The Outcast's Redemption (The Infamous Arrandales) (5 page)

‘And just when did you return?’

‘When I was seventeen. Seven years ago.’

His brows went up. ‘And you are still unmarried?’

She felt the colour stealing into her cheeks.

‘I came home to look after my father, not to find a husband.’

‘The local gentlemen are slowcoaches indeed if they made no move to court you.’

He is flirting with you. There is no need to say anything. You owe him no explanation.

But for some inexplicable reason she felt she must speak.

‘I
was
engaged to be married. To Papa’s curate, but he died.’

‘I am very sorry.’

For the first time in years she felt the tears welling up for what might have been. She said quickly, ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘And now you have a new fiancé,’ he said.

‘Yes. I am very happy.’

* * *

There was a touch of defiance in her words, but Wolf also heard the note of reproof. He had been over-familiar. She was the parson’s daughter and not one to engage in flirtatious chatter, but he had been curious to know why she was still unmarried. She was very tall, of course—why, her head was level with his chin!—and she had no dowry. Either of those things might deter a suitor. But they should not, he thought angrily. She was handsome and well educated and would make any man an excellent wife. Any respectable man, that is.

When they reached the park gates he saw they were chained, but there was a stile built to one side. Wolf sprang over it and, having helped Grace across, he pulled her fingers on to his arm. Silently she disengaged herself. Understandable, but he could not deny the tiny pinprick of disappointment.

* * *

Grace was relieved to be back on the High Street and with the vicarage just ahead of them. This man was far too forward and the tug of attraction made her feel a little breathless whenever she was in his company.

You are very foolish
, she told herself sternly.
His only advantage is his height. He is the only man in Arrandale taller than you and that is hardly a recommendation!

‘You are frowning, Miss Duncombe. Is anything amiss?’

‘No, not at all.’ Hastily she summoned a smile. ‘Here we are back at the vicarage. It will be quicker if we walk up the drive rather than going around to the front door and summoning Truscott to let us in.’

Grace pressed her lips together to prevent any further inane babbling.

* * *

She is uneasy,
thought Wolf.
But how much worse would she feel if she knew I was a wanted man?

A large hunter was standing in the stable yard and Mr Duncombe was beside it, talking to the rider, but seeing them approach he smiled.

‘So there you are, Grace, and in good time.’

The rider jumped down. ‘My dear, I am glad I did not miss you altogether.’

Wolf watched as the man caught Grace’s hand and raised it to his lips. He looked to be on the shady side of forty, stocky and thick-set, with a ruddy complexion and more than a touch of grey in his hair. His brown coat was cut well, but not in the height of fashion, and he greeted Grace with an easy familiarity. Even before they were introduced Wolf had guessed his identity.

‘Sir Loftus Braddenfield is our local Justice of the Peace.’

It did not need the warning note in the parson’s mild words to put Wolf on his guard. Some spirit of devilry urged him to tug his forelock, but he suppressed it; Sir Loftus Braddenfield did not look like a fool. The man was coolly assessing him as Wolf made a polite greeting.

‘So you are on your way to London, eh? Where are you from, sir?’

‘I have been travelling in the north for some time,’ Wolf replied calmly.

‘And you thought you’d break your journey in Arrandale. Friend of Mr Duncombe’s, are you?’

‘I knew the family,’ explained Mr Duncombe. ‘A long time ago.’

Sir Loftus was still holding Grace’s hand and it occurred to Wolf that he did not like seeing his fiancée escorted by a stranger. Wolf excused himself and as he walked away he heard Sir Loftus addressing Grace.

‘I wish I could stay longer, my dear, but I have business in Hindlesham. I merely called to invite you and your father to dinner this evening. But if you have visitors...’

Grace’s reply floated across the yard to Wolf as he ran lightly up the garret stairs.

‘Mr Peregrine is not a visitor, Loftus. More one of Papa’s charitable cases.’

He winced. That cool description should allay any jealous suspicions Braddenfield might have. Clearly the lady had a very low opinion of ‘Mr Peregrine’. He went inside, but as he crossed the room he could not resist glancing out of the window, which overlooked the yard. The little party was still there, but the parson and Braddenfield appeared to have finished their discussion, for the magistrate was taking his leave of Grace, raising her hand to his lips. Wolf scowled. She was smiling at Braddenfield more warmly than she had ever smiled at him.

Kicking off his boots, he threw himself down on the bed. It did not matter what Miss Grace Duncombe thought of him. There were more pressing matters requiring his attention. Putting his hands behind his head, he thought of all he had heard from old Brent and from Jones, the caretaker at Arrandale Hall. He closed his eyes and conjured his own memories of the tragedy. He remembered the servants coming up to the hall while he knelt beside Florence’s almost-lifeless form. Jones had added one small detail that Wolf had forgotten. It had been Charles Urmston who pulled Wolf to his feet, saying as he did so, ‘You have done it this time, Arrandale. Your temper has got the better of you.’

Everyone would think Florence had met him on the landing, ready to continue their argument, and he had pushed her away so that she had fallen to her death. There were witnesses enough to their frequent quarrels. And the theft of the necklace was also laid squarely at his door.

He sat up abruptly. Whoever stole the diamonds knew the truth about Florence’s death, he was sure of it. Wolf glanced out of the window again. The stable yard was empty now. Mr Duncombe and his daughter were invited to dine with Sir Loftus, so he was free to patronise the local inn this evening.

* * *

‘Well, well, that was a pleasant dinner.’

Grace wished she could agree with her father, but if she were truthful, she had found the evening spent with Sir Loftus and his elderly mother a trifle dull. Mrs Braddenfield was a kindly soul, but her interests were narrow and her son, although well educated, lacked humour. Grace supposed that was partly to do with his being Justice of the Peace, a position he took very seriously. They did not even have the company of Claire Oswald, Mrs Braddenfield’s young companion, to lighten the mix, for she was away visiting relatives.

The conversation over dinner ranged from local matters to the weather and the ongoing war with France, but it had all been very serious. Grace compared the evening to the previous one spent in the company of their mysterious guest. They had discussed a whole range of topics and her own contributions had been received without the condescension she often detected in her fiancé’s manner. Berating herself for being so ungrateful, she sought for something cheerful to say.

‘It was very kind of Loftus to put his carriage at our disposal.’

‘It was indeed. It would have been a chilly ride in the gig.’

She heard the sigh in her father’s voice. At times like these Papa felt the change in their circumstances. The tithes that provided a large proportion of his income as rector of the parish had diminished considerably since Arrandale Hall had been shut up and when their ancient coachman had become too old to work they had pensioned him off. Grace had persuaded her father that a carriage was not a necessity; they could manage very well with the gig and the old cob. And so they could, although she could not deny there were benefits to riding in a closed carriage during the colder months of the year.

Sir Loftus owned the manor house in the market town of Hindlesham. It was only a few miles, but Grace was thankful when they reached Arrandale village, for they would be home very soon. It was nearing midnight and most of the buildings were in darkness, no more than black shapes against the night sky, but light spilled out from the Horse Shoe Inn, just ahead of them. With her head against the glass Grace watched a couple of figures stagger on to the road without any heed for the approaching vehicle. The carriage slowed to a walk, the coachman shouting angrily at the men to get out of the way. From the loud and abusive response she was sure they had not come to harm beneath the horses’ hoofs.

Grace was relieved her father was sleeping peacefully in his corner of the carriage, for he did not like her to hear such uncouth language. Dear Papa, he was apt to think her such a child! Smiling, she turned her gaze back to the window. They were level with the inn now and there was someone else in the doorway. As the carriage drove by, the figure turned and she saw it was Mr Peregrine.

There was no mistaking him, the image was embedded in her mind even as the carriage picked up speed. He was hunched, his coat unbuttoned and he was wearing a muffler around his throat rather than the clean linen she had taken the trouble to provide for him. His hat was pulled low over his face and it was the merest chance that he had looked up at just that moment, so that the light from the inn’s window illuminated his face.

Why should he be skulking around a common inn at midnight? And had he recognised her? Grace drew herself up. She was not at fault. If he had seen her, then she was sure he would be at pains to explain himself. She was more than ever relieved that he was not sleeping in the house. When they reached the vicarage she gently roused her father and accompanied him indoors. She decided not to say anything to him about their guest tonight, but unless the man had a satisfactory explanation for his activities she would urge her father to tell him to leave.

* * *

The following morning she found their guest breaking his fast in the kitchen, freshly shaved, a clean neckcloth at his throat and looking altogether so at ease that for a moment her resolve wavered. But only for a moment.

‘Mr Peregrine. When you have finished your breakfast I would be obliged if you would attend me in the morning room.’

Those piercing violet-blue eyes were fixed upon her, but he waited until Mrs Truscott had bustled out of the room before he spoke.

‘You wish to see me alone?’

She flushed, but remained resolute.

‘I do.’

‘Is that not a little...forward of you, Miss Duncombe?’

Her flush deepened, but this time with anger.

‘Necessity demands that I speak to you in private.’

‘As you wish.’ He picked up his coffee cup. ‘Give me ten minutes and I will be with you.’

Grace glared at him. Mrs Truscott had come back into the kitchen so she could not utter the blistering set-down that came to her lips. Instead she turned on her heel and left the room. How dare he treat her thus, as if she had been the servant! If he thought that would save him from an uncomfortable interrogation, he was sadly mistaken.

* * *

Wolf drained his cup. The summons was not unexpected. It was unfortunate that Grace had seen him last night and it was his own fault. A carriage rattling through the main street at any time was a rare occurrence in Arrandale and he should have realised that it was most likely to be the Duncombes returning from Hindlesham. If only he had kept his head down, remained in the shadows, instead of staring into the coach window like a fool. Even now he remembered the look of shocked recognition on Grace’s face. Well, he would have to brazen it out.

He made his way to the morning room where Grace was waiting for him, her hands locked together and a faint crease between her brows. She was biting her lip, as if she did not know quite how to begin. He decided to make it easy for her.

‘You want to know what I was doing at the Horse Shoe Inn last night.’

‘Yes. You are, of course, quite at liberty to go wherever you wish,’ she added quickly. ‘It was rather your appearance that puzzled me.’

‘My appearance, Miss Duncombe?’

She waved one hand towards him. ‘Today you are dressed neatly, with propriety. Last night you looked like a, like a...’ He waited, one brow raised, and at last she burst out, ‘Like a ne’er-do-well.’

He shrugged. ‘I have always found it expedient to adapt to my surroundings. I had a sudden fancy for a tankard of home brewed and I did not want to make the other customers uncomfortable.’

It was not a complete lie. It had been a risk to go into the taproom at all, but the parson had told him the landlord was not a local man and would not know him. Wolf had hoped that with his untidy clothes and the ragged muffler about his neck no one would associate him with the Arrandale family.

Grace looked sceptical.

‘Since the inn supplies us with our small beer I can only assume you had a sudden fancy for low company, too,’ she said coldly. ‘Forgive me if I appear uncharitable, but I think you have imposed upon our hospitality long enough.’

The door opened and the parson’s soft voice was heard.

‘Ah, Mr Peregrine, there you are.’ Mr Duncombe came into the room, looking from one to the other. ‘Forgive me, am I interrupting?’

Wolf met Grace’s stormy eyes. ‘Your daughter thinks it is time I took my leave.’

‘No, no, my dear sir, there is no need for that, not before you have finished your business in Arrandale.’

Wolf waited for Grace to protest, but although her disapproval was tangible, she remained silent.

‘Miss Duncombe is afraid I am importuning you, sir.’

‘Bless my soul, no, indeed. I am very pleased to have you here, my boy.’

‘But your daughter is not.’ His words fell into a heavy silence.

‘Perhaps, my son, you would allow me to speak to my daughter alone.’

‘Of course.’ As Wolf turned to go the old man caught his arm.

‘Mark me, sir, I am not asking you to quit this house. In fact, I strongly urge you to stay, for as long as you need. You are safe here.’

‘But if Miss Duncombe is not happy about it—’