“I put it out of its pain,” she corrected, amazed that her voice was as steady as it was cold. She couldn’t quite grasp the fact of his presence, so close to her, so achingly familiar, and yet so impossible. “What are you doing here?” She frowned, adding, “You couldn’t have been responsible for such a bungled kill. You’re far too good a shot.”
“No, it wasn’t me. But we were following the blood trail.”
“You have no right to be on this land,” she stated, grasping the one salient fact that could keep her moored in reality. “This is Carstairs land, and you’re trespassing.”
He shook his head, a strange light flickering at the back of his dark brown eyes. “You wouldn’t have said that a few months ago, Gen.”
Her complexion grew even paler, if it were possible, and all the old rage and sense of betrayal flooded back, bringing her the strength that seeing him again had somehow leached from her. “Oh, believe me, Charles, I don’t need reminding of that. A few months ago, I thought you were someone else, not a crass, dishonest excuse for a man without a gentlemanly bone in your body.”
He flushed with anger, taking half a step towards her, then stopped. “That’s enough, Imogen. It’s an old tune and you’ve played it to a dramatic conclusion. As it happens, I have every right to be on this land, your—”
He was interrupted by a crashing in the undergrowth and the abrupt appearance of two men carrying guns. “My kill, I think,” a ruddy-faced man declared with satisfaction. “And a six-antlered stag . . . I’ll have those mounted. Magnificent, aren’t they?” He moved towards the fallen beast.
Imogen, her gun still held loosely in both hands, stepped smartly between him and his quarry. “As it happens, Mr. . . . whoever you are . . . it is not your kill. Your abominable aim wounded the poor creature in the belly. I took the final shot to put him out of his agony, and that, my good sir, makes it my kill on my family land. You have no right to be carrying a gun, and if you would care to experience the pain of a belly wound yourself, I would be delighted to be of service.”
“Imogen, enough,” Charles strode towards her, seizing her shoulders before she could say anything further to inflame the already empurpled hunter. He spoke swiftly and in a low voice. “For God’s sake, Gen, you can’t go around threatening to shoot people, however provoked you are. Now, take a deep breath.” He gave her a little shake. “It was an atrocious shot, I grant you, and it upsets me too, but I have Duncan’s permission to shoot this land, and a hunter’s lack of skill with a weapon is not a hanging offense, however much you’d like it to be so.”
He was standing so close to her. She could feel the heat of his body, his breath warm on her cheek, and memory flooded her anew, sent her blood racing and her pulse beating at this overwhelmingly familiar moment of intimacy. For a second, she couldn’t take in fully what he had said, but then it struck her. “Duncan gave you permission to shoot on our land?”
“Yes,” he said impatiently, “but that’s a tale for another time. For now, you need to smooth troubled waters. Alan Warwick is not a good man to cross.”
“I don’t give a damn about that,” she responded in a furious undertone. “I was not told anyone had permission to hunt Beaufort land. Hartman never mentioned it to me.”
“Well, I don’t know why that would be. Perhaps Duncan didn’t want to tell you himself in the circumstances. You do intimidate your brother, you know, Gen.” His tone was now slightly amused, and she recognized the tactic of old. Charles always knew how to divert her when her feelings were most intense.
She shrugged his hands from her shoulders and walked over to the dead stag. “The Beaufort agent will instruct the gamekeepers to collect the carcass.” She turned coldly to Alan Warwick. “If you wish for the antlers, Mr. Warwick, I suggest you discuss the matter with Mr. Hartman. As for the meat, that belongs to the Beaufort estate since it was my kill. I’m certain the antlers will give you sufficient bragging rights among those whose society you frequent.” She shot Charles a look that would have turned Medusa to stone as she said this, before striding away, her gun held now in the crook of her elbow.
Behind her she could hear the outraged tones of Mr. Warwick and the clipped tones of Charles Riverdale, who was telling his shooting companion that that was, indeed, the situation. The stag had been killed by someone other than himself and therefore he had no claim to the venison.
It was something of a comfort, Imogen reflected, that in certain matters Charles could still be trusted to behave as she would have expected. But what the hell had he meant about having Duncan’s permission? Surely, however intimidating her brother found his sisters on occasion, he would not have neglected to warn Imogen that she might run into her one-time betrothed on the estate at any moment? But then, she thought dourly, it was probably exactly what she should have expected of Duncan. He would do anything to avoid unpleasantness.
She called for Zoe as she made her way back to the house, but the puppy didn’t make an appearance. Imogen was not unduly concerned. The dog knew her way around the estate and was well known to anyone working there. She would make her own way, or someone would bring her back.
Chapter 4
She broke through the evergreen coppice and onto the lawn, frost still sparkling under the weak sun’s rays. The redbrick house stood on a little rise, a wide paved terrace running along its front, long windows opening onto it from the reception rooms on the ground floor. The long windows and the terrace had been installed by Imogen’s grandfather fifty years earlier, but the upper floors still retained their original narrow, diamond-paned windows. The four sides of the house enclosed an Elizabethan garden, which, even on the windiest, roughest days, was sheltered enough to protect the lavish plantings and even in the depths of winter the fishpond at its center rarely froze.
It was something of a hodgepodge of a house, with its steeped pitch roofs at different heights, all punctuated by a jumble of redbrick chimneys and the turrets at either front corner, but it had a charm and grace only accentuated by its irregularity. For some reason, Imogen always found herself calmed at the sight of her home, and this morning was no exception. She did not, however, head for the front door, but instead made a detour around the house to the estate office in a small cottage attached to the stables.
The agent, Mr. Hartman, was examining the stable accounts when she knocked and came in, but he rose with alacrity and offered her a chair. “A successful morning’s shoot, Miss Imogen?” he inquired pleasantly, seeing the gun in the crook of her elbow. He took his own seat and lit his pipe, sending a wreath of smoke into the already stuffy atmosphere.
“Not exactly,” Imogen confessed. She’d known Hartman since she’d sat atop her first pony, a tiny Shetland perfectly suited to a four-year-old. “I was trying to get Zoe used to the gun, but I doubt she’ll ever get over being gun-shy. However, that’s not why I’m here. I understand Duncan’s given permission to Mr. Riverdale to hunt our land?”
Hartman coughed and tapped his pipe on the ashtray. “Yes, Lord Beaufort informed me of such by letter just yesterday.”
“Well, I happened to bump into Mr. Riverdale and several of his fellow hunters just now,” Imogen continued in a neutral tone. “One of them had shot a six-antlered stag in the belly.” She saw Hartman wince and a flash of anger momentarily mar his generally calm demeanor. “I got to the animal first in Hawker’s Wood and gave him the coup de grace, but this Mr. Warwick, I think his name is, tried to claim the kill for his own. I said he could take the antlers as a trophy, but the venison belonged to the estate.” She shrugged, “We have more than enough venison, of course, but I was angry.” She gave him a rather diffident smile. “You know how it is.”
“Indeed I do, Miss Imogen.” He smiled, knowing the lady all too well. “I’ll alert Hodkiss to the kill. Hawker’s Wood, you said?”
“Yes.” Imogen rose from her chair. “Ask Hodkiss not to give them any help with the antlers. If the wretched man makes a dog’s dinner of taking them off, that
’s his problem.”
“I will ensure no assistance is rendered to the guilty party, ma’am.” Hartman moved to the door, trying to hide his smile. He held the door for Imogen and followed her out to go in search of the head gamekeeper.
Imogen made her way up to the Hall, entering the house through the gun room, spending a few moments cleaning the weapon before hanging it on the rack. Her father had always insisted that his children take charge of their own sporting equipment, whether it was cleaning their own tack in the stables, grooming their own horses, or cleaning their own guns. Esther had no interest in shooting, although she was a fine horsewoman and an avid huntswoman. Duncan didn’t have his elder sisters’ natural abilities as a sportsman, but he knew what was expected of a country gentleman and managed to perform adequately most of the time.
Esther appeared in the hall immediately after Imogen entered from the side corridor. “There you are at last: I’ve been waiting on tenterhooks, Gen. I have some news and I don’t think you’re going to like it, so perhaps we should go into the morning room.”
“It can’t be any worse than the news I’ve had already, Essie,” her sister responded, but Imogen nevertheless headed to the morning room, a square, paneled east-facing salon, which caught the sun until just before noon. Even on a dismal day it was a cheerful and informal room, kept more for the family’s intimate gatherings than for entertaining guests. “Guess who I ran into in Hawker’s Wood this morning.”
“Charles,” Esther answered promptly, following Imogen into the room. “Duncan’s letter . . .” She waved it at Imogen in explanation. “Read it for yourself.”
Imogen took the letter. The information startled her if possible even more than this morning’s unexpected encounter. “Charles has bought the old Beringer property? But how could he afford it? He has a small inheritance, but other than that, just what he earns in the law courts. I know he’s doing well, but . . .” She scanned her brother’s unruly script. “Oh my God, that old uncle of his came through.” She looked up at Esther. “You remember that uncle he has, or rather had, who had that sugar plantation in Jamaica or somewhere like that? Charles always joked that if the old man remembered him in his will, he’d be a wealthy man. But he never really expected it.”
“Well, it seems to have happened,” Esther said. “The Beringer estate has been up for sale for about six months and I think everyone had forgotten about it, and then Charles bought it. He’ll be our neighbor,” she added, somewhat unnecessarily.
“Quite,” Imogen agreed drily. “Of course there’s not much land attached to the Beringer place, so that’s why Charles has leased the hunting rights to some part of the Beaufort estate. But how could Duncan play such an underhanded trick on me, Essie? He could at least have warned me.”
“I think the letter was supposed to do just that,” Esther offered in tentative support of her brother.
“He took his own sweet time about sending it,” Imogen declared. “How the hell are we going to find a way to exist cheek by jowl, Esther? And now I won’t even be able to walk over the estate in case I run into him. Oh, it really is too bad of Duncan.”
“It’s not quite that close, Gen,” her sister pointed out. “Beringer Manor is at least five miles from here. And besides, Charles might not come down too often. He does work very hard in London.”
Imogen grimaced. “That’s true enough, but if he didn’t intend to use the estate, why would he waste good money on it? And five miles is too close by half.” She exhaled on a noisy breath. “It’s probably too much to hope that Charles shows some courteous restraint when it comes to exercising his hunting rights and paying neighborly visits.”
The long case clock in the hall struck noon and she dropped her brother’s letter on a low table. “Oh Lord, is it that late?” She moved to the door. “I must change for lunch. Aren’t we expecting the Collins sisters with their mother?” It was a rhetorical question. “If Zoe turns up before I’m down, let me know,” she added as she whisked herself out of the morning room.
She went up to her room, her mind whirling. Why would Charles buy the next-door estate after what had happened between them? It made no sense at all. Unless it did . . .
She rang for her maid, frowning. Was it possible Charles thought he could rekindle things between them by this proximity? She untied the scarf and tossed it with her hat onto the dresser. He couldn’t possibly wish to have anything further to do with her after her humiliating rejection. You didn’t jilt a man almost at the altar, leaving him the laughingstock of London society, and then find him knocking at your door the next minute asking for forgiveness.
But perhaps it wasn’t forgiveness he wanted. Perhaps it was revenge. She turned as her maid entered the room. “Daisy, I need to change for lunch. The green taffeta, I think.” She dropped her coat on the bed and unbuttoned her jacket and the silk blouse beneath it. Revenge. It would be a perfect torment to have Charles living next door, never knowing from one day to the next when she was likely to bump into him.
She stepped out of her gray wool skirt. In company, she would have to treat him with impeccable courtesy, however distant her manner. But how could she maintain that distance when just being in the same room with him made her blood run fast? And that morning she hadn’t known whether she wanted to shoot him or kiss him. Had he guessed that? Had he felt her reaction to his sudden appearance? But of course he had. And he would know that the confusion she would feel and the restraint she would have to exercise at the sight of him were going to be sheer torture.
A grim smile hovered over her mouth. It was the perfect revenge, and Charles would relish every moment of it. So, how to defeat it?
“Will you change your stockings, Miss Imogen?” Daisy stood in front of an open dresser drawer. Woolen stockings were all very well for tramping the forest in boots, but they wouldn’t do with a taffeta afternoon gown.
“Yes, a pair of the silk ones, please, Daisy.” She sat on the dresser stool and peeled off her woolen stockings, handing them to Daisy and taking the silk pair in return. Daisy, who had been Imogen’s maid from the moment she had left the schoolroom, recognized her mistress’s preoccupation and made no attempt to chat as she might ordinarily have done.
Charles was after revenge. How to turn it to her advantage?
The question absorbed Imogen as she stood still while Daisy buttoned the green taffeta afternoon dress. The heavy mass of brown hair, the color of dark treacle, was plaited into a thick chignon set high on her head and confined with a dark green velvet ribbon. Involuntarily she remembered how Charles loved to unpin her hair, very slowly, letting it fall into a rich cascade down her naked back. He would brush it with long, sweeping strokes, until the lighter highlights in the dark strands shone like liquid honey. She shook her head briskly, trying to dispel the unsettling memory of what always followed the hair brushing. Those mad, passionate tangles in the big bed through long sensual afternoons . . .
If she was going to have to spend time in his company, she was going to have to learn to banish such memories as if they never existed.
“That’s perfect, thank you, Daisy.” She smiled at the maid as she rose from the dresser stool. “Miss Esther and I are dining quietly tonight, so I won’t need your help to dress for dinner. Why don’t you go and visit your mother this afternoon?”
“Thank you, Miss Imogen. The surprise’ll buck ’er up no end—she’s been feelin’ a bit poorly in this cold weather. But Mr. Sharpton . . . ?” Daisy left the question hanging.
“You may tell Mr. Sharpton that you have my permission to take a free afternoon and evening. If he has a problem, he may bring it to me,” Imogen told her.
She hurried downstairs to the drawing room where Esther was just greeting their guests. The Collins ladies were prominent members of the county social circle and Imogen and Esther had grown up with the two sisters and viewed their mother in very much the same light as their own mother had viewed her.
Lady Carstairs had considered Gene
va Collins a boring but well-meaning neighbor, with a lamentable lack of education and spirit. But then Lady Carstairs, whenever she felt well enough, had always been at the front of the field during a hunt. She had also insisted on educating her daughters to a degree considered both unfashionable and deleterious to their prospects of marriage. She had had rather less interest in her son, and both Imogen and Esther had tried to make up to Duncan for the lack of maternal attention. Unfortunately, their father, Viscount Beaufort, had followed prevailing parental dictates and decided that his son and heir had no need of a surfeit of paternal attention. He had packed him off to Harrow at the age of seven and merely inquired generally from then on as to his progress and state of health.
Outside the drawing room door Imogen paused to brace herself for the upcoming ordeal. Lady Collins was not spiteful, but Imogen found her sympathetic lamentations actually harder to bear than the straightforward malice of so many of their other female acquaintances.
“Good afternoon, Lady Collins, Sarah . . . Emily.” She smiled and extended her hand in a warm greeting as she entered the room. “How good of you to make the journey on such a bitter day.”
“Oh, the horses needed the exercise, my dear,” Lady Collins declared. “Lord Collins was only saying at breakfast how they’re eating their heads off in the stables in this weather. And a little fresh air is good for us all, isn’t it, girls?”
“Yes, Mama,” they murmured dutifully, seating themselves side by side on a sofa. Emily glanced at Imogen and dropped an eyelid in a conspiratorial wink. Imogen grinned. She and Emily had been close friends for many years.
“So what have you two been doing to occupy yourselves in this dreadful weather?” Lady Collins inquired, taking a glass of sherry from the tray the footman was presenting to her. “The girls and I have been desperate for some kind of entertainment since the New Year.” She sighed heavily, adding, “And just think how you could have been enjoying the Season in Stanhope Terrace . . . or, indeed, Imogen, in your own establishment.” She shook her head. “Such a shame.”
Jane Feather Page 4