It was a glorious day, the kind that comes sometimes in spring and splashes all nature with brilliance so that everything looks new-washed and sparkling. The air was cool and bracing and fragrant with the scents of June; the sky azure, with only a few puffy clouds here and there. Perfect weather for a gallop and Montclair loved to ride, yet today he rode with a frown, heedless of the beauty of colourful flower beds, laburnum trees that were a blaze of gold, the headily fragrant violet of lilacs, or the lush emerald of the park’s ancient turf. Lost in thought, his dark eyes were grim, his lips set in a thin hard line. He leaned forward in the saddle, instinctively steadying Allegro as the big horse thundered towards the brook. It was a tricky jump, but the stallion soared into the air, clearing the far bank with ease and racing on unchecked.
The incident last night, thought Montclair, had been the final confirmation. If Barbara had not opened her window, if Gould had not chanced to come outside, his own tale might have been told. It was not pleasant to know that someone wanted him dead, but it must be faced. He swore angrily. So—what now? He had no proof to carry to Bow Street. Even if they believed what he told them, what could they do, save to assign one of their men to guard him? “Gad,” he muttered with revulsion.
He could hire a guard privately, of course. But the vexation would be the same. And when all was said and done, what use would it be? He knew his temper; sooner or later he would be unable to stand constant surveillance, and would dismiss his protector. If the enemy had been patient, he would strike then. Besides, to a determined assassin, the presence of a guard would likely pose no problem. A pistol or a rifle could be fired from cover and bring down his quarry no matter how many guards had been hired.
He took the far hill in a blur of speed. At the summit, Allegro was beginning to blow, and Montclair reined up and gazed unseeingly on the serene beauty of the ancient village spread below them.
Junius, beyond doubting, harboured a malevolent hatred for him. Lurking under his suave and gentle manner, Uncle Selby’s dislike for all the Montclairs was intense; and Valentine was quite aware that Aunt Marcia detested him as thoroughly. But withal they were of the same family, and blood truly is thicker than water. Besides, it was said that, discounting insanity, there are only four motives for murder: passion, financial gain, self-protection, and power.
He had fancied himself in love several times while he was at University, but since he’d come down he’d had small opportunity to seek the company of women, and those he’d met had done nothing to divert his mind from its preoccupations with Longhills and his music.
Nor did financial gain apply, since he was not a wealthy man. He had a comfortable inheritance that had come to him from his late grandmother, but it was scarcely sufficient to tempt anyone to murder, and besides, if he died the residue was earmarked for grandmama’s favourite charity. Certainly, none of the Trents had anything to gain by his death. Junius was fourth in line of succession to the title and estates, and would become Baron Montclair of Longhills only after Geoffrey, himself, and Uncle Hampton Montclair had left this earthly coil. Furthermore, had his erratic brother taken a wife and set up his nursery during his long absence, Junius’s hopes might have dwindled another step—or even two!
He started Allegro down the hill, still puzzling at it. What next? To the best of his knowledge, he was no threat to another man’s life or fortune; he had witnessed no foul play, he was privy to no guilty secrets.
Lastly—power. He had none. Nor could any be gained by his demise. Except perhaps that Uncle Selby would be free to institute all the stupidly clutch-fisted economies he yearned to practice at Longhills; while the improvements he himself had fought to implement, despite his uncle’s opposition, would be abandoned. It was ludicrous to imagine that Trent would have him murdered because of that opposition, and there was no one else to regard him as a stumbling block to— He frowned suddenly. In a small way, he did constitute a threat to someone: he had the power to evict the Henley virago and her nasty clan from Highperch Cottage!
* * *
True to its name, Amberly Down nestled under a hill, so that when approached from the west there was no sign of it until one had crested the top. The single row of honey-coloured stone cottages curved around a village green, which was very green indeed. Beyond was the larger loom of what seemed to be an inn situated near a pond, and beyond that a dark, forbidding area that Susan thought must be the infamous swamp, and from which came the unpleasantly dank and foetid aroma that assailed her nostrils. The ring of hammer striking iron came from the far end of the street, and a farmhand in smock and gaiters was leading a fine ploughhorse towards the open doors of the smithy.
A boy of about ten began to accompany her, keeping a possessive eye on Pewter. He touched his brow respectfully when Susan wished him good day, and put in his bid to hold her horse did she mean to shop.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I do wish to make some purchases,” she said, slowing Pewter to an amble. “What a lovely village this is.”
“Ar,” he agreed. “Better nor some, surely. Hasn’t ye never been here a’fore, milady?”
“No. And I’m not a milady,” she said with a dimple that made his young heart warm to her. “What is that—er, odour?”
He waved towards the bottom of the street. “Swamp, ma’am. Me ma says as it be a blot on the village.”
“Indeed, I agree with her. Why has your squire done nothing about it?”
The boy seized Pewter’s bridle as another lad made towards them. “I’m taking care o’ the lady, David. Hop off!” He scowled the competition into deciding against a closer approach, then answered in a carefully low voice, “Lord Montclair don’t do nothing, ma’am. We could rot away, every last one of us, me dad says, for all he’d care. Me dad says as ’twas different in the old lord’s day. Now…” He shrugged. “There’s Miss Plunkett’s millinery in this next house, or the Receiving Office what’s the grocer’s as well, two doors down.”
Susan consulted her list and halted Pewter beside a mounting block. The boy handed her down, his face becoming very pink when his disgruntled competitor hooted loudly from a safe distance.
“Oh, and I am also to take back some paint,” said Susan.
“The ironmonger’s is next to the smithy. I’d best know your name, ma’am. Case the constable thinks I’ve took your mare without leave.”
“Of course. My name is Mrs. Henley.”
From the open door to Miss Plunkett’s Millinery Shop came an audible squeak, and two bonnets shot from view.
The boy’s face was a study. “Oooh…” he whispered. “The widder!”
It was, Susan realized later, a foretaste of her reception at Amberly Down. Miss Plunkett, a shy, faded little lady, was polite, but her eyes were enormous. Her two customers, large and forbiddingly respectable country matrons, stood apart, whispering and staring quite rudely at the notorious stranger. Angered, Susan pointedly ignored them, choosing some ribbons quickly and matching her cotton as closely as was possible from the limited stock.
There were no letters waiting at the Receiving Office, but the sharp-featured middle-aged woman behind the counter was a very different proposition from Miss Plunkett. She smiled tightly at Susan, welcomed her to the village, and said she hoped she would have the business from Highperch. “Fer so long as ye be there, that is,” she added with a bland stare.
Susan said with a spark in her eyes, “Then you may expect our business for a long time to come. Here is my list. If you will be so good as to wrap it all up I’ll come back in a minute or two. Thank you.” And she was gone with a nod and a swirl of her riding habit before the frustrated proprietor could say another word.
Vexed, Susan walked along the short street, passing several cottages at whose windows curtains were hastily straightened, or from which children peeped at her in frank curiosity. The King’s Arms sported a sign whereon was painted a fair replica of Charles I. The door was wide, and from the dim and fragrant interior a woman’s voice exclaimed that it was “… downright shameful a woman of that type would dare show her nose in a decent village.”
Hopelessness descended crushingly on Susan. She should have realized she would still be very much the outsider, but was there no end to it? Was Priscilla to be shunned, even here in this peaceful countryside? Her throat ached and tears stung her eyes. But Andy would be so angry if she let them see she was hurt. ‘Pox on them all,’ she thought fiercely, and jerked her chin up.
* * *
David Brewster made a wild dash for Montclair’s stirrup, a great grin of triumph spreading across his small freckled face. “That’ll show you, cocksure Jack,” he shouted at his competitor. “I’ve got Mr. Valentine’s Allegro!”
The stallion rolled his eyes and danced sideways.
“Have a care, halfling.” Montclair swung from the saddle and with some strict instructions, gave Allegro into the boy’s care. He glanced to young Jack Rogers who was walking a pretty little grey mare he didn’t recognize. The mare carried a side-saddle, and he wondered which of the local damsels had ridden a new mount into Amberly Down.
Last month some unkind hand—he could guess whose—had gouged a long chip from the gilded top of his harpsichord, and Mundy, the ironmonger, had ordered some gold-leaf paint, which should have come by now. Montclair patted Allegro and strode off down the street. The villagers he encountered responded to his greeting politely enough, but with an air of suppressed excitement, or amusement, or both. When he raised his hat to Mrs. French, the old lady bobbed him a curtsy, then giggled audibly as she hurried past.
Puzzled, Montclair stooped to enter Mundy the Ironmonger’s. The shop smelled of paint and putty. It was a dim overcrowded little place with dirty windows, dusty shelves crammed with tools and mysteriously shaped lengths of pipe, and countless bins and boxes full of screws and nails of every shape and size. His eyes momentarily dazzled by the contrast from the brilliant morning outside, Montclair saw that the fat little proprietor was holding a large paint pot and saying persuasively, “… happens as I mixed it fer Mr. Ford’s new barn. It must be just this shade, says his missus. Until they put some on. Then she changed her mind. Could let ye have it cheap, marm. A fine bargain.”
A lady said, “Thank you. I’m sure it is, but you see, I just want a—”
She had a low cultured voice that had a musical ring and sounded vaguely familiar. Montclair’s view was blocked by some piled tubs on the counter, and he shifted so as to see around them.
“Let ye have the whole pot fer sixpence ha’penny,” interrupted Mr. Mundy. “Ye’d spend more nor that on a little’un was I to mix it up again. My boy has to drive the pony and cart to Malvern today, and he could deliver it, if you like.” He caught sight of Montclair then, and his broad, perspiring face was wreathed in a bright grin. “Mornin’, sir. Fine mornin’. Ye’ll be wanting that gold-leaf paint. I’ll go and get it.”
Montclair saw a slender back clad in a well-cut blue-violet riding habit. The pert little hat had some sort of sheer pale violet stuff tied around it that hung down behind, and it was set upon the head of a lady who wore her near-black hair à la ancient Egypt: long and very straight. Stiffening, he thought, ‘It is the wretched widow!’ and he said, “No. Finish with the lady, Jed. I’ll wait.”
The icy drawl brought Susan’s head jerking up. Of all people! He would have to come in here!
“Lady’s buying some house paint, sir,” offered the proprietor amiably.
“Indeed?” Montclair strolled forward and, determined to remain a gentleman however this hussy provoked him, removed his hat. “Do you undertake some renovations, Mrs. Henley? By way of—recompense, perhaps?”
Susan turned and encountered a bleakly contemptuous gaze. Lord, but Andrew had marked him! To say nothing of the dark bruise her dustpan brush had bestowed on his forehead. She stifled an unwarranted pang of guilt. The horrid creature deserved it all! And only look how he was curling his haughty lip at her. She said with a saintly smile, “We do what we can to restore the poor old house. I’m not accustomed to living in a pigsty, you see.”
His dark brows arched. “You surprise me, ma’am.”
The sardonic rejoinder fanned Susan’s wrath so that she could scarcely breathe. ‘You have not begun to be surprised, Baron Beastly!’ she thought.
Mr. Mundy mopped his grimy apron at his heated brow and blinked hopefully from one to the other. The Wicked Widder was a luscious plum if ever he saw one, but it was clear young Mr. Valentine didn’t think so. Looked ready to strangle the gal, he did, and with them devilish eyes of his and his hasty temper, it wouldn’t surprise no one a bit if he was to take her ’crost his knee and whack her bottom for her. Now that would be a tale worth telling at the King’s Arms tonight!
“This will do very nicely.” Susan dazzled Mundy with her smile. “I’ll take it with me.” She turned her back on Montclair’s scowl, and handed over her small sum so that he might not see how very little more was in her purse.
He did see the lid of the pot, however, liberally and luridly splashed with scarlet. “The … deuce!” he gasped. “Do I understand you to say you mean to paint my house with—that?”
“Certainly not,” she replied, fluttering her eyelashes at him. “The house I mean to paint belongs to me, sir!” She saw his jaw drop as she swept out, clutching her purchase, laughter bubbling inside her.
Seething, Montclair caught up with her and seized her elbow. “You would not—dare,” he said between his teeth.
Her eyes very wide and innocent, she blinked up at him. “Sir? I fail to understand you, but do you think you should embrace me on a public thoroughfare?”
“Embrace you!” He glanced up and discovered at least twelve people who had not been on the street before. Releasing her arm as though it burned him, he said grittily, “Mrs. Henley, you have absolutely no right to interfere with my house. I warn you—if you dare apply that hideous paint to—”
“I would think you might be grateful to us for improving the poor old place,” she sighed. “Rather than let it go to rack and ruin—as you have done. Oh!” She clapped a hand over her nose and added a muffled, “Pray excuse me, sir. That dreadful stench … it is quite suffocating. I vow I am all but overcome and in another moment must fall down in a swoon. Whatever would people think, I wonder…? Ah, but you would catch me, of course.”
Practically incoherent, Montclair snarled, “Do you know what I think, madam? It is that you are a—”
“Here I am,” called Susan, as young Jack approached, leading Pewter. “Would you please carry this for me? Goodbye, sir.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” said Montclair, clapping his hat on as she tripped away. “Not goodbye. We shall meet very soon, I assure you!” He watched her hasten into the grocer’s shop, tall and willowy, that long thick black hair swinging softly. “By God, but we will—you conniving Cleopatra!” he muttered.
* * *
When Sir Selby Trent had moved his family into Longhills he had declared with commendable humility that he had no wish to intrude into the private life of the Montclairs. Refusing therefore to occupy any of the many suites available in the main block, he had taken up his abode in the south wing. This decision had been viewed without regret by his two nephews, and lauded by his son. His daughter, however, had always wished to reside in the main block, for although the south wing was more modern and extremely luxurious, it was a long walk to and from the dining room.
On this bright afternoon, Barbara could only be grateful for the distance. She had emerged from her earlier hiding place in the gardens, and had been nervously arranging flowers in Valentine’s study when Winnie had brought her father’s summons. Now she walked with trembling knees beside her plump and comely abigail, listening without conviction to Winnie’s whispered but daring observation that “no one cannot force you to marry if you don’t choose to, Miss Barbara.”
They crossed the long gallery toward the steps that led down into the side hall. “Oh yes they can,” moaned Barbara miserably. “Are you sure my cousin is gone out?”
“Rid into the village, miss, so that starched-up Mr. Gould says. And he should know, being as he’s Mr. Valentine’s valet, though one might think from the airs he gives hisself as he was valet to the Pope o’ Rome, at least!”
This criticism went unnoticed by Barbara whose entire unhappy concentration was on the forthcoming interview with her formidable parents.
A footman flung open the door that led to the south wing, and they passed through.
“They likely chose this time, knowing he was gone,” Barbara whimpered. “May God help me! I am quite undone! I can never face them down alone!”
A lackey froze to attention in the broad panelled hall leading past the ballroom, and Winnie was discreetly silent until they had passed another lackey whose mission in life appeared to be to repel the attempted invasion of a small butterfly. Then she asked softly, “What could Mr. Valentine do, miss? He can’t hardly tell your parents the marriage is not right for you.”
Three steps up and past double doors that stood open, revealing the sun-splashed magnificence of the Venetian drawing room in which two maids were polishing busily. Barbara whispered, “I know, but he doesn’t like this any more than I do. He would tell me what to say. Oh, Winnie! I’m—so scared! If only Mr. Valentine was back! They will make me marry him! I know it!”
“Just don’t promise anything, miss. You mustn’t!” Winnie glanced sympathetically at the pallid and drawn young face beside her. Much chance the poor little thing had with them two! “I s’pose it could be worse, miss,” she pointed out, trying to make the best of a bad thing. “What if it was that there Mr. Monteil they wanted you to marry?”
Barbara shuddered.
They started up the main staircase now, the great stained-glass window on the half landing bathing the beautifully carved panelling with colour. A slim young footman, carrying a large Chinese urn down the stairs, stepped aside respectfully as Barbara passed, then gave Winnie a grin and a wink.
“Owdacious flirt,” she muttered, her big brown eyes sparkling.
“Is that you, Barbara?” The high-pitched, rasping voice heralded the appearance at the top of the stairs of Lady Trent. She wore a morning dress of apple-green silk with forest-green velvet bands about the bodice and the short sleeves, and a green velvet fringe above the hem. Her coiffure was of the latest fashion, but vindictiveness and suspicion radiated from her; nothing could make her look charming, and her very presence at the top of that fine old stair seemed to cast a pall over its beauty.
Certainly she cast a pall over her daughter, who jerked to a halt, became even paler, and gripped her hands together. “Yes, M-Mama,” she faltered.
“We have been waiting this age,” scolded my lady, fixing Winnie with a frigid stare. “Well, never stand there as if you’d taken root, child! Hurry up, do!”
Barbara’s imploring glance at her abigail was ignored. Winnie had encountered my lady’s temper before, and she fled.
Quaking, Barbara followed her mother.
The study was large, bright, and airy. The curtains were thrown back, and warm sunlight slanted into the luxuriously appointed room, painting a golden bar across the dark wine carpet. Fine paintings graced the walls, and tall display cases between the windows contained a prized collection of antique weapons. Sir Selby rose from behind the graceful Hepplewhite desk and hastened to draw up a chair for his wife, who at once launched into an irked denunciation of her bold and disobedient daughter.
“N-no, ma’am, I beg you,” said Barbara, perching nervously on the edge of an adjacent chair. “I came at once when Winnie told me—”
Trent murmured, “I think I did not give you my permission to be seated.”
His daughter fairly sprang to her feet. “Oh! Your pardon, Papa,” she gasped, wringing her hands.
“Accepted.”
“You are too lenient, Sir Selby,” said my lady with her toothy smile. “Insolence must be punished or there is no telling where it will end. Therefore, Miss Trent, that piece of ill manners will cost you your dinner this evening.”
Barbara hung her head and yearned to be peacefully in her grave.
“You knew perfectly well you should have notified your dear papa of your acceptance long before today,” Lady Trent went on.
Summoning every vestige of her courage, Barbara forced her stiff lips to obey her. “But—but Mama … Papa,” she croaked. “I—I do not … w-wish to m-marry him.”
There was a moment of tingling and terrible silence.
“Do … not … wish…” gasped Sir Selby, lifting his quizzing glass and through it scanning his shivering offspring as though she were some rare and repulsive insect.
My lady sprang to her feet. “How dare you flout your parents’ authority, wretched child? The boy is well born, not unattractive, and very rich! Are you gone quite mad to balk at such a chance?”
“Never upset yourself, my dear.” Sir Selby turned to his daughter, his eyes a little narrowed, his words spaced and distinct and ineffably menacing. “Barbara will obey us as a well-bred Christian girl should do. I promised that she would accept this offer, and I never break a promise. You—do understand me, I trust, miss?”
Pierced by his grim stare, able to feel her mother’s anger, Barbara shook visibly, and tried with dry lips to respond. The words came in a sudden rush. “I—oh, please, Papa! I cannot care for him in—in that particular way. I beg of you—do not force—”
“Heavens above, has the chit never looked at herself?” Her eyes sparking, her voice piercingly shrill, Lady Trent said, “All your life, Miss Barbara, you have received the very best of instruction and guidance. Much you chose to benefit from it, never regarding what a pretty penny you have cost us! Can you suppose you are a credit to your unfortunate parents, fat and drab and ugly as you are? That you should receive an offer from any eligible gentleman is little short of miraculous, as you would realize were you blessed with the faintest degree of Godliness and humility!”
Incapable of speech now, Barbara felt physically sick. She was painfully aware that the door was not quite closed, and had no doubt but that the lackey outside had heard every word of her chastisement and that it very soon would be giggled over by every servant at Longhills. She stood with head bowed, tears of humiliation creeping silently down her white cheeks.
“Look at your daughter, sir!” cried my lady, exasperated. “She has received an offer from a well-bred and well-to-do young gentleman, which is a sight more than I dared to hope for the silly chit, even though it was likely only made out of pity. She should be down on her knees giving thanks. And—look at her! Only look at her!”
“Alas, my love. How sharp is the lash an ungrateful child turns upon its parents…”
“No,” sobbed poor Barbara. “Truly, I—I am g-grateful, sir, but—”
“There are no buts,” interpolated Sir Selby in a quiet and awful voice. “At half past eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, you will present yourself in the great hall. You will accept with maidenly modesty and gratitude the honour that has been offered you.” He lifted one hand in a regal gesture, halting his daughter’s feeble attempt at speech. “There is nothing more to be said. You may go and meditate upon your outrageous behaviour.”
Taking her weeping daughter by the arm, Lady Trent pushed her to the door. “Stop your snivelling, do,” she commanded, tightening her grip cruelly. “And furthermore, my girl, you had best not appear on Saturday with a face like an expiring bloodhound, else you will be sorry, I promise you. Very sorry!”
* * *
The hills were emerald, the sky intensely blue, the breeze playing like a frolicsome kitten; now quiet and hidden, now darting from concealment to dance with the treetops and riffle the grasses and run flirtatious fingers through Susan’s long soft hair. The little mare tossed her pretty head and picked up her hooves as lightly as thistledown. And Susan rode with anxiety for a companion, and her thoughts on the letter that now resided in her pocket.
Had the cottage really been sold back to the Montclairs? Was it possible that she really was trespassing, and that the young nobleman who had so contemptuously sent his friends to drive her away had right and the law on his side? She bit her lip, frightened. What court would believe her if she said that Burke Henley may not even have known about the cottage, and had certainly never mentioned it to her? Or that, even as Sir Selby Trent had implied, Mr. Ezra Henley’s mind had been clouded during the final few years of his life and he had kept many things secret and hoarded his papers, fearful of trickery, so that even Burke had known few details of his father’s affairs?
If they were trespassers, it might take some time to dispossess them. Grandpapa Tate’s solicitor had said something about possession being nine-tenths of the law. If things went along as they were, within just a little while they would have their feet on the ground again, but it could not be accomplished within ten days as demanded by the letter in her pocket. What was needed was something to delay the evil baron …
Deep in thought, she paid no attention to her route, allowing the mare to choose her own path. How angry Montclair had been about the paint. She brightened. He’d been fairly white with rage. As if she would put a red trim on the dear old cottage! She giggled, picturing it. The pot of paint, much larger than she’d thought to buy, had proven too heavy and bulky to be slung from the pommel, especially on such a warm day, so she’d asked the boy who’d held Pewter to take it back to the Ironmongery and tell Mr. Mundy she would like it delivered to Highperch, as he’d kindly offered. Priscilla would be so—
She glanced up and gave a shocked gasp. Pewter had slowed to little more than a walk. They were following a trail beside a long line of tall birch trees, and beside her rode the object of her thoughts. With an involuntary jerk at the reins, she exclaimed, “Oh! Lord Montclair!” And she thought, ‘He thinks I have the paint in my parcels and has come to try and wrest it from me by force!’
“Now what has he done?” he asked in the cool drawl that was so infuriatingly provoking.
“What has who done?”
“I thought you spoke of Lord Montclair?”
“Oh. Well, I was shocked to—to find you riding with me.”
“I’d have thought you would have expected such a development.”
That sounded sinister, and Susan eyed him uneasily. His mouth looked hard and cruel. Was she going to have to fight him off…?
“And I’ll own myself dense,” he went on. “But for the life of me I cannot see what my brother has to do with my riding beside you.”
All thought of red paint left Susan’s mind. She was seized by a horrible sinking feeling, and stammered feebly, “Your—br-brother?”
“Lord Geoffrey DeBrant Colwynne Montclair.”
She paled. “D-do you say—that you—aren’t…?”
“No, ma’am. I am Valentine Amberly Montclair. The younger brother.”
“Oh—no!” wailed Susan, horrified. “How perfectly dreadful!”
Despite himself, his lips twitched at this. “To be a Montclair? Or to be a younger son?”
“I thought you were Lord Montclair!”
“Did you? Dear me, I must warn my brother!”
Susan’s brain reeled. So he was not the Beastly Baron who meant to force them from Highperch! ‘Heavens! What have I done? I struck the wrong man!’ Struggling to regain her equilibrium in the light of this shocking disclosure, she said, “Then we owe you an apology. You see, Lyddford thought—”
“I am aware, ma’am.” The words fairly dripped ice. “Your brother is extreme hot at hand. But I assure you I do not molest small girls. Even if they trespass on our estate.”
How coldly aloof he was. He wouldn’t even let her apologize properly. Irritated, she snapped, “No, you merely so terrify them they cannot sleep at night!”
“If that is so, I am sorry for it, but—”
“If it is so? I do not tell falsehoods, sir!”
He gave her a long measuring look. “Do you not, Mrs. Henley? How admirable.”
“More admirable than for your brother’s friends to forcibly invade my home, bully my servants, and beat my brother into unconsciousness because he tried to protect me from being mauled!”
Inwardly appalled by this litany of abuse, Montclair frowned at the riding whip in his hand. Then he said slowly, “My brother is out of the country, ma’am. And has been for several years.”
In which case she’d been right, after all. “So you act for him, I take it.”
They had come to the end of the trees and were approaching a stretch of high level land with a fine view of the surrounding countryside. Charmingly flanked by two weeping willow trees, a summer house stood in the centre of the turf, the bright faces of lupins, daisies, and stocks bobbing around it.
Montclair drew rein. “It will be easier to talk inside, madam.”
Belatedly, Susan asked, “Where are we?”
He had, she discovered, a perfectly horrid way of regarding her, saying nothing, but the upward twitch of one dark brow speaking volumes. His slim hand moved in a graceful but mocking gesture to the right. She yearned to strike it, and with considerable irritation glanced where he indicated.
Distantly, the chimneys of a great house peeped above the trees. Susan felt her face grow hot. “Never say that is Longhills? But—it cannot be! I started out the other way. Oh, how vexing! I suppose I did not pay heed to where I was going and must have ridden in a circle.” It sounded so lame that she was not surprised by his scornful stare. Much chance she had of convincing this icicle that her trespassing had not been deliberate.
“It would appear to be a family failing,” he drawled sardonically. “Your later father-in-law had the same—ah, tendency.”
He dismounted in a lithe swing and tethered Allegro to a branch of one of the trees. He had fully expected an angry response to his barbed remark, but when he turned he found Mrs. Henley with hands prayerfully clasped before her bosom and eyes closed. Heaven forbid she was about to make good her earlier dastardly threat and swoon into his arms! He scanned her uneasily. “Are you well, madam?”
“And grateful,” she said, blinking down at him. “I was thanking a merciful Providence. Only think—a few centuries ago had I dared set foot upon your property you might have punished me by providing me with an iron collar!” She gave a realistic shudder.
Montclair’s lips quirked. Iron collar, indeed! With all her faults, the widow had spirit and a sense of humour. He drawled, “Have no fears, madam. Even were I so inclined, I own no serfs at present, and will provide nothing more threatening than an offer to help you down.”
‘Even were he so inclined?’ The conceit of it! And his eyes glittered at her in a most unpleasantly piercing way, the strange amber flecks in startling contrast with the near-black iris. She contemplated refusing his help, but that would mean a clumsy dismount, and so she leaned to him. The hands that received her were strong, but held her as briefly as possible. Susan, who would have been infuriated if he’d held her longer, thought with perverse resentment that he must be afraid of contaminating himself.
The summer house was constructed on the open plan, with several wooden benches grouped under the graceful pagoda roof. Susan found it delightful, but refused to give him the satisfaction of saying so. She was surprised to find his hand supporting her elbow as she mounted the three shallow steps. The noble gentleman very obviously despised the scheming widow, but at least he remembered his manners.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, unbending a little, “it is as well you followed me, for there is something I must discuss with you.”
“I did not follow you, Mrs. Henley. In point of fact, I was surprised to find you here. And if you wished to speak to me, I cannot but wonder why you—er, ‘started out the other way.’”
She drew a deep breath. It served her right for addressing him as though he had been human. What a pity that she had hit him with the brush. She might better have used the broom! “I had intended to apologize,” she said coldly, refusing to allow his sarcasm to fluster her.
“For invading my cottage? Or for your hideous scheme to redecorate it?”
“Oh, neither. For being a—just a touch put out when you came to my house.”
“Just a—‘touch’…?” Montclair fingered his bruised forehead. “It would be diverting to see you when you are really vexed, ma’am.”
She smiled at him in the way that so exasperated Andrew and which he referred to as her ‘Sphinx grin.’ If Montclair was exasperated, he gave no sign of it, watching her enigmatically for a moment, then turning away to dust off one of the benches, and bow her to it.
Ignoring the overblown gallantry, she sat on an adjacent bench and contemplated the view. How beautiful it was, all green and blue and gold; neat and peaceful, typical of the west country she loved so well.
There could be little doubt, thought Montclair, scanning the widow obliquely, that her reputation was well earned. She had behaved with disgraceful abandon at the cottage yesterday; she probably hoped to wound him by using that ghastly paint on the dear old place, and she had a way of meeting one’s eyes that was decidedly unmaidenly. Besides, who ever heard of a lady wearing her hair so long and straight? That style was quite out of fashion—and had been for about two thousand years. She was a shapely creature, though, and was clever enough to achieve an air of tranquillity. The way her hands were folded in her lap, for instance; the graceful disposition of her body … The breeze riffled her hair. It was, he noticed, very thick and silky-looking. He wondered if it felt silky. She turned her head so suddenly that she caught him watching her, which made him long to give himself a hard kick.
“You said we could talk,” Susan reminded, smiling sweetly into his level stare.
“By all means. When do you mean to begin?”
“Begin…?”
“You said you intended to apologize.”
“True. But then I changed my mind.”
“A feminine trait, I understand.” He looked bored. “Why? Because you have been asked to leave my house?”
She said dryly, “You have some most unpleasant friends, Mr. Montclair.”
“Forgive if I contradict a … lady. My friends are not at all unpleasant. But I am responsible for your having been roughly dealt with. For that I do apologize.”
At first infuriated by that deliberate hesitation before naming her a lady, then astonished that he would deign to offer such an apology, she murmured a confused “Thank you,” and looking across the drowsing valley below them asked inanely, “Does your brother own all this?”
“As far as you can see in any direction, madam. Save for Highperch Cottage.”
“Your friends gave me to understand that the cottage was part of the Longhills entail.” She saw the irritated flicker of his dark brows, and added, “They are your friends—no?”
A little muscle moved in his jaw. He answered evasively, “Mr. Junius Trent is my cousin, madam. Highperch is not a part of the entail and was made over to me by my mother after she bought back the property from Mr. Ezra Henley.”
“We, of course, dispute the fact that the property ever was bought back.”
“My solicitor,” he began with a weary sigh, “has all the necessary papers and—”
“Oh, yes. Messrs. Ferry, Laidlaw, and Ferry. And you may sit down if you wish, even though you mean to have your bailiffs throw me out on the fifteenth.”
The impudence of the woman! Montclair sat on the adjacent bench. “You went to see my solicitors?”
“Hardly. How would I know who they are?” Susan took the letter from her pocket and handed it to him.
His eyes travelled the page rapidly. He uttered a stifled exclamation and crumpled the paper in his fist.
“I’ll have it back, if you please.”
Montclair muttered an apology, attempted to smooth the wrinkled letter, and returned it.
Scornful, she said, “Am I to believe you were unaware this was sent, Mr. Montclair? Faith, but you must be singularly ill informed by your man of business!”
He tightened his lips, then snapped, “It says truth.”
“Does it, so? Then you believe my father-in-law, my late husband, my brother, to have been cheating thieves, and myself a conniving opportunist!” She stood, coming to her full and stately height, and regarding him from beneath haughtily arched brows.
He rose at once. “I cannot think my opinion would weigh with you, Mrs. Henley. But I will give you the benefit of the doubt and suppose you to be unaware that my solicitor holds your father-in-law’s signed receipt for the return of his funds.”
“Your nobility is awesome, sir,” she riposted, dropping a mocking curtsy. “In turn I shall suppose you to be unaware that my brother and I, as well as my late father-in-law’s solicitor, have branded that signature a forgery.”
“A forgery!” Scowling, he snapped, “By whom, I should like to know?”
He looked so fierce that Susan was a little frightened, but she said bravely, “By whosoever did receive the funds, obviously.”
“Madam, that is absolute rubbish! The funds were directly returned to your late father-in-law by special courier. Perhaps, owing to Mr. Ezra Henley’s state of health, he was unable to write in his usual hand, but—”
She laughed merrily. “But how very convenient.”
“The fact remains,” he snarled, glaring at her, “that the funds were delivered. What became of them after that is not my concern.”
“It is very much my concern, sir! What you allege is typical of the nonsense by which the business has been dragged out and delayed. We shall take you to court and—”
“And waste a good deal of time and money! Including the cost of your paint and the restitution I shall claim for any defacement of my property.”
Susan cried ringingly, “Kindly allow me my say, Mr. Montclair.”
She stood there, the picture of disdain, her riding crop tapping at the skirt of her habit, shapely and slim, and so regal one might suppose him to be the veriest peasant in the presence of a queen. She was an unscrupulous jade, but by heaven, she had her share of gumption! His ready sense of humour stirred, he bowed low. “Your pardon. Say on, madam.”
The sudden and unexpected twinkle in his dark eyes brought the flecks of amber brilliantly alive, and his grim mouth relaxed into a faintly whimsical grin so that from a ruthless menace he became a charming young man. Again thrown off stride, Susan murmured, “Oh dear, where was I?”
“Taking me to court,” he prompted obligingly.
“Yes. Thank you. And likely prove that your courier either delivered the funds to the wrong party, or—or perhaps absconded with them himself.”
“Oh, very good. But unlikely. Especially since the courier is still in my solicitor’s employ. However, do not let me deter you, Mrs. Henley. If that is your best defence, by all means use it.”
She eyed him uneasily. “I suppose that smug look means that you are convinced we shall lose if we do so.”
“I am convinced you will lose whatever you do. I have said what I wished to say. If you have nothing to add, perhaps you will permit that I and my—er, smug look leave you.”
“I have a great deal to add, including resentment for your arrogant and unwarranted use of the word ‘defacement.’ Neglect sir, constitutes far greater defacement than any painting and repairs I may contemplate.”
She had struck a nerve. His hot temper flaring, he said explosively, “If you are truly so vulgar as to use that colour on Highperch, Mrs. Henley, I warn you that you will become the laughing-stock of the county!”
“Instead of merely being scorned and my innocent little girl ostracized because her father was a suicide?” Her lip curled. “I have survived the tender mercies of self-righteous town-dwellers, Mr. Montclair. I had hoped to find a kinder attitude among country folk, especially towards Priscilla. Apparently, my hopes were vain. But I promise you the time is past when the prospect of becoming a laughing-stock could cause me to shake in my shoes.”
“How regrettable,” he drawled. “It is evident, ma’am, that to prolong this discussion would be pointless. I give you good day.”
Bowing, he started off, but glanced back when she called, “One moment, if you please. We have another matter to discuss.”
He scowled, hesitating. But he was curious to see what outrageous ploy she would next present, and thus went back to the bench once more.
Susan sat down and ordered her skirts. “When my brother attacked you—”
“After I molested your daughter,” he interpolated, stiffening.
“Mr. Montclair, permit me to say that your manners are atrocious. Did no one ever teach you that it is very rude to interrupt? I was about to explain that it was no more than a simple mistake, and—”
He was rude again. “Simple! Many sins I consider forgivable, Mrs. Henley, but the man who abuses a helpless little child is utterly despicable. To have been judged capable of such conduct is not my notion of a ‘simple mistake’!”
“You know perfectly well, sir, that my brother misunderstood what Priscilla said.”
He shrugged irritably. “It is of no consequence. What is done, is done.”
“That is nonsensical! You might just as well say that if a carriage wheel comes to rest on my foot I must not move because it ‘is done’! Or that if I should accidentally set light to the curtains, I must not put out the fire because it ‘is done’!”
“I am sure you can dredge up countless inappropriate similes, Mrs. Henley. The fact remains that Lyddford struck me in the face. And the Code of Honour does not permit—”
Forgetting her scold about interruptions, she threw up her hands in exasperation. “You men and your stupid Code of Honour!”
“Yes,” he sneered. “I can well imagine you would find it stupid.”
Susan flushed darkly. “Your imagination at least, cannot be faulted, sir. I suppose you are a crack shot and look forward eagerly to ridding the world of a man who dared defend his little niece!”
“I believe I know one end of a pistol from the other, madam. And if I may point out—since I did not instigate the duel, your argument is ill taken.”
The horrid man had a point. She bit her lip, but persisted. “Were my brother to apologize…?”
“Hah! I wish I may see it! Lyddford did not impress me as being either a fool, or the type to apologize for his errors.”
“If you knew him better—” she began angrily, but stopped when she saw the pitfall.
Montclair was in no mood to allow a poor move. “I would know he is a fool?” He clicked his tongue. “Perhaps you are right, but I think he would not appreciate your putting me in possession of that fact, Mrs. Henley.”
‘Wretch!’ she thought, and said loftily, “The mistake was mine, for supposing I might appeal to your better nature.”
“‘Appeal to my better nature,’ is it? Jove, but you’re a rare optimist, ma’am! You illegally occupy my house; attack me like any fishwife—”
“Fishwife…” she spluttered, outraged. “How dare you?”
“—make perfectly vile aspersions on my character; your brother has the confounded lack of sportsmanship to knock me down when I’m looking the other way; you mean to render my house hideous by splashing scarlet paint all over it—and you seek to appeal to my better nature? By God, madam! If you hoped to turn me up sweet so as to grant you a stay of eviction, you could scarce have played your cards in worse fashion!”
Springing up, Susan gathered the train of her habit with so sweeping a gesture that she revealed the tops of her riding boots. She saw Montclair’s glance flash to the embarrassment, and yearned to scratch him. “Certainly,” she said, her voice quivering with rage, “I have wasted my time by attempting to reason with an ill-tempered boor. Good day, Mr. Montclair.”
Having thus dismissed the obnoxious creature, she turned her eyes away and waited for him to depart.
He gave her the sketch of a bow and stood firm, coldly immovable.
It dawned on her then that this was his summer house. Discomfitted, she walked past, and down the steps, but as she approached the mare, was again discomfitted. Pewter was not a tall horse, but the stirrup was rather too high to permit a graceful mount without assistance.
Montclair watched her predicament with wicked enjoyment. Still, she had played fair in their dispute, resorting to neither tears nor hysterics, as so many of her kind would have done. Besides, she was a female and his breeding prevailed. “Allow me, Your Majesty.” He handed her the reins, and bent, cupping his hands for her foot.
‘Sooner,’ thought Susan, ‘would I perish!’ Made reckless by anger, she flicked the reins over the pommel, and in a trice was atop the first step. It was just a little jump to Pewter, and once she had a grip on the pommel … She launched herself at the saddle.
Startled by such unfamiliar antics, Pewter danced away.
Bewildered, Montclair half turned, making a grab for the stirrup. Unfortunately, Susan was quite unable to stop in mid-air, and with a shocked squeal she crashed unchecked into him.
Winded, flattened, and extremely surprised, he heard faint feminine moans, and found that he was enveloped in a cloud of black hair.
Dragging herself to her hands and knees, Susan snatched the obstruction from his eyes. “Give me my hat. At once!” she demanded, kneeling over him scarlet faced, and all but weeping with chagrin. “And just for your—your information, Mr. Amberval— Oh! I mean—” His wheezing and unsympathetic laughter was typical of the brute. Between gnashing teeth, she finished sobbingly, “For your information, you are—without”—she blew a lock of hair from her eyes—“without doubt—the—the most odious creature I have ever met!”
He sprawled there. Howling.
She all but flew to Pewter, and heedless of propriety, got one foot into the stirrup and dragged herself up. Jamming the hat onto her head, she resorted to the spur she never employed, and the mare was away at the gallop.
It was no use. For what seemed miles she could still hear his loathsome laughter.