The Bachelor Trap (19 page)

As the Monteith ladies spoke among themselves, she let her thoughts drift. The lady who married Brand Hamilton, she reflected, would have to be interested in what interested him. He wasn't exactly your typical English gentleman with nothing more pressing on his mind than cutting a fine figure in society or idling his hours away in a round of pleasure.

He had ambition. He wanted a seat in Parliament. His wife would have to be an asset to him.

The thought was depressing.

She had a clear vision of sitting down to breakfast with Brand and their brood of children—all blue-eyed imps in the image of their father—and there, for all the world to see, in that morning's paper, would be emblazoned the story of her life.

Just thinking about it gave her the shudders.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Monteith, “here is Mr. Hamilton now.”

Marion sat up straighter and pinned a smile to her face, just as Brand appeared at the carriage window.

“Well, how do you think that went?” His eyes were on Marion.

She didn't want to sound like a gushing schoolgirl when the Monteiths were hanging on her every word, but she didn't want to spoil his moment, either. “You were very persuasive,” she said warmly.

“‘Brilliant,' she called you,” added the younger girl with a titter, “but it's no less than we expected from your betrothed.”

A smile lightened his face.

Mrs. Monteith quelled her daughter with a quick frown. “One more heedless remark like that, Sally, and you can keep you grandmother company tonight while we go to the theater.”

“Mama! I didn't…I won't…”

“Enough!” To Brand, Mrs. Monteith said, “If you don't win the nomination, I shall become a Tory.” Then to Marion, “Shall we see you at Lady Hove's reception tomorrow night?”

“I'm looking forward to it,” Marion replied.

This was stretching the truth. Lady Hove was Lady Veronica's mother, and all the party's faithful would be there, looking over not only the candidates for the nomination, but their future brides as well. She had to make a good impression for Brand's sake.

The ladies left to go to their own carriage, but Brand did not join Marion.

“It's not over yet,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “At these events, the candidates are expected to fraternize with the locals, you know, stand them a round of drinks.”

She looked over her shoulder to the cluster of buildings at the opposite end of the common. Sure enough, men were streaming into the Cat & Fiddle.

“That sounds like bribery to me,” she said, but there was a smile in her voice.

“Hardly. I doubt if there are twenty men in that mob who are eligible to vote.”

She was astonished.
“What?”

“They don't earn enough money to qualify.”

“That doesn't sound democratic to me!”

“It isn't.” He shrugged. “When men become educated, they will demand the vote. That's when things will change. Meanwhile, all we are doing is making them receptive to our ideas.”

“With
beer
?”

“No. By meeting them on their home ground; by listening to their point of view and arguing ours. What if we supply the beer? We should. These are working men. They haven't been invited to Lady Hove's reception, and they wouldn't thank you for an invitation.” He looked over his shoulder. “Come to think of it, most of the gentlemen who will be sipping champagne at the reception would rather be relaxing in the Cat & Fiddle over a jar of beer.”

Her eyes were scanning the common. “I don't see Lady Veronica or Mr. Coyne.”

“This isn't their sort of do. As I told you, very few of these men are eligible to vote, and those who can are Tories anyway. Elliot has better things to do with his time.”

“But not you?”

“No, I disagree with Elliot. I want to know what people are thinking and feeling. They may not have the vote, but they can influence
my
thinking, and I can speak for them if I'm elected to Parliament.”

His eyes suddenly bored into hers. “I'm leaving you in Manley's care. If you set foot outside the hotel, he goes with you. Whatever he tells you to do, you'll do. Do you understand?”

This sudden change of subject caught her off guard. “Yes, but—”

“No buts.” He looked up at the box. “Manley, take Lady Marion back to the hotel. You have my instructions.”

“Yes, sir!”

As the coach moved off, Marion folded her arms across her breasts and let out a huff of breath. It was mortifying to be treated like a child. She had come of age when her mother died; she'd had to take care of her family. She'd weathered storms Brand couldn't dream about. But he should have known her mettle, should have remembered how she'd tried to wrestle the gun away from their assailant.

If she was so brave, why couldn't she tell Brand the truth about herself ?

She dwelled on that thought all the way back to the hotel.

The fair-haired gentleman watched Marion's coach traverse the length of the common, then he entered the tavern. He'd hoped to approach Marion while everyone's attention was on the speakers, but there was no getting past the eagle eyes of the coachman who stood watch over her, nor the ladies who shared her coach. But that was only a small setback. What he had to do now was get himself invited to Lady Hove's reception. That shouldn't be too difficult. He was well turned out and conversable. And votes were hard to come by in this Tory riding. All he need do was introduce himself to a few key people, inquire about vacant properties in the area that he might rent, and the result would be inevitable.

He bumped into a gentleman who had a glass of beer in each hand, though not hard enough to spill the beer. “I know you!” he said, injecting a large dose of enthusiasm into his voice. “You're the gentleman who spoke so eloquently about rebuilding the breakwaters. That was well done. I'm David Kerr, by the way.”

“Michael Graves. How do you do.”

Another gentleman joined them. “Congratulations,” he said, looking at Graves. “You did very well.”

Graves beamed. “Thank you. I say, why don't you both join my table and I'll stand you a beer?”

“Thank you,” said the newcomer. “I'm Denison, Ash Denison.”

There were the obligatory bows all round, then the three gentlemen made for a corner table in the taproom.

Brand had sent a footman to Mrs. Love's house requesting an interview, and the following morning, he received a favorable reply. Since he and Marion were not expected until the afternoon, he suggested that they spend some time at the
Gazette
offices to give Marion an idea of what went into the production of a newspaper.

“You own the
Gazette,
I suppose,” she asked with a sideways glance.

“I do, the first paper I ever owned.”

“Then of course I want to see it.”

Her enthusiastic response had him grinning like a schoolboy.

Her head was spinning by the time the tour was over, and trying to remember the names of all Brand's employees was beyond her power. What struck her was that Brand seemed as comfortable with the humble laborers in dispatch who heaved bundles of the
Gazette
onto carts for distribution in Brighton and its surrounds as he was with the managing editor and his staff.

“This was my office when I was a reporter,” he said.

They entered a room that wasn't much bigger than a closet. Brand spread his hand on the flat of the desk as though he were greeting an old friend. He seemed so much at home here that she wondered why he had ever thought of entering politics.

When he sat at the desk and picked up a pen, she said, “What will happen to your papers if you're elected to Parliament?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you sell them?”

The question seemed to surprise him. “Not at all. Even if I'm elected to Parliament, I could be ousted in the next election. Then what would I do? I'm not ready to retire.”

She could well believe it. “But supposing you had to make a choice, what would you do?”

He regarded her quizzically. “Now, what has brought this on?”

It was a good question. She looked at the battered desk and the cramped quarters that had once served as his office and she knew, she just knew, that she was one of the favored few to get this close to him.

She gave a tiny shrug. “Just an idle question.”

He thought for a moment. “You're asking me which one gives me the most satisfaction. Well, that's an impossible question to answer. Ask me again when I've served a term as a member of Parliament.

“However,” he went on, “my chances of making it to Parliament are very slim. I think I've mentioned that this is a Tory stronghold?”

“You don't sound as though your heart will be broken if you have to give up politics.”

“It won't be.” He got up. “But I hate losing.”

She laughed. She felt lighthearted, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “What do you say,” she asked, “to a picnic lunch on one of the benches overlooking the harbor before we go to see Mrs. Love?”

“Lead the way.”

“I remember Hannah very well,” said Mrs. Love. A pained expression dimmed her blue eyes. “What is it you wish to know?”

Brand replied easily, “We thought you could help us find her, that is, if she is still alive.”

Marion added, “No one seems to know what happened to my aunt when she left your employ.”

Conversation ceased when a maid entered with the tea tray, and as their hostess busied herself with cups and saucers, Marion quietly studied her. By Marion's reckoning, Mrs. Love had to be in her mid-fifties. She was pleasantly plump, with fair hair turning gracefully to silver, and a face made all the more attractive by laugh lines around her eyes. She wore a high-waisted white muslin gown trimmed with openwork embroidery, and a lacy shawl was draped carelessly around her shoulders.

It looked to Marion as though Mrs. Love would be an amiable employer. She was a welcoming sort of person, and had invited her and Brand into her home as though they were honored guests, though their warm reception might also be credited to Brand's acquaintance with Dr. Hardcastle.

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the tea Mrs. Love offered.

Her attention now turned to her surroundings. It was an elegant room, but comfortable, much like its owner. Everything was done in blue and gold with accents of white. There were, however, added touches that gave the room character—a basket of knitting tucked under an escritoire, a tambour frame with a needle in it, and that morning's
Gazette
folded neatly and resting at one end of the sofa that was occupied by their hostess.

Marion looked at Brand, waiting for him, as they had agreed beforehand, to take the lead. As he'd pointed out, as a newspaperman, he knew how to conduct an interview, when to press and when to hold back.

Brand was concentrating on managing his cup and saucer. He tried not to make a face as he sipped his tea. He didn't want to offend the lady, especially as it was obvious that she had been reading one of his newspapers when they were shown in.

One sip was all he could stomach before he put his cup and saucer down on the sofa table. “We were hoping you could tell us about Hannah's friends. Someone must know something.”

Mrs. Love concentrated on stirring her tea. “I'd like to help you,” she said, “but I have no idea where Hannah is. She did not write to me after she left here and I did not expect her to.” She looked at Marion. “Hannah was not exactly an exemplary employee. Can't we leave it at that?”

Marion was startled. No one had ever hinted that Hannah had left Brighton under a cloud. Longbury, yes, but not Brighton.

“No, we can't,” replied Brand. “You see, I made a deathbed promise to her sister, Edwina Gunn, that I would try to discover what happened to Hannah all those years ago, and I mean to keep my promise.” He gentled his voice. “I'm afraid Edwina feared the worst.”

“Feared the worst?” repeated Mrs. Love, her brow knit in perplexity.

“That Hannah had done away with herself.”

His words jolted both ladies. Marion's cup rattled in its saucer. Mrs. Love's mouth fell open.

Coming to herself quickly, Mrs. Love said, “I don't believe that for a moment! Hannah may have been a disturbed girl—that is, too romantic and ingenuous for her own good—but she was not dispirited. She would never take her own life.”

“Do you think it's possible that she eloped with someone?” Brand asked.

“Now, that is far more likely, given Hannah's romantical turn of mind.”

Hands loosely clasped, Brand leaned forward in his chair. “You see our dilemma? Lady Marion and I don't know what to believe. Why don't you tell us about Hannah, about her work here as a governess. Who were her friends? Where did she go in her free time? And why did she leave here?”

Mrs. Love frowned into her teacup. “To blazes with this,” she finally declared. She smiled at Brand. “Mr. Hamilton, there is a decanter of Madeira in the sideboard. I think we could all do with something a little stronger than tea, don't you? Would you mind doing the honors while I set my thoughts in order?”

Brand was happy to oblige.

“The children loved her from the moment she walked into the nursery. I used to think that Hannah had the imagination of a child.” Mrs. Love paused to sip from her glass. “She could make up stories about anything and everything—a favorite toy, a piece of furniture. The butcher's boy wasn't the butcher's boy. He was a prince on whom a wicked witch had cast a spell. My husband wasn't impressed; he thought that Hannah was filling the girls' heads with nonsense. But he could not deny that they were making progress. Hannah had them write out their own stories, and they became voracious readers. Not only that, but they were happy. So I was happy, too.”

As Mrs. Love spoke, Marion was transported back to that long-ago holiday in Longbury. That's how she remembered Hannah. A walk in the woods wasn't a walk. They were explorers in the jungles of the Amazon. It was like being out with Clarice.

Mrs. Love took another reviving sip of Madeira. “What we did not realize at the time was that Hannah's imagination did not stop with the children. How can I say this without making poor Hannah out to be a vixen? You asked about her friends. Mr. Love and I included her in all our parties and encouraged her to make friends of young girls the same age as she. They were nice girls, but Hannah did not go out of her way to please them. Her interest would fix on one young man after another. If he smiled at her, he was head over heels in love with her. If he asked her to dance, he had designs on her virtue. She was the heroine of all her make-believe stories, and I believed her.”

“What did you do?” asked Brand.

“I stopped inviting those young men to my parties, and warned my friends about their conduct. I'm sorry to say that I did them a great wrong. Oh, I'm not saying that they were entirely innocent, but Hannah did lead them on.”

Marion was shaking her head. “That doesn't sound like Hannah to me.”

“Doesn't it?” Mrs. Love smiled faintly. “You were only a child then, of course, and, as I said, my girls adored her. She could enter all their games. They're married now, with their own families, but they still remember Hannah fondly. They have no idea how it all ended.”

“How did it end?” asked Brand.

Mrs. Love shook her head sadly. “One young man made an almighty scene right here in this room. He was desperately in love with Hannah and wanted to marry her, but Hannah would have none of him.”

She visibly shuddered. “One or two disappointed lovers I could accept, but now I began to have my doubts, and when Mr. Robson showed us one of Hannah's letters, my doubts were resolved. Not only had she led this young man on, but she had made my husband and me out to be ogres! He thought he was rescuing her from a life of drudgery.

“She denied everything, said that the letter was a forgery and that Mr. Robson had mistaken her interest for something stronger.”

She looked up at the portrait above the mantel. A gentleman in his prime stared stolidly back at her. “My late husband,” she said, as though someone had asked her to identify the subject in the portrait. “I thought he was going to have an apoplexy. His face turned purple when he read her letter.”

Another sigh escaped her and she looked at her guests. “Hannah was the only calm person in this room. She was dignified. One might almost say majestic.”

After a silence, Brand ventured, “So you dismissed her?”

“It never came to that. She dismissed herself. I shall never forget her words. The great love of her life was waiting for her in Longbury. She had only accepted this position to test their love. And now she knew.”

She looked at Marion. “I wrote to your aunt to apprise her of the situation. After all, Hannah was very young, and her sister was a good deal older. I wasn't trying to make trouble for Hannah, but I thought she needed close supervision.”

Marion didn't know what to say. She didn't know what she believed. The picture of Hannah that she had carried in her mind all these years didn't fit the young woman Mrs. Love had described.

Brand said slowly, “Did Hannah tell you the name of the man she had left behind in Longbury?”