Scandal and Miss Markham (The Beauchamp Betrothals)

by Janice Preston

  She hung her head, her eyes downcast. Vernon felt like an out-and-out brute, but knew he must not show any weakness for he had no doubt she would quickly seize upon it and, despite what he said, he really was curious to find out what had happened to Daniel Markham.

  ‘So, are we agreed? I shall leave after I have eaten and changed my clothing and you, Miss Markham, will wave me goodbye.’

  ‘Very well. I shall not insist on leaving with you.’

  Her mouth drooped and he wondered if she were about to cry again. He had been certain that earlier bout was uncharacteristic. He could not abide women who cried at the slightest provocation, using tears as a weapon to get their own way. But, despite that, he still felt sympathy and also a little guilty, knowing how worried she was about her brother. He reached out and nudged one finger beneath her chin, tilting her face to his. Respect for her crept through him: she was dry-eyed and he was relieved at this proof she was prepared to listen to and accept his reasoning.

  ‘Miss Markham, you must also understand that, quite apart from it being unsafe, it would also be entirely improper for you to accompany me. Your reputation would be in tatters.’

  A gleam lit those huge hazel orbs and Vernon was disconcerted by the undeniable kick of his pulse and his sudden impulse to kiss her,

  His awareness of her as an attractive woman rattled him into speaking more bluntly than he should.

  ‘We have no idea what has happened to Daniel, but I know you are aware he could have met with foul play. It would be wholly irresponsible for me to allow you to be exposed to possible danger.’

  She blinked and her cheeks paled, causing the freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks to stand out in contrast. Vernon felt a brute all over again, as though he had kicked a puppy. Or—perhaps more fitting in Thea’s case, given his earlier fanciful thoughts—a kitten. He released her chin and clasped her upper arms, bending his knees to look directly into her eyes.

  ‘I apologise. I did not mean to shock you.’

  Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. He had upset her, but she was struggling to conceal her emotions and his respect grew at the way she handled herself in such a horrible situation.

  ‘Do not lose hope, Miss Markham.’ He gently rubbed her arms, trying to buoy her spirits. ‘There could still be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Daniel’s disappearance.’

  She huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head, her curls bouncing. ‘Such as? No, I cannot be hopeful. He would have written to us. He would not stay away without a word.’

  Vernon released her and stepped back from the temptation of taking her into his arms again to offer comfort.

  ‘He might be too ill to write,’ he said. ‘Or he has lost his memory. Or maybe he has written and the letter has been lost en route?’ He paced the room and then returned to come to a halt in front of her. ‘Whatever the reason, I shall discover it, but you must leave this to me. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand. Now, if you will excuse me, there are matters requiring my attention.’

  ‘You will not join me?’

  ‘I find I no longer have an appetite. Enjoy your luncheon, sir. Ring for George when you have finished eating and he will show you to Daniel’s bedchamber to change your clothing. I shall see you before you leave.’ She left him with a brisk step, leaving the scent of roses lingering in her wake.

  * * *

  After Vernon had eaten his fill, he was shown upstairs by George.

  ‘I shall leave as soon as I have changed,’ Vernon told the footman. ‘Could you inform Miss Markham that I will see her downstairs in, shall we say, fifteen minutes?’

  He wondered if Thea would come to see him off, or if she would stay away, sulking. No, he decided. Sulking was not Miss Markham’s style.

  George bowed and left. Vernon wasted no time in changing into the clothing that would help him to blend in. He donned the fawn-coloured breeches and the respectable linen shirt and neckcloth left on the bed. The boots, however, were too small. He eyed his Hessian boots and their mirror shine with regret as he realised there was nothing for it but to smear them with soil when he went outside, to dull the shine. A moleskin waistcoat and a brown jacket completed Vernon’s transformation from a man of fashion into a respectable country squire.

  He ducked to peer into the dressing-table mirror and ruffled his fingers through his hair. At least he would not present himself all neatly barbered at the Nag’s Head and wherever else his enquiries might lead. His hair had needed a trim before he left London, but he had decided to leave it until his return. It was a touch long and unruly, but the less well-groomed his appearance, the less notice he would attract.

  He rotated, studying the room: Daniel’s room. Quashing down any guilt—he was trying to help, not snoop—he quickly searched through drawers and cupboards. Nothing. He must hope that someone at the Nag’s Head could either throw some light on the reason Daniel had been riding to Birmingham on a regular basis—if, that is, Pritchard was correct that Daniel had been visiting the city—or that they might solve the mystery of what, or who, Willingdale and R.H. were.

  A battered saddlebag had been left on the bed. Inside was a clean shirt and neckcloth, reminding Vernon that this mission might take several days. He slung the bag over one shoulder and, with one last look around, he strode from the room.

  In the entrance hall, he waited. The scrunch of hooves on the gravel outside told him that his horse had arrived. He went out to find Bickling holding a dependable-looking bay hunter and sent him running back to the stables to retrieve Vernon’s shaving kit and other personal necessities from his valise in his curricle. When Bickling returned, Vernon stowed the articles in the saddlebag as his groom filled him in on what he’d discovered about Mr Markham’s lost fortune.

  ‘Seems he raised funds against his business and invested them all in some non-existent scheme through this swindler who befriended the family and then vanished with their money,’ he said. ‘The stress caused Markham senior’s stroke and, although Pritchard clammed up when I tried to get more from him, it seems this fraudster also had something to do with Miss Markham.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Bickling shrugged. ‘The man’s very loyal to Miss Markham. He wouldn’t say more than the bastard took Miss Markham in, too, and that she’s never forgiven herself. Blames herself for her father’s stroke.’

  Had he courted her? Had she fallen in love with him? That’s what it sounded like to Vernon. ‘Thank you, Bickling.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come along with you, milord?’

  ‘There is no need, I can take care of myself and, besides, you’ll be on edge the entire time if you have to leave my blacks in anyone else’s care.’

  Bickling was even fussier about Vernon’s horses than he was, if that were possible. And he knew that Bickling would be forever saying ‘milord’, and that would mean no chance of staying discreet.

  ‘I could always take one of the men from here, but they appear short-staffed already. I will be fine going alone, do not worry.’

  ‘Very well, milord.’ Bickling’s glum face said it all.

  Vernon glanced at the front door. Still no sign of Thea. He did not want to leave without saying goodbye so he went back inside. Immediately he heard hurried footsteps approaching from the nether regions of the house. Thea soon appeared, slightly breathless.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘There is something you need to see.’

  Chapter Four

  Thea had to give his lordship credit: he followed her without question to the gunroom. Once inside, he turned a full circle, eyeing the rows of shotguns, rifles and muskets that lined the walls. The windowless room was illuminated by the three lanterns Thea had lit on her earlier visit. Somehow, with Vernon inside, the room seemed to have shrunk and Thea wrapped her arms defensi
vely around her torso and stepped away from him, putting a little more distance between them.

  Vernon tilted his head as he met Thea’s gaze and those penetrating green eyes of his glinted as they caught the light. They felt as though they reached deep into her soul. She just prayed he could not read her thoughts.

  ‘I trust you do not plan to hold me hostage down here, Miss Markham.’

  His comment startled a laugh from her. The thought had crossed her mind. Not to hold him hostage, but to force him at gunpoint to take her with him—a crazy thought that she had dismissed the minute her whirling thoughts, desperate to find a way to go with him, had seized upon it. That crazy idea had, though, led to another plan.

  Which was why she had ventured down here to the gunroom in the first place.

  ‘Have no fear, my lord,’ she said. ‘None of these weapons is loaded. You are quite safe.’

  ‘Then why are we here?’

  ‘It occurred to me to wonder if Daniel was armed,’ she said.

  ‘Would he normally go out with a gun?’

  ‘He had a blunderbuss that was always buckled to his saddle, in case of an attack,’ she said. ‘There have been a few robberies on the roads hereabouts, over the past year or so. Daniel said there has been an increase in vagrants wandering the countryside—former soldiers, he reckoned, although others like to blame the gipsies. But a blunderbuss is not a weapon he could carry in his pocket. Look—’ she pointed to the table in the centre of the room ‘—I found that pistol case in the cabinet. It should have two muff pistols inside, plus the flask and balls. Firearms are Daniel’s passion. He bought this case and pistols at an auction in Birmingham a few weeks ago.’

  She tilted the case to show the single remaining pistol to Vernon. He whistled.

  ‘So...your brother went out expecting trouble. Or even danger.’

  ‘It would appear so, although I cannot understand why he would take that particular pistol. It is very small.’

  Vernon moved closer as he peered at the contents of the case, his sleeve brushing Thea’s arm, sending a tingle of awareness racing through her. She shivered in reaction, fighting the urge to leave the room. Her discomfort was unimportant...she must do this for Daniel.

  ‘Small but deadly,’ Vernon said. ‘I should imagine he took it precisely because its size means it is easily concealed. I see he has several cases of duelling pistols...’ He selected one case at random and opened it. He whistled again, lifting out one of the guns and sighting along the barrel. ‘Manton’s. A fine piece. But, too big to conceal and...’

  ‘And what?’

  He shot her an apologetic look and grimaced. ‘Sorry. I was thinking out loud.’

  ‘But, having begun to speak, you must now finish,’ Thea said, irritation at her physical reaction to his proximity making her sharp.

  She had no wish to be aware of him as an attractive man. Men were not to be trusted.

  ‘I told you before,’ she went on, ‘I am not one of your fine ladies who needs mollycoddling. I have dealt with hard reality and survived. Please do not patronise me. Do me the courtesy of dealing with me as an intelligent adult, not a child.’

  He sighed. ‘Very well. I was about to say that a duelling pistol is not as handy at close quarters.’

  Her stomach churned at his words, but she tamped down her fear. She had asked him and he had replied. She could not now blame him because she did not like what she heard. Besides, that was an interesting point to remember. She had already selected and primed a duelling pistol, ready to pack in her saddlebag along with her spare clothing. Daniel had other small pistols—she would take one of those along as well.

  ‘I thought you should see this for yourself,’ she said to Vernon. ‘As you said, it suggests Daniel was expecting trouble when he left.’

  Just speaking those words made her throat constrict with unshed tears but Thea forced her emotions to lie low, knowing she must keep a cool head if she was not to hinder the search for her brother.

  ‘It is time to go,’ she said, ‘but there is also something else I must show you.’

  Vernon raised a brow but, again, followed her unquestioningly. Up the stairs this time and along the upper corridor to the long gallery, where the family portraits hung and where Thea and Daniel practised fencing manoeuvres. The physical exercise had helped Thea to exorcise some of her anger and guilt after Jasper Connor had betrayed her and near bankrupted both Stour Crystal and her family.

  Vernon headed straight for the portrait of Thea. ‘It is a good likeness.’

  For a second, admiration glowed in his eyes, but Thea ignored the answering tug deep in her core. She could not help but be aware of Vernon’s allure. She’d wager there were ladies galore in the ton who regularly swooned at his feet, given one look from those green eyes, or one of his smiles, brimming with charm, but she was not interested. Not in Lord Vernon Beauchamp nor in any man. Being jilted at the altar tended to have that effect.

  ‘That is not why we are here,’ she said and led the way to the portrait of Daniel.

  Apart from the portraits of Thea and Daniel, and an earlier one of Mama and Papa—painted before Papa had his stroke—there were only landscapes on the walls. Papa had harboured such grand dreams: dreams of building a dynasty, dreams of using his wealth to ensure his grandchildren might be accepted into the ranks of the upper classes, dreams of this gallery being filled with portraits of the generations to come. Now it might all come to naught. Thea would never give him grandchildren and, if Daniel... She choked off that thought, afraid her precarious control would shatter again if she followed her fears to their natural conclusion.

  ‘That is Daniel,’ she said, feeling another lump form in her throat as she looked up at his strong, dark features. ‘I thought it would help for you to know what he looks like.’

  Vernon examined the portrait in silence.

  ‘He has your eyes,’ he said, eventually, ‘but I see no further resemblance.’

  ‘He gets his colouring from Mama, but he is tall like Papa,’ Thea said. They headed for the door. ‘I get my red hair from Papa, but my height—or, rather, my lack of it—from Mama.’

  Back in the entrance hall, Vernon picked up the saddlebag by the front door.

  ‘I shall have to hope,’ he remarked, regarding his reflection in a mirror with a grimace, ‘that I do not meet anyone with whom I am acquainted. They will think I have run quite mad, dressed like this.’

  Thea bit back her scathing retort.

  ‘I shall write to let you know what I find out about your brother and how my cousin is connected to him.’ A frown creased his forehead. ‘I still find it hard to believe Henry has anything to do with your brother’s disappearance. I have every hope of discovering the two things are unconnected.’

  Which, again, proved Thea was right to follow him as she planned. If Henry Mannington was found to have no connection with Daniel’s disappearance, Vernon would go chasing off after Henry and what chance then would Thea have of finding Daniel?

  She followed Vernon down the front steps, where Bickling, his groom, held the reins of Warrior, one of Daniel’s favourite hunters. Vernon swung into the saddle, raised his hand in farewell and set off down the carriageway at a brisk trot.

  Thea watched until horse and rider disappeared from sight, then spun on her heel and raced up to her bedchamber. There was no time to lose. She had already told her mother she was going to visit a sick friend for a few days and Mama, as usual, showed little interest in Thea’s activities; she had never forgiven her daughter for the disaster that had befallen their family.

  Thea had also written to Charles Leyton, the manager at Stour Crystal, to warn him he would not be able to contact either her or Daniel for a week or so. She hoped she would not be away as long as that, but it was best to err on the side of caution.

 
It was a relief to be taking action—she had been near paralysed with indecision until Lord Vernon’s visit, afraid of the consequences should Stour Crystal’s customers, or—God forbid—their rivals, learn that Daniel was missing. Uncertainty was bad for business. If she was responsible for spreading rumours and Daniel turned up unscathed, he would, rightly, be furious with her. She had caused enough trouble for the business six years ago. She could not bear to be the cause of more.

  She had slipped across to the stables earlier, whilst Vernon was eating, and taken Malky—the groom who had taught her and Daniel to ride—into her confidence about her plan. He had not been happy but, in the end, he had agreed to saddle Thea’s favourite mare, Star, with a conventional saddle so she could ride astride and to meet Thea, with Star, on the edge of the copse behind the walled kitchen garden, out of sight of both the house and the stables.

  She changed hastily into the clothes she had kept from Daniel’s boyhood, the ones she wore for their fencing bouts and for riding astride. She wondered whether or not she should take Malky with her. It would be the sensible thing to do, at least until she caught up with Vernon, but it would leave the estate short-handed at a busy time.

  She examined her appearance in the mirror. She had bound her breasts to flatten them and had dusted fine ash from the fireplace across her skin, dulling it. She was dressed the same as countless young lads around the country, in jacket, shirt, waistcoat, breeches and boots. Her hair...she leaned closer to her reflection. She could pass muster as a lad during one cross-country ride—with her hair plaited and pinned and bundled into a cap—but would that suffice for a longer masquerade?

  She reached for her scissors. It would grow again. She unpinned her hair and gathered it together. She swivelled her head from side to side as she gazed into the mirror, considering. Some lads had hair that grew to the nape of their necks, or even longer. She set her jaw. Time was wasting. She cut, hacking again and again at her thick hair until the bunch came free in her hand. She stared at it, lying limp across her palm, trying and failing to quash her distress.