The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

There was a pause. “Not any man. What do you mean by that girl, Patrick?”

  “What girl?”

  “Don’t be obtuse. It doesn’t suit you.”

  He raised his brows. “It’s a genuine question. I am accused of affairs with everyone from the maids to—”

  “To me,” she finished for him. “But I doubt you mean to ruin a duke’s sister. Unless she really annoyed you. You don’t look annoyed.”

  “Why should I be? Her brother is a friend.”

  “He’d have to be an extremely good friend to put up with her staying in your house.”

  “That is why the Longstones are here.”

  “You are a manipulative devil, aren’t you, Verne? You have that girl eating out of your hand.”

  It’s all pretense. “I wish I did,” he said mildly.

  “It isn’t kind.”

  He blinked and met her gaze once more. “Since when have either of us cared for kindness?”

  “You don’t fool me, Patrick. You never did. Don’t hurt her. It will just be one more guilt to bear.”

  “My shoulders are broad. Why this sudden care for a mere woman?”

  “I like her,” Izzy said unexpectedly. “She reminds me of me before I married Pierre de Renarde. Full of innocence and confidence in equal measure. I wouldn’t like her to lose both.”

  “As you did?” he asked.

  Her lip curled. “My confidence came back.”

  He touched her cheek, a gesture of old affection. One never stopped caring entirely. “Then go and whip your husband into the man he should be. He’ll be grateful.”

  She caught his wrist. “This from you?” she whispered.

  “We used each other, Izzy. I know you don’t love me.”

  She smiled. “I came close.”

  “So did I.”

  She stepped past him into the library, just as she had many times before. He gazed up at the sky once more, knowing she would merely pass through and return to her own chamber. Part of him, the physical, desperate part, regretted refusing her unspoken offer. The slaking of lust was no small thing at this moment. But she deserved better, and so did… not he, but Cecily.

  *

  Cecily’s new bedchamber looked out onto the overgrown formal garden. She was in her nightrail and trying to compose a letter to her brother when she became aware of the faint hum of voices outside. Since she had bade the maid leave the curtains open, a dim glow of light touched the window from below.

  Curiously, she returned the pen to its stand and stood up. At first, she saw no one, until she pressed her face to the glass and glimpsed two figures some yards to the left, close to the house. They were bathed in light spilling from the room beyond them, so it was not difficult to recognize her host and Madame de Renarde.

  All at once she remembered the scene at the Hart, as Verne said farewell to his shady companion in French. This woman was French, too, which reminded her she had never solved the mystery of why he was there that night. She still had no clue about the identity or purpose of any of his companions.

  On the other hand, eavesdropping at a public inn was somehow not quite the same as doing so to your host in his own home. And Madame de Renarde had already implied some knowledge, some intimacy between them that she most assuredly did not wish to witness. For an instant, a paralyzing surge of jealousy swept through her, depriving her of breath. And so she saw him touch the Frenchwoman’s cheek with tenderness, saw her catch at his wrist. He did not draw it free. Instead, after a brief, low-voiced exchange, she walked past him into the house. Cecily guessed it was his library, where he had taken her when he had first brought her here. She knew now it led to his own private apartments.

  She should not care, but it seemed she could not take her eyes off the man who stood below, gazing up at the stars for several long moments. She thought he smiled as he finally turned and followed Madame de Renarde inside.

  Cecily tried quite hard to laugh at herself. My engagement has not yet happened, and when it does, it will be false. I should rejoice that he has a lover. It provides me with an excuse to cry off.

  *

  The next day dawned fair and sunny, inspiring Henry Longstone to suggest an expedition to the priory ruins with an al fresco luncheon.

  “It sounds a delightful scheme,” Cecily approved, eager to escape Finmarsh House for a few hours. “Is it far?”

  The whole party, save their host, was at breakfast, and Henry laid down his fork before he answered, “No, it’s about an hour’s gentle ride, still on Finmarsh land. It wasn’t a terribly important monastery but it makes a most romantic ruin.”

  “But does Verne have enough horses to mount us all?” Mrs. Longstone asked.

  “We can only ask him.”

  “Ask who what?” Verne said, sauntering in in riding dress.

  There was mud on his boots, as though he had already ridden out this morning. He seemed to bring a gust of fresh air into the room, contrasting with the constant air of dangerous dissipation that always hung around him. His hair was wild and tangled, his eyes strangely turbulent beneath the thin veil of careless calm.

  Deliberately, Cecily did not glance at Madame de Renarde, who was the one, inevitably, who answered him. “We were thinking of riding over to the priory. Can you lend us enough horses for everyone?”

  “You may exclude me,” Lady Barnaby said hastily. “If Mrs. Longstone is going. I do not ride for pleasure any longer.”

  “Cousin Isabelle can play chaperone,” Henry said to his mother. “You could stay here with Lady Barnaby if you wished.”

  “No, I shall join you,” Mrs. Longstone said bravely. “If Lady Barnaby does not object to being left alone for a few hours.”

  “Not at all,” Lady Barnaby assured her. “I may write some letters and will almost certainly take a nap.”

  “There are plenty of horses,” Verne said, throwing himself into the seat next to Cecily and pouring himself a cup of coffee. His elbow brushed against hers. “We should give Daniel an hour to prepare. And the kitchen if we’re taking a luncheon.”

  “You mean to come?” Mrs. Longstone addressed one of her rare remarks to her host with undisguised dismay.

  Verne’s lips twitched. “Certainly. Can’t have a parcel of strangers riding roughshod over my land. Besides, I need to speak to Grimshaw.”

  “Who is Grimshaw?” Cecily asked to break the awkward silence.

  “Local builder,” Verne replied.

  “Verne is thinking of rebuilding the north wing,” Madame de Renarde told the company.

  Mrs. Longstone’s eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Because it’s an eyesore,” Verne said impatiently. He met her gaze. “Whatever you imagine, a blackened ruin is not a suitable monument to your daughter or my brother.”

  “You are a monster,” Mrs. Longstone whispered.

  “Hush, Mama,” Henry said, patting her hand while he glared at his brother-in-law. “People might wonder what you’re trying to hide behind your new stone and plaster,” he said contemptuously.

  “They’ve been able to see quite clearly for the last five years,” Verne pointed out. “For myself, I do not care to associate the dead with crumbling, empty ruins.”

  “Unfeeling—” Mrs. Longstone broke off, dabbing her eyes with her napkin.

  “Undoubtedly. But frankly, ma’am, it is not your business whatever I decide to do with this house.”

  He had a point, though no one but Cecily seemed to see it.

  “Have a pleasant excursion,” Lady Barnaby murmured to her as they left the breakfast room.

  “You are a wretch, crying off like that,” Cecily accused.

  “You only wish you’d thought of it first,” her aunt replied complacently.

  In truth, considering the bad feeling in the family which had boiled over at breakfast, Cecily was not looking forward to her ride. However, by the time they set off, everyone seemed to have returned to normal, with the Longstones addressing nothing to the man whose horses they
rode. Of the adults, only Cecily and Madame de Renarde seemed prepared to be civil to all. And Cecily, ashamed of her reasonless jealousy, made an effort to be pleasant and friendly to the Frenchwoman.

  Besides, if Madame de Renarde rode beside her, neither Henry nor Verne could.

  Fortunately, Jane joined them, too, riding a pony. Already, she appeared to be a proficient rider, although all the adults kept a close eye on her. Surely, in this one common interest in Jane, lay the possibility of ending their peculiar feud.

  “Why do you not tell them?” she demanded as a sudden change around of positions brought Verne to her side.

  “Tell them what?”

  “What they already know in their hearts. That you are innocent of this terrible crime!”

  There was a pause. “If you mean the deaths of my brother and my sister-in law,” he said with sudden savagery, “I cannot. I am very far from innocent.”

  Her shock must have stood out in her face, for he laughed, an odd, bitter sound, and then Jane urged her pony between them, and Cecily let her mount fall back behind them while she recovered.

  After a few minutes, she could again appreciate the gentle beauty of the Sussex hills, for she still did not believe Verne was guilty of the tragedy of the fire. However, she had to wait until they were at the ruin before she had the chance to speak to him again.

  While everyone else explored the priory remains with enthusiasm, he merely sat on a broken stone wall, one knee under his chin, and gazed out over the green landscape to the sea beyond. Henry told Cecily a little of the priory’s history and destruction—which had benefitted the Verne family—and then she played tag with Jane for a little, before collapsing on the same wall as Verne to catch her breath. Jane raced off to find the luncheon basket.

  Cecily felt sure Verne was watching her, but when she glanced at him, he still looked toward the sea.

  “I still don’t believe it,” she said.

  “You don’t believe what?” he asked without obvious interest.

  “Your guilt. You work too hard to make people believe ill of you.”

  He shot a quick glance at her. He might have been startled. Then he dragged his gaze back to the sea. “You of all people have no reason to think well of me. I’ve no idea why you do. Nor why I like it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think universally well of you,” she assured him. “For instance, I still want to know what you were doing at the Hart with those strange men.”

  A breath of laughter escaped him and he turned to face her. But whatever he would have said was lost in Madame de Renarde’s demand that they join the others for luncheon on the blankets she was spreading at the center of the ruin.

  Cecily found no other opportunity to speak to Verne alone during the excursion. In fact, she began to suspect the others were deliberately keeping them apart. Which was interesting in itself. She wondered if they imagined they were protecting her. However, since Isabelle de Renarde seemed to have become something of a friend, she took the opportunity of riding home beside her to ask about the fire.

  “Were you with Mrs. Longstone at the time? What actually happened?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Cecily shrugged. “I can only have been about fifteen years old. If I overheard gossip, it passed me by.”

  “But you’ve been in London for several seasons. You must have heard what they say about Verne.”

  “If only half of that were true, I should already have stumbled across at least a black mass and probably several maidens being sacrificed in the woods.”

  Isabelle cast her a crooked smile. “He had a wild reputation even before the fire. For the most part it was deserved, but not understood. He carried a heavier burden than anyone knew.”

  “What burden?”

  Isabelle glanced behind her, presumably to judge the likelihood of being overheard. “There is madness in the family. Arthur—the previous baron, Patrick’s brother—was so afflicted. Everyone concealed it, of course, but the main burden of it fell on Patrick. And on Marjorie, though she would not leave her husband.”

  “Did the Longstones want her to?”

  “The Longstones never knew about it. They never wanted to admit their daughter’s brilliant match was to a lunatic.”

  “Then how…” Cecily broke off with an apologetic wave of one hand.

  “How do I know about it if they did not?” Isabelle guessed. “Well, that comes back to Patrick’s wildness, I’m afraid. I have no wish to shock an unmarried young lady, but I was one of his less publicized scandals. Before and after the fire. I saw Arthur at his worst, and I saw what it did to Patrick.”

  It should not have surprised Cecily. She had seen Isabelle go into his rooms last night, but that the relationship was of such long standing caused a fresh twist of incomprehensible pain. She had spent too much of last night trying not to think of them together, and imagining it anyway. In remembering his devastating kiss at the Hart and wondering what it would be like if only he meant it. And kisses would only be the beginning…

  With an effort, she concentrated on Isabelle’s somewhat harrowing words which were the true point of the conversation.

  “But you don’t believe he committed such a terrible crime,” Cecily said. “That he actually set the house on fire.”

  There was silence save for the gentle thudding of the horses’ hooves on the mud track. Above them, the wispy clouds had grown denser and darker.

  Slowly, Isabelle turned her head toward Cecily. “I don’t believe he did it for the reasons gossip gives—to inherit the title and Finmarsh. Titles never interested him and he was already more or less running the estate. He wanted for nothing and he held his poor, mad brother in deep affection. Nor did he do it by accident in a drunken stupor. But yes, I do believe he did it. To end his brother’s misery.”

  “Why?” Cecily whispered, staring at her. “How could you possibly believe that?”

  Something very like pity sprang into Isabelle’s eyes. “Why? For the simple reason he told me so.”

  Chapter Seven

  Cecily had never lost her enjoyment in dressing for dinner or evening entertainment. It reminded her of dressing-up games in childhood. But tonight, her maid Cranston did most of the work without a great deal of instruction, for Cecily’s mind was occupied with other things.

  Although she knew it was wrong, she could just about understand a man as unbound by conventional morality as Verne, putting a beloved brother out of his misery. If every waking moment was torture, not even of the body but the mind, then she could at least sympathize with what had driven him. A large dose of laudanum, perhaps. Or even a shot in the head or the heart. A quick, nearly painless death. Despite her own repugnance at such an act, it made a terrible kind of sense.

  But to set someone’s rooms on fire, not only killing the intended victim’s wife as well, but risking his child? And Verne was fond of his niece. Anyone could see that. And what was the point of inheriting a house that could easily have burned to the ground?

  No, it may have been Isabelle’s belief, and Verne’s own assertion, but Cecily could not accept it.

  Still deep in thought, she accompanied her aunt to the drawing room where the Longstones appeared to be arguing with Verne over his dismissal of their servants. Though perhaps argument was the wrong word, since it implied Verne contributed to the process. In fact, he sat in an armchair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, gazing at his boots while the torrent raged over him without obvious effect.

  He glanced up as Cecily entered, and a smile rose spontaneously to his lips. He stood and came to her without releasing her gaze.

  “How beautiful you are,” he murmured. The heat in his eyes burned her. Then his quick glance took in Lady Barnaby, too. “Both of you.”

  “Oh, get along with you,” Aunt Barny said impatiently. “We’ll have no nonsense from such a practiced flirt.”

  “Verne, have you heard a single word I’ve said?” Mrs. Longstone deman
ded.

  “I have heard every single word,” Verne replied. “None of them alter the fact that you have not troubled to train your servants properly. Until you do, the two imbeciles I sent home this morning will not return.”

  “Imbeciles? It is Shilton who is the imbecile,” Mrs. Longstone muttered.

  Everyone pretended not to hear her.

  “A glass of sherry, Lady B?” Verne offered casually.

  “Thank you,” Lady Barnaby replied, settling herself on a sofa.

  “And for you, Cecily? Sherry? A little brandy, perhaps?”

  Of course, he meant her to be outraged by this reference to the first night spent in his house. She ignored it and sat by her aunt. “A small sherry, if you please.”

  “Don’t you have ratafia, Verne?” Henry asked.

  “There may be some at the back of a cupboard somewhere. Didn’t know it was your tipple.”

  Henry glared at him. “I meant it for Lady Cecily, as you very well know.”

  “I prefer sherry,” Cecily said hastily. “Now that my aunt has relented on the subject.”

  “What a beautiful gown, Cecily,” Isabelle said from the opposite sofa.

  Cecily glanced down, faintly surprised to find she was wearing the cream silk embroidered with red and gold. “Well, since I am no longer a debutante, I see no reason to wear white all the time.”

  A loud, peremptory knock sounded from below.

  “Is that the front door?” Mrs. Longstone said in surprise. “You’re not expecting anyone, are you, Verne?”

  “Lord, no. Someone will be lost. Daniel will point them in the right direction.”

  However, after a minute or two, Daniel came into the room with a card on a silver plate. Cecily, who hadn’t known the household possessed such things, was impressed. Verne, on the other hand, cast his expressionless henchman an amused glance as he picked up the card.

  “Lord Torbridge,” he said blankly. “Who the devil is Lord Torbridge?”

  “Oh, no,” Cecily said in dismay, while her aunt frowned at her.

  “He is the Marquis of Hay’s son,” Mrs. Longstone said.

  “I’m afraid he may be here because of us,” Lady Barnaby said diplomatically. “We have been on friendly terms in London and he is a particular admirer of Cecily’s.”