Imperfect Pretence

by Imperfect Pretence (retail) (epub)

  They stared at him for a brief moment, at a loss for words. Barnes obviously knew him although he was a stranger to both of them. Whoever he might be, he was an aristocrat to his fingertips and he looked to be very much at home. A small quizzical smile twisted his lips. ‘If I might, ah, establish my credentials first, I am Haslingfield. And you are—?’

  Of the two visitors, Snelson was the least surprised. He had after all seen Alistair’s portrait. Constance, on the other hand, had been clinging to the hope that Max really was who he had claimed to be. Confronted with this utterly authentic aristocrat, she found herself deprived of speech. Snelson glanced at her pale face and cleared his throat. ‘This lady is Miss Church, who is one of your nearest neighbours, Your Grace; I am Snelson, your bailiff.’ Constance curtsied automatically. She dreaded new revelations and would have liked to turn tail and run. Aside from the impropriety of such actions, she was conscious that her limbs were trembling almost too much for movement.

  The languid gentleman bowed with casual grace. ‘Let us go into the book room so that we may examine this affair,’ he said. ‘Barnes, arrange for coffee if you please.’ Barnes opened the door into the book room and they all went in, Constance first, waved through by the duke, who followed just ahead of Snelson. Once the door was closed, their host said, ‘Now, you must tell me in what way I may serve you. It must be something uncommonly urgent if it has summoned me from my bed before the day has properly begun.’

  Snelson looked at the duke, then at Constance. ‘Well, Your Grace,’ he began eventually, ‘I find myself at a bit of a loss. I came here to expose an imposter, but … well—’

  ‘Yes?’ prompted the duke, inviting Constance to sit down and taking a seat for himself before waving a languid hand at another chair for the bailiff.

  ‘Your Grace, there has been another man living here and masquerading as you,’ Snelson continued.

  ‘And you thought to unmask him,’ put in the duke. ‘Did you believe him to be some sort of villain – a spy, for example?’

  Snelson coloured. ‘I did, Your Grace,’ he agreed, his chin high. ‘I’m still set on catching him if he is an enemy of England.’

  ‘Very public spirited of you, I’m sure,’ the duke remarked. He sighed. ‘I suppose I do owe you an explanation.’ The door opened to admit Barnes with a tray. ‘Ah, coffee. Miss Church, will you pour?’ After the valet had gone, he went on. ‘I would much prefer brandy, but Barnes denies me such comforts. He says it may inflame my wound.’

  ‘I hope you are not seriously hurt, Your Grace,’ said Constance, managing to speak as she poured for all of them, the activity helping her.

  ‘Barnes is inclined to mother me,’ he replied. ‘My hurts are largely superficial, I thank you, and I am making good progress.’ He took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, your imposter, Snelson. His presence here and my wound are connected. You will know that I inherited only recently. My man of business has never really understood the expectations that people have of one who is – oh dear, I really feel that I must be somewhat indelicate and describe myself as a man of the town! I had become entangled in a rather messy – ah – situation, and needed time and space to bring the matter to a conclusion. Unfortunately, there were those who took exception to my behaviour, and I blush to confess that I found myself obliged to take part in a duel, and then go to ground so as to avoid arrest. In order to throw others off the scent, my cousin Max agreed to take my place until I was well enough to rise from my bed. He was experiencing a little bother of his own with gaming debts, I believe, so he was glad of an excuse to disappear.’

  As Constance listened to his tale, she could feel disgust and contempt welling up inside her. ‘So your cousin took your place as a kind of … of jest?’ she asked, trying not to let her feelings show.

  The duke smiled ruefully. ‘I was trying to avoid the use of that word,’ he admitted. ‘For our excuse, I must tell you that he and I have often indulged in such japes. They really mean nothing at all.’

  Constance put her cup down with a hand that was not quite steady. She had agonized over Max, fallen in love with him, been ready to kill for him, fly with him, and he had only been there for a jest! ‘How exquisite humour is in London these days,’ she remarked, quite surprised when her voice did not tremble. ‘I should never be able to keep up with it, I fear.’ She rose to her feet and the men did the same. ‘Thank you for enlightening us, Your Grace. I fear I must be on my way now.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he replied. ‘I trust that you have been entertained.’ Had she been looking at him at that moment, she would have seen his eyes narrow.

  ‘Oh, excessively,’ she answered with an unconvincing laugh. ‘How surprised the local populace will be when they discover that their duke has changed heads.’

  ‘I doubt I shall be here long enough for anyone to notice,’ the duke replied. ‘Snelson, do you have other business to bring to my attention?’

  ‘No, Your Grace.’

  ‘Before you go, I believe I must commiserate with you.’

  ‘Your Grace?’

  Haslingfield pointed to the other man’s bandage. ‘I understand that I am not the only sufferer. I believe you were struck down whilst attempting to detain my cousin as a spy.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘Do you know who struck you?’

  ‘I was struck down from behind, so I cannot say,’ Snelson stammered.

  ‘From behind! How dastardly!’ the duke exclaimed. ‘Shame on him! Would you not say so, Miss Church?’

  Luckily, since Constance was quite unable to locate her voice, Snelson murmured something about escorting her home. ‘Miss Church is understandably shocked,’ he explained.

  ‘Of course,’ the duke replied. ‘You must forgive my maladroitness at mentioning such a matter in her presence. I am certain, Miss Church, that you are in no danger of being struck down by the same person.’

  ‘The story is beginning to get round that I was struck by housebreakers,’ said Snelson.

  ‘Then let that story stand. Doubtless one of Max’s servants was responsible, and he may deal with your assailant in whatever way he believes to be appropriate.’

  ‘I knew that that other man was not the real duke,’ Snelson exclaimed as soon as they were out of earshot of anyone in the house. ‘I knew it! Why, the fellow looked exactly like some sort of cut-throat. Did I not say so?’

  ‘Yes, yes, you said so,’ Constance answered in a distracted tone.

  ‘Now the man we met today, well, I would have known him for a duke at the very first glance. He is just like the portrait that I saw at Haslingfield, although older, of course. And then there was his bearing. It was just what one would expect of a true aristocrat. Did you not think so?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Constance agreed in much the same manner as before.

  ‘I must say, I don’t think much of this jest they played together, do you? That rogue must have been laughing up his sleeve the whole time. When I think … ’

  Not knowing what to think herself, and only certain that she did not want to have her ears assailed with Snelson’s reflections on the matter, she stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘Mr Snelson, there is no need for you to walk home with me. I am sure that you have a great deal to do.’

  ‘I am quite happy to do so,’ he assured her. ‘Indeed, I would be happy to escort you anywhere you wanted to go,’ he added in earnest tones.

  ‘You are very good,’ she replied, trying hard to keep hold of her temper, ‘but just now, I would be glad to have simply the company of my own thoughts.’

  ‘Miss Church, in view of your recent shock, I—’

  ‘Oh, pray just go away!’ she shouted at him, finally at the end of her tether. She turned and picking up her skirts, ran in the direction of The Brambles, heedless alike of his voice calling to her, or of the tears coursing down her cheeks. Her nerves and her conscience had both been in shreds, and it had all been done for a jest! If only she could dis
appear from this vicinity and never come back!

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Max’s journey to London went without a hitch. He would have liked Abdas beside him, especially in view of the vitally important papers which he carried inside his coat. Abdas was still at Melinda’s home, however, and to go and collect him would have added valuable time to his journey, as well as probably attracting unwelcome attention.

  He set off from Beacon Tower at ten o’clock, riding Filigree, his own trusty stallion. They travelled for four hours, rested for four, then travelled on for four more. Arriving at a decent inn at six in the morning, he entrusted Filigree to a sleepy-looking stable lad, and made a careful pick of the horses for hire to take him on the next stage. After yet another change and hardly any rest, he eventually arrived at Hampson’s office at five o’clock in the evening.

  Hampson displayed very little surprise at his appearance, and received the papers that he handed over with a word of thanks, leafing through them with an unchanging expression. ‘Your presence would indicate that your cousin has been detained in some way,’ he remarked in matter-of-fact tones.

  ‘The bullet that winged him has rather hampered his activities,’ Max agreed. His tone was similarly even, but his eyes were cold.

  ‘Mercifully, though, he was able to pass these on to you,’ Hampson replied, turning in order to lock the documents into a safe set in the wall behind him. ‘I trust that he will recover.’

  ‘It’s to be hoped that your trust is not misplaced, sir,’ Max replied, ‘since if he perishes I will hold you directly responsible.’ Not feeling capable of conversing further with the man, Max left immediately after this and went to Brooks’s in search of congenial company. To his surprise and delight, he found Sir Stafford Prince ensconced in an armchair, a book in his hand.

  ‘My dear boy!’ Sir Stafford exclaimed. ‘This is most unexpected.’ He beckoned to a waiter and ordered wine. ‘How did your business work out? It was Spain whence you were bound?’

  In the time that the baronet took to ask his second question, Max had recalled the story that had been concocted to account for his absence. ‘Everything went well,’ he replied, taking a chair opposite his stepfather. ‘I don’t think I was really needed, though. I’m sure they could have managed without me.’

  ‘Sometimes, all that it takes is for one to be present in order to make a difference. Have you dined?’

  Max had in fact eaten very little that day. Indeed, all his eating had been done in a hurry, if not whilst still on his feet. He was very happy, therefore, to accept Sir Stafford’s invitation, and soon the two men were tucking in to a fine beefsteak pie.

  While they ate, their conversation did not touch upon Max’s activities. Max was so hungry that he allowed his stepfather to bear the greater part of the conversation, which was chiefly about the estate, Lady Prince, Ruth and the two boys. When they had finished, Sir Stafford invited him to come back to his house and share a bottle of brandy. ‘I’ve something rather fine which I think you will like,’ he said. ‘You can stay the night if you have made no other arrangements.’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ Max replied. ‘I must be up betimes, though. I—’ He almost said that he needed to return whence he had come, and stopped himself just in time. Instead, he went on, ‘Have a commitment tomorrow that cannot be broken.’

  ‘Then let us make the most of this evening,’ said Sir Stafford after the tiniest of pauses.

  Once in the privacy of Sir Stafford’s house, Max told him all about what had occurred whilst he had been in Cromer, ending with his recent ride, much of it by moonlight. Alistair’s comment that his mission had not prospered had caused the baronet to shake his head. ‘I fear the remaining members of the royal family are doomed,’ he said despondently. ‘The papers you’ve taken to Hampson may tell a different story, but I doubt it.’

  Max’s only omission from his story was any mention of his feelings for Constance. Something must have conveyed itself to the baronet, however, for when they bade each other goodnight, he said, ‘If you intend to rise with the lark, I don’t suppose I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good journey.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Max replied. ‘And thank you for—’

  The older man waved his hand dismissively. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just make sure you take the young lady to meet your mother as soon as may be.’

  Although the return journey to Cromer could not have been said to have the same urgency as the one to London, as far as Max was concerned, haste was certainly of the essence. He had set off on Alistair’s behalf without a second thought, carrying with him little more than a change of clothes, enough money for his needs and the precious papers. He had had neither the time nor the opportunity to call upon Constance and to reassure her, both as to Snelson’s survival and his own intentions. As far as the bailiff’s condition was concerned, he could only hope that Barnes would pass the news on to her. For the rest, he would have to speak for himself, and pray that his sudden departure would not cause her to lose all faith in him.

  Throughout his journey, different scenarios jostled about in his head. His favourite was the one in which, thankful for Snelson’s recovery and relieved concerning his own safety, Constance cast herself into his arms. Unfortunately, the one which seemed to come into his head more frequently was that in which she blamed him for the mistake over Snelson, berated him for disappearing without even so much as a note, and refused to speak to him ever again. Consequently, although he had time and opportunity to rest, he scarcely slept any more than he had on the way to London.

  When he arrived back in the vicinity of Cromer at around ten in the morning, some sixty hours after setting out, his first instinct was to go to The Brambles in search of Constance. He had steeled himself for reproach and accusations; it came as something of an anticlimax to be told by the maid that none of the family was in, and that Miss Church had ‘gone a-visiting’.

  As this could mean anything from a half-hour’s local excursion, to a day out in Aylsham, and as the maid did not seem to know which of these Constance’s ‘visiting’ might be, Max left a message to say that he had called and would return. He then made his way to Beacon Tower. Here, he was able to report to Alistair the safe delivery of the papers, much to his cousin’s satisfaction.

  ‘I travelled halfway across France and got myself winged in their defence,’ he declared. ‘I should hate to think that you had mislaid them on a mere canter to London.’ The real Duke of Haslingfield sat at his ease, clad in a pewter-coloured waistcoat embroidered in silver and just a suggestion of pink, and light-grey breeches with gleaming hessian boots. As his sling was still in evidence, his superbly cut coat of midnight-blue brocade was worn negligently across his shoulders.

  Max grinned. ‘I see that you are much recovered,’ he observed. ‘You’re better than I expected.’

  ‘Loss of blood and fatigue were the main culprits,’ Alistair answered. ‘A night’s sleep and some good red meat made a lot of difference. Barnes tells me that tomorrow, I should be able to wear a light enough bandage so that I can get my coat on properly.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me anything more about the papers with which I was entrusted,’ said Max, as his cousin stood up in order to pour him some wine.

  ‘Not a chance of it,’ Alistair replied. ‘Instead, you might tell me how you have been occupying yourself, and what you think about this, the smallest and most isolated of my holdings.’

  Max obliged, recounting the various things that had happened to him since his arrival. He also gave as full a description as he could of the small estate of which Beacon Tower was the hub. As he did so, he could not help betraying his keen interest in the local area and the people. Alistair made a mental note of this, and said nothing.

  It was also inevitable that Constance’s name should come up. ‘I have met Miss Church, as it happens,’ said the duke when Max had finished his tale.

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes, she came her
e yesterday with Snelson. I found the interview most entertaining, I confess.’

  ‘Entertaining?’ Max queried, his face rather set.

  ‘Why yes,’ Alistair replied. ‘Barnes, you see, had told me that it had been Miss Church who had struck my good bailiff over the head, a fact of which he was plainly unaware. I had an amusing few minutes at their expense.’ He paused, glancing briefly at his cousin before going to refill his glass. ‘I dare say once he knows, she will have to give him her head for washing before she is forgiven. They tell me that every marriage has such stories.’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ said Max shortly. ‘She is not engaged to Snelson.’

  ‘Is she not? Then indeed, I must be mistaken, as you say.’

  Max grunted. Then, after a moment or two, he said curiously, ‘What brought them here in the first place?’

  ‘They wanted to see the Duke of Haslingfield,’ Alistair replied.

  ‘Snelson had worked out that it wasn’t I,’ Max told him, momentarily diverted. ‘In fact, he persuaded the Aylsham magistrate to turn out with some volunteers to arrest me. He came first to make sure that I didn’t run away. Constance – I mean, Miss Church – struck him over the head to silence him. Then when the magistrate came, I put on the performance of a lifetime, and so did poor Barnes, who pretended that it was he who had struck the bailiff, thinking that he was defending me from housebreakers.’

  Alistair laughed. ‘Now that I hadn’t heard! Barnes would be pleased. He enjoys amateur dramatics.’

  Max nodded. ‘He certainly seemed to. So when they came, you introduced yourself. What reason, then, did you give for our exchange?’

  ‘Naturally, I couldn’t tell them the truth; so I said that it had been a jape that we had fashioned between us.’

  ‘For what reason?’ Max demanded, beginning to become alarmed.

  ‘We both needed to show London a clean pair of heels,’ Alistair replied. ‘I was fleeing the wrath of a cuckolded husband, and you were evading your creditors.’