by Brenda Hiatt
Steeling herself to ignore her surroundings, Elaine pasted a pleasant smile to her face and greeted Mr. Reeves, the vicar.
“Miss Thompson and Miss Becklin!” he exclaimed in his usual jovial voice. “I have looked forward to seeing you this evening, for I discovered the most interesting volume in Bodmin yesterday.” Though the remarks were addressed to both of them, his eyes had rested exclusively on Anne. They had an understanding and would marry within the year if Merriweather’s career continued as expected.
Elaine returned his greeting, then tactfully excused herself and left them to discuss an obscure book of Cornish tales. Miss Paddington accosted her immediately.
“Good evening, my dear. My, you look nice tonight. Have you done something to that gown or is it new?” she twittered softly.
“Neither,” protested Elaine, as she always did when talking to Miss Paddington. She had worn this same green silk to formal gatherings for the last three years. “But I thank you for the compliment. Have you heard anything from Gerald recently?”
“No, and I am so anxious about the dear boy.” She continued for some time, leaving Elaine to nod occasional agreement while her mind wandered to other things. Miss Paddington was a fluttery lady well past her sixtieth year, who was convinced that her brother Gerald would seriously harm himself unless he invited his sister to come look after him. This despite that the retired Colonel Paddington still enjoyed the services of his long-time bâtman and had often demonstrated both competence and good sense.
“I cannot believe that he could be ill without your knowledge,” soothed Elaine at last. “You know his man would inform you instantly of such an event.”
“It is not illness that bothers me as much as that scheming Miss Appleby,” admitted the lady. “He has not written in two weeks—most unusual for the dear boy—and all of his recent letters are larded with references to the woman. You may count on it. She is after his money.”
“Perhaps I misunderstood,” murmured Elaine. “I did not know that he possessed sufficient fortune to attract an adventuress.”
“Well, I would not call it a fortune precisely, but he is comfortable. Or was until she came along.”
“Who is she?”
“That is just what I don’t know,” said Miss Paddington with a sniff. “She simply appeared in town one day. He has written nothing of her family or her situation. But she cannot be a day over thirty.”
Elaine soothed her as best she could, but it was not until Mrs. Hedges joined them that Miss Paddington’s mind was finally turned to another subject.
“Did you hear about Tom Bennett?” Mrs. Hedges asked once they had exchanged greetings.
“What about him?” He was a small farmer.
“He broke his arm last night on the cliff path. The ground collapsed, pitching him over the side. He managed to cling to a ledge about six feet below and was eventually rescued by Meg Willis.”
“The poor man!” exclaimed Miss Paddington. “How tragic.”
“But how could such a thing happen?” asked Elaine. “The path is not even that close to the edge.” Except for one stretch on the Manor grounds, she conceded.
“Laxity,” intoned Mrs. Hedges. “Mr. Bowles will lift a finger for no one. It is disgraceful how he has let Treselyan slide. Yet Tom Bennett is equally at fault. He has no honest business in that direction and can only have been poaching. But God has extracted retribution.”
Elaine shivered. Some memory nagged at the back of her mind, but it slipped away when Lord Bridgeport entered the room. His eyes blinked as he caught sight of the decor, but that was his only indication of contempt. Though carelessly dressed, in a dark green jacket that did nothing to dim his eyes, he made all the other guests appear the provincials they were. When Mrs. Sutton began introducing him around the room, Elaine turned away.
“How dare that man show up here!” hissed Mrs. Hedges. “So loathsome a creature must contaminate us all.”
“I do not believe he is that bad,” countered Elaine. “If the rumors are really true, he would have been arrested long since.”
“An earl can get away with anything, even murder,” sniffed Mrs. Hedges.
“Where there is smoke, there must be fire,” intoned Miss Paddington disapprovingly.
“I don’t doubt it,” agreed Elaine. “His reputation is known throughout the land. But while I believe the duel, I cannot accept murder.” She turned the talk back to Tom Bennett, for Mrs. Sutton and the earl were moving within earshot.
“I met Miss Thompson some years ago,” Bridgeport said smoothly when they arrived at Elaine’s side. “It has been some time, my dear.” He smiled warmly into her eyes.
“My lord,” she returned warily, wondering what he could be up to now. After her defense of his character, any sign of warmth must be misinterpreted by Mrs. Hedges.
“I heard you were living with an old friend now,” he continued, signaling Mrs. Sutton that he would remain with Elaine for the moment. Somehow he had effectively cut out the older ladies and was maneuvering her away. “Is it anyone I might know?”
“I doubt it, my lord. She was my governess many years ago.” He must have decided to ignore their earlier meeting, at least publicly. A spurt of mischief prompted her to continue. “What made you decide to visit Cornwall? Has London finally become too dull for you?”
“Of course not, but it was time to inspect my estates. It is not good practice to leave everything in the hands of one’s secretary, though Cramer is both honest and competent.”
Fustian! His secretary had never been to Cornwall either. The man had obviously been driven from town by the rumors. She nearly mentioned that, but recalled herself. Her manners, never conventional to begin with, had unfortunately deteriorated in recent years. Resisting his attempt to lead her into a vacant corner that offered a bit of privacy, she headed for Anne’s side.
“Anne, dear, may I present Lord Bridgeport? I believe I mentioned having met him once or twice some years ago. My lord, Miss Becklin, and our vicar, Mr. Julius Reeves.”
The earl raked Anne with an assessing gaze that brought a flush to her face and pushed Elaine’s temper to the brink. But his words as he exchanged pleasantries were commonplace enough. Elaine took advantage of Julius’s garrulousness to join Sir Jeremiah and Major Paxton.
Dinner was unexceptional until midway through the second course. Elaine had been enjoying a delightful conversation on the jungles of India with Major Paxton when Miss Paddington suddenly gasped in indignation.
“How dare you imply poor Gerald could be happy with that painted harpy!” she sobbed. “But I suppose it is all of a piece for a murdering libertine like yourself. Why must you impose your presence on decent people?”
The clatter of a dropped fork exploded into the sudden silence. Like everyone else, Elaine stared at Bridgeport. If ever a man had murder in his eyes, it was the gray-faced earl, but as she watched, he pulled himself together.
“It never ceases to amaze me how drastically rumors change the farther they fly from their source,” he said lightly. “If you actually believe such rubbish, then I salute your courage in sitting down to table in my company.”
“I apologize, my lord,” she countered, face red with mortification. “I am sure I never meant to say such a thing.”
“And why not?” demanded Mrs. Hedges. “We have all heard how you killed Lord Wainright.”
“I know not what twisted tale has winged its way to Cornwall, but it is obviously not the truth.” He shrugged.
Squire Sutton and Sir Jeremiah both tried to engage Mrs. Hedges in conversation, but she refused to be dislodged.
“And what do you claim to be the truth?” she demanded maliciously.
“According to his personal physician, he died of heart failure,” Bridgeport responded shortly, turning his attention back to his plate. The food suddenly tasted like sawdust.
“And the duel?” she challenged to gasps from the other guests.
“Exists only in his val
et’s mind. The man ran mad when his master died, unable to deal with the sudden loss of his job. He is unlikely to find another in society, as his skills are quite inferior.”
“But you wounded him, sir.”
“It is true that I scratched him slightly several days earlier when the button loosened on my foil. Other gentlemen who were also fencing that day witnessed the accident. But it had healed.”
Mrs. Hedges clearly did not believe him. “But how then do you explain your parents’ deaths?” she demanded.
“What?” He was obviously shocked. “You cannot be serious! Even London’s rumor mill never conjured up such calumny.”
“Do you deny you killed them?” Gasps and outraged glares from the other diners told her that she had gone too far, but she was too incensed with self-righteousness to heed them.
“Absolutely. At the time of their accident, I had not set foot on the estate in five years. Now I have put up with enough of your vitriolic accusations, Mrs. Hedges. It is time for you to answer some questions. Where did you hear such tripe? Or are the sensational embellishments your own?”
“Well, I never!” she sputtered. “Your misdeeds are the talk of London, as you must know. My cousin lives there and hears everything.”
“What is her name?”
“Mrs. Eustace Eldridge.”
“I never heard of her. She cannot move in the best circles. Nor can she possibly be your only source, dear lady, for this last malicious tale has never been to town. Someone is deliberately trying to blacken my name, and I want to know who and why.”
“It is true that Eustace never mentioned your parents,” she admitted grudgingly. “But the story is all over Bodmin.”
“Have you any idea who first heard it?”
“I did not ask,” she conceded. “Why would someone wish to slander you?”
“If I knew that, I would be in a fair way to solving this mystery.” Bridgeport frowned, but dropped the questioning and allowed the Suttons to assert control over the table.
No one referred again to the rumors, though Mark knew this confrontation would be reported and analyzed throughout the district for much longer than the proverbial nine days. He briefly considered excusing himself after dinner, but that would lend credence to the witch’s words. Besides, he wished to begin his campaign against Miss Thompson. She had outmaneuvered him earlier, adroitly avoiding a tête-à-tête.
“Will you honor me with a hand a piquet?” he asked upon joining the ladies in the drawing room, surprising Elaine both by the request and by his closeness, for she had not been aware of his approach.
She frowned. “I think not, my lord. My game is nowhere near as good as yours must be, and I cannot afford to lose.”
“How about if we play for imaginary stakes and I spot you a hundred points?” He flashed the smile that often encouraged women to throw themselves into his arms.
She was unmoved. “You would enjoy a hand with Major Paxton. He is considered a good player.”
“But I prefer to play with you tonight, Miss Thompson,” he replied seductively, placing a hand on her arm as she turned away.
She threw him an exasperated look and sighed. “You would be better served to leave after that unmannerly exhibition at dinner.”
“Be fair. What else was I to do? Is she always so judgmental?”
“She makes Lady Beatrice look like a saint,” Elaine admitted, referring to London’s most avid and least forgiving gossip.
He grimaced. “Save me from more of her spite then and play a hand with me.”
“Very well, my lord.”
“You have considerably improved, Mary,” he commented after they had begun the first hand.
“I could hardly help it,” she said with a shrug. “And I have used the name Elaine since leaving London, not that you have permission to use either.”
“Helen calls you Miss Elaine.”
“Helen is a friend.”
“Well, that certainly puts me in my place, Miss Thompson. I suppose it is useless to ask whether you might consider me a friend.”
“Quite.” She allowed herself a smile as she won the hand.
“I believe you lied about your expertise,” he teased.
“Hardly. Everyone gets lucky now and then, though Lady Luck is a fickle friend. She is generally there when one does not need her, but abandons one quite suddenly when most desired.”
“You sound as though you have been burned.”
She stared directly into his eyes so he could not mistake her meaning. “I have, my lord, and have learned to assume responsibility for my own fortunes.”
“As I have cause to know,” he agreed softly. “I have a favor to ask of you, Miss Thompson—two, actually.” He dealt a new hand.
She raised her brows.
“The first is that we put our past acquaintance—if one can call it that—behind us.”
Though suspicious of his motives, she nodded.
“The second involves Helen. I had suspected that all was not well with her even before you raked me over the coals. I am sending to London for a governess, but she needs more attention than I can give her in the meantime. I would like to borrow your companion to look after her until the woman arrives.”
She stared at him for quite some time before she could formulate a response. “My lord, I have no idea why you have chosen to approach me. Miss Becklin is certainly not in my employ and orders her life to suit herself. It is true that she used to work as a governess, but you would have to make arrangements with her personally.”
“I must have misunderstood then,” he said without the slightest sign of embarrassment. “It was my impression that she had been your governess and was now your companion.”
“Nonsense. She took me in when I had no other place to go and has taught me much, but we are equals.”
“You have become a most unusual lady,” he commented warmly.
“Save the flirtation for London, my lord,” she warned. “It has no place in Treselyan. My hand, I believe?” She laid down her cards with a satisfied smile.
She refused to discuss either Anne or herself again that evening. He spent the next hour playing cards with her, flirting ever so lightly for she was skittish as a newborn colt. But his frustration steadily increased. Despite his best efforts, she remained immune to his charm.
Elaine wondered what game he was playing. After their earlier confrontation, this overt friendliness was unbelievable. Had he merely been caught by surprise that first time? Perhaps reflection had cooled his temper.
Or perhaps not. She frowned at the cards. Despite their rare meetings in town, she had formed several vivid impressions of her betrothed. Except with his mother, who dominated everyone, he was not a man one could cross with impunity. And that was hardly a characteristic he would have abandoned in the interim. His comment about her hiding on his own estate hinted that he had searched for her. He must have decided to avenge himself by seducing her. Or perhaps he was merely setting her up as his flirt of the moment.
Either way, she must see that he failed.
She defeated Bridgeport easily, leading by two hundred points after an hour’s play and winning a handsome imaginary fortune. But there was little pleasure in the feat. His mind had not been on the cards. Silently sighing in relief, she accepted Sir Jeremiah’s request to join a table of loo.
The baronet was a gentle man whose clothes always hung loosely on a skeletal frame and whose thinning hair and bulbous blue eyes made him look like a walking caricature. Now in his late thirties, he had been tentatively courting Elaine for the last three years. Or perhaps he was intensifying his friendship—she could never quite decide which.
Bridgeport joined Mrs. Sutton, Mr. Jessup, and Mrs. Hedges for a game of whist. He had not intended to socialize during this visit, but his plans for Miss Thompson demanded it. He could hardly win her affection if he never saw her. And now that Mrs. Hedges had thrown down a gauntlet, he had no choice. Any withdrawal would be interpreted as an a
dmission of guilt. He grimaced as his partner trumped his ace. It had been long since he had encountered such wretched card players.
“That Kember boy is dangling after the apothecary’s daughter again,” announced Mrs. Hedges, triumphantly sweeping up two tricks in a row. She had not mentioned his supposed sins since dinner, and he could only pray she would avoid the topic for the remainder of the evening.
“Now, Mildred, you know there is nothing wrong with Jimmy Kember,” snorted Mrs. Sutton. “His father is a respectable innkeeper. Your only complaint is that ancient yarn about Jimmy stealing peaches from your prize tree.”
“Nonsense. The lad’s father is a smuggler if I ever saw one.”
“I doubt it,” murmured Mr. Jessup. “Not that it would matter much if he were.”
“I hear Mr. Graves has taken a turn for the worse,” stated Mrs. Sutton firmly, determined to turn the conversation lest the gossip work her way from one crime to another and set upon Bridgeport again.
“He’ll be gone within the week,” agreed Mrs. Hedges. “And just as well. We need a new sexton. The work is too difficult for one so old. He nearly killed himself digging poor Mr. Beringer’s grave, rest his soul.”
“The artist?” asked Bridgeport in surprise.
“I wouldn’t exactly call him an artist,” sniffed Mrs. Sutton. “He drew pictures for books and made some prints that he claimed sold well in London, but I never thought much of his portraits. Why the one he painted of Lady Penstoke made her look positively jaundiced.”
“She does,” Mrs. Hedges reminded her. “Never saw anyone so yellow—except Luke Pilcher, but he was far too fond of wine.”
“But a good artist makes sure his subject looks presentable,” insisted the squire’s wife.
“Even when she don’t?” scoffed Mr. Jessup. “I agree that a little touching up is good—deleting temporary blemishes, for example. But how can one perpetrate a fraud upon posterity by being portrayed as something one is not?”