Temptress in Training (26 page)

“My mother's mother,” he replied. “I spent many happy days here, as you must have with your own grandmother at Loveland.”

She seemed unimpressed. “And was your grandmother a courtesan, too?”

Now he laughed. “Don't think you can shock me, Miss Darshaw. I'm afraid I've learned all about your sordid history as I've studied your father.”

“I'm not certain I like that idea, sir,” she said.

“I know that your grandmother was the mistress of a previous Lord Dashford, and this is why you are a cousin to the current viscount at Hartwood. I know that your mother was raised at Loveland and then left to become an actress. She married your father after he came over from France, and in your younger years you traveled with them. Then you came to stay at Loveland until after your father's death, when you went to live with your mother in London and fell on hard times. Your grandmother has been dead some years now, I believe. I'm sure you miss her very much.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Though I wonder, why did you not seek out help from your cousin?”

“Evaline? Oh, but she wasn't able to—”

She stopped herself, as if she'd said something scandalous. Yes, he supposed she had. The fact that she was not only cousin to Dashford but to his new bride was surely not a matter of public knowledge. At the wedding the new Lady Dashford seemed to have been hesitant to discuss such things, and he could understand why. It was not everyone who relished claiming a relative that dwelt for years in a brothel.

“Yes, I know you are cousin to Lady Dashford as well. Not very many people know that, do they?”

“What? I've not had the pleasure of meeting Lord Dashford's new bride.”

“But of course you have. He married your cousin, Evaline Pinchley.”

Her mouth hung open. He could scarcely believe it, but this seemed to be entirely new information for her. Well, he was glad to be the bearer of happy news.

“Yes, it's true,” he said. “They were married just a few days ago.”

“Indeed, I was aware it was Lord Dashford's wedding that you and Lord Rastmoor had attended,” Sophie said, her brow wrinkling as she tried to make sense of things. “But how can it be he married Evaline? No one was to know about her!”

“Yes, I gathered that. Her mother was born to your grandmother well before her liaison with the old Lord Dashford, wasn't she? Though your mothers were half sisters, they were not raised together, were they?”

Sophie shook her head. “No, they weren't. Evaline's mother was sent away, brought up elsewhere. Her connection to Grandmamma was not well-known, and she was able to marry a respectable man. My cousin was allowed only limited contact with any of us, though she and I were quite close at one time.”

“She abandoned you when she found out you ended up at Eudora's?”

“Oh, no! She…that is, I was too ashamed to tell her where I was. She had enough of her own troubles once her parents died. We haven't seen one another in years now.”

“Well, perhaps you will find a way to reunite at some point.”

“Good heavens! She's a lady now. She can hardly acknowledge me.”

“Is that why Dashford never helped you all these years? You weren't good enough for him?”

He'd always rather liked Dashford but would gladly throttle the man just now. It should have been Dashford's responsibility to look after his cousin, even if her mother was born on the wrong side of the blanket. He shouldn't have left her struggling there in a brothel all those years.

“I've never been well acquainted with the current Lord Dashford,” Sophie said. “By the time I came to live with Grandmamma he was away at school, and then Papa died and Mamma needed me in Town, and then Grandmamma died and we had nowhere else to go…”

“And you never asked Dashford for help, did you?”

“No. Of course not.”

Indeed, that sounded like something that would make sense to her. The woman may have lived in a brothel, but she still held her head high, he'd give her that. She wanted to make her own way, not live off of charity from some relative she hardly knew. He supposed on some level this was commendable, but he could not approve. Not for her.

“Damn it, Sophie, you should have gone to him.”

“Don't scold me. I did as I saw fit.”

“And look where it brought you.”

She folded her arms across her chest and huffed. “Yes. It brought me here. With you.”

That stung a bit. He knew what she meant. She'd been looking after herself, even under the nose of that bastard Fitzgelder and after years living in a brothel. She'd done well, he had to admit, all things considered. Until he'd come along and ruined her.

All the more reason, then, for him to see that she was cared for from here out. The foolish, headstrong chit was going to discover he could be just as stubborn as she. And he was bigger.

They left the main road to turn onto a narrow lane. In the moonlight, Sophie could see the outline of a house ahead…no, it was not a house. It was a castle. Good heavens, was this Haven Abbey? It was ancient, with a turret at one end and ramparts along the roof. Not at all what she had expected! Where on earth was Lindley taking her?

“Is this it? This is your grandmother's home?”

“Not very much like Loveland?”

“No, not very. Good heavens, does your grandmother still live here?”

“No,” he replied. “She's been gone years now.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yes, so am I.”

“But the grounds are maintained,” she said, noticing what appeared to be careful plantings along the way and the silhouette of hedges trimmed neatly. “Is someone living here?”

“I keep a staff to look after it.”

“You must love this place.”

“I haven't been here in three years.”

“I see. Is that when you lost your grandmother?”

“No. It's when I lost the rest of my family.”

“Oh.”

She didn't know what to say to that. He'd made mention of it before—that he'd lost his family and her father had been partially responsible. She hadn't let herself think of it, hadn't wanted to care. But now it was impossible. She did care.

This had been a home; his home. He'd had family here, obviously more than just his grandmother. Had he been married? Heavens, had there been a wife, children? Dear Lord, but she hadn't let herself imagine that before now. It was unbearably painful to think what he might have lost.

Sitting here beside him now, arriving at this place he'd been afraid to return to for three years, she could feel the hurt emanating from him. No wonder he would have spent his life seeking justice. No wonder he'd had so little inclination to show Papa any mercy. She knew the anguish of losing loved ones. She could only imagine the torment of knowing they'd been murdered.

He likely never intended to come here again. It was only the threat on their lives that gave him reason now. The threat on
her
life.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said. “I know you would have preferred not to.”

“It was the most practical solution,” he said. “But don't thank me yet. We still have to see whether or not we can rouse someone to let us in.”

At first she thought he was teasing. After waiting as he pounded at the enormous front door for several shivering minutes, however, she began to realize he had not been. Finally there was a sound from inside. Someone was approaching.

The door creaked open just the tiniest slit. A wizened face peered out—an old man with a nightcap. The one blue eye Sophie could see scanned her quickly, then moved on to Lindley. It widened immediately.

“Good evening, Wimpole,” Lindley said, grinning at the old fellow. “Care to let us in?”

The door flung open with more force than she would have expected an elderly man to muster after having just been dragged from his bed. Sophie could see him clearly now, his shirt tucked haphazardly into his breeches and his stocking feet shoeless on the stone floor. In one hand he held a taper, in the other what appeared to be a broom.

“Doing some late night tidying, are you?” Lindley asked as the old man stepped back to invite them inside.

“Someone's rapping at the door in the middle of the night, milord. One never knows what to expect. Could be footpads or vandals, you know,” the old man said.

“And you will stave them off with a broom. Ah, Wimpole, it has indeed been far too long.”

He clapped the man on the back. Despite his frail appearance, the old man seemed quite happy to take abuse at his master's hand. Apparently three years' absence had not dimmed whatever fondness existed between them. It was very sweet and heartwarming, and Sophie felt herself grossly out of place.

A presence on the staircase suddenly made herself known. Sophie glanced up to see a rather tall, narrow woman in night-clothes with a heavy wrapper pulled tight around her. The lady's cap was askew and her graying hair poked out at odd angles. Still, the delight on her lined face made her appear less severe than Sophie guessed she would have otherwise.

Lindley noticed and reciprocated her smile. “Ah, Mrs. W. You're looking lovely as ever.”

She glided down, balancing her taper in a shaking hand. “I'd look even lovelier if a body could sleep at night. Whatever are you up to, dragging us from our beds at this hour?”

“I'm sorry,” Lindley said. “You know I wouldn't if I had any other choice. The truth is, er, we've come into a bit of trouble.”

At this both sets of elderly eyes turned Sophie's way. Indeed, she could only imagine what they must be thinking. She felt her face go warm. So just how on earth was Lindley going to explain this? More specifically, how was he going to explain
her
?

“You recall my friend, Dashford, don't you?” Lindley went on. “Well, this is his cousin, Miss Sophie D'Archaud.”

She was quite surprised to hear her name spoken that way, in the actual French that Papa had been born with. All her life they'd gone by Darshaw as a part of Papa's intention to fit in better here in his new homeland. The way Lindley spoke it now, however, it was as if it were something noble and respectable. She rather liked the sound.

“Miss D'Archaud, this is Wimpole and his dear wife,” Lindley said in a tone that sounded very much as if their sudden arrival at this hour was entirely normal. “They have looked after us here at Haven Abbey since before I was born. You may trust them with your life.”

Sophie gave a polite nod and smiled as best she could. Really, how was she to present herself a respectable lady, worthy of claiming connection to the likes of Lord Dashford? Surely these very competent servants would recognize the truth. A young woman traveling alone at night with a gentleman like Lindley was bound to raise an eyebrow or two. She felt it very safe to assume that they would, well, assume. Even now Mrs. Wimpole was studying her quite thoroughly, and Sophie could not say her expression was especially approving.

“I need you to take extra heed for Miss D'Archaud's comfort,” Lindley said as if he truly cared for such a thing. “And we must be discreet. I'm afraid poor Miss D'Archaud has been through quite a harrowing experience.”

Sophie glanced at him. By heavens, what on earth was he going to tell these people about her?

“She was recently kidnapped at the hands of a cruel, cruel man, you know. We must look after her until it is safe and she can be returned to her cousin.”

Well, at the mention of a harrowing experience and a kidnapper who merited repeated use of the word
cruel
, Mrs. Wimpole's disapproval faded instantly away and an eager need to hover seemed to take over. She moved immediately to Sophie's side and placed an arm over her shoulder. Actually, after riding all night in the damp air, it felt rather nice to be hovered over by an understanding female. Or at least one who craved a good story.

“Good heavens! The poor little thing,” the woman said, maternal concern simply oozing from her. “Whatever could have happened to you, my dear? Come, you'll need something hot to drink and we'll tuck you into bed right away. You can tell good Mrs. W all about it.”

Sophie glanced up at Lindley. She was not quite sure what he expected from her at this point. Should she give in to the hovering and let herself be ushered up to bed? Somehow she'd rather expected that…well, that Lindley would be the one ushering her to bed. But now she was to be treated as some sort of delicate maiden who required hovering? Would he allow such a thing?

“Go with her, Miss D'Archaud,” he said, nodding toward her as cool and polite as if they had just been introduced in a ballroom. “A good rest will do you well.”

“Yes, my lord, but…er, where will you be?”

“Don't you worry,” he said, and now he spoke as if she were little more than a worrisome child. “I'll be nearby. You'll be safe.”

Yes, but would she be alone? It appeared so, as he did not follow when Mrs. Wimpole started leading her toward the staircase. Lindley seemed content to remain here below, laughing with his man, Wimpole, and discussing what was to be done with the horses. The stone steps seemed particularly cold and unwelcoming as she trailed Mrs. Wimpole up them, wondering how on earth to answer the woman's myriad questions.

Wherever had they been? Had the kidnapper asked a ransom for her? How did it happen that Lindley was the one to rescue her? Didn't she fear catching her death out in this night chill? Would she prefer to sleep in the blue room or the yellow? The only good thing about all of Mrs. Wimpole's questions was that she hardly paused long enough between them for Sophie to mumble an incoherent one syllable answer. She knew, however, eventually she'd be expected to supply some additional information about this imaginary kidnapping Lindley had so rashly invented.

As they reached the top of the stairs, thankfully, she noticed something that might just serve to deter the woman's inquiries. Family portraits hung gallery-style. Ah, but what beloved retainer could resist a few well-meaning comments here?

“What lovely paintings,” Sophie said, catching the woman midquestion. “How well you've looked after them. They seem almost alive.”

Indeed, at the head of the stairs was a quite handsome portrait of Lindley, himself. Clearly he was more than a few years younger, probably just out of school, but already his blue eyes showed the same confidence that defined the man now. His strong jawline and godlike features were richly portrayed in all their perfection.

Beside that portrait hung one of a very pretty young woman. Far prettier than Sophie could ever hope to be, in fact. The woman's hair was a rich chestnut brown, and her ivory skin seemed to glisten on the canvas. The most striking thing about this portrait, however, was not the woman, but the child she held in her arms.

A young boy, it appeared. His mop of curling dark hair fell almost into his crystal blue eyes. The child seemed to smile out at the viewer, his expression full of joy and mischief. Even though so small, he clearly felt quite at ease with the world, ready to attempt anything that might suit his fancy. In fact…

Heavens, the boy looked very much like Lindley.

Oh dear, had she found his wife and child, immortalized in oil and positioned beside him in this hallway? Of course it must be. The reality of it slammed into her soul. To realize just what the man had, in fact, lost nearly took her breath away, and she felt her legs go weak. These were the people Lindley had loved—the ones her father had helped to murder. The tragedy of it all threatened to overwhelm her.

“Ah, that's our Lady Marie with little Charles,” Mrs. Wimpole said, giving a reverent sigh.

“So very sad,” Sophie could only breathe.

“Oh, did you know them?”

Sophie shook her head, suddenly eager to be done with the portraits and lock herself in her room, away from such painful reminders. “No, but I have heard…”

The servant nodded. “Yes, I suppose everyone heard. The house has never been the same. In fact, I have worried for his lordship. For years it appeared he would not come here again.”

“It's very hard to lose our loved ones.”

“So young, and leaving his lordship behind all alone like that,” Mrs. Wimpole said, opening one of the many doors along the corridor. “Ah, but I'm glad to see he's taken to helping others now. So tell me, just how did our Lindley come to be your champion, Miss D'Archaud?”

“Well,” Sophie said, stepping into an enormous, cold room and wishing Mrs. Wimpole's taper did more than simply send shadows dancing around them. “He simply, er, happened along at the right moment, I suppose you could say.”

The older woman nodded, putting the taper on a table and bending over the grate. “Yes, sometimes fate does things that way, doesn't it?”

Not often for me
, she thought about saying, but she held her tongue. No sense getting Mrs. Wimpole primed for another barrage of questions. There had been far too many of them already, and none of them had answers she wanted to think about.

“Get yourself into bed, dear,” the woman said as she glanced up to catch Sophie yawning. “I'll fetch some tea.”

“Thank you.” She only hoped she'd still be awake by the time it arrived.

 

“D
ID YOU MANAGE TO ROUSE OLD
B
EN AND GET HIM
to tend to the horses, sir?” Wimpole asked when Lindley returned from the stables.

It had taken far longer to rub down the horses and clean up the carriage than expected, and Lindley brushed at the muck on his boots. They were a lost cause, he feared. It seemed very likely that all of him would smell of horse forever.

“How long has Ben been looking after everything on his own?” Lindley asked. “The poor fellow ought to have some help out there.”

“Oh, we don't need much, my lord,” Wimpole replied, helping Lindley out of his damp coat. “There's just the one carriage when we need it, and we don't need it often, so Ben is hardly overworked.”

Lindley draped his coat over his arm and eyed the abbey's butler. The man must be nearing seventy, at least. Why had it not dawned on him that the staff here at Haven Abbey was aging, that he ought to see about setting up their pensions and finding a relief staff?

Because he'd been happier to forget Haven Abbey existed altogether, of course. For the sake of his own pain he'd completely forgotten about theirs. It was inexcusable.

“And what of you and the missus, Wimpole? How are you getting along, rattling about in this old ruin all on your own?”

Wimpole shrugged. “We have the dailies, my lord. You've been very generous with allowances, and your steward keeps an eye on things for you. The grounds are kept well, and we've shut up most of the house. We're getting by, sir.”