The Outcast's Redemption (The Infamous Arrandales)

by Sarah Mallory

  ‘The door was open and I was curious to see inside.’ He saw the frowning suspicion in her eyes. ‘I have not been stealing the church silver, Miss Duncombe, if that is your concern.’

  ‘There is nothing of that sort left in here now,’ she replied. ‘But what business can you have at the Hall?’

  ‘Curiosity,’ he repeated. ‘After what your father said last night I was interested to see the house, but you may be easy. The caretaker knows better than to let strangers into the house.’

  Aye, thought Wolf, Jones would turn a stranger away, but the man had been happy enough to let Wolf wander through the familiar rooms. If Grace had arrived ten minutes earlier she would have found him in the entrance hall of the house itself. That would have been more difficult to explain away.

  ‘It was remiss of Mr Jones to leave the chapel open,’ she said now. ‘I must remind him of his duties.’

  ‘Must you?’

  ‘Why, yes. While the family are absent we must respect their property.’

  ‘Very commendable, Miss Duncombe, but since we are here, would you object if I took a moment to look around? You may stay, if you like, and make sure I do no damage.’

  ‘I shall certainly do so.’

  Silently he turned to study an ornately carved edifice with its stone effigies. A curious stranger would ask whose tomb this was, so he did.

  ‘That is the tomb of Roland Arrandale and his wife,’ said Grace, stepping up beside him. ‘He was the first Earl of Davenport. The second and third earls are buried here, but the Hall was not grand enough for James, the fourth earl. He built himself a new principal seat and bequeathed Arrandale Hall to his younger son, John. His descendants are buried in the vault below us and you can see the carved memorials on the walls.’

  ‘Including these,’ murmured Wolf, looking up at two gleaming marble tablets.

  ‘They are recent additions. For the late Mr and Mrs Arrandale, and Florence, the poor wife of Mr Wolfgang Arrandale. I believe the younger son arranged for these to be installed at his own expense when the trustees refused to pay.’

  Wolf kept his face impassive. What were those cheese-paring lawyers about to deny money for such things? And Richard—confound it, his little brother should not be bearing the cost. This was his fault. All of it.

  ‘It was fortunate there were no children,’ he said, keeping his voice indifferent.

  ‘Oh, but there was,’ she corrected him, as he had hoped she would. ‘There was a little girl. She was adopted by an Arrandale cousin, I believe.’

  ‘I am surprised her maternal grandparents did not bring up the child.’ He glanced at Grace, hoping she might answer the question he dare not ask. She did not disappoint him.

  ‘The Sawstons moved away from the area after their daughter’s death. They wanted nothing more to do with the Arrandale family, nor their granddaughter.’ Disapproval flickered over her serene countenance. ‘It was cruel of them to abandon the baby at such a time. The poor child had done nothing to warrant it, except to be born.’

  And that was his fault, too. A shudder ran through Wolf and he turned away, saying curtly, ‘There is little of interest here.’

  ‘Unless you appreciate craftsmanship,’ she told him. ‘The font cover is by Grinling Gibbons.’

  ‘Is it now?’ Wolf went to the back of the church where the stone font stood behind the last box pew. He ran a careful hand over the elaborately carved wooden cover. ‘What a pity I did not know that earlier, I might have carried it off to sell in the nearest town.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Is that not what you think of me, Miss Duncombe, that I am a thief?’

  ‘I do not know what you are.’

  ‘Your father trusts me.’

  ‘Father trusts everyone.’

  ‘True. He is a saint and I will not deny that I am a sinner. But I am not here to steal from the chapel.’ Her darkling look was sceptical. He shrugged. ‘I have seen enough here now. Shall we go?’

  She indicated that he should precede her out of the church, then she carefully locked the door. She stood on the path, as if waiting for him to walk away.

  He said, ‘If you are going to the vicarage, I will escort you.’

  ‘Thank you, but before I leave I am going to take the key back to Mr Jones.’

  ‘Very well, I will wait for you.’

  She looked dissatisfied with his answer, but she turned on her heel and hurried away to the house. Wolf followed more slowly. He could only hope that Jones would not give him away.

  A few minutes later she returned and he was relieved by her exasperation when she saw him. Clearly she had no idea of his real identity.

  ‘Yes, I am still here,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I shall escort you back to the vicarage. It is not at all seemly for a young lady to walk these grounds alone.’

  ‘I have done so many times without mishap.’

  ‘So you are an unrepentant trespasser.’

  ‘Not at all, there is a right of way through the park.’

  ‘And you walk here for pleasure?’ he asked her.

  ‘Not today. I have been visiting an old lady. It is much quicker to walk home this way than through the village.’

  ‘It would be quicker still to ride. And having seen you in the saddle I know you ride very well, Miss Duncombe.’

  ‘One cannot live within twenty miles of Newmarket without riding.’ He detected the first signs of a thaw in her response. ‘However, riding today would not have been so convenient. You see, I came through the village and carried out several errands. I passed on Mrs Truscott’s recipe for a restorative broth to one family, called in upon a mother with a newborn baby to see how they go on and took a pot of comfrey ointment to old Mr Brent, for his leg. That would have been much more difficult if I had been riding Bonnie. I would have been forever looking for a mounting block to climb back into the saddle.’

  ‘I quite see that. But do you never ride here, in the park?’

  ‘I would not presume to do so without the owner’s permission.’

  ‘Are you always so law-abiding?’

  ‘I am the parson’s daughter and betrothed to Sir Loftus Braddenfield. I am obliged to set an example.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She looked up. ‘I think you are laughing at me.’

  ‘Now why should I do that?’ He saw her hesitate and added, ‘Come, madam, do not spare my feelings, tell me!’

  ‘I think...’ she drew a breath ‘...I think that you have very little respect for the law!’

  His lip curled. ‘You are wrong, ma’am. I have a very healthy respect for it.’

  Grace did not miss the sudden bitterness in his voice. A convict, then. She should be afraid, he might be dangerous.

  Not to me.

  A strange thought and one she was reluctant to pursue. Instead she looked about her as they made their way through the avenue of majestic elms that led to the main gates and the High Street.

  ‘It is such a pity that the park is now turned over to cattle,’ she remarked. ‘It was a deer park, you know. I used to love watching them roaming here.’

  ‘You remember the house as it was? You remember the family?’

  ‘Of course, I grew up here. At least, until I was eleven years old. Then I was sent off to school. As for knowing the family, my father may be a saint, as you call him, but he was careful to keep me away from the Arrandales. The old gentleman’s reputation as a rake was very bad, but I believe his two sons surpassed him. Thankfully for Papa’s peace of mind, by the time I came back the Hall was shut up.’

  ‘And just when did you return?’

  ‘When I was seventeen. Seven years ago.’

  His brows went up. ‘And you are still unmarried?’

  She felt the colour stealing into her cheeks.

  ‘I
came home to look after my father, not to find a husband.’

  ‘The local gentlemen are slowcoaches indeed if they made no move to court you.’

  He is flirting with you. There is no need to say anything. You owe him no explanation.

  But for some inexplicable reason she felt she must speak.

  ‘I was engaged to be married. To Papa’s curate, but he died.’

  ‘I am very sorry.’

  For the first time in years she felt the tears welling up for what might have been. She said quickly, ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘And now you have a new fiancé,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I am very happy.’

  * * *

  There was a touch of defiance in her words, but Wolf also heard the note of reproof. He had been over-familiar. She was the parson’s daughter and not one to engage in flirtatious chatter, but he had been curious to know why she was still unmarried. She was very tall, of course—why, her head was level with his chin!—and she had no dowry. Either of those things might deter a suitor. But they should not, he thought angrily. She was handsome and well educated and would make any man an excellent wife. Any respectable man, that is.

  When they reached the park gates he saw they were chained, but there was a stile built to one side. Wolf sprang over it and, having helped Grace across, he pulled her fingers on to his arm. Silently she disengaged herself. Understandable, but he could not deny the tiny pinprick of disappointment.

  * * *

  Grace was relieved to be back on the High Street and with the vicarage just ahead of them. This man was far too forward and the tug of attraction made her feel a little breathless whenever she was in his company.

  You are very foolish, she told herself sternly. His only advantage is his height. He is the only man in Arrandale taller than you and that is hardly a recommendation!

  ‘You are frowning, Miss Duncombe. Is anything amiss?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Hastily she summoned a smile. ‘Here we are back at the vicarage. It will be quicker if we walk up the drive rather than going around to the front door and summoning Truscott to let us in.’

  Grace pressed her lips together to prevent any further inane babbling.

  * * *

  She is uneasy, thought Wolf. But how much worse would she feel if she knew I was a wanted man?

  A large hunter was standing in the stable yard and Mr Duncombe was beside it, talking to the rider, but seeing them approach he smiled.

  ‘So there you are, Grace, and in good time.’

  The rider jumped down. ‘My dear, I am glad I did not miss you altogether.’

  Wolf watched as the man caught Grace’s hand and raised it to his lips. He looked to be on the shady side of forty, stocky and thick-set, with a ruddy complexion and more than a touch of grey in his hair. His brown coat was cut well, but not in the height of fashion, and he greeted Grace with an easy familiarity. Even before they were introduced Wolf had guessed his identity.

  ‘Sir Loftus Braddenfield is our local Justice of the Peace.’

  It did not need the warning note in the parson’s mild words to put Wolf on his guard. Some spirit of devilry urged him to tug his forelock, but he suppressed it; Sir Loftus Braddenfield did not look like a fool. The man was coolly assessing him as Wolf made a polite greeting.

  ‘So you are on your way to London, eh? Where are you from, sir?’

  ‘I have been travelling in the north for some time,’ Wolf replied calmly.

  ‘And you thought you’d break your journey in Arrandale. Friend of Mr Duncombe’s, are you?’

  ‘I knew the family,’ explained Mr Duncombe. ‘A long time ago.’

  Sir Loftus was still holding Grace’s hand and it occurred to Wolf that he did not like seeing his fiancée escorted by a stranger. Wolf excused himself and as he walked away he heard Sir Loftus addressing Grace.

  ‘I wish I could stay longer, my dear, but I have business in Hindlesham. I merely called to invite you and your father to dinner this evening. But if you have visitors...’

  Grace’s reply floated across the yard to Wolf as he ran lightly up the garret stairs.

  ‘Mr Peregrine is not a visitor, Loftus. More one of Papa’s charitable cases.’

  He winced. That cool description should allay any jealous suspicions Braddenfield might have. Clearly the lady had a very low opinion of ‘Mr Peregrine’. He went inside, but as he crossed the room he could not resist glancing out of the window, which overlooked the yard. The little party was still there, but the parson and Braddenfield appeared to have finished their discussion, for the magistrate was taking his leave of Grace, raising her hand to his lips. Wolf scowled. She was smiling at Braddenfield more warmly than she had ever smiled at him.

  Kicking off his boots, he threw himself down on the bed. It did not matter what Miss Grace Duncombe thought of him. There were more pressing matters requiring his attention. Putting his hands behind his head, he thought of all he had heard from old Brent and from Jones, the caretaker at Arrandale Hall. He closed his eyes and conjured his own memories of the tragedy. He remembered the servants coming up to the hall while he knelt beside Florence’s almost-lifeless form. Jones had added one small detail that Wolf had forgotten. It had been Charles Urmston who pulled Wolf to his feet, saying as he did so, ‘You have done it this time, Arrandale. Your temper has got the better of you.’

  Everyone would think Florence had met him on the landing, ready to continue their argument, and he had pushed her away so that she had fallen to her death. There were witnesses enough to their frequent quarrels. And the theft of the necklace was also laid squarely at his door.

  He sat up abruptly. Whoever stole the diamonds knew the truth about Florence’s death, he was sure of it. Wolf glanced out of the window again. The stable yard was empty now. Mr Duncombe and his daughter were invited to dine with Sir Loftus, so he was free to patronise the local inn this evening.

  * * *

  ‘Well, well, that was a pleasant dinner.’

  Grace wished she could agree with her father, but if she were truthful, she had found the evening spent with Sir Loftus and his elderly mother a trifle dull. Mrs Braddenfield was a kindly soul, but her interests were narrow and her son, although well educated, lacked humour. Grace supposed that was partly to do with his being Justice of the Peace, a position he took very seriously. They did not even have the company of Claire Oswald, Mrs Braddenfield’s young companion, to lighten the mix, for she was away visiting relatives.

  The conversation over dinner ranged from local matters to the weather and the ongoing war with France, but it had all been very serious. Grace compared the evening to the previous one spent in the company of their mysterious guest. They had discussed a whole range of topics and her own contributions had been received without the condescension she often detected in her fiancé’s manner. Berating herself for being so ungrateful, she sought for something cheerful to say.

  ‘It was very kind of Loftus to put his carriage at our disposal.’

  ‘It was indeed. It would have been a chilly ride in the gig.’

  She heard the sigh in her father’s voice. At times like these Papa felt the change in their circumstances. The tithes that provided a large proportion of his income as rector of the parish had diminished considerably since Arrandale Hall had been shut up and when their ancient coachman had become too old to work they had pensioned him off. Grace had persuaded her father that a carriage was not a necessity; they could manage very well with the gig and the old cob. And so they could, although she could not deny there were benefits to riding in a closed carriage during the colder months of the year.

  Sir Loftus owned the manor house in the market town of Hindlesham. It was only a few miles, but Grace was thankful when they reached Arrandale village, for they would be home very soon. It was nearing midnig
ht and most of the buildings were in darkness, no more than black shapes against the night sky, but light spilled out from the Horse Shoe Inn, just ahead of them. With her head against the glass Grace watched a couple of figures stagger on to the road without any heed for the approaching vehicle. The carriage slowed to a walk, the coachman shouting angrily at the men to get out of the way. From the loud and abusive response she was sure they had not come to harm beneath the horses’ hoofs.

  Grace was relieved her father was sleeping peacefully in his corner of the carriage, for he did not like her to hear such uncouth language. Dear Papa, he was apt to think her such a child! Smiling, she turned her gaze back to the window. They were level with the inn now and there was someone else in the doorway. As the carriage drove by, the figure turned and she saw it was Mr Peregrine.

  There was no mistaking him, the image was embedded in her mind even as the carriage picked up speed. He was hunched, his coat unbuttoned and he was wearing a muffler around his throat rather than the clean linen she had taken the trouble to provide for him. His hat was pulled low over his face and it was the merest chance that he had looked up at just that moment, so that the light from the inn’s window illuminated his face.

  Why should he be skulking around a common inn at midnight? And had he recognised her? Grace drew herself up. She was not at fault. If he had seen her, then she was sure he would be at pains to explain himself. She was more than ever relieved that he was not sleeping in the house. When they reached the vicarage she gently roused her father and accompanied him indoors. She decided not to say anything to him about their guest tonight, but unless the man had a satisfactory explanation for his activities she would urge her father to tell him to leave.

  * * *

  The following morning she found their guest breaking his fast in the kitchen, freshly shaved, a clean neckcloth at his throat and looking altogether so at ease that for a moment her resolve wavered. But only for a moment.

  ‘Mr Peregrine. When you have finished your breakfast I would be obliged if you would attend me in the morning room.’