The Outcast's Redemption (The Infamous Arrandales) (6 page)

‘Let me talk with Grace alone, if you please. We will resolve this matter.’

* * *

Grace frowned. She did not understand the look that passed between the two men, but the stranger went out and she was alone with her father.

‘Now, Grace, tell me what is troubling you. Is it merely that you think Mr Peregrine is imposing upon me?’

‘I do not trust him, Papa.’ She saw his look of alarm and said quickly, ‘Oh, he has not acted improperly towards
me
, but—’ She broke off, searching for the right words to express herself. ‘Yesterday, when I was coming home after visiting Mrs Owlet, I came upon him in the Arrandale Chapel, and I saw him again last night, outside the Horse Shoe Inn when we drove past at midnight.’

‘Ah.’ The parson smiled. ‘These are not such great crimes, my dear.’

‘But you must admit it is not the behaviour of an honest man.’

‘It may well be the behaviour of a troubled one.’

‘I do not understand you.’

‘No, I am aware of that. I am asking you to trust me in this, Grace.’

‘Papa!’ She caught his hands. ‘Papa, there is something you are not telling me. Do you not trust
me
?’

He shook his head at her.

‘My love, I beg you will not question me further on this matter. One day, I hope I shall be able to explain everything, but for now you must trust me. It is my wish that Mr Peregrine should remain here for as long as it is necessary.’

He spoke with his usual gentle dignity, but with a firmness that told her it would be useless to argue.

‘Very well, Papa. If that is your wish.’

‘It is, my child. Now, if you will forgive me, I am off to visit the Brownlows. They sent word that the old man has taken a turn for the worse and is not expected to last the day.’

‘Of course. I must not keep you from your work.’

‘Thank you. And, Grace, when you next see Mr Peregrine I want you to make it plain to him that we want him to stay.’

With that he was gone. Grace began to pace up and down the room. Every instinct cried out against her father’s dictum. The man was dangerous, she knew it, to her very core. So why was her father unable to see it? Grace stopped and pressed her hands to her cheeks. The image of Mr Peregrine filled her mind, as he had been that day by the pump, droplets of water sparkling on his naked chest like diamonds. That danger was not something she could share with her father!

There was a faint knock on the door. She schooled her face to look composed as Truscott came in with a letter for her. The handwriting told her it was from Aunt Eliza, but her thoughts were too confused to enjoy it now. She would saddle Bonnie and go for a ride. Perhaps that would help her to see things more clearly.

* * *

Wolf heaved the axe high and brought it down with more force than was really necessary. The log split with satisfying ease and even as the pieces bounced on the cobbles he put another log on the chopping block and repeated the action. It was a relief to be active and he was in some measure repaying his host’s kindness. The vision of Grace’s stormy countenance floated before him and he pushed it away. He wanted to tell her the truth, but Mr Duncombe had advised against it. He must respect that, of course, but there was something so good, so honest about Grace that made the deception all the more abhorrent.

The axe came down again, so heavily that it cleaved the log and embedded itself in the block. He left it there while he eased his shoulders. He had discarded his coat and waistcoat, but the soft linen of his shirt was sticking to his skin. It would need washing again. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips as he recalled Grace tripping out into the garden and seeing him, half-naked, by the pump. He remembered her look, the way her eyes had widened. She had not found his body unattractive, whatever else she might think of him.

The smile died. There was no place in his life for a woman, especially one so young. Why, he was her senior by ten years, and her innocence made the difference feel more like a hundred. No, Grace Duncombe was not for him.

There was a clatter of hoofs and the object of his reverie approached from the stable yard. Her face was solemn, troubled, but the mare had no inhibitions, stretching her neck and nudging his arm, as if remembering their last meeting. Idly Wolf put a hand up and rubbed the mare’s forehead while Grace surveyed the logs covering the cobbles outside the woodshed.

‘My father wishes me to make it clear that you are welcome to remain here as long as you wish.’

‘Thank you, Miss Duncombe.’

She looked at him then.

‘Do not thank
me
. You know I would rather you were not here.’

She went to turn the mare, but Wolf gripped the leather cheek-piece.

‘Grace, I—’

The riding crop slashed at his hand.

‘How dare you use my name?’

He released the bridle and stepped back. Fury sparkled in her eyes as she jerked the horse about and cantered away.

‘Hell and damnation!’ Wolf rubbed his hand and looked down at the red mark that was already appearing across the knuckles.

‘Is everything all right, sir?’ Truscott appeared, looking at him anxiously. ‘I just seen Miss Grace riding out o’ here as if all the hounds of hell were after her.’

Wolf’s eyes narrowed. ‘I need a horse. A fast one.’

Chapter Four

T
he frantic gallop did much to calm Grace’s agitation, but it could not last. She had already ridden Bonnie hard for a couple of hours that morning and the mare needed to rest. She had returned to the stables, determined to carry out her father’s instructions and speak to their guest. She thought that, perched high on Bonnie’s back, she would be able to remain calm and aloof, but the sight of the man had caught her off-guard. The white shirt billowing about him accentuated his broad shoulders and sent her pulse racing. And when he fixed her with those eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul, she panicked. Her reaction to his presence frightened her and his hand on the bridle was the last straw for her frayed nerves. She had thought only of getting away. But now, as she slowed Bonnie to a walk, she was filled with remorse. She hated violence and was ashamed to think she had struck out so blindly. She would have to apologise.

With a shock Grace realised she was on the outskirts of Hindlesham. Having come this far she should carry on to the Manor and give her thanks for last night’s dinner. Loftus might well be out on business but his mother would be there. The very thought had Grace turning and cantering back towards Arrandale. Mrs Braddenfield frequently urged Grace to look upon her as a parent, since her own dear mother was dead, but Grace could no more confide in her than a stranger. Besides, Mrs Braddenfield would agree that Papa was far too trusting, that this ‘Mr Peregrine’ should be sent away immediately and perversely Grace did not want to hear that. Oh, heavens, she did not know what she
did
want!

She eased her conscience with the knowledge that Mrs Braddenfield was not in want of company. The lady had told them herself that her neighbours were being very attentive during the absence of Claire Oswald, her excellent companion. No, Mrs Braddenfield did not need her visit and, in her present agitated state, Grace would be very poor company indeed.

* * *

Grace had reached Arrandale Moor when she saw someone galloping towards her. She recognised Mr Styles’s bay hunter immediately, but the rider was definitely
not
the elderly farmer. He was tall and bare-headed and she thought distractedly that he looked as good on horseback as he did chopping wood. Her mouth dried, she had a craven impulse to turn and flee, but she drew rein and waited for horse and rider to come up to her, steeling herself for the apology she must make to the man calling himself Mr Peregrine.

It took all her nerve to keep Bonnie still, for it looked at first as if horse and rider would charge into her, but at the last moment the bay came to a plunging halt, eyes wild and nostrils flaring. The rider controlled the powerful animal with ease, his unsmiling eyes fixed on Grace.

‘Sir, I must apologise—’

‘You said you want the truth,’ he interrupted her. ‘Very well. Follow me.’

Without waiting for her reply he wheeled about and set off back towards the village. Intrigued, Grace followed him. They passed the vicarage and took the narrow lane that bordered Arrandale Park until they came to a gap in the paling. As soon as both horses had both pushed through they set off again, galloping towards the Hall. The pace did not ease until they reached the weed-strewn carriage circle before the house itself. Grace saw her companion throw himself out of the saddle and she quickly dismounted before he could reach her. He looked to be in a fury and even as she slid to the ground she wondered if she had been wise to follow him.

‘Come along.’

He took her arm and escorted her up the steps, arriving at the door just as Robert Jones opened it. With a curt instruction to the servant to look after the horses, he almost dragged Grace inside.

She had never been inside the Hall before. She wanted to stop and allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the shuttered gloom, but her escort led her on inexorably, through what she could dimly see was a series of reception rooms to the narrow backstairs. Fear and curiosity warred within her, but for the moment curiosity had the upper hand.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You will soon see.’

He marched her up the narrow, twisting stairs to a long gallery that ran the length of the building. After the darkness of the shadowy stairwell, the light pouring in from the windows was almost dazzling.

‘Why have you brought me here?’

A prickling fear was already whispering the answer.

‘You will see.’ He strode along the gallery and stopped at one of the paintings. Only then did he release her. Grace resisted the urge to rub her arm where his fingers had held her in a vice-like grip.

They were standing beneath a picture. A family group, an older man with powdered hair in a dark frock coat and a tall crowned hat, a lady in an elegant muslin dress with a blue sash that matched her stylish turban. Between them, in informal pose, stood their children, a fair-haired schoolboy and beside him, his arm protectively resting on the boy’s shoulder, a tall young man dressed in the natural style that was so fashionable ten years ago, a black frock coat and tight breeches. But it was not the clothes that held her attention, it was the lean, handsome face and the coldly cynical gleam in the violet-blue eyes that stared out defiantly beneath a shock of thick, curling dark hair. She glanced at the man beside her and involuntarily stepped away.

‘Yes, that is me.’ There was a sneer in the deep, drawling voice. ‘Wolfgang Charles Everdene Arrandale. Not-so-beloved son and heir of Arrandale. This was painted to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Not that it was much of a celebration, I was a rakehell even then, in true Arrandale tradition. Is it any wonder my father thought me capable of murder?’

‘And the boy?’ It was all she could think of to say.

‘My brother Richard, seven years my junior. He could have inherited Arrandale. When I left England I deliberately cut myself off from the family, ignored letters and messages, even the news that my parents were dead. I wanted everyone to think I had died, too, but it seems Richard would not accept that. Consequently the miserly lawyers have held the purse strings at Arrandale and my foolish brother has dipped into his own pocket to pay for necessary maintenance work here.’

Surely a murderer would not say such things
.

Grace needed to think, so she moved along the gallery, studying the portraits. There were signs of Wolfgang Arrandale in many of them, in the shape of the eye, the strong chin and in most of the men she saw that same world-weary look, but the lines of dissipation were etched deeper. Reason told her she should be frightened of this man, but she felt only an overwhelming sadness and an irrational, dangerous wish to comfort him.

At the end of the gallery she turned.

‘Why have you come back now?’

‘I learned I have a daughter.’

‘You did not know?’

‘No. I thought when I left England I had no commitments, no responsibilities. I had brought enough shame on the family and thought it best if I disappeared. Now, for my daughter’s sake, I need to prove my innocence.’

She forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘Are you a murderer?’

‘I have killed men, yes, in duels and in war.
But I did not kill
my wife
.’

He held her gaze. Grace desperately wanted to believe him, but she could not ignore the portraits staring down at her from the walls, generations of rogues, rakes and murderers going back to the time of good King Hal. Everyone in the parish knew the history of the family. Why should this Arrandale be any different to his ancestors?

Her legs felt weak and she sank down on to a chair, regardless of the dust. She should have known who he was. It made such
sense
, she should have known.

He began to pace the floor, his boots echoing on the bare boards.

‘There is a warrant for my arrest and a price on my head. If I am caught, your father could be charged with harbouring a criminal. He did not want you to have that on your conscience, too. But he was afraid you might guess.’

‘Why should I do that?’ She was answering herself as much as him. ‘I was at school when your wife died. By the time I came home to look after Papa it was old news and the Arrandales were rarely mentioned.’

‘Except to curse the name for bringing hardship and poverty to the village.’

She heard the bitterness in his voice and said quietly, ‘Will you tell me what happened?’

He stared out of the window.

‘I do not know. We argued, I rode out to cool my heels and when I came back I found her lying at the bottom of the stairs.’

‘Could she have fallen?’

He looked at her then. ‘Judge for yourself.’

He strode off towards a door at the far end of the gallery. Grace knew this was her chance. She could go back the way they had come, escape from the house and from Wolfgang Arrandale. That would be the safe, sensible thing to do.

It took only a heartbeat for Grace to decide. She followed him out of the gallery and down a different set of stairs, wider and more ornate than the ones they had ascended.

‘This is the grand staircase,’ he said, as they reached the first floor. ‘My wife’s room was there, the first door on the far side of the landing.’

The lantern window in the roof threw daylight onto the cantilevered stone staircase. It incorporated two half-turns and landings, so that it occupied three sides of the square inner hall. Grace looked at the shallow steps and elegant balusters. There was a smooth wooden handrail that would provide a good grip for the daintiest hand. Grace imagined herself emerging from the bedroom to descend the stairs. Her fingers would be on the rail as she crossed the landing, long before she reached the top step. Her companion let his breath go with a hiss.

‘I have had enough of this place. Let us go.’ He put out his hand, but let it drop, his lip curling when Grace shrank away. ‘No doubt you will feel safer if I go first.’

Silently she followed him down the stairs. When they reached the bottom he stood for a moment, looking down at the flagstones as if reliving the awful sight of his wife lying there.

‘You said you had just come in,’ she said, trying to think logically. ‘From the front entrance?’

‘No, the garden door, that way.’ He indicated a shadowy passage set beneath the stairs. ‘I had taken the key with me. I was in a foul temper and wanted to avoid seeing anyone.’ He looked down at the flags again. ‘I found her just here, on the floor.’

Grace looked at the spot where he was standing, then she looked up at the landing almost directly above them.

‘You are thinking, Miss Duncombe, that she might have fallen from the balcony, rather than tumbled down the stairs. I remember the injuries to her head were commensurate with such a fall.’

Grace put her hands to her mouth.

‘That could not have been an accident.’ She read agreement in his eyes and closed her own, shuddering. ‘Oh, poor woman.’

‘Quite.’ He sighed. ‘I beg your pardon, I have said too much. I never intended you to know the full horror of it. Come, let me take you outside.’

She did not resist as he caught her arm—more gently this time—and led her to the door. When they reached the front steps she stopped and dragged in a long, steadying breath. The sun still shone brightly, a few feet away Robert Jones was holding the two horses. It was only minutes since they had gone into the house, but she felt as if she had come out into a different world. When she spoke she was surprised at how calm she sounded.

‘Thank you, Mr Arrandale, you may release me now, I am not going to faint.’

His hand dropped. ‘I am glad to hear it.’

Grace set off towards the horses. Without a mounting block she had no choice but to allow him to throw her up into the saddle and she made herself comfortable while he scrambled up on to his borrowed mount. When he thanked Jones for holding the horses the servant lost himself in a tangle of words.

‘It was nothing, Master—Mr Arr—I mean...’

‘You may be easy, Jones. Miss Duncombe knows who I am now.’

The man looked as if a great weight had been taken from his shoulders.

‘Well that’s a mercy. I’ll wish ’ee both good day, then, sir. Miss Duncombe.’

They trotted away. Grace’s head was bursting. Speculation, arguments, doubts whirled about and they were halfway across the park before she broke the silence.

‘If you are innocent, you should have stayed and defended yourself.’

‘I know.’

‘So why did you flee the country?’

‘My father insisted I leave. He and my wife’s cousin bundled me out of the house before I could think clearly. My father had...connections at Sizewell who would take me across to France.’

‘Do you mean smugglers?’

He nodded. ‘The weather was bad so I remained at an inn on the quay for a few days. It gave me a chance to think it all through. I had just decided to turn back when word reached me that the diamonds were missing and the Sawstons were bringing a prosecution against me for theft and murder. Thus I am as you see me, Miss Duncombe. A fugitive with a price on his head.’

They had reached the gap in the paling and Wolf stopped to let Grace go first. He wondered what she thought of him now. He was somewhat encouraged when she waited on the road for him to join her.

‘Well,’ he said, as they moved off towards the vicarage. ‘You now hold my life in your hands.’

She threw him a troubled look. ‘Pray do not joke about it, Mr Arrandale. It is not a responsibility I want, I assure you.’

She tensed and he looked up to see Sir Loftus trotting out of the vicarage drive. He nodded at Wolf before turning to address Grace.

‘This is the second day in a row that I have missed you, my dear. If I were the suspicious sort I should think you were avoiding me.’

She laughed and replied with perfect calm, ‘Now how can that be, sir, when I had no idea you were going to call today? I have been taking advantage of the fine weather to show our guest around the area.’

‘Indeed? And how much longer do you intend to remain in Arrandale, Mr Peregrine?’

‘Oh, I hardly know, a few days, a week.’

Wolf waited for Braddenfield to ask him the nature of his business here, but Grace gave the man no chance. She reached across and put a hand on his arm.