London, I think?’
‘Oh no,’ Mr Todd corrected him. ‘She took the Chesham road.’
Chesham, Marcus ruminated. Why would she go south to Chesham? Unless she had some intention of disguising her destination. Once along that road she could turn off for either London or Aylesbury. Mr Todd was prattling again, but he excused himself brusquely and strode back to his horse.
‘Saye, you and Welling take the Chesham road until you find which way Miss Dane’s chaise has gone. When you are sure, send Welling back to me and you follow until Miss Dane reaches her destination, then send me word. Here,’ he tossed a leather purse to the head groom. ‘This should cover your expenses.’
Not waiting to see the two men follow his instructions, Marcus turned back towards Brightshill, thinking hard. He had come to expect spirited behaviour from Antonia, but even by her standards, setting off alone in a hired chaise was extraordinarily daring. When he discovered where she had gone – and London or Bath seemed the most obvious destinations – he would follow. It was chastening for once in his life to discover that events were not following his desires.
This impression was reinforced when, no sooner had he set foot over his own threshold, his sister pounced on him and marched him with scant ceremony into his study.
‘Well?’ Anne demanded. ‘Have you been over to speak to Miss Dane?’
Marcus sank into a deep chair and crossed his booted legs negligently. ‘Yes.’
‘And? What did she say? Marcus, I do wish you would not sprawl like that.’
‘She said nothing.’ Marcus continued to sprawl.
‘Nothing? What can you mean? Marcus, you are going about this very badly. Did she refuse to speak to you? Although it is not to be wondered at, with that minx Claudia Reed all over you at table last night.’
‘Antonia has gone,’ Marcus stated baldly, cutting his sister off in mid flow.
‘Gone? Gone where?’ Anne sat down abruptly in the chair opposite.
‘I have no idea, although I would hazard either Bath or London.’
His sister’s colour was rising to match her temper. ‘So you have thrown away the one chance you have of marrying someone who would suit you to perfection and hurt a sweet girl into the bargain.’
‘I offered for her before our first dinner party here, and she turned me down.’ This was compressing events somewhat, and made no mention of Claudia’s role in it all.
Anne was not to be deflected. ‘l suppose you thought she would fall into your arms for the asking?’ she demanded. ‘After all, everything else does, does it not, Marcus?’
Startled by this attack, he pulled himself up in the chair and stared at her. ‘What can you mean?’
‘Ever since you were a boy, you have been admired and fêted, for your rank and your fortune and your looks. You have never had to be accountable to anyone for anything, which is no doubt why that sweet girl has refused your suit. No, hear me out,’ she held up a hand as he opened his mouth to protest.
‘You are a good brother and uncle and an excellent employer, but you are aloof, sometimes haughty. I am assuming you love Antonia? Have you told her so, or have you just presumed that the honour of being courted by the great Marcus Renshaw, Duke of Allington is sufficient?’
Before he could respond there was a discreet tap at the door and Mead entered. ‘Your Grace, I regret the intrusion, but Welling is here, saying you required immediate speech with him.’
Marcus stood. ‘Tell him to wait, Mead, I will be with him directly. Direct Bain to pack a valise for me. He turned to Anne and kissed her cheek. ‘This will be news of Antonia and I intend to follow her. Do not fret, my dear. What you say may be true, but I intend to rescue the situation.’
In the hall he waited only for three words from Welling, ‘London, Your Grace,’ before ordering the man to bring round his high-perch phaeton within the half-hour.
Anne hurried out on to the steps as Bain was stowing the valise under the seat of the carriage and preparing to climb up beside him. ‘Marcus!’
‘Give my apologies to our guests, Anne, and tell them I have called away to Town by urgent business.’
‘How will you find Antonia?’
Marcus bent down to touch her cheek. ‘Saye is hot on her trail, he will mark where she is staying and then await me at the Town house. I will find her, never fear.’
The carriage jolted over the London cobblestones, jerking Antonia’s mind back from the miserable circles it had been running round all day. Even in a swift chaise, with no money spared in hiring postilions and making changes whenever the horses faltered, the journey had seemed interminable.
In the country it would still be light at eight o’clock, but here, with tall buildings crowding all around and the press of humanity on the streets, the evening seemed well drawn-in.
Antonia had directed the postilions to Half Moon Street, hoping that her great-aunt had suffered no relapse and was therefore at her own home and not at Cousin Hewitt’s. To her relief, the knocker was still on the door and lights glowed from the windows.
As soon as the carriage steps were let down Antonia ran up to the front door which opened as she reached it, as if in greeting. But it was not for her. Hodge, her great-aunt’s long-serving butler, was in the process of bowing out the familiar portly figure of her cousin Hewitt Granger. As usual he looked smug and she took some pleasure in seeing his face change at the sight of her.
They had never enjoyed a happy relationship. Hewitt was deeply suspicious of Antonia’s position in his grandmother's affections and had been only too pleased to see her depart to Hertfordshire. But at the same time she was uncomfortably aware that Hewitt Granger found her attractive. He never lost the opportunity to touch her, squeeze her hand or stare blatantly at her figure in a manner that left her feeling somehow soiled.
Even as he regarded her now with suspicion and dislike in his pale eyes, Hewitt’s tongue ran over his lips leaving them shining wetly in the lamplight.
‘Antonia, what are you doing here? We did not look to see you in London again. Perhaps you sent a missive which has gone astray?’ One gingery brow rose in an attempt at superiority.
‘Good evening, Hewitt.’ Antonia dismissed him, and his questions, and turned to greet the elderly butler. ‘Good evening, Hodge. I trust I find you well? How is the lumbago? Better, no doubt, in this warm weather.’
The old man beamed back. ‘Much better, thank you, Miss Antonia. And may I say what a pleasure – ’
‘Now look here,’ Hewitt interrupted. ‘l do not know what you think you are about, Antonia, but you cannot go in there.’ He moved to block her entrance with his body. ‘Grandmother has been very ill, she cannot possibly see you and certainly not at this hour. You must go to an hotel.’
Antonia glimpsed the expression on Hodge’s face, the almost imperceptible shake of his head. ‘Fiddlesticks, Hewitt. I am here at Great-Aunt’s invitation. Now do step aside and let me past. You have grown so stout since we last met; I cannot but feel it will do you no good, especially in this warm weather.’ She regarded his face with cloying sympathy. ‘You really look rather hot and agitated, quite puce, in fact. Do go and rest. Goodnight, I will not detain you any longer.’
Hodge curbed the smile that was beginning to dawn on his face and said urbanely, ‘Your usual chamber is prepared, Miss Antonia. And Cook has your favourite supper all ready.’
Antonia, even knowing this was untrue, could detect no falsity in the butler’s tone. With another sweet smile at Hewitt, who was muttering indignantly, she slipped neatly into the hall. Her cousin was further discommoded by two footmen running down the steps to collect Antonia’s luggage from the chaise. Comprehensively ignored by everyone, he clapped his hat on his head and strode off towards Piccadilly.
Hodge beamed at Antonia. ‘I will ring for Mrs Hodge and have your chamber prepared directly, Miss Antonia. Do you wish to go in directly to her ladyship?’
Antonia smiled at him. ‘You said just now that my room was already prepared, Hodge. Was that an untruth?’
‘Merely a slip of the tongue, Miss Antonia,’ he replied blandly. ‘Her ladyship will be delighted to see you, if I may make so bold. She is in the blue parlour. Shall I show you up?’
‘Thank you, no, Hodge. I know the way.’ Antonia whisked upstairs, happy to be back in the reassuring familiarity of her old home. It only lacked Donna to be quite like the old days, but her companion, when Antonia had announced her intention of fleeing to London, had reluctantly agreed to remain behind and supervise the Dower House.
Antonia paused, one hand raised to tap on her great-aunt’s door. She remembered the uncharacteristic blaze of fury on Donna’s face when she realised the lengths to which the Duke had driven her. Antonia had left in the gig with Miss Donaldson’s furious instructions to Jane ringing in her ears: ‘That man is never, never, to be permitted to cross this threshold again. Do you understand?’
Great-Aunt’s hearing was not what it was, so Antonia tapped firmly on the door and peeped round the edge, somewhat concerned that she might give Lady Granger a shock. The old lady was in her eighties and her health was uncertain, despite the recent improvement.
All that was visible was the top of a most elaborate lace cap showing over the back of a heavily brocaded wing chair. A small fire flickered in the grate despite the warmth of the evening and an embroidery stand and a basket of silks had been pushed to one side.
‘Is that you, Hodge?’ Lady Granger’s voice was still as strong and commanding as it always had been. ‘Has that fool of a grandson of mine gone? Thinks I do not know why he comes round! Sits there prattling on and all the time measuring me for my coffin with those wishy-washy eyes and wondering about my will. Pshaw! Does he think I am a fool?’
Antonia smiled to herself. The old lady was as outspoken as many of her contemporaries brought up in the more robust manners of the reign of the second George. She was quite likely to use intemperate language and could be open in her admiration for a comely young man in a way that caused blushes and giggles amongst younger women.
Antonia adored her great-aunt and was about to call her name when the old lady demanded, ‘And bring me my brandy, Hodge. Take away the taste of that bloodless sherry Hewitt pressed upon me.’
Antonia picked up the tray from the side table, carried it round and placed it before her aunt.
‘Good Gad! Antonia, my child, is it really you?’ Lady Granger held out her arms and Antonia went into them, enveloped in a cloud of rose scent, rice face powder and lace. ‘It does my heart good to see you.’
‘I am sorry to come with no warning. I hope it is not a shock, Great-Aunt.’ Antonia sat on a footstool beside Lady Granger and took her hand. She was shocked at how thin and papery the skin felt, but under her fingers the pulse beat strongly and the old eyes were bright and shrewd. ‘Reading your letter, I was so happy that you are feeling better, that I wanted to take up your invitation immediately.’
It sounded false even to her own ears and Lady Granger was not fooled. ‘Now tell me the real reason you are here,’ she demanded. She tipped up Antonia’s chin with a bony fingertip and peered into her face. ‘Some man has made those shadows under your eyes, I suppose. Who is he?’