The Bachelor Trap (6 page)

She watched Brand through half-lowered lashes. A small knot of regret lodged in her breast. She had allowed him to get too close to her, or rather, he had forced his way past her defenses. He had no idea that she was the last woman he should think of marrying.

Suddenly, her gaze was trapped in his hard stare, and he left Fanny and crossed to her. She cursed herself then for her lack of caution. She was sitting on a bench by herself, woolgathering, when she should have stayed close to her two formidable chaperons who had wandered off to the Lord only knew where.

He sat beside her. “I've come to say good-bye,” he said. “That ought to scotch the gossip, especially as we've hardly said two words to each other all afternoon. When people see me leave, they'll think I'm a disappointed lover.”

“You're going back to London?”

He gestured to a groom who had two horses in tow. “On horseback. I've said my good-byes to the others. And tomorrow, I leave for Brighton, so I may not see you for some time.”

Marion knew that the trip to Brighton had to do with the by-election, but she had not realized that it was coming up so soon.

Brand got up and bowed over her hand. “Marion,” he said in a soft undertone, “if you keep looking at me like that, I shall be tempted to kiss you again.”

She snatched her hand away. Eyes snapping, she said, “Have a pleasant trip, Mr. Hamilton.”

He laughed and turned away. She watched him until he and his groom had disappeared behind a forest of trees.

The appointed day of their departure seemed reluctant to dawn. A ferocious storm during the night had made little impression on the overcast skies. More rains threatened and candles had to be lit to stave off the gloom.

It wasn't a day to be traveling the King's Highway. That was Cousin Fanny's opinion. “Only think,” she said, “what will happen if the rivers overflow their banks. Longbury may be cut off and you might have to put up at some ramshackle inn with a rough-and-ready set of people. I wish you would stay here, at least till the weather improves.”

They were in Marion's bedchamber, packing her boxes. Marion's stubbed toes were no longer a problem and, as she spoke, she moved quickly around the room, picking up books and small personal items to pack in the last box. “I'm from the Lake District, remember? If I let a little rain put me off, I'd never go anywhere. And when we are settled, you must pay us a visit. Longbury isn't so far away.”

This careless answer did not satisfy Fanny, and she groped in her mind for words that would explain what she was feeling without giving offense.

Marion fastened the last strap, just as footmen arrived to carry her boxes downstairs. Linking her arm through Fanny's as they followed the footmen along the hallway, she said, “I want to thank you for making our time here so enjoyable. Longbury is going to seem very tame after London.”

“Then why the haste to leave? The Season isn't over yet. Only be patient and I think you may be surprised at the result.”

They were on the gallery overlooking the front hall. Fanny halted and looked Marion in the eye. “You must know,” she said, “that I'm thinking of you and Mr. Hamilton. No. Don't try to stop me. I've screwed up my courage and mean to speak to you as though you were my own daughter.”

She heaved a sigh, then went on quickly, “Surely you're not running away because of Julia Milford? Reggie tells me that affair is over. Marion, don't you know that there isn't a man alive who doesn't have a few regrets about his past?”

Laughter glinted in Marion's eyes. “Any man,” she said, “who regrets Mrs. Milford must be a fool. No, listen to me, Fanny. I know what you think and you're wrong. Mr. Hamilton doesn't want to marry me. He has befriended me and my sisters because he was a close friend of my aunt.”

“But he kissed you!”

“That makes no difference. He's running for Parliament, or he will be if he wins the nomination. He'll be in the public eye. You know me. I like a quiet life. I'd be a fish out of water in his circles.”

“Don't be so modest! You'd be an asset to him.”

The conversation was interrupted by Emily calling to them from the hall. “Marion, do hurry. The chaise is waiting for us and the postboys are becoming impatient.”

“Coming,” called Marion, and she hastened to obey.

Reggie was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. He looked a question at his wife.

Fanny shook her head. “I can't persuade her to stay. They are used to this kind of weather in the Lake District.”

“Stay!” exclaimed Phoebe, dismayed. “You promised we would leave for Longbury today, Marion.”

Marion cast a critical eye over her youngest sister. She wasn't dressed as warmly as Marion would have liked, but she merely said, “I haven't changed my mind, but where is your traveling rug?”

“I put it in the chaise,” said Emily, “and Cousin Reggie made sure the Bath chair was safely stowed.”

At the mention of the Bath chair, Phoebe scowled.

“Remember,” said Reggie, “there are many good posting houses on the way. Don't hesitate to break your journey if the weather worsens. Longbury will still be there tomorrow.”

All that remained were the affectionate leave-takings and promises from Fanny and Reggie to visit as soon as Parliament was in recess. Then they were off.

“Why the long face?” Reggie asked Fanny when they turned back into the house.

“I was thinking of Brand,” she said glumly, “hoping…oh, you know what, that he and Marion would make a match of it. But with him based in London and Marion in Longbury, nothing will come of it.”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as they walked down the hall to the breakfast room. “Brand isn't returning to London, not right away. He's setting up his headquarters in Longbury in the house his grandfather left him. After all, it's in the riding we're contesting.”

Fanny stopped in her tracks, an arrested expression on her face. “I don't think Marion knows that.”

Reggie smiled. “She soon will.”

Marion wiped the condensation from the coach window and looked out. The rain was unrelenting, they were a long way from Longbury and, though it was still light, every posting house they came to was choked with people hoping to find a bed for the night. The last posting house had turned them away. If the next posting house did not take them in, they might be forced to beg a bed in some kindly cottar's cottage.

The thought turned in her mind. Her mother had said those words the last time they made this trip.

If the next posting house does not take us in, Penn, we must ask some kindly cottar's family for a bed for the night.

Penn was her father's name, a shortened version of his title, Penrith. His Christian name was George, but no one ever called him that, not even her mother.

She shook her head. Her memory must be at fault. Only she and her mother had made the trip to Longbury. She couldn't remember where her father had been, but she knew that he and Aunt Edwina did not get along. He would not stay cooped up in a cottage with Mama's sister. Now where had that thought come from?

It wasn't her imagination. She did remember it. They were in the coach, and she was nestled in Papa's arms, just as Phoebe was nestled in hers.
Go to sleep, little elf,
Papa said, but she couldn't sleep. She could feel the tension in her parents, and sensed that nobody wanted to visit Aunt Edwina.

“Marion?”

She looked up to see Emily studying her. “What is it?”

“I've just remembered who David is. You were engaged to a David once, weren't you?”

Marion answered easily. “I was, until he discovered that my dowry was too small to keep him in the luxury to which he aspired.”

Emily faltered a little, then went on resolutely, “Is he the reason you have never married? Are you still in love with him?”

Marion was startled. “What on earth put that idea in your head?”

Emily shrugged. “It was his name you said when you came out of your swoon.”

“I did not swoon! I was dizzy, that's all.”

“You haven't answered my question.”

Marion clicked her tongue. “The answer is no. I'm not in love with David Kerr.”

“What about Mr. Hamilton? He kissed you, didn't he?”

Marion was ready to throw a tantrum. “It was the kind of kiss Cousin Reggie might have given me. There was nothing to it. I swear I am not in love with anyone.”

A slow smile curved Emily's lips. “I believe you, but I doubt the gossips will. They're saying that he turned off Mrs. Milford because she was an embarrassment to him, but you, an earl's daughter, would be a feather in his cap.”

“You can't blame Mr. Hamilton for what people are saying.”

Phoebe stirred. “I like Mr. Hamilton,” she said.

Her sisters laughed. They talked of this and that. Emily's lashes fluttered and she eventually dozed. Marion gazed out the window, her thoughts drifting.

An earl's daughter would be a feather in his cap.
Well, this was one earl's daughter who was not tempted.

When the chaise turned off the thoroughfare to Brighton, her sense of relief was palpable.

Marion was jerked from sleep when the chaise shuddered violently, then lurched to one side. Books, periodicals, and odds and ends toppled to the floor. Emily screamed. Marion grabbed for Phoebe before she slid from the banquette. Phoebe struggled as she came awake, then subsided when she saw who held her.

Outside, horses were screaming and rearing in their traces as postboys tried to unhitch them. Marion's heart was pumping hard and fast. “Out!” she told Emily. “You go first and I'll hand Phoebe to you.”

“It's pelting outside,” protested Emily.

“Would you rather drown?
Out,
I said!”

Emily's eyes widened with fright as water bubbled up through the floor, and she hastened to do her sister's bidding. It was no easy task. The only door that would open was at such an angle that she had to push it open with her shoulder before clambering out of the coach.

Phoebe showed no fear but merely gritted her teeth as she put her weight on her weak leg and, with Emily pulling and Marion pushing, was finally hoisted through the door.

“Hurry!” called Emily. “The coach isn't safe. The wheel is broken and it's going to topple over.”

The water was inches deep and rising fast. Marion could feel the weight of her skirts as they greedily sucked up the flood.

She called out, “I can manage. Look after Phoebe! Get her to safety.”

Emily's hand was withdrawn and Marion climbed onto a banquette. She heard masculine voices close by and breathed out a sigh. In spite of what she'd said, she didn't think she could haul herself through the door without the postboys' help.

“Stand back!” A man's voice.

She recognized the voice. The coach swayed alarmingly as he climbed onto it. In the next instant, Ash Denison's face appeared above her. She was so shocked to see him that she could only stare.

“Give me your hand!” he commanded.

She automatically extended one arm then quickly withdrew it. “What are you doing here?”

“I've been checking every posting house on the road, hoping to find you high and dry. I missed you by minutes at the last one. They told me they'd turned you away.”

“But…you've been following my chaise?”

“Let's leave the explanations till later, shall we? Give me your hand, Lady Marion.”

She wasn't going anywhere without her reticule. This time, there would be no threatening notes for her to find. It was dark in the coach but she knew where she had left it. It was there, on the banquette.

“Now!” he commanded. “Before we're both swept away.”

She grasped her reticule, gave one frightened yelp when the coach swayed, and reached for his hand. Inch by inch, he raised her through the gaping door, then he swept her into his arms.

They were perched on the side of the coach; the water seemed to be rising by the second. Either that, or the coach was sinking. She gave a terrified gasp and clutched her reticule to her breast.

“Watch your step,” she cried.

With a reckless laugh, he jumped into the roiling water, making her teeth jar. She could see, now, how the accident had happened. They were halfway across a ford that the rain had turned into a torrent. The wheels of her chaise must have hit a submerged rock, and the chaise overturned.

Even before he reached the bank, he began issuing orders to the men who were standing by, among them her own postboys who were calming the horses from the chaise. There was a carriage there, his own, she presumed, and she recognized Manley, Brand Hamilton's manservant. He helped Phoebe into the carriage, then did the same for Emily.

Marion would have thanked Lord Denison profusely when he set her down, except that she wasn't given the chance. “Come along, Lady Marion,” he said. “You're shivering with cold. Let's get you to a hot supper and a warm fire. Then I'll answer all your questions.”

She hoped that her questions would be answered in the carriage, but Lord Denison elected to ride with Manley on the box. Strange, she thought. Why wasn't Manley with Brand Hamilton?

And why was she always suspicious when she should have been thanking her lucky stars that they'd come along when they had?

Lord Denison used Brand Hamilton's name at the next posting house and it worked like magic. According to Lord Denison, Brand was a popular figure in the area because he'd canvassed for a local man in the last election. Though they were given only a small room in the attics, Marion felt lucky to get anything. People were settling in for the night in the taproom or on any spare bench they could find.

Lord Denison spoke to her briefly before she and her sisters went upstairs. He hadn't happened on them by accident. “I knew,” he said, “that you were due to leave for Longbury today, and since I was going there myself, I thought we might go together. I missed you by minutes in Hanover Square, and became quite alarmed when the weather turned desperate. But all's well that ends well, and here we are.”

“You're going to Longbury?” Marion asked.

“To help open up Brand's house. He'll be joining me in a day or two, and Longbury is to be his base, at least until the election is over.”

Marion concealed her dismay as best she could. She did not dislike Brand Hamilton. She just wished that the riding he was contesting was on the other side of England.

Denison left them in the lobby in Manley's care.

“I have to go back for the others and fetch your belongings,” Denison said, “but everything is taken care of, and Manley will look after you.”

And Manley did, like, thought Marion, a seasoned, grizzled sheepdog with a small flock of lost sheep. She knew all about sheepdogs. The rocky soil of the Lake District could sustain only one crop: sheep. They roamed far and wide over the fells where no person could possibly follow, only the sheepdogs. They were not friendly like pets but they got the job done. Manley was like that.

He rounded them up—and a sorry lot they were—herded them up the stairs—patiently, where his injured lamb, Phoebe, was concerned—and penned them in their chamber. Finally, he warned them gruffly to stay where they were and he would have dinner sent up to them.

No sooner had the door closed on them than Phoebe exclaimed, “I like Mr. Manley, don't you?”

Her sisters laughed.

All smiles now, they surveyed their room. It was small with a low ceiling, a tiny dormer window, and a big feather bed taking up most of the space. Best of all, it was warm, with a cheery fire blazing in the grate, so warm that they removed their outer things then stood in front of the fire to dry off their damp skirts. It was the best they could do until their boxes arrived.

Not long after, a maid arrived with their dinner, hot mutton pie with dumplings, new potatoes, and carrots. Maybe it was because of the excellent dinner, or maybe because they were snug and dry, but as the meal progressed, Marion's mood mellowed considerably. Emily voiced the opinion that Lord Denison had treated them very handsomely, and Marion had to agree.

The maid returned to clear up after dinner and make up the trundle bed for Phoebe. Emily helped her roll it out while Marion looked around for her reticule so that she could give the maid a gratuity for all her trouble.

It wasn't on the bed among their coats and shawls. It wasn't on the dresser. She stood there trying to get her bearings, casting her mind back to the last time she remembered her reticule. She'd set it down in the carriage when Ash Denison had conveyed them to the inn, then she'd forgotten all about it.

Abruptly turning to the maid, she said in a small, tight voice, “Did Lord Denison get in yet?”

The abrupt question seemed to startle the maid. “I don't rightly know, your ladyship. But Mr. Poole, the landlord, would know.”

Marion knew that she wasn't behaving rationally, that she should ask the maid to find Manley for her, but she was gripped by a terrible sense of urgency. No one but she must touch that reticule.

She snatched her coat off the bed. “I left my reticule in the coach,” she said. “I'm going to fetch it.”

Then she ordered her sisters to stay where they were and slammed out of the room.

There was no sign of Manley, and among so many coaches in the courtyard, she could not pick out the one she wanted, so she went to the front desk and asked whether Lord Denison had arrived. The landlord directed her to the quarters for grooms and postboys above the stables.

“I had to move out two of Lord Lennox's grooms to make room for him,” he said. “But it's no place for a lady. Why don't you go back to your room and I'll send someone to bring Lord Denison to you when I have a spare moment?”

She hadn't the patience to wait, not when there was a crush of people jostling her for the landlord's attention. Tempers were becoming frayed when they heard that there were no rooms to be had and they would have to bed down for the night in their coaches.

The courtyard was, by this time, lit by lanterns hanging from the walls. From snatches of conversation, she learned that the road to Brighton had been washed away, forcing travelers to go miles out of their way to find accommodation. This made little impression on her. All she wanted was her reticule.

One of the stable boys pointed to the door to Lord Denison's quarters. She could tell from the boy's expression that he was amazed to find a lady in this masculine preserve. She thanked the stable boy, put her head down, and mounted the stone steps to the narrow gallery overlooking the yard.

She was almost at the door when someone inside the room mentioned her name, not Lord Denison, but someone else. Brand Hamilton. Without conscious thought, she flattened herself against the wall. The small casement window was open and Lord Denison was standing beside it, blowing a stream of tobacco smoke to the outside.

“I'm surprised,” said Denison, “that you thought it necessary to tear yourself away from your political cronies and come here when my messenger must have told you that I had everything in hand.”

“I met your man when I came to the crossroads. Fortunately, he recognized me or I might have missed you altogether.”

Another cloud of smoke streamed through the open window. “It was an accident, Brand, pure and simple.”

There was the sound of water splashing, and she imagined Hamilton at the washstand, washing the dirt of the journey from his face and hands.

“You may be right,” Hamilton replied. “But I know she is frightened of something or someone.”

There was an interval of silence, then Lord Denison said, “It can't be connected to Longbury or she wouldn't be going there.”

“True. I think she's running from a former suitor, but I can't be sure. Pass me the towel.”

Damn and blast the man! How could he possibly know?

The same thought had evidently occurred to Denison. “How do you know that? Not about the suitor, but that she's frightened of him? Don't bother answering. I know what you're going to say. Your instincts as a newspaperman tell you so. And I suppose your instincts won't let you rest until you get to the bottom of this.”