The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two

by Louise Allen

  ‘Not at all and I do not require an apology.’ They might have been discussing a spilled cup of coffee. Jared was his usual perfectly calm, unreadable, self. He was managing to scan the inn yard for hazards as well as pay her attention and his competence was beginning to provoke Guin to the point of recklessness.

  She wanted to poke at him, like a foolish child prodding a stick through the bars of the bear’s cage in the menagerie at the Exeter Exchange to see the beast’s fangs. Instead she inclined her head graciously and surprised a flicker of reaction in the depths of those amber hawk’s eyes. Was he trying to provoke her? Were they both playing some kind of game, one where she had no idea of the rules, or the prize?

  She was still pondering on the conundrum when the carriage turned through the high stone gateposts of Allerton Grange in the mid-afternoon. The sun was shining, the small park looked picturesque and tranquil and the house when it came into view sat secure and welcoming on a slight rise.

  ‘It is difficult to believe that we fled from here in such alarm and confusion,’ she said as Jared dropped the window to lean out and survey the building.

  ‘It looks a fine small property.’

  ‘That is not why Augustus bought it – he knew nothing about it, really – it was an act of charity which fortunately turned out to be good business. His Quenten cousins had something of a financial crisis, I believe, and had to move from here. When Augustus attended his cousin Charles’s funeral he took the place off the heir’s hands, unseen, to help out. He visited on his way home to see what kind of pig in a poke he had acquired and encountered me at the Red Griffin in the village. I was in the throes of a distressing discussion with the local magistrate, Francis was laid out in the cellar, the landlady wanted both me and the body out of there…’ She gave a little shiver at the recollection. ‘It was all horrible and Augustus descended like a good angel and rescued me.’

  ‘An interesting choice of word,’ Jared said, turning back from the view to study her face. ‘Why did you need rescue? Assistance, I could understand.’

  ‘Because they suspected I had killed my husband, of course.’

  ‘And of course you had not, but circumstances made it seem that way.’

  Was that a statement or a question? Guin knew she had lost colour: a guilty conscience was a damnable thing. ‘If you are asking me if I pushed him out of the window, then the answer is, no, I did not.’

  Did I wish him with the Devil? Yes. Did I do nothing to stop himself drinking until he was incapable? Yes. Was I relieved that he was dead? Yes, Heaven forgive me.

  As though she had spoken out loud Jared sent a sharp look at Faith who was tactfully gathering up books and Guin’s parasol and shawl. He said nothing, but Guin was certain that this was something they were going to have a discussion about as soon as they were alone, although why he thought it relevant to the present problem she had no idea.

  Jared left Guinevere reacquainting herself with Porrett the butler and Mrs Mountjoy the housekeeper and assuring them that not only was her own maid with her but that one of the footmen from London had accompanied them to help ease the burden of her arrival with a guest and virtually no notice. ‘In fact it is Thomas, who you’ll remember, of course. It should make things easier as he knows the house and everyone so well,’ Jared heard her explaining as he walked off round the house.

  He was looking for the terrace where the adder was placed in the sewing basket and found it soon enough. Three sets of long windows, with very low cills that could be stepped over, gave access to various rooms in the house from the rectangular area of flagstones. There was a small flowerbed and fountain in the centre of the terrace and paths approached it around the house from both sides. The shrubbery was only twenty or so yards away across the lawn. There was nothing here to give a clue about who might have interfered with the basket, but someone from inside the house seemed most likely, despite the cover given by the plantings.

  Jared kept walking until he reached a fanciful corner turret added by someone with more romance on their mind than architectural good taste. The door at the base was unlocked and he went in and found a staircase with a carpet runner over stone steps and an elegant curving handrail rising to his right and another door, presumably into the house.

  He took the stairs, counting to the point where Northam said Guinevere had fallen, then looked back. A healthy young woman would have to be very unlucky indeed to be seriously hurt from such a tumble. Bruises, perhaps a broken wrist or ankle, but that was all. He climbed higher until he reached a door. From that point a fall would be far more serious, potentially lethal.

  The door opened onto a semi-circular room furnished as a lady’s retreat. There was a chaise, a bookcase with full shelves and a little writing desk. Both the shelves with their informal rows of books, some stacked up, one lying open, and the desk with several piles of paper, looked well-used. There were light, charming draperies and a tea table with two chairs. It was all very feminine without being frilly and he could picture Guinevere there.

  As he was thinking it the door opened and she came in, closing it behind her with a click. ‘I thought you might have found your way here.’

  Jared looked at the chaise, then back at her, cursing his imagination. Fuelled by last night’s encounter it was painting a vivid image of Guinevere on that chaise, only this time without any clothes and her hair unbound. It was so real that he could taste her, feel her, visualise exactly how it would be to lie between those pale, curved, soft-skinned thighs and –

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked, inflaming things further by sitting on the chaise.

  ‘Last night.’ Then, when she blushed, rosy and delicious, he added, ‘But we are not going to talk about that.’ Not now. ‘Tell me about your first husband.’

  That drove the blush away. ‘He married me believing I had money, quite a lot of money. I did not and my father, who had, made certain that I – and my husband – would get none of it. I thought Francis was genuinely interested in me for myself. I had no idea that Papa was generally thought to be a rich man locally because he was always careful with his money, never went for show or luxuries.’ Guinevere broke off, bit her lower lip. ‘Any affection Francis might have felt vanished like mist in the sunshine when he found there was no dowry. It all became my fault.’

  ‘And how was he paying his way in the world?’

  Again she punished her lower lip. ‘Gaming, betting on horses. Doing favours for friends, although what those consisted of, I have no idea and I am not certain I wish to know.’

  ‘Living on his wits, in other words.’

  ‘Yes – on his wits and on moneylenders. My brother Henry thought he was the good friend of a most reputable acquaintance, the acquaintance believed he was a friend of Henry’s, he insinuated his way into house parties and soon he was a familiar face in local Society. My father, who was by nature more suspicious than Henry, made some enquiries, but it was too late by then. I had… he…’ She squared her shoulders and met his gaze, eyes dark with remembered pain and the effort of honesty. ‘I was foolish enough to be seduced. When Papa forbade the match I was even more foolish and admitted as much. Francis was certain that if we eloped Papa would relent, but he did not.’

  ‘So you had returned to Lancashire at that point?’

  Guinevere nodded. ‘Then someone to whom Francis owed money sent some awful men to make him pay it back and we had to run. Francis kept drinking and every night he – It was unpleasant, but I discovered that if he drank a lot he became maudlin, not violent or amorous any more, so I encouraged him to drink. I thought that somehow I would find a way to earn some money, or Francis would have a relative who might help him. Or a miracle would happen, I suppose.

  ‘It was wrong of me not to try and keep him sober, of course. By the time we arrived at the Red Griffin in the village he was drinking gin heavily every evening. The inn has a very tall window on the stairs and it was open that night because it was so hot. I do not know exactly
what happened because I hadn’t seen him since the middle of the afternoon and there were no witnesses, but apparently he stumbled out of the bar, very drunk, and was last seen at the foot of the stairs, starting to climb.’

  ‘A clear-cut matter for the Coroner, even though there was no actual witness to the fall,’ Jared said, keeping a tight hold on his temper. The man was dead, he couldn’t run him through as every instinct urged him to, and showing anger would only frighten Guinevere.

  ‘It would have been,’ she agreed with that deceptive calm she so often showed when things became really bad. ‘Only he was seen at the foot of the stairs leading to our chamber at half past eleven and he did not fall until midnight when he almost crushed an unfortunate ostler who was on his way to the outside privy.’

  ‘Time to have reached your room and for you to have had some part in his fall, they thought? But if he fell from a landing window, how are you supposed to have got him there?’

  ‘Our bedchamber window was right next to the stairs. The ostler was more interested in his bladder than star-gazing and he was frightened out of his wits when Francis crashed down just behind him. He had no idea which window of the two he fell from.’

  ‘What do you believe happened?’

  ‘I think that he collapsed on the landing outside our door, lay there for a while in a drunken haze, then, when he got to his feet, he was so unsteady that he went out of the window while he was groping for the door handle.’ She stood up, took an uncertain step towards the desk, shook her head as though she had forgotten what she had been about to look for, and sat down again.

  ‘Everybody was very kind at first, but I think they could tell I was not grieving. And I was not, Heaven help me, I was relieved. Not that he was dead, never that, but that he was gone. I could see that they were suspicious and I wrote immediately to my family, begged them to send me some money to pay a lawyer to advise me. They responded by return disowning me – and Augustus walked into the bar that day just as the magistrate was becoming rather exasperated with my lack of answers to his questions.’

  ‘And rescued you.’ Guinevere nodded and smiled for the first time since she had begun her story. ‘Why were you here. In the village, I mean?’ he asked. ‘Allerton is a small place, off all the main routes. I would have thought Willoughby would have made for a large town, somewhere he could sink out of sight and avoid his creditors, somewhere he might find a mark or two for a confidence trick or some crooked gaming.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Guinevere stood up again and went to the window, stared out as though the landscape might hold the answer. ‘I assumed he was heading for Lincolnshire, if I thought about it at all. Something he said once made me think he might have come from there. The night before we got to Allerton he said that if my family wouldn’t do right by him then he would get help from his.’

  ‘That makes no sense. If he was travelling to Lincolnshire from Lancashire the best route would be down through Leeds and Doncaster.’

  ‘So it would be,’ Guinevere agreed, turning from the window. The unhappiness on her face had been replaced by animation, an interest he was relieved to see there. ‘I was far too occupied being miserable and telling myself what a fool I had been and I never thought about it.’ Then she shrugged, the green lights in her eyes that Jared had begun to associate with happiness faded. ‘But what does it matter what he was doing here? Whoever was behind the attacks on me, is responsible for Augustus’s death, it was not Francis Willoughby and that is about the only fact we can be certain of.’

  ‘Where was he buried?’ Jared asked. He wouldn’t be satisfied unless he saw a good solid grave slab on top of the bastard.

  ‘In the village churchyard. Augustus paid for everything, attended the funeral himself. Why? Are you thinking that he is not dead after all?’ She shook her head. ‘I had to identify him, remember.’ Guinevere lost colour. ‘His head was badly damaged, but not his face. There can be no mistake.’

  ‘Of course. Enough of that. What do you want to do with the rest of the day?’

  ‘Mrs Mountjoy has a long list of items she insists she needs my opinion on, but I wanted to have a few moments of tranquillity to think about Augustus here before I am immersed in domestic trivia. I always loved this room.’

  ‘And I am bringing anything but tranquillity into it. I will leave you in peace and see you at dinner.’

  Guinevere came down to breakfast with an expression of determined cheerfulness that did not convince Jared for a moment. At dinner the night before she had been apologetic for being so lacking in sensible conversation and had snatched at his suggestion that she must be tired, should not mind him and should take herself off to bed as soon as she had finished dessert.

  Jared wondered whether she had been afraid that he might have expectations after the previous night, that he might appear at her chamber door wanting admittance to her bed. Her eyes had widened when he asked her where her room was and he noticed the hint of relief when he pointed out that he had to know where she was in order to guard her.

  ‘Your room is next door to mine,’ she’d said, colour in her cheeks. ‘I explained to Porrett about your role as bodyguard.’ Then she had fled. He wondered whether she had decided that their lovemaking had been a terrible mistake or whether she was simply very tired and remembering Lord Northam in these surroundings was adding to her grief.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘I have to go out for a while,’ Jared said abruptly as he finished his third cup of coffee. Suddenly he could not cope with seeing that look on Guinevere’s face, that blank unhappiness that she was bearing so well, that courage despite the memories he was powerless to erase for her. Even the lovely sea-green of her eyes seemed merely grey today. ‘I want you to promise that you will not go anywhere without Faith and that you will not set foot outside the house without both her and one of the men with you.’

  ‘I promise. But why? What do you expect to happen?’ Her expression was tense but her voice was quite even.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Jared said grimly on his way through the door. He found the back stairs and went down to the half-basement, following the sound of voices.

  ‘And you get your sticky fingers off those lemon tarts, Thomas Bainton.’

  ‘I like ’em.’

  ‘Aye, you and Master Frank both and it was like having a plague of blackbirds down here when the two of you smelled my baking – and both old enough to know better.’

  ‘You used to work here as a young man, Thomas?’

  They all swung round at the sound of his voice. Thomas got up from the chair by the scrubbed pine table where he had just been reaching for one of the tarts cooling on a rack. Mrs Mountjoy looked up from a rocking chair by the range and a stout woman who must be the cook paused in her pastry-work, the glass rolling pin poised in mid-air. A scullery maid stopped in her scrubbing of the breakfast pots and pans and stared.

  ‘Aye, sir. I was the boot boy.’ Thomas made surreptitious flicking movements, trying to get the crumbs off his livery. ‘Then when the family moved away to Cross Holme towards Whitby I went with them as under-footman but they couldn’t afford to keep me on. I got a position in Whitby but I came back when his lordship took up residence and wanted staff.’

  So the Quentens lived near Whitby now? That was too close to familiar ground for comfort, although he did not recognise the name.

  ‘I am going out for an hour or so. Please find Faith and send her to Lady Northam immediately.’

  ‘Aye, sir, Mr Hunt.’ He went out in a shower of crumbs.

  ‘Is there a riding horse in the stables, Mrs Mountjoy?’

  ‘There is, sir. Lord Northam’s hunter and a mare for her ladyship. They left them here for when they visit.’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ He paused by the back door. ‘And her ladyship is not at home to anyone unless I am with her, is that clear? I do not care whether it is the vicar or the Prince Regent.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Mrs Mountjoy was tight-lipped and he coul
d tell she was itching to know on what grounds he was giving the orders, but he thought she would obey nonetheless.

  The Northam coachman and groom had taken over the stables and reduced the resident stable lad to very junior status. He scurried to ready the sturdy black hunter and knuckled his forelock when Jared took the reins and swung up into the saddle, his eyes riveted on the rapier Jared wore at his side.

  ‘Which way to the village?’

  ‘Over yonder, sir. You can see the top of the church tower on the left side of the big oak, sir. Gi’ower, you lummock,’ he added to the horse as it slobbered down the back of his neck.

  Jared felt the accent washing over him like a tide of memory. He’d played with the local boys growing up, had many a good skelping – beating, he corrected himself – for using a strong Yorkshire accent at home for fun. He was not sure now that he was pleased to be hearing it again, it would make keeping it out of his own voice that much harder. He nodded to the lad and turned the big horse towards the yard entrance. ‘What’s his name?’ he called back.

  ‘’ero.’

  The horse went willingly enough, then took exception to the stable cat slinking across his path, a baby rat in its mouth. ‘Stop that, there’s nowt to nark you there, you gurt ninny, Hero,’ Jared scolded him, for the simple pleasure of letting the words roll off his tongue. Yes, he most definitely must resist the temptation to talk Yorkshire.

  The village was compact, with lanes running off from a central green towards the farms and holdings that dotted the rolling hills. Jared passed the Red Griffin and made for the church, uncertain what he was looking for but obeying the instincts that had served him well in the past. Guinevere believed he was wasting time and thought on Francis Willoughby but he was prepared to accept that there was something he had seen or heard which was buried deep in his mind. It had not yet linked to other fragments of information, but it was niggling at him.