The Outcast's Redemption (The Infamous Arrandales) (8 page)

BOOK: The Outcast's Redemption (The Infamous Arrandales)
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‘Fortune favoured me,’ she said. ‘Loftus has gone to Cambridge and will not be back until late, so I spoke to his mother. I did not rush away, Papa, I was not so impolite. Miss Oswald, her companion, has returned from visiting her sister in Kent and we spent a pleasant hour conversing together.’

‘Oswald?’ Wolf looked up. ‘Dr Oswald’s daughter?’

‘Yes. She kept house for her father, but when he died several years ago she was left with very little to live on. Papa knew Mrs Braddenfield was seeking a companion and he suggested Claire for the post,’ Grace explained. ‘Miss Oswald virtually runs the manor and is sincerely attached to her employer. They deal extremely well together. Much better than I shall ever do!’

She ended with a rueful laugh, but her father did not notice.

‘There was some speculation that she and Sir Loftus would make a match of it when his wife died,’ he said. ‘But instead he turned his attention to Grace.’

‘Does she resent you?’ Wolf asked her.

‘I hope not. She is a sensible woman and we get on very well.’

‘I am glad,’ he said. ‘She could make life uncomfortable for you when you are married. I would not like to think of you being unhappy.’

Grace looked up quickly. The idea that he should care about her future was unsettling. She pushed herself out of the chair.

‘If you will excuse me, I had best go and pack.’

‘Would you not like to sit by the fire a little longer?’ asked her father. ‘Your hair is still damp.’

Grace shook her head. Much as she liked the warmth of the blazing fire she needed to be away from Wolfgang Arrandale. She needed to decide how best to deal with him and the confusing feelings he aroused in her.

* * *

Wolf noted that Grace was subdued at dinner, and as soon as the meal was over she announced that she was going out.

‘Must you?’ Mr Duncombe glanced towards the window. ‘Your hair is barely dry from this morning’s soaking.’

‘It is not raining very hard now, Papa, and there is a visit I must pay. Perhaps Mr Arrandale would escort me.’

The parson’s brows went up, but he was not nearly as surprised as Wolf. It was the last thing he expected, but he rose at once.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Give me a moment to fetch my greatcoat from the garret.’ He hurried away, returning moments later to find Grace waiting for him at the door, her heavy cloak about her shoulders. He said, as they stepped outside, ‘I have taken the liberty of borrowing your father’s umbrella. It is sufficiently wide for two.’

He offered her his arm, noting the tiny pause before she rested her fingers on his sleeve. The rain was little more than a fine drizzle as they set off and since there was no wind the umbrella kept them both dry.

‘Where are we going?’

She lifted the spring flowers she was holding in her free hand. ‘To the church.’

The High Street was deserted. Doors were closed against the chill of a damp spring evening and the smell of woodsmoke pervaded the air. Wolf felt a definite lightening of his spirits. She had invited him to come with her. How normal it seemed to be walking along with Grace at his side, how
right
.

‘You are standing too tall, sir. Do not give yourself away!’

The urgent whisper reminded him that he was a fugitive with a price on his head. Every hint of pleasure fled as bitterness and regret welled up. He wanted to rail against the world for the injustice of it but really, who was there to blame but himself? He had been a wild youth and the world was only too ready to believe he had capped his misdemeanours by murdering his wife.

Turning that around would take a miracle and Wolf did not believe in miracles.

* * *

It did not take them long to reach the churchyard. Grace dropped his arm and went before him, taking a narrow path between the graves. It was barely raining now and Wolf closed the umbrella. She had stopped beside one of the headstones when he came up to her.

‘Your mother,’ he said, reading the inscription.

‘Yes. I never knew her, she died when I was a babe, but I come here to pay my respects, especially if I am going away.’

She stooped to lay a bunch of flowers at the base of the stone and paused for a moment, resting her gloved fingers on the carved lettering. Wolf was silent, unwilling to intrude upon what was clearly a private moment and wondering why she had invited him to join her. When she rose he noticed that she was still carrying flowers.

‘Two bunches, Miss Duncombe?’

‘Yes. This way.’

She led the way to a far corner of the graveyard where a small, square stone marked a plot beneath an ancient yew tree, whose overhanging branches made the twilight so deep that Wolf had to bend close to read the inscription.

‘“Henry Hodges. Curate of this parish. Twenty-six years.”’

‘My fiancé.’ She placed the flowers on his grave and straightened. ‘He died five years ago. We were going to be married at Christmas, on my nineteenth birthday.’

Wolf knew he should say something consoling. Instead he found himself asking her how he had died. She did not answer immediately, she was staring fixedly at the grave and he wondered if she had heard him.

‘Violently,’ she said at last, her voice very low. ‘Henry was on his way home late one evening after visiting a sick parishioner. He saw a w-woman being attacked, robbed. Henry intervened and...and was stabbed.’ She shook, as if a tremor had run through her. ‘He was brought to the vicarage, but we could not save him. He died in my arms.’

Wolf struggled not to reach out to her. He said curtly, ‘And the man who killed him?’

‘Hanged. Not that I wanted that.’

‘You could forgive him, after what he had done?’

‘Not forgive, no. But I did understand.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My father spoke for the man at the trial. He was one of our parishioners and Papa said he had been a good man, a stable hand at the Hall until it closed. Since then years of poverty and want had driven him to despair.’

‘Is that why you wanted me to accompany you? That I might more fully appreciate the harm my family did by closing the Hall?’

‘No. You are not responsible for that. As I understand it your father’s profligate ways had long made the estate’s downfall inevitable.’ Her dark, troubled gaze was fixed on him. ‘I wanted you to understand that my heart is here, with Henry. Anything else is just...just earthly desire.’ She turned and began to retrace her steps, saying over her shoulder, ‘That k-kiss. It should not have happened. I should not have allowed it.’

So that was it. She was warning him off. Not that there was any reason to do so, he had already decided Grace Duncombe was a complication he did not need in his life.

‘Sometimes these things catch one out,’ he replied lightly.

‘Apparently so.’ She glanced at him. ‘I wanted to explain, before we set off for London tomorrow. I do not hold you wholly responsible for what occurred in the stable, and...and I want to think no more about it.’

‘Consider it forgotten, Miss Duncombe.’ A few fat drops of rain splashed on the path and he raised his umbrella again. ‘Shall we go back now?’

Grace took his arm and Wolf led her back to the vicarage, wondering why he did not feel more relieved that she was in no danger of losing her heart to him.

* * *

It was almost twenty miles to Newmarket and Grace spent the journey squeezed between Wolfgang and Truscott, in a gig only intended for two people. Wolfgang rested one arm along the back of the seat to make more room for her, but it felt to Grace as if he had his arm
around
her. She tried not to lean against him, but it was impossible to sit bolt upright for the whole time, and as the gig bowled along the road through the early morning darkness the rocking motion made her sleepy. At one point she awoke to find herself snuggled against him. When she tried to sit up his arm pulled her gently back against his shoulder.

‘Hush now,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Truscott needs room to handle the reins, even though the horse sees the road better than he does.’

And Grace allowed herself to believe him. She sank back against his convenient shoulder and dozed contentedly until they reached their destination.

* * *

A grey dawn was just breaking when they alighted at the inn, but even at that early hour the place was bustling. Grace was thankful that they could go into the dining room, where a few coins soon procured them two cups of scalding coffee.

It put new heart into her, so much so that she could almost forget her embarrassment at having virtually slept in Wolfgang’s arms. She looked up to ask him what time the mail was due in and found he was gazing at her. A slow, lazy smile curved his lips.

Two thoughts raced through her head. She could not remember him smiling, really
smiling
before. And how much she wanted to smile back. That would never do, one could not share smiles with a suspected murderer!

She said crossly, ‘Pray sir, why are you laughing at me?’

He immediately begged pardon but that only made her glare at him.

‘What were you thinking?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘That no other woman of my acquaintance has ever looked as neat as you do at this ungodly hour.’

‘Any woman of sense would be in bed at this hour.’

‘There is that, of course.’

Grace had answered without thinking, but his response made her choke on her coffee and a blush of mortification burned her cheeks.

‘You should not say such things,’ she told him, wiping coffee from her lips.

‘Why not? I was complimenting you on your appearance.’

She was not deceived by his innocent reply, but decided it would be wiser not to pursue the subject. She heard the laugh in his voice when he spoke again.

‘I know you are trying to maintain a dignified silence, but you have coffee on your cheek. Here, let me.’

He reached across, cupping her chin with his fingers and drawing his thumb gently across her cheek. Grace wanted to close her eyes and rest her face against his hand. When she looked at Wolfgang there was no mistaking the heat in his gaze. Her breath stopped. She could not look away, his eyes were violet-black in the lamplight and they seemed to pierce her very soul.

‘London mail!’

The landlord’s strident call broke the spell. Grace looked up to find the dining room had emptied.

‘You’d best be quick,’ the landlord warned them, standing by the door. ‘The mail don’t wait for no one.’

Wolf rose and put his hand under her elbow. ‘Come along, Miss Duncombe.’

She would have liked to shake him off but really, she was not at all sure that her legs would support her.

* * *

There were only two places left in the mail coach. Grace took the window seat and Wolf climbed in to sit beside her. She pulled her cloak about her. At least she could lean into the corner of the carriage. There would be no need for her to fall asleep on his shoulder, as she had done in the gig.

Soon they were rattling over the open road, swaying and jolting so much there was no chance for Grace to rest, she was afraid her head would crash against the window.

‘This ’un’s a bone-shaker and no mistake.’ A motherly woman sitting opposite grinned at her. ‘Never you mind, dearie, the road is a vast deal better on t’other side of Hindlesham, you wait and see.’

Grace nodded. She hoped so, for she had no idea how she would endure a whole day’s travel.

* * *

By the time they reached Hindlesham the sun was creeping over the horizon. As they clattered through the streets, two of the passengers began to gather up their things ready to alight at the Golden Lion. The coach swept into the inn yard and even before it stopped the ostlers came running to change the horses. The early morning sun was low enough to shine through the arch and on to the side of the coach where Grace was sitting, illuminating her through the window. She decided that as soon as the passengers had alighted she would change seats, but even as the motherly woman heaved herself out of the door Grace spotted Claire Oswald standing in the yard and knew she had been recognised. It would be pointless to move now. Claire waved and came up to the open door.

‘I wondered if you would be here, Miss Duncombe. When I did not see you in the coffee room I thought perhaps I had been mistaken and you were catching the night mail.’

Claire was looking rather fixedly at Wolfgang and Grace sat forward to block her view.

‘Good morning, Miss Oswald.’ She glanced around the yard, hoping she did not sound as anxious as she felt. ‘Is Sir Loftus with you?’

‘No, he is busy in the market. Mrs Braddenfield had a letter for the mail and I said I would deliver it.’

The ostlers had finished their work and the shout went up to stand clear. Miss Oswald stepped back.

‘I wish you a good journey, Miss Duncombe.’

The door slammed and Grace waved through the glass as the coach began to pull away.

‘Well, that was unfortunate,’ murmured Wolfgang. ‘I presume that was Claire Oswald.’

‘Yes.’

The other passengers were busy making themselves comfortable and did not appear to be taking any notice, but Grace was wary of saying more.

* * *

She and Wolfgang passed the rest of the journey in near silence and when they eventually alighted at Bishopsgate the sun had already set. Grace stood in the yard with her small trunk at her feet and feeling bone-weary.

She said, trying to be cheerful, ‘I would not have believed sitting down all day could make one so tired.’

‘We have a little further to go yet,’ Wolf warned her. ‘Wait here while I find someone to take us to Hans Place.’

‘There really is no need for you to accompany me across London,’ she replied. ‘You had much better find yourself lodgings.’

‘I promised your father I would see you safely to your aunt’s house.’

There was a note of finality in his voice and Grace did not argue. If truth were told she was too tired to make the effort. However, as she waited for him to find a cab she remembered something that had been nagging her at the outset of the journey and once they were in the hired carriage she asked him the question.

‘The lady we saw at Hindlesham, Miss Oswald. Can you remember meeting her when you were at Arrandale? She looked at you most particularly.’

BOOK: The Outcast's Redemption (The Infamous Arrandales)
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