As Conan and Theo were arriving at Carmartin Park, Ursula and her father were almost at the end of another fairly late breakfast. Ursula was very tired, for she had now had two broken nights in a row. She had managed to creep back into the house undetected, and had hidden the old cloak at the bottom of her wardrobe, meaning to return it to the stables later. But when she tried to sleep, it again proved impossible because her mind was far too active. The moment her eyes closed, flashes of the night’s events kept returning, like a portfolio of watercolors. Now that it was day, albeit a miserably wet one that would culminate in the dreaded dinner with Theodore Greatorex, she could scarce believe what she had witnessed in the woods overnight; or whom she had met.
Sir Conan Merrydown. His name was sweetness to her; he was sweetness to her. She could not forget those moments when he held her hand. Her body still recalled the amazing feelings that had almost swept her inhibitions away. It was a seductive recollection, warming, aching, compelling. If such a moment should happen again, would she be able to resist? Would she even want to resist? Ah, she mused, that was the question. And if she gave in to temptation, what then of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that would follow? She had too much to lose and very little to gain from wanting him, so he had to be banished to the distant corners of her mind. And there he must stay.
She wore her emerald-and-white-checkered morning gown again, but it did not make her look as bright and fresh as usual. Was there anything that would make her bright and fresh after two nights of such broken sleep? Probably not, she thought as she toyed with her plate of cold scrambled eggs? It was all very well to tell herself what she must do, to know what she must do, but that was to ignore the less worldly aspects of it all.
Mr. Elcester watched her. “You seem very preoccupied this morning, m’dear.”
“Mm?”
“Is something on your mind? If there is a problem, perhaps I can help?”
“No, I’m quite all right,” she replied quickly, and with a shameful lack of honesty. She could hardly tell him what she was really thinking about, because that would mean confessing she had disobeyed him a second time where the woods were concerned. On top of which, this time she really had been in danger! And then there was the added embarrassment of being alone with Sir Conan, whom she would probably never see again anyway. Besides, what was there to really say? That Bellamy Taynton and twelve others liked to dress up in druidic robes and carry out peculiar ceremonies in the woods. Her father would be appalled, but if such a story were to reach the local newspapers, she could just imagine the mirth with which it would be read in every drawing room in Gloucestershire. Oh, no, she realized that for the sake of Elcester Manor and her reputation, she had to hold her tongue.
Mr. Elcester poured himself a final cup of strong black coffee. “I have to ride into the village later to see the Reverend Arrowsmith about some parish matters, and before returning here I might call at the Green Man to see Taynton.”
“Oh?” Ursula looked up quickly.
“Yes. It’s a curious thing, but after going to Fromewell Mill yesterday, I made a point of riding into Stroud itself to make inquiries about the escaped prisoner who is apparently taking refuge in the woods. No one knew anything about it.”
What a surprise, Ursula thought wryly.
“Anyway, it could be that it wasn’t the Stroud authorities Taynton alerted, but Nailsworth or even Dursley. I mean to find out.”
Ursula felt guilty for not telling him she was sure there had never been a prisoner; it was just that Taynton et al required the woods to themselves, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. What Taynton’s explanation would be remained to be seen. No doubt it would be suitably smooth and convincing.
A maid tapped at the door and entered with a sealed note on a little tray. “Begging your pardon for interrupting, sir, but this has just been delivered. The messenger says it’s important, and that he will await your reply.”
“Who is it from, I wonder? Ah, I perceive the paper to be Lord Carmartin’s,” Mr. Elcester murmured, taking the note and breaking the seal to read it. “Oh, this is a little unexpected,” he said then.
“What is?”
“The note is from Mr. Greatorex. He graciously accepts the invitation to dine tonight, but respectfully requests that he may bring his friend with him.”
“Friend?”
“A fellow by the name of Merrydown.”
Ursula stared at him. “Merrydown?” she repeated faintly.
“Yes. Sir Conan Merrydown. It seems he has accompanied Mr. Greatorex from London. Well, no doubt the cook can manage another setting.”
“No doubt.” Ursula struggled to reply levelly, for she was on the verge of panic. This could not be happening to her! It was too unfair for words. How on earth was she going to carry this off? Sir Conan might not know who she was at the moment, but he certainly would the moment he entered the house!
To her relief her father tossed his napkin onto the table and got up. “It’s stopped raining, so I’ll order Lysander to be saddled, and be off on this wretched parish business. Oh, I do so loathe going over church matters with Arrowsmith. The fellow is dull to the point of tedium. Blunted by his atrocious wife, no doubt.”
As he left the room, Ursula closed her eyes for a long moment. If she had to make a prediction at this moment, it would be that her match with Theodore Greatorex was doomed. Of course, Sir Conan may prove to be the soul of discretion; indeed he had given every sign of being just that, but she would be very ill-advised indeed to bank upon it. There was nothing for it but to face up to the situation and keep her fingers crossed that somehow she would retire to her bed tonight without even a tiny scratch on the surface of her respectability.
She glanced out of the French windows, which opened onto the terrace. The cloud was breaking up a little, with here and there a patch of blue to relieve the hitherto uniform gray. Sky shadows swept across the valley, scudding over the Green Man and allowing a brief shaft of sunlight to lighten the church tower beyond. As she looked, a squirrel ran up to the glass and peeped in at her. It looked at her long and hard, twitching its beautiful tail. Then it turned away and ran a few yards, before looking back at her again. It was almost as if it were trying to make her follow it. Suddenly, the head groom’s terrier appeared from nowhere, yapping excitedly. The squirrel fled.
Ursula rose from her chair and went to look out properly. The squirrel had gone now, and the head groom had called the terrier back to the stables. She looked across the valley at the inn and saw Taynton setting off in his pony cart. He was dressed in his best clothes, which meant he had some business to conduct, and by the road he took she guessed he was going to Dursley. Her father would not be able to speak to him after all.
She glanced at the inn again. If Taynton wasn’t there, she might be able to see Vera. Maybe a little information could be wheedled. Maybe, too, she would be able to free the white squirrel. It was worth a try. And it would help to temporarily banish thoughts of the coming evening. She would ride there directly after she had changed.
* * * *
At Carmartin Park, Conan and Theo were talking in the grand hall. Conan was dressed in his pine green riding jacket and cream breeches, in readiness to ride the spirited gelding—the only white horse in Lord Carmartin’s stables—that was about to be brought around to the door. A folded cloak lay waiting on one of the twelve chairs against the paneled walls, together with his top hat, gloves, and riding crop.
Theo could not believe he wished to go riding. “Haven’t you had enough of being out and about? Right now there isn’t much I’d rather do less.”
“You have no stamina, my friend.”
“Perhaps I have more sense,” Theo retorted.
“Perhaps.” Conan smiled, and went to get his things from the chair. “I hope I won’t need the cloak, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Mrs. Anthony hurried toward them. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said to Theo, “but I’m afraid the wolfhound is nowhere to be found.”
Theo sighed and ran agitated fingers through his hair. “Where on earth has that wretched canine gone?”
This was the first Conan had heard of Bran being missing. “When did you last see him?” he asked.
“When we arrived. Now I seem to have ... um, mislaid him.”
Conan raised an eyebrow. “How does one mislay something as large and noisy as Bran the Blessed, Son of Llyr?” he inquired dryly.
“With consummate ease, as it happens,” Theo confessed. “Oh, he’ll turn up when he’s hungry.”
“That at least can be relied upon.” Conan laughed, and turned to go out as he heard the groom with the admirably white gelding, which he’d been informed was rather unoriginally named Snowy. Names aside, whatever else one might think of Lord Carmartin, he had an eye for prime horseflesh, and it amused Conan to ride this example in an area where many believed white animals to be magical.
Conan rode down through the park to the double lodge, then east across the vale toward the escarpment, which seemed very green and close after all the rain. The air was cool, invigorating and filled with the scents of spring. Hawthorn petals drifted like snowflakes, the creamy lace of cow parsley was beginning to unfurl on the verges, and the air was alive with birdsong. It was good to be out on an English April day like this, Conan thought, as he brought the gelding up to an easy canter.
He gradually felt that someone was following him, and glanced back, but the road was empty. He rode on, but the feeling swept over him again. This time he reined in to look back. Once more the road was empty, but the sensation of being stalked was uncomfortably strong. After a moment he rode on.
He was right to suspect a follower, but it was only Bran. The wolfhound slunk close to the hedge, where his white coat blended with the hawthorn and cow parsley. Two squirrels made their way through the hedge beside him.