by Allison Lane
He finally fell quiet, alternating between blue-devils over what might be his last hours as a bachelor and chuckles over the fictional tales of Wilkerson’s highly precocious offspring. Where had Jon’s imagination come from?
Only after dessert was served did Miss Merideth finally give him a chance to set his plans into motion. When she distracted Jon’s attention, Tony leaned closer to Miss Vale.
“Let us retire to the music room,” he suggested softly. “I have heard much praise for your skill – if you feel up to playing. Your ankle must protest this activity,” he added, knowing his assumption would force a denial.
“It is quite recovered.” She smiled. “I could have come down last evening, but we chose to take no chance of another fall.”
“I would have carried you down had I known,” he said warmly. “As my cousin often reminds me, too much devotion to ruins must make me quite boring. But you are a delight to the senses. Do you also sing?”
“Only if you will join me. Preferably both of you,” she added, turning to Jon. “I am a trifle out of practice.”
“Delighted.” Jon’s agreement was out before he noted Tony’s scowl. “Miss Merideth?”
“I will listen. My voice is unsuited to song,” she said, shrugging.
Tony hid his disappointment. He had hoped a love song or two would lead into a proposal. Jon should have retired on the excuse of weariness, but the opportunity might yet arise. If Miss Merideth did not sing, she would likely leave before the evening was concluded. Jon would follow.
* * * *
Alex accepted Linden’s arm for the trek to the music room. Torwell’s abandonment irritated her more than she cared to admit. She had grown accustomed to their nightly tête-à-têtes. He was so different from her father’s boisterous friends, whose conversation rarely moved beyond gaming, gossip, and wenching.
But Torwell willingly discussed any subject, from estate problems and her frustration at having no influence to correct them, to living conditions of the lower classes, to history, scientific experiments, ideas, and a host of other topics. He did not care if she disagreed with him, willingly conceding points when her arguments were more persuasive, treating her as an equal capable of thinking for herself.
But those evenings were now gone. He had merely been filling time until Sarah reappeared. In the thrill of discovery, she had forgotten that he had formed a tendre for Sarah before that staged fall. Thus there would be no more stimulating conversations. He kept his mind firmly on digging while they worked.
Fool! she admonished herself. Despite knowing she must attach Linden, she had begun to think of Torwell as her special friend. But like other gentlemen, he was willing to pass the evening with her only when he had nothing better to do, treating her no different than he would his colleagues or the men he might meet at a club.
She hadn’t missed his irritation when Linden returned, with his greater claim to Sarah’s attention. Nor had she missed the disapproving frown he’d tossed Linden’s way at dinner.
But that was good, she reminded herself sharply. Once she confessed her identity, Torwell could wed Sarah without creating a rift with his cousin. And Sarah would benefit. She deserved a steady, trustworthy husband. Whatever Linden’s personal feelings, he would wed the fortune. His attraction to Sarah would not have lasted anyway.
She released Linden’s arm so he could join Sarah at the harpsichord.
Everyone would be happy. Linden would recover his inheritance. Sarah would have a husband she could respect. Torwell would make a love match. And she could continue working with him on excavations. He had accepted her as a partner.
Or had he?
She frowned. Torwell had no authority to dig at Vale House. The owner did not even know the site existed. Since she had invited him to participate, he might think that flattering her was the only way he could dig there.
It was so obvious that she berated herself for not having considered it earlier. Lord Mitchell accepted her ideas only because he thought they came from a man. Torwell was humoring her because pretense was the only way he could investigate the site.
She picked up a sketch pad, using it as an excuse to settle far from the others. The strains of a Robert Burns ballad drifted through the room. It was one of his sadder songs, striking a chord deep in her breast, though she rarely identified with music.
Her pencil captured the image on paper. Sarah, seated at the keyboard. Torwell and Linden standing behind her, one on each side. But it was Torwell’s hand that rested on Sarah’s shoulder, and Torwell’s cheek that brushed hers whenever he leaned forward to turn a page. His rich voice sent shivers down her spine. All three were turned half away from her, emphasizing the gulf that had always stood between her and the world.
Her life in a capsule.
She shook away the thought, but the truth hung starkly before her. Even a musical evening among friends left her standing apart, a freak amidst her own class. Her voice was strident enough at any time, but it sounded like a raven’s when she tried to sing. The fingers that could patiently sketch a long-buried artifact tied themselves into knots if they came within touching distance of a keyboard. Music was so far beyond her that she could rarely enjoy even listening to it.
Ladies were accomplished musicians. She was incompetent. It was yet another reason her father had never considered her a lady. She was abnormal, unable to get along with her peers. The only time she was truly comfortable was when her mind was in the past.
The music came to an end, accompanied by laughter. Linden suggested a new song.
“Not suitable,” Torwell said, frowning. “How about that red rose piece?”
Sarah shuffled pages.
“Perfect,” Torwell said, draping himself around her shoulders as he reached down to strike a key. “My love is like a red, red rose,” he began singing, bestowing a heated look on her when he caught her eye.
Sarah’s fingers hit an uncharacteristic number of wrong notes. Linden joined in, but his face resembled a thundercloud.
Alex tore her eyes from the tableau, her fingers producing a new sketch, this one of Minerva thrusting a lance through Torwell’s heart. She should have known better than to accept him as a friend. He was no different from a thousand other schemers. How could she have trusted him?
She’d been wrong about his intentions. The look in his eye as he gazed at Sarah was exactly like the one he’d used on the mosaic tiles that very afternoon – disappointment at failing to find what he truly wanted mixed with determination to take whatever he could get. Linden looked exactly the same. Neither wanted marriage, but somehow, Linden must have forced Torwell to rescue the family – probably by letting him keep the estate. It would remove his responsibilities to the church while providing support for his excavations.
Her masquerade allowed her to spot motives she might otherwise have missed. Torwell was pretending affection for Sarah. So was Linden, of course, but at least his motives were clear. Once she revealed her identity, both would switch their allegiance to her. Torwell might even claim undying love on the basis of their shared interest in the Romans. How could she have trusted him? Thank heaven she’d planned to tell Linden in private. Living with an honest reprobate would be easier than with a sneak.
She was cold.
Though no fire had been lit in here, she knew the room was not to blame. She must draw Linden off alone and confess. Immediately. And once he knew the truth, she could not allow him near Torwell until they settled the question of marriage.
She rose. At least an hour had passed since dinner. Murch could chaperon Sarah while she and Linden spoke.
“Is your ankle fatiguing you, Miss Vale?” Torwell asked. “Perhaps we should move into the drawing room where it is warmer.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Sarah. “Merideth will help me upstairs. It has been a most pleasant evening, but I should rest.”
Alex sighed. Something had pushed Sarah into flight, so she would have to go along with it long
enough to find out the facts. They must also discuss Torwell. She could find Linden later.
Ignoring the gentlemen’s glowers, she helped Sarah from the room.
“Be careful of Torwell,” she said the moment they reached the stairs. “He is as dangerous as Linden, possibly more so. They have agreed to split the fortune, with Torwell taking the bride. Perhaps he hopes to gain control of the villa.”
“You cannot be serious. He is all that is amiable.”
“Do not let his charm deceive you. I’ve watched his eyes. He has agreed to have you. Guard yourself. I sense great determination beneath his surface. That is one man who will take what he wants, and to hell with the consequences.”
“Alex!” Sarah cast a reproachful look over her shoulder. “You know how cursing distresses me. You are allowing your emotions to subvert your intellect. Mr. Torwell is all that is proper. He pays me court only to plead his cousin’s case, as you would know if jealousy were not blinding your senses.”
“Jealousy!” She recoiled. “He has well and truly pulled the wool over your eyes.”
“As I thought. You overreact to hide the truth even from yourself, but I have seen the way you look at him – and how he looks at you, with hopeless longing clouding his eyes. I can only suppose you’ve treated him to one of your tirades against men. You had best examine your heart, lest you find yourself wed to one man while loving another.”
“That is quite enough, Sarah.” Fury replaced her shock. “I have no interest in Torwell beyond a mutual love for antiquity. I thought to protect you by repeating what I’ve learned of the man, for I will settle with Linden as soon as possible. In the meantime, lock your door and avoid any contact with Torwell. You would hardly enjoy being forcibly tied to a man who hates you for not having the dowry he expects.”
Chapter Nine
Tony awoke before dawn with a raging headache. A largely sleepless night had contributed, but the real cause was the admission that his scheme was doomed to failure.
Last night had been a disaster. He had done everything he could to convey his interest – touching her, whispering compliments in her ear whenever he turned a page, suggesting the most romantic songs he knew. She had reacted, displaying what he first thought was nervous anticipation. Not until she refused his escort to the drawing room had he realized that she was afraid rather than titillated.
Why? He’d mulled the question all night. Yet every possibility raised more questions.
He shook his head, then wished he had been more careful.
Perhaps fresh air would clear his mind. Shrugging into his work clothes, he headed into the Park.
The autumn air had a decided bite to it this morning, but he did not mind. Emptying his head of Miss Vale, Miss Merideth, and even the villa they were excavating, he concentrated on dawn’s play across bronze and gold trees, on a flock of waterfowl arrowing south for the winter, on the musical flow of the stream bubbling along its rocky bed…
The pain gradually eased behind his eyes. By the time he turned back, it was gone. He could finally think.
Miss Vale was sheltered, an innocent with little experience of the world. Yet he could not believe that his courtship had scared her. The time period he had originally envisioned might have, but he had been here for nearly a fortnight. And he had hardly pressed.
Had she realized that Jon was going to keep Miss Merideth in the music room, so they would be alone? Some girls panicked at such a situation, but only if they expected either unwanted advances or an unwanted proposal. Neither applied to Miss Vale. She believed he was a vicar. After spending so much time with a supposed rakehell, attended only by a lady’s maid, she would hardly cavil about him. He was an innocuous character, his only oddity an interest in antiquity. Since she’d encouraged her companion to follow the same pursuit, she would not object to him. And unless she knew his true identity, she would hardly expect an offer.
Miss Merideth.
He swore. Surely Miss Vale wasn’t playing matchmaker for her companion! He would have to set her straight on that score. Miss Merideth had made her own disinterest abundantly clear. And he had no choice in the matter.
Appalled … she has no power to change the agreement…
“Devil take it!” he swore, suddenly recalling Miss Merideth’s words. He’d hardly heeded them at the time and hadn’t thought of them since.
The answer had been staring him in the face from the beginning, but he had been too stupid to see it. She had been appalled at what her father had done to his. Perhaps she even suspected chicanery about the game, but investigating the trust had proved that she could not even allow his parents to remain in residence. So she had realized that wedding him was the only way to soften the blow, even if she must accept his reputation in the process.
But she didn’t know that he was the one she must wed.
Cursing himself for every stupidity known to man, he shook his head. Hiding his identity had been the worst possible approach. Yet how could he have known that her sense of justice would override even his abominable reputation? It hinted at depths of character he had not suspected.
No wonder she willingly spent time with Jon. And this explained those odd looks she had given him – and her efforts to avoid him last night. Whatever her personal feelings, she had decided to accept Tony Linden. She was probably confused because Tony Linden had made no offer. In the meantime, she was suppressing any attraction to Torwell.
He briefly toyed with negotiating a proxy marriage that would postpone revealing the truth until they had both irrevocably taken the step they had already planned. But that would add yet another layer of deceit, making the ultimate denouement even worse.
So he had to reveal his identity, beg her forgiveness, and hope she would not respond by washing her hands of the entire Linden family. And he could not postpone his confession. For good or ill, he must see her as soon as possible. Since she rarely arose until noon, he could do no digging today.
So he would avoid breakfast. Miss Merideth was astute enough to recognize that something was wrong. He could not risk others learning the truth until he had confessed to his hostess.
If only he had not started this!
“Mornin’, Mr. Torwell,” called the head groom as he passed the stable. “You’re up and about even earlier than usual. Shall I saddle Orpheus?”
“Not just yet. I must deal with other business before riding out.”
“Lord Bushnell, I suppose. Miss Vale will be upset when he arrives.”
“She has said nothing about a new guest,” said Tony cautiously, but his mind was racing. Meeting an acquaintance was a risk he’d ignored in recent days. Not that Bushnell was a friend. Far from it. What would so debauched a man be doing at Vale House?
“You’ve been out a good long time, then. The innkeeper’s lad brought the letter an hour ago. Lord Bushnell always stops here on his way to London, as do most of Sir Winton’s friends.”
“Even when he is not in residence?”
The groom shrugged. “They are always welcomed.”
The implication was obvious. “Do you mean that Sir Winton invites his rackety friends to make use of his house, even when no one is here but his innocent daughter?”
“It isn’t my place to judge, though I can understand why a vicar might object.” Shifting his eyes to scan the stable yard, he lowered his voice. “But between the two of us, I expect Sir Winton would be right pleased if someone compromised the girl badly enough to get her off his hands. She has sworn for years that she would never wed, and he’s found no one willing to take on a barely dowered harridan. Making her an heiress is his final try.”
Harridan? Tony bit back a sharp retort. Miss Vale must put on quite an act if her father considered her so. Maybe the groom hoped a nice vicar would take her on to protect her from worse. He must know that nothing would keep her single much longer, and he could like Linden’s reputation no better than anyone else did.
This gave a new urgency to his confession.
He must see Miss Vale the moment she arose. Simms could send word via her maid to meet him before breakfast. Everything must be settled before Bushnell arrived.
Head again pounding, he started for the house. The more he considered this new problem, the worse it seemed.
Bushnell was poison. Though not the most revolting of Sir Winton’s friends, he was not an appropriate visitor to an innocent maiden. Miss Merideth was hardly old enough to be a suitable chaperon, especially when confronted by lecherous rogues. What the devil had Sir Winton been thinking?
Of course, his own stay at Vale House was just as irregular, particularly with Jon away for so long. But he had every intention of wedding her.
No wonder so many area gentlemen considered her ineligible. Entertaining Sir Winton’s friends had to have tarnished her image.
Keep your mind on business.
Sighing, he glared at a busy squirrel. Jon must wed them before Bushnell arrived, so the man would find nothing even marginally disreputable. He was a consummate gossip, who put the worst interpretation on every story he told.
She has sworn for years that she would never wed… He shuddered. Was that why she was being so cautious? Perhaps she was waging a mental war between rectifying an injustice and reneging on a long-standing vow. After all, her reasons for considering this match were far weaker than his.
Why she eschewed marriage was harder to grasp. If it had been Miss Merideth, he could understand, for marriage would make pursuing her interests even more difficult. Never mind that she was more competent than most of those who would laugh in her face.
But Miss Vale had much to gain. She was under the thumb of a father who disdained her. She would never be unconventional enough to set up her own establishment, so why avoid marriage? Had she suffered some insult at the hands of her father’s rackety friends?
Don’t invent trouble. The day would be difficult enough without setting new obstacles in his path.