Spoiled

by Barker, Ann

  ‘Very well,’ Michael answered with an understanding smile.

  No sooner had they finished their conversation than there was a knock at the door. Michael opened it to find himself face to face with a man of about his own height, more heavily built, and with dark-brown hair tied back in a queue. ‘Good day, Mr Buckleigh,’ he said. ‘I’m Ilam. May I come in?’

  ‘By all means,’ Michael answered, surprised but delighted. ‘Please allow me to make my sister known to you. Thea, Lord Ilam.’

  ‘My pleasure, Miss Buckleigh,’ Ilam said with a bow that was vigorous and business-like rather than elegant. ‘I regret that my wife has not been able to accompany me,’ he went on, as he took the chair that Michael indicated. ‘She is staying with my father and his wife, but hopes to visit you on another occasion. Are you well settled in here? Do you have everything you need?’

  Michael smiled. ‘When I try to express my gratitude for your generosity, words fail me, my lord,’ he replied.

  Ilam interrupted him before he could say more. ‘Just as well. You’ve already thanked me in a handsome letter. There’s no need to add to it. To know that you have all that you need to live here comfortably and carry out your duties is enough for me.’

  ‘I am more than comfortable,’ Michael responded. ‘May I offer you a glass of wine, my lord?’

  ‘Not at present,’ Ilam replied. ‘I really must not stay. One point I would make, though: you are not my servant, so I would infinitely prefer it if you would call me Ilam, rather than “my lord”. If you find that you need anything, apply to me. When my wife returns, you must both come and dine.’

  ‘Thank you, my … Ilam,’ Michael corrected himself.

  Ilam was on the point of leaving when he turned in the doorway. ‘One more thing: how do you get around?’

  ‘I walk,’ Michael replied. ‘I have no horse at present.’

  ‘Come to the Hall any time you need to go a distance, or even if you want the exercise. I’ve plenty of mounts that need riding and I’ll be glad if you’ll oblige me in that way. You too, of course, Miss Buckleigh.’

  ‘I … I don’t ride, my lord,’ Thea stammered. ‘I’m … I’m lame.’

  ‘Are you?’ said Ilam, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t embarrass you. Stacia – my wife – will tell you that I’m so tall, I don’t notice what’s going on a foot below me anyway. You’ll have to get her to take you out in the barouche.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Michael replied, bowing in his usual graceful manner, as Theodora curtsied.

  Ilam drew his brows together. ‘I’ve met you before, haven’t I?’ he asked the clergyman.

  Michael rose from his elegant bow, and raised his brows. ‘I do not think so,’ he responded.

  Ilam directed a sharp look at him. ‘What is your given name?’ he asked.

  ‘Michael.’

  Well, I’ll be damned, Ilam said to himself as he walked home.

  Nearly two years before, he had discovered that his aunt was manipulating everyone from the bishop to himself in order to prevent a new vicar from being appointed, so that she could stay in the vicarage. The consequence had been that the villagers had been denied the solace of a priest for some months. Despite this, he had not been pleased when Henry Lusty was installed as vicar, since he felt that this would be an embarrassment to his stepmother. When he had learned that a curate had been appointed to reside in the village, therefore, he had been delighted. He had decided, for truly disinterested reasons, to make the curate as comfortable as possible.

  He had known for a long time that his father had another son, born before he had married his, Gabriel’s, mother. He also knew that this other son was a clergyman named Michael. When he had first seen the new curate, however, he had not been struck by any similarity to his father. Although of a similar height to the Earl of Ashbourne, his features were finer, with higher cheekbones, and the effect of the blond hair with the dark brows was sufficiently startling in itself to divert one’s mind from any other similarity. Not until he had been on the point of leaving had he truly begun to think that they might be closely related.

  It had been the elegance of the clergyman’s bow that had first caught his attention, for it had exhibited all the natural grace that characterized his father’s every movement. Then when Ilam had asked if they had met, Michael had denied it, with a slight lifting of those brows. Suddenly, for no reason that Ilam could put his finger upon, he felt sure that he was face to face with his half-brother. The man was certainly of the right age. The discovery of his Christian name had confirmed his suspicions.

  All of these thoughts ran through his mind as he walked home, but as he crossed the threshold of Illingham Hall, his dilemma was this: how the devil was he going to tell his father?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The following day, Lady Agatha Rayner called at Granby Park. Evangeline could never decide whether she liked the formidable lady or not. She did have a habit of saying the most outrageous things, often designed to irritate. On the other hand, she was a good deal more amusing than many people in the village. From the moment that she was shown into the drawing room, her ladyship proved herself to be on form.

  ‘Just as pretty as ever, so I see,’ she said, looking Evangeline up and down. ‘No doubt you’re just as spoiled.’

  Evangeline was on the point of declaring boldly that if she was, it was not her fault, when she cast a glance at her mother’s anxious face. ‘That is not for me to say,’ she answered demurely.

  Mrs Granby, who had opened her mouth to say Evangeline, dearest in protest, realized that there was no need and surprised both herself and her daughter by saying, ‘Indeed, Lady Agatha, she is a great comfort to me while her father is away.’

  ‘Really?’ said Lady Agatha, her brows raised. ‘Well that’s as it should be, I suppose. How is Granby? What takes him away from home at this time?’

  As Mrs Granby explained to a rather dubious-looking Lady Agatha that her husband was in London on business, Evangeline thought about the extraordinary notion that had come into her mind. There was an unmistakable family likeness between Lady Agatha and Lord Ashbourne. From the very first Evangeline, had caught glimpses of Lord Ashbourne in Michael. Now, as she watched Lady Agatha listening to her mother speaking, she could see that same likeness between the earl’s sister and Michael. She knew that Michael’s father had deserted him before his birth. Could his father possibly be Lord Ashbourne?

  She was just telling herself that this must surely be absurd when her thoughts were interrupted by something that Lady Agatha was saying. ‘And how is the new curate settling in? From what I have heard, he seems to be well liked.’

  ‘He has made a very good impression, has he not, Evangeline?’ Mrs Granby responded.

  ‘Interesting that Lusty chose to send him,’ Lady Agatha observed, as Evangeline nodded. ‘I wonder, what was his motive?’

  ‘Surely the better to provide spiritual care for his flock,’ Mrs Granby suggested diffidently. She had always found Lady Agatha Rayner more than a little intimidating.

  Lady Agatha snorted. ‘That insect! He’s after revenge, more likely,’ she answered.

  ‘Revenge?’ echoed Mrs Granby, puzzled.

  ‘I shouldn’t let it worry you,’ her ladyship answered airily. ‘I am sure it will all prove to be very entertaining. Did you know that Dr Littlejohn is back home, by the way? I called on him only yesterday.’

  Lady Agatha stayed for a glass of wine, then left in order to pay another call.

  ‘I do not know how it may be, but I always find Lady Agatha’s visits quite exhausting,’ said Mrs Granby after that redoubtable dame had gone.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Evangeline replied. ‘What do you think she meant when she was talking about Mr Lusty wanting revenge?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ her mother answered frankly. ‘I suppose it must be something to do with the fact that he was engaged to Lady Ashbourne.’

  After a short silence, Evange
line said, ‘Mama, am I really a comfort to you, or were you just saying that to put her in the wrong?’ The previous evening, Evangeline and her mother had played cards together. Perhaps her love for Michael had made her more sensitive to her mother’s needs. Certainly, Mrs Granby had opened out more, whatever the reason might have been, and had turned out to have a talent for mimicry that Evangeline had never suspected. She had even done a passable imitation of Lady Belton, which had made her daughter laugh heartily. They had spent the most companionable evening together that either of them could remember.

  Mrs Granby coloured a little. ‘Well, dearest, I cannot deny that there are times when you have made life a little difficult. But over the last few days, you have been nothing but a comfort. Would you like to come with me to call upon Dr Littlejohn? I know that you always enjoy speaking to him.’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ Evangeline replied, feeling strangely moved by what her mother had just said.

  Doctor Littlejohn was delighted to see Mrs and Miss Granby and was eager to tell them something about his visit to the lakes, where he had spent many happy hours walking in the hills. Evangeline gave his account less than half her attention. She was thinking about Lady Agatha’s extraordinary statement concerning Mr Lusty’s possible desire for revenge.

  She was brought back to the present by Dr Littlejohn’s voice saying Lady Agatha’s name. ‘Yes I have called to see her,’ he said, looking troubled. ‘I am a little concerned, I confess.’

  ‘She seemed in very good health to me,’ Mrs Granby assured him.

  ‘Oh yes yes,’ Dr Littlejohn agreed, his thin scholarly face anxious. ‘I am just afraid that she may be plotting something.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ responded Mrs Granby, her expression concerned. They had both known Lady Agatha for long enough to be well aware of her mischievous streak. ‘She has hardly been back for long enough to be doing so, surely.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ the academic agreed. ‘She is taking the new curate to visit Ashbourne Abbey today. Perhaps her glee is because she has met him before her brother has.’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Evangeline, leaping to her feet.

  ‘Evangeline?’ said Mrs Granby, as Dr Littlejohn got politely to his feet.

  ‘Oh … oh, it’s nothing,’ Evangeline responded in a flustered tone as she took her seat once more. ‘I thought that I saw a … a wasp.’

  The conversation resumed, but Evangeline played no further part in it. When her mother suggested that it was time to leave, she sprang to her feet with alacrity, bidding Dr Littlejohn farewell in a manner that was only just civil. What she was to do, she could not imagine. She knew that she must do something, for suddenly she had guessed what mischief Lady Agatha was probably planning.

  When they arrived at home, she accompanied her mother indoors, but, as they prepared to go upstairs to take off their outdoor things, Evangeline said, ‘Mama, do you mind if I hurry ahead of you? I must change into my habit in order to go out again. I have just thought of an … an urgent matter that I must attend to.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, yes, yes, of course my dear,’ answered Mrs Granby in puzzled tones.

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ Evangeline called back over her shoulder as she ran up the stairs. She rang the bell and, when Elsie arrived, she was already scrambling into her riding habit.

  ‘Now do have a care, Miss Evangeline,’ said the girl. ‘You’ll tear it.’ Catching her mistress’s urgency, however, her fingers flew across the fastenings and in no time at all, Evangeline was running round to the stables.

  She had become convinced that Lady Agatha was taking Michael to Ashbourne Abbey so that in her own wicked way she could enjoy the shock and consternation that would surely be felt by father and son as they faced one another for the first time. Her first instinct had been to go and see Michael, but a moment’s thought had convinced her that that would be the wrong strategy. Nothing that Michael had said or done had given the slightest indication that he suspected that Lord Ashbourne was his father. If she was right in her suspicions, then Lord Ashbourne must be the one to be warned. He could then decide how best to confront his own son.

  She dispensed with a groom, despite the vociferous protests of the head stableman who had put her upon her first pony. Riding cross country so as to make the best time, she headed for Ashbourne Abbey, praying that she would arrive there before Lady Agatha and Michael. At least she knew that they had not set off before she and her mother had visited Dr Littlejohn.

  She had visited Ashbourne Abbey on previous occasions and knew it well enough to be sure of where the family would probably be sitting. Avoiding the drive, therefore, and galloping round to the back of the house, she rode up to the terrace, and summoning a rather bewildered gardener to hold her horse, she ran up the steps and pounded on the French door.

  To her great relief, Lord Ashbourne himself was inside and he opened the door for her, ushering her in with a bow. As always, he looked immaculate, clad in a coat of dark green with buff breeches, his black hair with its distinctive white wings swept back into a queue. His brows were raised in surprise at her entrance. ‘Miss Granby, this is unorthodox, but none the less welcome,’ he said politely.

  A few years ago, Evangeline had convinced herself that she was in love with the rakish earl. Even today, there was something about his undoubted good looks that made her heart beat faster; now she realized that this was due to the similarity to Michael that she perceived in him.

  The other occupants of the room looked as surprised as Ashbourne. Ilam was standing by the fireplace, somehow much more the country squire than his father. Lady Ashbourne was lying on a chaise-longue, very heavily pregnant and looking rather tired. Sitting close to her was Lady Ilam, who sprang up intending to embrace her friend.

  ‘No! No time,’ Evangeline gasped, for she was a little out of breath from her exertions.

  ‘My dear Miss Granby, do come and sit down,’ said Ashbourne urbanely, as he attempted to guide her to a chair.

  ‘Listen, please,’ said Evangeline, tugging at his sleeve. ‘Lady Agatha is coming to see you with the new curate.’ Ilam straightened at once. He had come that day with the very intention of telling his father of his suspicions, and had not yet thought of how to bring the subject up.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Ashbourne. ‘I am delighted of course, but—’

  Again Evangeline interrupted him, catching hold of his arm this time and looking up at him desperately. ‘Please be quiet and listen! He has your eyebrows and his name is Michael.’

  Ashbourne whitened. He bent towards her now, searching her face keenly. ‘Say that again,’ he breathed.

  At that moment, the door was flung open, and the butler announced ‘Lady Agatha Rayner and Mr Buckleigh, my lady.’

  Michael made his bow, took a step forward, then stood staring at Lord Ashbourne for what seemed to Evangeline to be an eternity. She was still holding on to the earl and was therefore able to witness the unfolding scene from his point of view. What she could not have known was how the scene looked to Michael as he entered. Lady Agatha stood to one side, a faint, slightly malicious smile playing across her lips.

  Lady Agatha’s carriage had collected Michael from his cottage not very long after Theodora’s departure for the school. After he had waved his sister off, he had gone back inside in order to make sure that his appearance was immaculate for his meeting with Lord Ashbourne. With this end in view, he had hurried up the stairs and into his bedroom, so that he could check the arrangement of his neck cloth and his hair. He was so used to his own face that he seldom thought deeply about the remarkable contrast between his hair and his brows. Then, for some reason, he had stared at his features and raised his brows. It was as if he was seeing himself in a different way; a way that was confusing and strange. With a flash of awareness, he had remembered looking at Lady Agatha and thinking that she reminded him of someone. Suddenly he had understood of whom she reminded him: it was of himself.

  On her arrival at the cottag
e, Lady Agatha had smiled at him, more than a hint of mischief in her eye. ‘I trust you’ll find this outing entertaining. I know that I shall.’

  ‘Really, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh yes. An encounter between a virtuous young clergyman and my rakehell of a brother; what could be better? How much have you heard about him?’

  ‘Only a few rumours,’ Michael had confessed, with a feeling of foreboding that he would have been at a loss to explain.

  ‘There was a time when there were plenty of those,’ Lady Agatha had told him. ‘No female was safe from the Fallen Angel.’

  ‘The Fallen Angel?’

  ‘His nickname amongst the ton. Now, of course he’s married to my Jessie and supposedly reformed, but with Raff anything is possible.’

  ‘With whom?’ Michael had asked sharply.

  ‘Raff – my brother; another nickname, only used by his nearest and dearest.’

  Lady Agatha had continued to talk, but Michael had heard no more of what she was saying. He had found himself remembering a number of disconnected ideas that he had previously failed to put together, but which, added together, made a very disturbing picture. His name, Michael, that of one of the angels, after whom all men in the family of the earls of Ashbourne were named; his features, notably his brows, so like those of Lady Agatha; the view expressed by some whom he had met locally, who were convinced that they had met him before; lastly, the nickname of Lord Ashbourne, ‘Raff’ – a name which had just been disclosed to him. Her ladyship could not possibly have known that this was the name which had been upon his mother’s lips just before she died. Michael had been with her at the time. She had looked up at him, her face suffused with a happiness that he had never seen before. Then she had reached up to touch his cheek and breathed the word ‘Raff’ before quietly slipping away. He had not understood the significance of that until now.

  There was only one solution: Ashbourne, the Fallen Angel, the rakehell from whom no female, including Michael’s own mother, was safe, was his father.