by Mary Brendan
‘A servant of mine has arrived from London bringing a strange and perturbing message.’ Jack turned his attention to the vicar, his gaze dark with contempt. ‘Before you returned here, you called at my Bruton Square residence and were given the letter I had left for you in my absence.’
In case he were ever accused of stealing the missing billet doux Peter had prepared a response. His sweating brow had nevertheless betrayed his nervousness and that he’d an idea of what had brought the Viscount here with a face like thunder.
Jack’s mouth took on a sardonic slant as a row of glistening droplets began sprouting on the fellow’s face. Half an hour ago his butler’s comprehensive report of domestic issues had been handed to him. In it Crawley had stated that Mrs Fenton’s letter had disappeared and although a thorough search had been made, it hadn’t been found. The butler had gone on to state that he suspected the Reverend Peter Mansfield had taken it from the hall table. Initially Jack had found it hard to believe that the vicar would have the audacity to do such a thing. No such qualms remained. He was convinced of the fellow’s guilt.
‘While you were at my house you stole a letter that was addressed to Mrs Fenton.’ Jack’s eyes resembled shards of black ice. He extended a hand. ‘Give it to me now.’
Dawn’s letter had been quickly written, yet contained explicit references to his desire for the woman he loved. The fact that this weasel had read his private thoughts made Jack feel like abandoning caution and knocking Mansfield to the ground. He turned away for a moment to control himself although his fists remained balled at his sides.
‘I... How dare you accuse me of theft!’ Peter blustered. ‘I would never knowingly take anything that didn’t belong to me.’
Dawn’s eyes widened in disgust as she noticed Peter’s flabby jowls turning florid. He wasn’t ashamed of what he’d done, just of being found out. She recalled how smug he’d seemed when taunting her that the Viscount had left town without contacting her. Knowing the opposite to be true had amused him!
‘Give me the letter or I will search your pockets, then tear this room apart until I find it.’ Jack’s threat was issued with such ferocity that the vicar took some rapid backward steps, believing himself about to be attacked. He had banked on His Lordship’s butler concealing the matter to cover his dereliction of duty.
‘I, in fact, received two letters from your manservant,’ Peter announced haughtily. ‘I had quit the house by the time I realised his error. One parchment was stuck to the other with wax,’ he continued with his fluent lies.
‘Then why did you not return it the moment you discovered the mistake?’ Jack demanded.
‘I was on my way to see Mrs Fenton and thus was aware I could do you a good turn by delivering the note.’
‘And yet she has never received it,’ Jack drawled in a voice of steel.
‘We spoke mostly of important arrangements for the child, as I recall. Minor matters slipped my mind, sir.’ Peter’s voice became breathy as the Viscount continued stalking him.
‘Well, this matter hasn’t slipped my mind.’ Jack thrust a beckoning hand beneath the vicar’s nose.
Peter dragged open a drawer in his desk and retrieved the parchment, tossing it to the edge of the mahogany top.
Dawn had been listening to proceedings without offering her own comment, though she had felt like adding her condemnation to Jack’s. Now she did. She pounced on the parchment bearing her name, turning it in a hand. ‘It’s been opened.’ Her eyes sparked with disgust. ‘How dare you take my letter then read it!’
Jack had turned his back on Mansfield and was staring bleakly at Dawn. ‘You cannot remain in this godforsaken place.’
A look of torment was in her eyes as they tangled with his. How she wanted to beg him to wait while she packed her things...and her granddaughter’s, too. She knew that he wanted her to go now with him and never come back. But she couldn’t! Lily’s father had other ideas for his child. Dawn realised now as never before that Peter Mansfield would use his little girl as a bargaining chip. Whether it be his intention to marry her, or to wheedle favours from the lord of the manor, the vicar would exploit her love for Lily to try to get his own vile way.
‘I’m sure Mrs Fenton will not abandon the child and go with you.’ Peter’s smug comment verified Dawn’s fears and shattered the throbbing silence in the room.
‘Then let Lily come, too.’ Jack whipped about, his eyes narrowed to slits between which blazed his hatred. He knew the damnable fellow had a point and the upper hand. ‘You still lack a proper nursemaid and Mrs Fenton has made an excellent job of caring for your daughter.’
‘Has she indeed?’ Peter purred. ‘The child’s moral character is of equal importance to her good health. I’m not sure that Mrs Fenton is the person to groom her in that respect.’ The glance he cast Dawn’s way made an explicit insult unnecessary.
Jack strode towards him. ‘What the devil do you mean by saying that?’
‘I believe you, of all people, know what I mean, sir.’ Peter cocked his head to an insolent angle.
Jack’s hand shot upward, aiming for the vicar’s throat, but Dawn wedged herself between them, pushing Jack away. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she croaked. ‘Please...just leave now. You must go—I’m sorry, but you must.’
Jack gave a harsh laugh from behind a hand that covered his snarling mouth. ‘What is it you want, Mansfield? Money? How much?’
‘My lord...how vulgar to mention the root of all evil to a man of the cloth.’ Peter looked gleeful. A moment ago the Viscount had had him on the back foot. Now positions were reversed. The fellow really was besotted with Dawn and would do anything to assist her in keeping her granddaughter.
Jack understood, too, that the balance of power had shifted. He could do what he was itching to do and thrash his opponent, thus making matters worse for Dawn and Lily while they remained beneath the vicar’s roof. Or he could control his temper and bide his time in the hope of exacting revenge in the future. He knew in his heart there was just one option open to him.
Dawn’s small fingers encircled his muscular forearm and she urged Jack towards the door, blinking back her tears. He raised a hand to warm her small cold fingers in a comforting caress. She wouldn’t leave the child behind whatever he said. And oddly he didn’t want her to. Her goodness and selflessness just made her more adorable.
‘Come to the Grange tomorrow afternoon for tea as planned. We will talk then.’
‘How nice...’ Peter said brightly, having heard their quiet discourse. ‘An invitation to tea. I shall look forward to it. We can discuss those matters you have for me, my lord. And I believe I have thought of some requests to make also.’
Jack sent a look of loathing over a shoulder. ‘Indeed...do come, Mansfield. I have much to say to you.’ With a last lingering look Dawn’s way, he strode into the corridor.
Dawn wanted to leave the room as well, but she didn’t. She had something to impress on Peter Mansfield. And she launched into it immediately. ‘You may threaten what you will, but I shall never agree to marry you. If you find another woman willing to be your wife, I will step aside and allow Lily’s stepmother to care for her.’
‘Marriage is not necessary between us any more than it is necessary between you and your Viscount.’ Peter had dropped any sham of courtesy now the man he wanted to impress had gone. He stalked around her rigidly held figure, looking her up and down. ‘You are a whore, my dear, I knew that even before I read Sterling’s letter. You are no better than those harlots who infest the dockside taverns, lifting their skirts for sailors.’
He touched a finger to her cheek and Dawn shrank away as though that stubby digit was poisonous. ‘Don’t ever think to again lay one finger on me,’ she spat, her green eyes afire. ‘For indeed you will regret it.’ A moment later she had swept from the room, her heart beating so furiously she felt she might faint.
C
hapter Sixteen
Dawn was resting fully clothed on her bed with Jack’s letter spread on her pillow. She had read it so many times now that she knew the paragraphs off by heart. Yet the need to feast her eyes on his passionate words was undeniable. Picking up the parchment, she angled it towards a candle’s flame, savouring it one final time before carefully folding it and slipping the paper into her pocket.
There was nothing contained in his sloping black script to indicate the nature of the calamity that had taken him back to Essex. Dawn was glad that Mansfield remained ignorant of Sarah’s folly. But the knowledge that he was aware of Jack’s feelings for her made Dawn feel horribly violated. The vicar now had the means to hurt Sarah Snow by revealing her future husband was in love with another woman. But at least he no longer had the letter in his possession to bandy about as proof. The Reverend Peter Mansfield was a disgrace to his profession; he could call her any name he liked, but he wouldn’t cow her or make her feel ashamed. She was determined to remain strong for his daughter’s sake as well as her own.
She glanced at Lily, asleep beside her in the bed. Dawn often let her granddaughter stay overnight with her if the child seemed lonely in the nursery and fretful for her mother. Earlier, she’d had supper with Lily in the parlour as was their usual routine. She never ate a formal meal in the dining room with the vicar and thankfully he no longer requested that she do so. Carefully, so as not to disturb Lily, she got up, tucking the blanket snugly about the child. The rumpus earlier had left Dawn feeling on edge, unable to concentrate. She had been looking forward to their visit to the Grange tomorrow...but Mansfield was to accompany them now, spoiling the treat. She went to the window and gazed in the direction of Jack’s magnificent house. The uncurtained windows of the Grange were ablaze with twinkling light and she knew he would have had every sconce lit. He was sending her a signal to comfort and impress on her that he was close by should she need to run to him.
A sudden sound of spitting gravel outside made Dawn shrink back and conceal herself. From behind an edge of brocade she glimpsed the pony and cart turning into the drive. A figure dressed in a billowing black cassock jumped down and Mansfield hurried towards the entrance. Dawn felt a modicum of relief that he would soon be off out again. If he were home for the evening, he would have stabled the animal.
Taking a seat at the dressing table, she began to unpin her hair. She was untangling the thick chestnut tresses with her brush when a floorboard creaked on the landing, bringing her swiftly to her feet. She put down her brush and sped noiselessly to the door. The timbers squeaked again, then she saw the handle slowly turning. She had already locked her door, leaving the key in the hole to thwart Peter entering with his own key. Nevertheless, she glided to the dressing table and picked up the heavy candlestick just in case he attempted to force entry to assault her. If he did, she’d have no compunction in swinging the brass at him with all her might. The memory of the lust in his eyes when he’d looked her over in his study was making her feel queasy.
Dawn was sure she could hear his heavy breathing, or was that just her blood hissing through her veins and thudding in her ears? Minutes ticked by like hours as she strained to listen for a sign of him withdrawing. But there was nothing other than Lily’s faint snores and sighs to disturb the quiet. Dawn realised he’d gone from the house when the pony whinnied softly. She put down her makeshift weapon and stepped to the window, keeping herself out of sight. The vicar was fastening a lantern to the side of the dog cart, then he climbed aboard and turned the vehicle on crunching gravel. The pony picked up speed along the lane, the lamp swinging to shed a dappling glow on the dark hedgerow.
Her pent-up breath was slowly exhaled, but her relief was short-lived. She’d glimpsed something else that was alarming her. Another figure, on horseback this time, had hove into view. He was approaching so slowly that Dawn guessed it wasn’t his intention to catch up with the vicar, still visible in the distance. It wasn’t Jack; Dawn knew that straight away and felt a stab of disappointment. How she longed to see him! This man’s frame wasn’t as tall or broad. As horse and rider came to a standstill, merging with the shadows cast by the hedge, Dawn realised the fellow was taking pains to conceal himself so he might follow the cart unobserved.
As he spurred his horse forward a shaft of weak moonlight escaped the cloud, gleaming on his leather cap brim and enlightening Dawn to his identity. She’d met William Grove just that afternoon when she’d stopped to speak to his aunt.
Mrs Grove! Dawn’s hand flew to her mouth in consternation, and she spun away from the window. With the earlier commotion with Jack and the vicar, and the theft of her love letter filling her mind, she had forgotten about her meeting with the old housekeeper and the other note she had received. Both messages had come into her possession belatedly. Dawn had intended to read Eleanor’s the moment she was on her own.
With a pang of guilt Dawn relit the candle, eager to right her wrong. She retrieved her pelisse from the wardrobe, laying it on the bed, then dug in the pocket. Settling down at the dressing table, she placed the parchment on the marble surface, feeling daunted about opening the precious yet eerie communication from her dead stepdaughter. But she sensed Eleanor was at her shoulder, urging her to hurry up. Dawn snapped the seal and, having unfolded the letter, started to read.
* * *
‘Why... What is it, m’m?’ Startled to wakefulness, Mrs Broome struggled upright on her pallet. Moments before, Dawn had quietly rapped on the door of the attic bedchamber. Receiving no answer, she had entered to gently shake the housekeeper awake.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I must go out, Mrs Broome,’ Dawn rattled off. ‘It is a matter of some gravity. Would you keep a watchful eye on Lily for me, please, until I return?’
The housekeeper scrambled to her feet, sensing danger. ‘What is it, m’m? Are villains upon us?’ The housekeeper knuckled sleep from her eyes. ‘Is the master aware of it?’
‘I... I can’t explain right now. But the master mustn’t know of this,’ Dawn said, trying to keep her voice level. Oh, there was villainy and the master was aware of it! The Reverend Peter Mansfield was the greatest villain of them all. But Dawn knew she must keep what she knew about him from the housekeeper. The truth might make the woman swoon or fall into hysterics and Dawn desperately needed her to stay calm. ‘The vicar has gone out, but if he returns before I do, I’m sure he will go straight to his chamber and not bother you. If you would go to my room and lock the door until I return, Lily is sound asleep in my bed.’
Mrs Broome pulled on her night rail, tying the belt. ‘There’s something about this place that’s not right.’ She gave Dawn a fierce look, gripping her arms to emphasise her point. ‘Trouble’s afoot. I knew that the moment the handsome Viscount turned up with murder in his eyes. And the more I get to know the vicar the less I like what I’ve done, coming to this place.’ She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘I found the kittens...drowned in the well.’
Dawn covered her horrified gasp with her fingers. The housekeeper had guessed who was responsible for that barbaric act. And so had Dawn! Mansfield had paid her back for taking his cart in a most cruel way: by hurting two defenceless creatures and also Lily who had loved playing with them.
‘God bless you and take care of you out there,’ Mrs Broome whispered. ‘I know you wouldn’t be risking the night unless something bad made you do it. You’ll tell me more in time, I expect. But for now, know that you can rely on me, Mrs Fenton. No harm will come to that little one while I’ve breath in my body, that I promise.’
‘Thank you.’ Dawn gave the woman a spontaneous hug of gratitude. A moment later she was heading towards the door.
On the lower landing they quietly parted company, Dawn descending to the hallway and Mrs Broome hurrying in the direction of Dawn’s bedchamber.
* * *
A flapping sound had Dawn frozen to the spot and she backed against a tree, hands searchin
g behind for the trunk’s wide girth to hide behind. She held her breath, anticipating another such warning signal reaching her ears that she was being stalked. There was silence, apart from the night-time scurrying of small creatures in the undergrowth. A rustling overhead made her snap up her face and squint at a canopy of swaying leaves. An owl hooted somewhere nearby, making her start and stuff a fist to her mouth to stifle a shriek. Then a white blur burst through its cover, swooping low and close. Dawn squeezed shut her eyes, unsure whether to giggle or groan at what had given her such a fright. An owl! She pushed herself away from the bole of the tree and started to run again. She’d dodged through another hundred yards of woodland in the direction of Croxley Grange when she spotted a bobbing light dotting yellow into the pitch of the night. Then it was joined by another and her insides knotted in trepidation. She sought more sturdy wood to dart behind as she heard leaves being trampled. No beast was responsible for that noise. A gruff masculine laugh, then another, higher pitched, and heavy twig-cracking footsteps alerted her to the fact there were at least two men approaching. But they weren’t following her; they had no idea of her presence and she must keep it that way. She didn’t dare contemplate what would be her fate should she be caught.
Dawn pulled her dark cloak up high about her throat, to cover the flag of her pale bodice. The men passed within yards of her, kegs slung over their shoulders, lamps in their hands. Their conversation was still indistinct...intentionally muted. She twisted herself around the scraping bark to continue watching them as they carried on their laborious way, wondering why she thought she recognised one of them. A moment later it came to her that he had been the fellow talking to Peter Mansfield at the Cockerel on the day she first travelled to Essex. It seemed such a long time ago since she’d made that journey that had ended in tragedy.