An Impossible Confession (3 page)

‘I know.’

‘Miss Figgis said….’

‘I’m well aware of what Miss Figgis said.’ Helen gave a rather reckless smile. ‘I know I shouldn’t feel like this, but I’m really beginning to enjoy myself.’

‘But he might be really wicked!’

‘He might be, but I’m sure he isn’t. Besides, I’m not Miss
Fairmead, I’m the widowed Mrs Brown. She’s the one who’s
staying
here, and she’s the one who’s going to dine with Lord Drummond.’

‘But he’s a stranger, miss.’

‘Mary Caldwell, if you say one more word I shall make you sleep in the chaise. I know I’m behaving improperly, I know I shouldn’t have even
thought
of accepting his invitation, but I have, and now I intend to enjoy myself to the full.’

‘But, what if…?’

‘There’s no such thing as “what if,” not tonight,’ declared Helen firmly.

Mary sighed and fell silent. This was all the height of madness, and nothing good was going to come of it, nothing good at all.

O
ne hour later, Helen was almost ready to keep her dinner appointment. She sat before the candlelit dressing table while Mary put the finishing touches to her hair.

Outside, it was still raining heavily, but in the Cat and the Fiddle’s best room it was dry, warm, and very comfortable. The room occupied a prime position at the front of the inn, with windows facing the London road, but was so large that it also had a window and door opening onto the gallery above the courtyard. It was a handsome chamber, beamed and paneled, and in view of the terrible weather, which made the night unseasonably cool, a fire had been lit in the immense hearth.

Apart from the dressing table, the room boasted a particularly fine old four-poster bed hung with pale blue damask, and there was a vast wardrobe with enough space for the clothes of half a dozen ladies of fashion. A table stood in one corner, with a
porcelain
jug and bowl, and a chest of drawers occupied another corner, so far beyond the arc of candlelight that it was barely visible in the shadows. At the foot of the bed there was a pallet, brought in
especially
for Mary, and it looked rather small beside the great four-poster, which was so high there were steps to climb into it.

Helen’s reflection looked back at her from the mirror on the dressing table. She wore the same white gown she’d traveled in, it hardly being practical to unpack and press another one just for this evening, but she wasn’t displeased, for the gown was one of what Madame Rosalie called her ‘amiable creations,’ because it could be dressed up or down to suit the occasion. Tonight she’d chosen to wear her mother’s diamonds with it, and they glittered and flashed as the candlelight moved. Her hair was twisted up into an
elaborate 
knot from which tumbled several heavy ringlets, and there was a froth of little curls framing her face.

Mary put the last pin in place and looked at her in the mirror. ‘There, miss, I’ve finished.’

‘You’ve done it beautifully, Mary. Thank you.’

‘Thank you, miss.’

Their eyes met again, and Helen sighed. ‘Oh, all right, say it again if you must.’

‘I can’t help it, miss, I’m worried about tonight. There’s still time for you to change your mind, you could plead a headache.’

‘I could, but I’m not going to. Mary, I’m having dinner with him, not slipping into his bed.’

Mary was shocked. ‘Oh, Miss Fairmead, you shouldn’t say such things. Besides….’

‘Yes?’

‘That isn’t why I’m worried, for I’m sure Lord Drummond is a fine and honorable gentleman.’

‘I’m sure he is, too. Why are you worried then?’

‘I think you know.’

‘Because I could meet him again some time and he’d know I’d been masquerading as a widow?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘That’s a remote chance I intend to take.’

‘Remote, miss? It seems to me that the whole of society goes to Bourne End.’

The maid was right, but Helen didn’t want to think about it, not tonight. She got up, causing a draft that set the candle flames
dancing.
‘Mary, I’ve spent the last five years paying attention to rules, learning them all by heart so that when I reach Bourne End I can spend the rest of my life abiding by them. But tonight, just for tonight, there aren’t any rules, there isn’t even a Helen Fairmead.’

‘I don’t know what’s come over you, Miss Fairmead, for this isn’t like you at all.’

‘What’s come over me?’ Helen smiled suddenly, snatching up her shawl. ‘A Cat and Fiddle tarradiddle, that’s what’s come over me. I’ve told a fib, and I’m free for an evening.’

Determined not to hear any more common sense from the maid, she hurried from the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
Tonight was going to be an adventure, a stolen excitement that was most strictly forbidden; the prospect of spending time in Lord Drummond’s company was too tempting to allow the sobering thought of possible consequences to stand in the way.

The Cat and Fiddle’s passages rambled, and its floorboards were squeaky and uneven. She descended the staircase to the wide passage where earlier she’d sat on the settle recovering from the incident in the courtyard. The row of bowls on the tables had all been used, the water in them was dirty and the towels equally so. The settle was laden with wet cloaks and hats, and the noise of male laughter and conversation emanated from behind a door. The reunion dinner was evidently well in progress, and the guests well in drink.

As she reached the bottom, the landlord appeared from the cellars, wiping a dusty bottle on his apron. He paused immediately when he saw her. ‘Good evening, ma’am.’

‘Good evening.’

‘I trust the room is to your satisfaction?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

There was a sudden gust of laughter from the dining room, and the landlord hastily put the bottle down. ‘If you’ll come this way, ma’am, I’ll take you to Lord Drummond.’

She followed him along the hallway toward the rear of the inn. Sporting prints lined the paneled walls, and doorways were graced by antler trophies, giving the establishment a distinctly masculine atmosphere that made her feel out of place in her diamonds and white lawn.

The landlord opened a door at the very end of the passage, standing aside for her to enter as he announced her name. The room was small and private, lit by a four-branched candleholder on the paneled wall and by a single candlestick on the
white-clothed
table set for two. There were comfortable chairs on either side of the fireplace, and a large sofa against another wall. Crimson velvet curtains hung at the single tall window that looked out at the courtyard, directly opposite the archway from the London road.

Lord Drummond stood by the window, holding the curtain aside to look at the endless rain. He wore the same mulberry coat
and light-gray trousers as before, and he turned quickly to smile at her. ‘Good evening, Mrs Brown.’

‘Good evening, my lord.’

He nodded at the landlord, who was waiting in the doorway. ‘You may serve dinner now.’

‘My lord.’

The door closed and he returned his attention to Helen, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. ‘I trust the notion of dining
à deux
with me isn’t too disagreeable, but the stagecoach passengers have elected to eat in their rooms, and as you will no doubt have gathered, the reunion dinner is in full rumbustious possession of the main dining room.’

‘And threatening to become more rumbustious still before much longer,’ she replied, conscious that this time his lips had indeed touched her bare skin, and that the sensation was far too pleasing for comfort.

He conducted her to the table and drew out one of the chairs, waiting until she had settled before sitting down himself directly opposite. ‘I’m afraid dinner is a choice of good Cotswold mutton or good Cotswold mutton.’

‘It can indeed be very good, sir.’

‘So I understand,’ he replied, smiling.

‘From which reply I guess you do not hail from these parts.’

‘You guess correctly. I’m here at the moment because I’ve been visiting my sister, Lady Bowes-Fenton, in Burford, and I’m now on my way to an important war office meeting in London in the morning. My personal neck of the woods is in Sussex.’

‘Wintervale?’ she asked, remembering how he’d introduced himself earlier.

‘Yes, do you know it?’

‘I’m afraid not, I don’t know Sussex at all.’

‘Wintervale is on the edge of the South Downs. It’s an extremely large, extremely ancient estate attached to a small village, and has been owned by the Drummond family since the time of Henry III. To be honest, there are unkind souls who’ve been heard to mutter that Wintervale’s plumbing and general discomfort must have been known personally to that same monarch.’ He smiled.

‘You don’t believe in improving, my lord?’

‘I happen to like Wintervale as it is. If I require a taste of modern luxury, I take myself to my house in Berkeley Square.’

‘The best of both worlds?’

‘Indeed so. But enough of me, let’s turn to you. Since you appear to be acquainted with the delights of Cotswold mutton, I imagine you reside somewhere in these hills?’

‘Not exactly, I come from Worcestershire,’ she replied honestly.

‘Indeed?’ He sat forward with interest. ‘It’s a county I know well, for I have relatives there. I’m sure you must know the Tancreds of Malvern?’

Abruptly the conversation became awkward for her, because she did indeed know the Tancreds, they were very prominent in Worcestershire affairs, but she could hardly say that to him
without
inviting further questions about her background. For a moment she could only stare at him, her mind racing, then she smiled and shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ It was her first fib of the evening.

‘I confess I’m surprised, for I’ve been led to believe they have a finger firmly set in every available pie in the county.’

To her relief the landlord chose that moment to appear with a waiter carrying the dinner. A maid followed with a bottle of wine. When the food had been set on the table and the door closed once more, Lord Drummond poured the wine and glanced
appreciatively
at their plates. ‘I must say it looks exceeding appetizing, so perhaps mine host’s boasts regarding his table are justified after all.’

‘The strip you tore off him earlier was probably warning enough that he’d better not displease you again, my lord.’

‘It was no more than he deserved, and probably a good deal less. The same is probably true of your postboy, who promises me that from now on he’ll convey you as carefully and attentively as if you were royalty.’

She smiled. ‘You evidently have a way with words, sir.’

‘Oh, I do, believe me. Your health, Mrs Brown.’ He raised his glass.

‘And yours, Lord Drummond.’ She raised hers as well.

The mutton was very succulent indeed, the vegetables cooked to perfection, and the gravy light and tasty; the conversation,
however, was soon uncomfortable for her again.

Lord Drummond smiled at her. ‘Are you
en route
for town, Mrs Brown?’

‘For Ascot.’

‘To be in good time for the races?’

‘To live there.’

‘By coincidence I shall shortly be temporarily residing six miles away at Windsor, I’ve taken 5 King Henry Crescent while my Berkeley Square property has gas lighting installed. Perhaps our paths will cross, for I understand Ascot shops in Windsor.’

‘I think it highly unlikely we’ll meet, my lord, for I do not intend to go to Windsor.’ It was the second fib, for she knew that Margaret shopped a great deal in that town, and that therefore she would too.

His glance moved briefly over her. ‘Where will you be residing in Ascot?’

This was dreadful. ‘I – I believe it’s somewhere near the
racecourse
,’ she replied vaguely.

‘Don’t you know?’ he asked in surprise.

‘No, as it happens, I don’t. A property has been obtained for me by my solicitor.’ The Cat and Fiddle tarradiddles were coming thick and fast now.

‘I see. Well, since you’re going to be close to the racecourse, I can only imagine you have an interest in the turf. Am I right?’

‘I don’t know the first thing about horseracing,’ she replied, at last managing to be honest.

‘You’ll be the only such soul in Ascot.’

‘Are you a racing man, Lord Drummond?’ she asked, her fingers crossed beneath the table that he wasn’t, for if he was, he’d
probably
know Gregory.

‘I used to be,’ he replied shortly.

This was no mistaking the abrupt edge that had entered his voice. She began to uncross her fingers. ‘You aren’t now?’

‘I attend the races, but I no longer own racehorses.’

‘May I be so bold as to ask why?’

‘My name was involved in an unpleasant
cause célèbre
last summer, and the experience was enough to persuade me to
withdraw
. My presence at Royal Ascot this year will undoubtedly raise
a great many eyebrows, and if it hadn’t been for my sister, Lady Bowes-Fenton, I’d have stayed away, but she persuaded me that nonattendance would be construed in some quarters as proof of a guilty conscience.’

She stared. ‘It sounds very serious, Lord Drummond.’

‘It’s ancient history to me now, and to those who matter to me. The rest can think what they choose.’

She wondered what it was all about, but only briefly, for she was too concerned about one discomforting fact; he was going to be attending Royal Ascot. She would be as well, and not only that, she’d be rather conspicuous in the Bourne private box, which was second only to the royal stand itself in importance. Mary’s
warnings
were suddenly beginning to sound ominously appropriate, and she, Helen, was beginning to wish she hadn’t invented Mrs Brown, but had elected to tell the truth from the outset. She managed a smile, however, in an effort not only to hide her own unease, but to smooth over the awkwardness that had arisen in the conversation. ‘I – I may not know anything about horseracing, Lord Drummond, but since I understand the queen herself likes to place a bet or three, perhaps I will be allowed a similar indulgence. Do you have a tip for me?’

‘Do I look like a knowing one, Mrs Brown?’ he asked, smiling a little.

‘I really have no idea, sir.’

‘Well, it so happens that there is one piece of advice I can give you, and that is to follow horses owned by Colonel Gregory Bourne.’

Helen couldn’t hide the start this caused her; indeed, she was caught so off guard that she dropped her knife and fork with a clatter.

He looked at her in concern. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Brown?’

‘Er, yes. Quite all right, I – I just thought I heard someone at the door.’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’ He got up and went to see, looking out into the empty hallway. The sound of the reunion dinner carried clearly, but there was no sign of anyone. He closed the door again and returned to his seat, smiling. ‘Now then, where were we? Ah, yes, I was recommending Bourne’s nags. He always has the finest
blood in his stables, and since Royal Ascot is the be all and end all of his existence, well, he usually turns out a liberal sprinkling of winners.’