It was not until they were just a few steps away from the village shop, from which Lady Agatha had asked Jessie to procure some black thread, that Eustacia realized she had not got her reticule.
‘Are you sure you had it when we set out?’ Jessie asked, with half an eye on the shop. She wanted to get there before it closed for the customary two hours during the middle of the day.
‘Yes I did,’ said Eustacia after a moment’s thought. ‘I took my handkerchief out to use it just as we arrived at Illingham Hall, if you remember. I think I took it off my wrist in the long gallery when we bent over to examine the marquetry on that table in the window. I’ll go and get it while you buy the thread. Then I’ll meet you here.’
‘I could come with you after I’ve bought the thread if you like.’
‘No need for you to suffer for my mistake,’ said Eustacia cheerfully. ‘I’ll be back in no time.’ It would be as well for Jessie not to have another opportunity to gaze at Lord Ashbourne’s portrait, she told herself as she hurried back to Illingham Hall.
She was almost there when she saw some very pretty wild flowers that she did not recognize, growing by the side of the road. She bent to pick a few, meaning to ask Jessie if she knew what they were called. Moments later, she berated herself for her foolishness. She could have taken Jessie to the spot and shown them to her just as easily. Now they would wilt long before she got them home. Telling herself that what was done was done, she walked on to Illingham Hall with the flowers still in her hand.
The housekeeper was nowhere to be seen, but the servant who came to the door was very happy to allow her to return to the gallery once she had explained what had happened. Her reticule was on a chair near to the far window in the gallery. She picked it up, thankful that no servant had discovered it and taken it away for safe keeping. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she put it down again and walked into the little anteroom that housed Lord Ashbourne’s portrait.
There was a signature at the bottom of the portrait, and she leaned forward to see if she could make it out, setting her flowers down on the little table that stood in front of the picture. She could not decipher the writing, so instead she stood back, wondering how old Ashbourne had been when this likeness was taken. She knew that he was a little younger than her mother and the father of an adult son, so he would probably now be in his mid forties. Judging by his clothes, she would surmise that he must have been in his twenties when this was painted. What had happened to him by this time to make him look so hard? Was it because of the death of his wife?
It was while she was still looking at the picture that she became aware that she was no longer alone. Turning, she saw the figure of a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the doorway and she gasped in surprise. Some magic must surely be at work, for there before her in the flesh, not roistering in Italy as she and everyone else had supposed, was Lord Ashbourne!
Suddenly remembering his reputation, and that she was all alone, she stepped back, her hand to her throat. Then he took a step or two into the room and as the light from the window fell upon his face, she realized that she must have been mistaken. This could not be Lord Ashbourne, for he was only the same age as the man in the portrait, and probably only a few years older than herself. Furthermore, although there was a likeness between them. the man who had just entered was built more heavily. His brows were a trifle thicker and without the pronounced arch which gave Ashbourne a look that was almost satanic. His hair, rather than straight and black, was wavy and very dark brown, and caught behind his head with a ribbon, whereas the sitter’s hair draped his shoulders; his eyes though were the same shade of grey.
‘Forgive me for startling you, ma’am,’ he said. His voice was deep, and his tone, though courteous, was a little on the blunt side. ‘Were you looking for anything – or anyone, perhaps?’
Eustacia blushed, glanced involuntarily up at the portrait and back at the newcomer again. ‘I just came … that is—’
‘It’s all right,’ he interrupted, his voice becoming a little world-weary. ‘You need not bother trying to explain yourself. I’m well used to the spell that my father seems to cast over half the female population. I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, if you were in search of him, but he isn’t here.’
‘I am well aware of Lord Ashbourne’s whereabouts, Lord Ilam,’ Eustacia replied, guessing the identity of the gentleman. She had merely intended to sound haughty. To her chagrin, the gentleman raised his brows ironically. In so doing, he gained more of a look of his father.
‘Are you indeed?’ he replied. ‘Then what brings you here? Are you spying out the territory? I regret to have to inform you that this is not my father’s home but mine.’
‘I was doing no such thing,’ Eustacia protested, now red as much from anger as from embarrassment. ‘I was here earlier with a friend – as no doubt Mrs Davies will testify – and I left my reticule behind in….’ Her voice petered out.
‘In?’ he prompted her.
‘In the house,’ she replied, her chin high, determined not to be bested.
‘Indeed?’ he responded, looking and sounding unconvinced.
‘Certainly,’ she answered swiftly. ‘You can see it in there.’
He glanced round. ‘Ah. In the gallery. So you came to find your reticule, and decided that you would take another delicious look at his lordship.’
‘No,’ she protested, then realized that what he had said was true, at least in part. ‘I mean yes, but not for the reasons that you are implying. And I do not think that Lord Ashbourne is … is….’
‘You’ll forgive me if I keep to my own view on that,’ he replied. ‘And now, having looked your fill at his dark beauty, perhaps you would like to leave? I am more than happy for people to look round my house, but I’m damned if I’ll tolerate his female courtiers sighing over him and offering their homage.’ He picked up the flowers that she had laid down. ‘Take your tribute. It’s quite wasted on him, believe me.’
With an infuriated squeak, she snatched the flowers out of his outstretched hand, threw them in his face, then hurried out through the gallery almost at a run, snatching up her reticule as she went.