The earl did no such thing. He put his arms about Margery and drew her close, slowly, with the rusty unfamiliarity of someone who had forgotten what it was to love. Margery was smiling and crying at the same time; she was speaking but Henry could not hear her words, and the earl’s head was bent as he listened and held his granddaughter as though she was the most precious gift he had ever received.
Henry felt as though someone had punched him in the gut. In that moment, he saw the earl not as the dusty old autocrat who had ruled everyone’s life like a minor despot but as a man with the same fears, hopes and failings as all other men and the same need for love.
He remembered the evening he had spent with Margery. He remembered her laughter and her generosity of spirit, and how he had thought she could make the world a warm, sweet place again. For her grandfather she had done precisely that. He felt shaken, because for a short moment, fiercer and more sharply than before, he wanted that same light in his life. There was a dangerous ache in his throat. He waited for the cold indifference to return and sweep away such thoughts. Nothing happened. The ache remained. The longing threatened to devour him whole.
He stepped back, closed the library door softly behind him, and left the earl and his granddaughter alone.
CHAPTER NINE
The Seven of Swords: Malice. Be careful in whom you place your trust
MARGERY AWOKE IN A BEDROOM the size of Berkshire. She had been so tired that she was convinced she would sleep the clock around, but the habit of early waking was ingrained in her and she could see that it was barely past six. As soon as she was awake, her mind was already busy with memories and impressions of the previous day, of the journey and the house and her grandfather. When she had first seen him she had been terrified, for he had seemed so grand and so aloof. Then she had seen beyond the superficial to the sick and lonely old man, and in that moment she had loved him.
In some ways the earl reminded her of Henry. She shifted restlessly under the weight of the bedcovers. Henry, the real Henry Wardeaux and not the charming man who had nearly seduced her, was driven by duty, cold, ruthless and determined. There was a hard shell to him that was impossible to penetrate. It was no surprise that he was so self-contained, she thought, if he had grown up in this great empty house or somewhere similar, with a mother who looked as though to smile might crack her face, and with no love or laughter or joy. She felt a pang of pity for the solemn child Henry must have been.
Then there was Lady Emily, her great-aunt, trailing scarves and reading the tarot cards. Over a late supper she had fixed Margery with her sorrowful gray eyes and had told her that she had drawn the Three of Wands in connection with her arrival. Margery had been unsure if this had been a good or a bad thing but thanked her aunt very carefully.
“It is a card of good luck and opportunity,” Lady Emily said. “But one must beware of the reverse. It also signifies stubbornness.”
“A defining Templemore characteristic,” Henry had murmured, his eyes meeting Margery’s across the teacups.
Margery was still a little hazy on the family relationships but she already knew about the scandal involving Lady Emily. The previous Lord Templemore, her great-grandfather, had lived openly with his mistress after—or perhaps also before—his wife had died, finally marrying her and legitimizing their daughter. Lady Emily was considerably younger than her half brother, the earl, and seemed a timid creature, always on the edge of nervous speech.
Although Lady Emily was nominally her brother’s hostess, it seemed that Lady Wardeaux took command when she was in the house. It was a most uncomfortable situation, and Margery was profoundly glad she had brought Chessie with her for some friendship and good advice. She had the feeling she was going to need it.
She slipped from the vast bed—it had almost engulfed her, and the mattress was so soft—and pulled back the heavy gold-velvet drapes at the window. It was going to be a beautiful spring day. The sun was already above the line of hills to the east and its light gleamed on the still waters of lake in front of her window. The Little Lake, Henry had called it. The Big Lake must be the size of an ocean.
There was an odd, piercing call below her window. Looking down, Margery could see a peacock strutting across the gravel, tail feathers spread in all their iridescent beauty toward a group of drab brown peahens. The peacock reminded her of Henry, as well. He was the elegant male and she the dull little female who, no matter how much she wished to deny it, was drawn to him by some sort of force of nature she would really rather ignore.
She turned her back on the window. In the morning light she could see all the elements of the room that she had missed the night before. It could have accommodated an entire army. The huge bed of dark wood, hung with heavy gold tapestry, dominated the space, complemented by two clothes chests and a writing table in the same gloomy dark style. There were acres of soft carpet beneath her bare feet.
No fewer than five windows looked out across the deer park, and four doors led out of the room. Turning the handles one by one, Margery found that the first led onto the landing, the second to a closet, the third to a dressing room and the fourth was locked. She stood in the middle of the room, revolving slowly, and decided that this simply would not do. She was a small woman and she required a small room.
In the dressing room she found her bag and unfolded her only spare gown. Lady Grant had assured her that a provincial dressmaker would come straight out to Templemore as soon as she was required, and that her services would do until Margery could return to Town to purchase a proper wardrobe.
The idea of summoning someone to come and clothe her had appalled Margery, but given that the alternative was to endure the sort of supercilious contempt that Lady Wardeaux had shown toward her gown the previous night, she could see that she had little choice.
Chessie had whispered to her that Henry’s mother was aunt to the Duke of Farne, which was no doubt one of the reasons she was so high in the instep. The other reason, Margery thought, was probably just natural unpleasantness. She felt another wayward flicker of sympathy for Henry.
She dressed swiftly then slipped out of the room and down the staircase, running her hand absentmindedly down the shining mahogany surface, as she had been wont to do when she was a housemaid, to see if there was any dust.
There were so many faces looking down at her, so many portraits of her dead ancestors. They peered down from the walls, their eyes following her, staring down their aristocratic noses as though they could not quite believe that she, a maidservant, was the last of the Templemore line. She still could not quite believe it herself.
Her grandfather had told her the previous night that he rose late, and no doubt the household revolved around him. The only part of the house from which there was any sound of activity was beyond the green baize door at the end of the west corridor. On impulse Margery pushed open the door that led to the servants’ hall and went down the steps.
It was a world that was immediately familiar. The cook was lighting the range. A number of yawning housemaids were collecting their brushes and pans. A scullery maid, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, was already scrubbing vegetables and one of the footmen was sitting with his feet up on the battered pine table flirting with a maid. When he saw Margery a look of utter horror came over his face and he swung his feet to the ground, leaping up, smoothing down his livery. Silence fell like a shroud. The clatter and bustle died. Everyone turned to look at Margery.
They all looked appalled.
It was in that moment that Margery realized she had dreamed of finding some friends here in the world below stairs, the world that she knew. But she had completely misjudged matters. The servants at Templemore were not pleased to welcome her as one of them. She was the earl’s granddaughter, the heiress, and she was expected to behave as such. There would be no borrowing of the ovens to bake her confections or cleaning the chandeliers with the housemaid’s feather duster.
She read the panic in their faces because they did no
t know what to do. This was up to her, she realized. It was her first test. She drew herself up and smiled. She hoped it looked gracious rather than terrified.
“I am very pleased to meet you all,” she said. “Please don’t let me interrupt.”
She saw their faces break into smiles of relief. They bobbed curtsies, sketched bows and waited for her to leave. She was shaking as she went back up the stairs. She felt as though there was nowhere for her to go.
In the empty entrance hall the dome scattered light in colored shards over the tiled floor. Margery shuddered at the memory. She ran up the stairs and into her huge room, slamming the door. She ripped off her Sunday best—it was a maid’s outfit and there was no place for it here—and ran into the dressing room. There was an ewer of cold water on the dressing table. Furiously she scrubbed at her body as though she was trying to wash away her very self.
Big fat tears fell on her bare skin, mingling with the cold of the water. She cried for herself and everything she had lost and for fear of the future.
Eventually she stopped crying because, really, it did no good and she had never been one for self-pity, and she went to the door to try to find something to dry herself. And realized she was locked in.
* * *
IT WAS A PERFECT MORNING for a ride over the hills to drive out his demons. Henry gave Diabolo his head as they thundered down the chalk track toward Templemore. It was barely ten o’clock and already he had had an exceptionally trying morning. His mother, never an early riser, had made an entirely unexpected and unwelcome appearance at the breakfast table where he had been enjoying some peace and the Oxford Morning Chronicle.
“I don’t like her,” Lady Wardeaux said, without preamble.
“There was never any likelihood you would,” Henry said, “since she is heir to Templemore. The earl likes her, and that is the salient point.”
“I heard them laughing together last night,” his mother complained. “If we are not careful we will find that his health will improve. He could live for years!”
“That would be no bad thing,” Henry said.
“On the other hand,” his mother continued, as though he had not spoken, “he could be so excited to find his granddaughter that he will have a heart attack and die. One simply cannot tell. Already he is speaking of going up to London in order to give Lady Marguerite a Season. A Season! Can you believe it? It would be a disaster!”
“She’s hardly that unpresentable,” Henry said.
His mother made an exasperated, flapping gesture. “That is not the point. She is sure to run off with some ne’er-do-well like her mother did. The Templemores are sadly unsteady.” She tapped her fingers impatiently on the top of the table. “You must marry the girl at once, Henry, as soon as we can contrive it. We must not miss our chance.”
Henry had slapped his paper down, drained his coffee cup and walked out without another word.
Marry Margery.
The words rang in his head now like temptation incarnate as his stallion crested the ridge and the whole of the Templemore estate was laid out before him. As ever, Henry felt a clutch of the heart to see it in all its neat perfection. He thought he would never grow tired of this view. He had wanted Templemore from the first moment he had seen it at the age of seven. The memory of these green fields was what had kept him sane through the horrors of war on the Peninsula.
If he married Margery he could keep Templemore. If he married Margery he could seduce her properly because his reaction to her had been very similar to his reaction to Templemore, give or take twenty years.
He had seen her and he had wanted her.
He set his teeth and set Diabolo to a gallop. Better to run off his energies out here on a ride than indulge in misplaced fantasies of ravishing the delectable Lady Marguerite. Desire was a bad basis for marriage because in time it burned out, leaving nothing but ashes.
He looked at the view of Templemore. The view gazed back at him, golden and tempting and beautiful.
No.
He would not become a fortune hunter, not even to regain Templemore. He had too much pride to be his wife’s pensioner, living off her money, forever in her shadow. He would leave for his estate at Wardeaux as soon as he could and put Margery, marriage and temptation behind him.
He took the track down to the River Cole at breakneck speed and splashed across the ford heading for the open fields beyond. By the time he turned back to the house and rode into the stable yard the morning sun was high.
Ned, the head groom, came hurrying to take his bridle.
“There’s trouble, my lord,” he said.
“Trouble?” Henry swung down from the saddle.
“Lady Marguerite,” the groom said. “She’s vanished. The house is at sixes and sevens, my lord. Your lady mother has been out here herself to see if Lady Marguerite might have taken a horse and run off.”
“I assume she has not.” Henry shot him a swift look.
“She’s not taken a horse, my lord,” the groom confirmed. “Though where milady is, I have no notion.”
Cursing under his breath, Henry ran up the steps. He did not believe Margery had run away. She had too much courage. In the short time he had known her she had always chosen to stand and fight rather than to run. Nevertheless he hoped his faith in her was justified.
As soon as he entered the house he saw at once what Ned meant. There was a feeling of suppressed panic in the air, a hum of anxiety just below the surface.
The dining room door opened and his mother hurried out closely followed by Lady Emily. “Henry—” Lady Wardeaux began.
“I’ve heard,” Henry said briefly, forestalling her. “What happened?”
Lady Wardeaux shuddered. Lady Emily was dabbing at her eyes with the corner of a lacy handkerchief but there were no tears. On the contrary, Henry could see that her eyes were bright with pleasure and excitement.
“Lady Marguerite visited the servants’ hall early this morning,” Lady Wardeaux said. “The servants’ hall, Henry!”
Henry merely raised his brows and waited.
“When her maid took her morning chocolate up there was no sign of her. We’ve searched everywhere.”
“Everywhere!” Lady Emily confirmed eagerly. “I asked the cards,” she added. “I drew the Eight of Cups reversed. The cards say she has run away.”
“Did they say where?” Henry asked. “It might save us a lot of time if they could be more precise.” He turned back to his mother. “Has anyone woken the earl?”
Lady Wardeaux looked scandalized. “Good gracious, of course not! Lady Alton did suggest it, but I would not dream of troubling him.”
“It would be the first place that I would look,” Henry said. “Lady Marguerite might be taking breakfast with him.” He was glad that Francesca Alton at least seemed to have some common sense and kept a cool head. “I’ll go myself.”
“But what if she is not there?” Lady Wardeaux plucked at his sleeve to detain him. “If you tell him she has run away he might die of the shock—”
Henry was saved the trouble of replying as Chessie Alton came hurrying down the stair. “I have found her! She is locked in her dressing room.”
At his side Henry felt, rather than saw, Lady Emily make a slight move. “Locked in?” she quavered. “Why would she do such a thing? Doesn’t she like us?”
“I think,” Henry said impatiently, “Lady Alton means that someone else has locked Lady Marguerite in.” He reached Chessie’s side in a couple of strides. “Is the key not in the lock?”
“No.” Chessie shook her head. “And I can hear Margery beating on the door although it sounds as though she is about half a mile away.”
“The doors here are very thick,” Henry said. “We shall need an ax if we have to break it down.”
Lady Wardeaux gave a shocked gasp at the thought of violence being perpetrated against the fabric of Templemore.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” Henry said. “It will be a last resort.” He took Chessie�
�s arm and hurried her away up the stairs. Behind him he could hear Lady Emily’s fluting tones rising to the rafters as she and his mother followed them up the stair.
“But I don’t understand, Celia! The cards said quite clearly that she had run away. They never lie to me.”
By this time they had also gained a retinue of interested servants. Henry half expected the earl himself to come out and join the crowd.
The door to Margery’s bedroom stood open and one of the earl’s spaniels was sitting patiently beside the dressing room door. The key was in the lock. “It was not there a moment ago,” Chessie said, mystified. “Someone is playing tricks.”
Henry looked around. Lady Emily’s face was blank. His mother looked pained and disapproving. The playing of anything, much less tricks, was not in her repertoire. He wondered about the servants. It might be someone’s idea of a practical joke but this seemed unlikely.
He turned the key in the lock and threw open the door. Margery was sitting curled up on the carpet. She was stark naked.
Behind him there was a concerted intake of breath and something approaching an outraged squawk from Lady Wardeaux. Henry tried to tear off his riding jacket to cover Margery but since he wore his jackets fitted to perfection this was easier said than done.
By the time he had struggled out of the jacket, Chessie, once again demonstrating admirable practicality, had rushed across to the bed and retrieved Margery’s robe. Henry flung it over her, then flung a curt dismissal to his aunt, his mother and the growing throng of servants. They departed with varying degrees of reluctance.
“Margery.” He drew her gently to her feet while at the same time trying not to dislodge the robe. It slipped and he only managed to retrieve it by pulling Margery hard against his body. For one long moment the warmth and softness of her was pressed against him, imprinting itself on both his mind and his body. Henry swallowed hard, wrapped her about more tightly with the robe and averted his eyes.
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