She raised an eyebrow. He’d gone to some trouble to find out where she lived—surely there was more to it than a guilty conscience. Had he, on their brief acquaintance, taken an interest in her? If such a tulip could ever be fascinated by anyone other than himself—the idea was entertaining.
“I admit, sir, I have been too busy of late to do anything about the gown. I have taken up employment, you see.” Why did it pain her to use the word employment? This man’s opinion meant nothing to her.
“Employment which involves your removal from this charming and… um… picturesque domicile?”
“Indeed. This picturesque building, as you call it, is falling apart, so my aunt and I are vacating it to move closer to my employer.”
She didn’t divulge the fact that she and Molly would actually be moving into the Dower House on Addyman’s estate at Donhead. She was looking forward to it now—the place had once been a castle, she’d read, though little of the original remained. Ancient history intrigued and delighted her.
Goodrich’s face fell. “My newly-formed acquaintance is abandoning me already. Dare I hope you will not be removing too far from Dorchester?”
She remembered she’d spotted him in a very different guise on her last visit to town. Unless, of course, he happened to have a twin who was a parson. She raised an eyebrow. “I consider that an intrusive line of questioning from a mere acquaintance.”
‘Forgive me, forgive me. I’m apt to let my enthusiasm get the better of me. Doubtless, if I enquire as to the nature of this employment, I will be met with a dark look and sealed lips, even though I’m only making an attempt at conversation.”
His reddened lips curved up winningly. Eccentric and engaging, this Mr Goodrich. He didn’t look at all threatening, but anyone who took to subterfuge to find out her place of residence could not be trusted.
“Would you care for refreshment? I can ring for tea.”
“That would be astounding, dear madam, astounding.” He flicked a lacy handkerchief under his nose.
He was wearing the same pairing of yellow breeches and jacket as when she’d met him at Paulet’s. Odd. Should not a fop or macaroni have an extensive wardrobe of clothes? Violet, perhaps, or something with floral sprigs. Not that her knowledge of such men was exhaustive, but if she were as vain as they, she would definitely not go visiting in the same clothes the person being visited had already seen.
As she turned away from ringing the bell to summon Cecily, she caught Goodrich staring intently at Papa’s writing box, but he made no remark on it.
Removing the covers from two chairs, she settled in one and indicated the other. When, after much fussing about his coat skirts, he’d arranged himself in his seat, she fixed him with what she hoped was a steely glare.
“You appear to be a man of many faces, sir.”
His eyebrows lifted just a fraction, but his face retained its expression of cheerful camaraderie.
“I, dear lady? Not at all, not at all. There is only one of me, and I’m not prone to moodiness. Nor am I mercurial, assuming that’s what you meant?’
“What I meant was that I have seen you in a very different guise.”
At that point, Cecily came in with the tea, but as soon as she’d gone, Phoebe tried again.
“I saw you in Dorchester just the other day, but looking very different than you do now.”
Goodrich steeled his fingers and wrinkled his brow. Then he slapped his yellow-clad knee and his face cleared. “If you have seen a gentleman who bears a passing resemblance to myself—though far less good-looking—it must have been my brother, Mr Frederick Goodrich. I declare, he never said he was in town. Not avoiding me, I hope—though he does have a most unnatural abhorrence of my use of snuff.”
Possible, yes, though she wasn’t sure she believed him. His knowing look at her father’s box had unnerved her. There was something suspicious about Goodrich’s sudden interest in her and her actions. She poured the tea and handed him a cup.
“How odd, then, that your brother should look startled when he saw me looking at him, then lower his eyes and hurry off. We have never met before.”
She gave Goodrich a hard stare. That same startled look as the man in Dorchester, quickly disguised. The same piercing blue eyes. She was positive it was this man she’d glimpsed, no other.
Sipping calmly at his tea, he gazed at her with his head tilted. “Odd, I grant you. But then, my brother is decidedly strange. Did I say he abhors snuff? Well, he also hates horses, people and children. Very shy, is Frederick. I’m sorry he ignored you so rudely. If I caught the eye of a lady of such good taste as yourself, I would have made the most of it.”
“Would you, indeed?”
For a moment, the air thrummed between them, and he gave her a look that warmed her cheeks. Then he pressed his free hand against his breast. “Pray, l hope you don’t think me disinterested in the ladies purely because I take such care of my appearance. It is precisely because of them that I do so.”
Had she thought that? She observed him now, wondering how one could be a judge of masculine beauty when it was all so well hidden. What did that face look like beneath the maquillage? What colour was his hair under the powdered wig? The shape of his body was not disguised—indeed, it was accentuated by the tightness of his clothing. Well-muscled limbs and torso—not an ounce of fat anywhere. Sinewy and slender—this man would be an athlete, not a wrestler.
When her eyes returned to his face, she could tell from the mocking uplift of his mouth he’d been aware of her perusal. She swallowed, and her heart fluttered, then did a little skip as if it had become temporarily weightless.
“Do you like what you see?” His voice sounded deeper than before, the words drawn-out, not like his usual twittering way of speaking.
“I’m entertained by what I see.” She wasn’t going to admit to the fluttering.
“A clever, ambiguous answer. Bravo, Miss Duvall, bravo.” His tone had returned to normal, and the moment of febrile awareness had passed. For which she was extremely grateful, as the idea of feeling any physical attraction towards a man who looked like a daffodil was ridiculous.
For the next ten minutes they spoke of inconsequential things, and when tea was finished, he stood to take his leave.
“Miss Duvall.” He held out his hand, and she took it, expecting to shake it, but his warm grip tightened—and suddenly she was off-balance, falling into his arms, and being kissed.
Curse it! The fluttering she’d felt earlier erupted into excitement. She’d never been kissed before—well, no more than a couple of stolen pecks on the cheek. This was a completely different experience, the all-enveloping, teasing, sensual exploration of a man’s lips, and something was ignited within her that took her completely by surprise. Her body welcomed his touch, and she couldn’t find the willpower to pull away. Desire, shock and arousal flooded her veins, and as she floundered in this state of confusion, he kissed her with the finesse of an expert. Or so she assumed since he had her completely under his spell.
This was highly improper. She lifted her hands to push him away, then recalled she was supposed to be looking for a husband in a hurry. Maybe she ought to see what she could learn about kissing now the chance had presented itself. How would Goodrich react if she attempted to kiss him back? Would that be too wicked?
She never had the chance. He broke the kiss and rubbed a perfumed thumb across her lips. “There now. Have I convinced you that my appearance does not mean I’m a hater of women?”
She wanted to say he’d convinced her she was no hater of men, despite what she’d been telling herself all these years. But there was no need to make him any vainer than he already was.
“Mr Goodrich, you’re a very wicked person. I don’t know what to make of you at all. But yes, I’ll concede that you don’t dislike women. It must be a sore trial to you, however, if you have to kiss every woman you meet, so that you may prove your manliness.”
He blinked at her, then grinned. “It
is a sore trial, I confess, but I promise you, I kiss very few women. Only those who deserve it.”
So, she had deserved to be kissed, had she? Hopefully, her future husband, whoever he might be, would think the same. Was Goodrich potential husband material? No, he’d drive her into the madhouse with his eccentricities, his vanity, and his snuff. The fact that she was even considering him in this light made her flush to the roots of her hair.
How had she accepted his kiss so willingly? She was a grown woman of one-and-twenty and knew her own mind. She was no green girl, overset by her first proper kiss.
“My word!” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “I almost forgot my reason for coming here. I have ordered five yards of muslin and two of floral silk ribbon—I hope that will be enough for the replacement of your gown. But I didn’t know you’d be leaving these parts. Where am I to send it to?"
Her heart warmed. Five yards? What a generous gesture. She could make two gowns with that. “I’m not going far, Mr Goodrich. Perhaps it would be best if you were to send the fabrics to my mantua-maker.”
She paused, biting her lip. Could she afford a mantua-maker when her future was still uncertain? “On second thoughts, I might enjoy making up the gown myself. If you would be so kind as to have the package delivered care of Mr Charles Addyman at Donhead Castle, I should be most grateful. It is near the northern edge of Dorset.”
“I know it well,” he said, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. “It delights me to tell you, Miss Duvall, that we shall be near neighbours.”
Before she had recovered from this disquieting news, he was gone. She heard the front door close, and shortly thereafter, the crunch of carriage wheels.
It was only when she sank into a chair to mull over the strangeness of his visit that the oddest thing of all came to her attention. He hadn’t shown the least surprise when she’d told him where to find her. Could he possibly have known already?
The door burst open, and she jolted upright as her aunt peered into the room. “Did I just miss a visitor?” she enquired sleepily. “I thought I heard a carriage.”
“Oh, no, just the grocer’s cart. Nothing of consequence.”
There was no reply. When she met her aunt’s eye, it was to find herself the object of intense scrutiny.
“My dear Phoebe, what is that red colour smeared across your mouth?”
Horrified, she dived for a napkin, wiping her lips with one hand while rattling amongst the tea things with the other. “Er, raspberry preserve. The grocer’s boy looked half-starved.”
“So, you offered him tea and jam in the study?” Her aunt had moved forwards and was staring at the teacups. There was more red dye smeared on the lip of one of them.
“He’s not very refined. Made a bit of a mess.” Phoebe attempted a chuckle, then swept the crockery onto a tray, threw the napkin over it and carried it out of the room.
Cheeks flaming, she hurried past her aunt, tea things rattling. She had to hope the enigmatic Mr Goodrich would not be a frequent visitor to Donhead Castle. The man was trouble.
In more ways than one.
Chapter 4
A week later, on a night when the moon was at its brightest, Robert broke into Blacklands House through a service door. He’d already established that the only residents, a housekeeper and an elderly steward, were asleep up in the attics, each in command of one wing of the building. A dog had been loosed to patrol the grounds, but Robert had kept downwind of it. Currently, it was entertaining itself driving rabbits back into their burrows, apparently no threat at all to intruders.
It took him a while to locate the study in the Stygian gloom of the shuttered house. It was a relief to find it and, closing the door softly behind him, he uncovered his lantern and looked around.
Strange shadows leapt at him and climbed the walls, amorphous shapes created by the swathed furniture. It was unnerving—but there was no need to be afraid of furniture. He removed the cover from a chair, rolled it up and pushed it against the foot of the door so his light could not be seen.
Miss Duvall had left everything neat and tidy—he could say that for her. He’d been surprised as he’d clandestinely watched her departure this morning to see how few possessions she and her aunt carried with them. He assumed much had been left behind or put into storage somewhere.
Removing the dust cover from the desk, he folded it carefully and set his lantern on top, to avoid damaging the tooled leather surface. His plan was to make a detailed examination of the desk and find—if at all possible—the writing box he’d seen on his last official visit to Blacklands.
The hasty investigations he’d conducted after that last meeting with Miss Duvall had proved him right. Her father had been involved in espionage in France but had vanished three years ago while engaged in a complex mission.
Some of Robert’s associates suspected the man of betraying the British government in exchange for a comfortable existence in France. This he had trouble believing. Blacklands was run-down and seemed to contain few treasures—it was just rich enough to allow one man, his older sister and his daughter a comfortable existence, with no sign of luxury. Neither Miss Duvall nor her aunt dressed extravagantly, so if Duvall had sold his soul to the Devil, he hadn’t made much from the deal. But then, the greed for more might drive a man to anything. As would fear.
It wasn’t part of his mission to look into Duvall’s disappearance, nor to learn what he could of the daughter. But the way she’d hidden that letter when she saw him had roused Robert’s curiosity. He circled the desk, gently tapping the sides and underneath, in hopes of finding a secret compartment. Then he scanned the room, but the writing box was nowhere to be seen. She must have taken it with her.
A soft noise intruded on his hearing—a peculiar scraping sound. Alarmed, he covered his lantern, hastily replaced the sheet and crouched behind a cabinet, pulling its dustcover over him. Had one of the servants woken up? He was sure he’d made no sound that could possibly have reached them.
The darkness pressed on his eyes like a living thing, and he wondered if peeping out from under the cloth would give away his presence. There was something furtive about the noises he was hearing—was there an elderly steward creeping around the room with cudgel raised, looking for the intruder?
And if not a cudgel, perhaps even a pistol, or something sharp?
Deciding it was better to know immediately what weapon he must face, Robert pulled a corner of the sheet to one side and peered out.
There was definitely someone there. He could hear breathing not in time with his own, stealthy footsteps, and the squeak of leather soles on the polished floor. A light was struck, and for a moment, he could see nothing but the after-image of a candle flame. Then he realised he was looking at a cloaked figure carrying a small lantern. The intruder placed this on the desk.
Robert watched in amazement as the man rattled at the drawers just as he had done, then applied a tool which unlocked them, allowing him to rifle their contents. Various pieces of paper were examined by the interloper, then cast aside with dissatisfied grunts.
Tension tightened Robert’s neck—what if this new player was looking for the same thing as himself, proof of Benjamin Duvall’s spying activities? Evidence which should be in the hands of agents of the Crown, like himself. No one else.
Foolishly, he’d come weapon-less, not expecting to need one for a solitary exploration of Miss Duvall’s home. During which he hadn’t planned to kill either of the servants. But this situation was an entirely different matter. He couldn’t imagine the other intruder was a friend. He was about to leap up and challenge the fellow when the man pushed back the hood of his cloak with an impatient hand.
And candlelight flickered on the recognisable features of Charles Addyman.
Robert froze. Although this man was his sworn enemy, he was the one person he dare not kill—yet—or vital information would be lost. A man to whom he could not afford to reveal his presence.
So, for the time b
eing, all he could do was look helplessly on as Addyman hunted for the same information he’d been after himself.
And pray that Addyman didn’t find it first.
Chapter 5
“What an exceedingly pretty place.”
Phoebe smiled as Molly stared out the carriage windows at their surroundings. Her aunt was right—the landscape flanking the road to Donhead was a charming canvas of rolling hills, a pastoral pleasure-ground dotted with cattle and sheep. It looked good country for walking—even riding if her new employer would lend her a horse. She wondered whereabouts Mr Goodrich lived, then wished she hadn’t. Memories of her reaction to his kiss still brought her to the blush, and she hoped it would be a long time before they met again.
Their conveyance turned in through an elaborate archway and continued along a narrow drive with brightly-coloured rhododendrons springing up on either side, before emerging onto an open area of lawns and formal gardens.
“Look, Aunt, is that a folly, do you think?” Phoebe pointed to a ruined wall some two stories high, with empty windows. A panoply of ferns and rust-coloured wall-flowers softened the broken surfaces and tumbled heaps of stone.
“I’d say that was part of the remnants of the castle you told me about,” Molly replied. “Oh heavens, there’s even a moat. How very medieval.”
It seemed they weren’t going to traverse the moat, for at that moment, an austere-looking servant popped up and directed their carriage to the left. They turned down a shadowy, overgrown drive leading to a modern-looking brick house whose tiled roof appeared comparatively new.
“A roof that isn’t full of holes. How wonderful.” Molly was wreathed in smiles.
“Let’s not be so sure. Just because it looks sound, doesn’t mean there will be no leaks.”
A Treacherous Engagement Page 3