Seducing Mr. Heywood (21 page)

At about this time, coincidentally, the governess’s father passed away. Word was sent to Miss Bane at the estate, her last known address, but she had already been absent some weeks. The staff thought it a blessing that the old vicar did not know his daughter was missing. As the deceased clergyman had no family save his missing daughter, all his possessions were donated to the poor of his parish, while her belongings continued to be stored in the attic.

Jarley’s dogged perseverance produced no new evidence. Eerily like the case of the earl’s late wife, Dunhaven was the last person to have seen Miss Bane alive. Suspicion ran deep that he had something to do with the matter or knew more than he was telling everyone, but, as the years passed, the cold trail grew even colder. If the governess was still alive, where was she? Why had she never sent for her belongings? Why had she never contacted Sophia? They had been so close!

The baron kept Jarley on retainer for years, desperate to find an answer to the mystery. Though he himself began to lose hope that Miss Bane was alive, he encouraged the Bow Street investigator to keep the search active. George Rowley had wanted to put his young wife’s mind at ease, to give her the gift of knowing her governess was alive and well, but he was never able to accomplish this.

Now, Norton wanted to know, should Jarley continue his so far failed, futile quest? What, he wondered, was Charles Heywood’s opinion? Should the Bow Street Runner continue to search for Miss Bane? It was now over fifteen years since she had disappeared.

“In what parish did the Reverend Bane serve as vicar?” Charles asked Jarley.

“For many years, sir, he had a living on the Duke of Weymouth’s estate in Shropshire,” the investigator replied.

Charles nodded. He saw an avenue that Jarley had not explored. “A vicar’s daughter would likely have become acquainted with other clerical families. There is a network, as it were, of people with whom she would be at ease. If she were in danger, fleeing for her life, perhaps she would seek these people out.”

Jarley stroked his chin whiskers. “I made a circle, sir, around the Dunhaven estate, and I went to the nearby villages and asked questions. No one remembered a young lady in distress, seeking aid, but I did not particularly question clerics when I made my investigations in Kent and Shropshire; I spoke to whoever would speak to me. I did make a trip to see the Reverend Bane’s successor, but he didn’t know Miss Bane, he said.”

He looked thoughtful. “Do you think a clergyman would have hidden her, at her request and would have kept it secret when I was making my rounds?”

“If Miss Bane were fleeing from a man who, it now seems clear, had no compunctions concerning the committing
of murder, a ruthless man who assaulted young women at will, it would seem natural that she would seek a man of the cloth, tell him all, and ask for his help,” Charles replied.

“You, sir, could have easily been hired by the Earl of Dunhaven as by anyone else. The person or persons in whom Miss Bane had confided would not have taken any chances on your character. If she had asked for pledges from these people that her whereabouts never be disclosed…Those confidences would never have been betrayed to a stranger,” Charles averred.

“So I could have been lied to, then, by those men of God to whom I spoke?” Jarley wondered.

“The circumstances—a matter of life or death, perhaps, for Miss Bane—would have warranted such lies, sir, in my opinion.”

“Then, Mr. Heywood, what can we do? They would not answer me honestly at that time, so why would they answer me now, after a lapse of several years?” Jarley asked.

“Because this time, Jarley, I will accompany you. We will go to Kent and to Shropshire. The clergy will talk to me. Especially when I inform them of what has just occurred here, and when I assure them that the earl has permanently left these shores, never to return, and no longer a threat to any honest Englishman—or woman.”

It was decided, Charles thought. This was the last matter he had to tie up for George, and it would be his parting gift to Sophia. For it was clear to him now that he could not linger in the lady’s vicinity, a lovelorn suitor. Better to make a clean break before Sophia and Brent married and his heart was torn to shreds. Lady Sophia had flirted with him, kissed him, teased him, much as she teased and flirted with Brent. Whether she had kissed Brent or exchanged any other gestures of mutual affection with him, Charles preferred not to consider, for the sake of his sanity.

He and Sophia would not suit; his father was correct. Brent was the kind of man she should marry, a man of the
beau monde.
They would be happy together, and the
boys liked him. He, Charles, was the odd man out. But this matter of Miss Bane was unfinished business, and he had promised George he would do all in his power for Sophia and the boys. He would discover what happened to the missing governess. Then, he could get on with his life.

Marriage to Charlotte Anne Mainwaring, however, was not part of the equation. If he could not marry Sophia Rowley, he would never marry. That was a vow he intended to keep.

“Charles! What is this nonsense?” Much to the amusement of Mrs. Chipcheese (who was watching from the kitchen window), Lady Sophia accosted the vicar as he was loading his saddlebag onto his horse shortly after daybreak. Lancashire Lad snorted at her sudden intrusion, his hooves beating an impatient tattoo on the hard-packed earth.

“My lady,” Charles said in greeting, noting her high color. She had arrived on her mare, Jezebel; both were lathered with the haste of their ride.

“Where are you going? Lawyer Norton said that you and Jarley would be journeying together today. What business do you have with a Bow Street investigator?” She leaned down toward him. Tendrils of pale blond hair had escaped from her coiffure and her riding hat was askew. She had dressed in a hurry.

Charles stood on his tiptoes and reached up to straighten Lady Sophia’s Hussar-style hat. It was most attractive, the black fur trim contrasting with her light locks. Her face was a perfect oval, forehead, cheeks, chin—

Sophia slapped his hand with her riding crop. “Stop that!” she shouted, causing Lancashire Lad to step nervously to the side. “I want you to answer me, sir, now!”

He smiled, loving her passionate nature, wanting to take that flushed, beautiful face between his hands, and—

“Mr. Heywood!” The lady would not be put off.

Charles sighed, unwillingly coming out of his reverie. The time was past for fantasies about Sophia; he would
have to adjust to that fact. “My lady, the boys are off to the Mainwarings, Mr. Duncan is in charge of St. Mortrud’s, and I have church business to conduct elsewhere.”

A look of irritation crossed Sophia Rowley’s exquisite face. She scowled. “I had looked forward to your company, sir. With all the excitement of these past weeks over, I was hoping—”

“My lady, I am honored that you desire my company, but I have church matters to attend in York. Mr. Jarley is also riding that way, and I am simply riding with him for company.” Charles did not need to mention that there was safety in numbers on the highway; this was well known. As for his lie about this traveling on church business, in a manner of speaking, it was exactly that. He was planning to interview fellow churchmen to see if he could get their help in solving the fifteen-year-old mystery of Miss Bane’s disappearance.

Sophia’s face fell. “Oh.” She twisted the crop in her gloved hands, pouting.

The pouting lips and disappointed expression almost undid Charles. His knees buckled. No, he would be single-minded now. He had a quest to perform for his lady.

In a small voice, Sophia pleaded, “Please take care of your business…and come back as soon as possible, Charles. I shall miss you, and we must talk of serious matters when you return.”

Charles nodded. She wanted to tell him that she was marrying Brent. If, by staying away, he could delay hearing that unwelcome news, he would stay away as long as possible.

Sophia bent from the saddle, swaying gracefully, and kissed him on the cheek. “Godspeed, then, my dear,” she whispered, and, turning Jezebel back toward the lane, left for home.

Lancashire Lad butted him between his shoulder blades, reminding him sharply that ’twas time for his own departure.

Sophia was suspicious, and restless. With the boys and Charles away, she had too much time to think. She had
returned Chloe to the Browns and had no child over whom to fuss. Brent was still at the Hall, and good for occasional conversation, but he was curiously absent at times. He was a bruising rider and she knew he enjoyed racing over the moors with his large, powerful horse. Was that how he was spending his days? No, there was something else, some other matter, occupying his time. What was it?

Ever since he’d returned from aiding the farmers, she’d sensed a new caution in Brent, unlike his previous candor. There was something afoot with him. Her abigail Joan also seemed secretive of late. Sophia knew the girl well; Joan was hiding something. Should she confront her? Joan could not keep a secret from her mistress for long, that Sophia knew.

A thought had taken root in Sophia’s brain, and she hoped she was wrong, but the looks she had intercepted between Joan and the handsome nobleman set off warning signals that could not be ignored. Had Brent and Joan, unlikely as it seemed, developed a
tendre
for each other in those few days of close contact on the farm? Was it possible?

“Joan,” Sophia called to the young woman, who was brushing Sophia’s riding habit in the dressing room.

“Yes, my lady?” Joan paused, clothesbrush in hand.

“Lord Brent is a handsome gentleman, is he not?” Sophia remarked, watching the girl’s face closely. The red-haired abigail’s white complexion always betrayed any uneasiness in flaming blushes.

Joan averted her face, absently picking long blond hairs from the dark blue wool of the riding habit. “Yes, my lady,” she responded in a low voice. “He is that.”

“La,” Sophia continued, “but handsome is as handsome does or so the old saying would have it. I myself think Mr. Heywood is the better looking of the two gentlemen.”

Joan shook her head, the bright red curls bouncing about her heart-shaped face. “You may find him so, my lady, but I think Lord Brent is by far the handsomer.
She began to brush down the skirt of the habit vigorously.

“Do you, indeed?” Sophia drawled. “My boys admire him immensely. He might do very well as a father for them, if I were to consider marrying again.”

The heavy clothesbrush fell with a loud thump on the polished wooden floor. “Beg pardon, my lady,” Joan murmured, as she bent to pick up the brush. Her back had been turned to Sophia during their conversation. Sophia strode to the dressing room and looked Joan in the face.

The answer was plain to see in the girl’s flushed face. Sophia frowned; she must speak to Brent before this nonsense between him and her maid went any further.

“My lord,” Sophia hailed Brent as he dismounted from his steed in the stable yard. “A word, if you please.”

“Certainly, my lady.” He handed the reins to a groom lurking close by, then removed his gloves and inclined his head in a slight bow to Lady Sophia, taking her hand and brushing his lips over her knuckles. “Your word is my command,” he smiled.

Sophia frowned. He was a consummate flatterer and just the sort of handsome gentleman wont to bed silly, lovesick serving girls. Sophia was fond of Joan and did not intend to allow Lord Brent to trifle with her affections.

“This concerns my abigail, Joan,” Sophia said, looking directly into Brent’s eyes.

His expression shifted from affable to guarded. “Yes? What of Joan? She is an admirable young woman.”

Sophia nodded. “That she is, my lord, and I will not have her good heart and affections trifled with, not by you or any other gentleman skilled in the art of flattery. I will not allow you to turn that girl’s head and lead her into mischief.”

The muscles in Brent’s face stiffened. “What makes you think I would do so, my lady? I am not the Earl of Dunhaven, a fact of which you are well aware.”
Sophia waved away the testy remark. “I do not wish to insult you, sir. I know that you are endeavoring to become an honorable man and to forswear your profligate ways. As we have discussed, I am delighted to be your hostess while you make important decisions concerning your future, but why trifle with that girl? I vow she is half in love with you.”

She knit her brows together. “Where will that lead, I ask you? At worst, you may get her with child; at the least, you will break her very good heart. I want neither to happen to her while she is my responsibility, under my care in this house.”

She waggled her index finger at him. “Nor would my late husband have allowed such mischief under his roof. I care no less than he for the welfare of the servants, and Joan is particularly dear to me. I want you to understand that clearly.”

“That is admirable, my lady, but I assure you, I have no intention of trifling with the girl’s affections. We rubbed along tolerably well playing the farmer and his wife, collecting eggs from the henhouse and milking the dairy cows, but that is now over. I never touched Joan in an improper fashion. Never!”

Outraged at the suggestion that he might have behaved improperly, Brent’s color was high. He slapped his riding gloves against one thigh, emphasizing his indignation.

Sophia’s tone was severe. “I do hope that is true, for Joan’s sake, and for yours.”

Brent seemed flustered now. “My intentions toward your abigail are nothing but honorable, I assure you.”

Sophia nodded, but his last comment left her unsettled. He had said more than he wanted to, she thought. Much more, from the flush arcing once again along his strong cheekbones. He protested too much.

Sophia slept past dawn, an odd occurrence these days. Joan usually brought her mistress a cup of hot chocolate and roused her soon after sunrise, the appointed hour having grown earlier since their removal to Yorkshire.
Now Sophia squinted at the late morning sun streaming through the windows. Something was amiss.