The Master of Calverley Hall

by Lucy Ashford

  ‘Auction you!’

  ‘Indeed. I was taken to the club by my father’s mistress, Mrs Sparlet—it was late and I had no idea what was happening, but I was told it was a matter of urgency.’

  She heaved in a deep breath. ‘My inebriated, dying father was waiting for me. He led me by the hand into a room full of drunken men and offers were invited. What, exactly, was the highest bid? I cannot remember at all, but the man who bought me was Viscount Loxley.’

  Again Connor let out a low hiss of anger. But Isobel raised her hand to silence him.

  ‘Viscount Loxley,’ she went on, ‘was twenty years older than I was. At first I was terrified. I knew his reputation, I knew his past affairs were the talk of the town. But do you know, Connor? He never touched me.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No. He took me home that night to his mansion near Hyde Park and he gave me a set of rooms of my own, and a lady’s maid, and he told me he despised my father for what he’d done to me.’

  She looked up at Connor. ‘Loxley asked me straight away if there was anyone else I wished to stay with—a friend or relative. I said that I had no one except my father and I would rather die than go back to him. Loxley listened and after a while he told me that he had no children, but he wanted to look after me as if I were his ward and he my guardian.

  ‘I stayed with him. And he kept his promise—he was always kind, always respectful. My father died soon afterwards. Loxley told me of his death and he also told me the Calverley estate had been repossessed by his bank—and I said that I didn’t care. I didn’t care in the least!’ For the first time her voice was heated, then she continued more quietly.

  ‘By then, I’d realised Loxley’s health was poor. It was a lung disease—he was becoming very weak. So I used to sit with him and tell him Gloucestershire folk tales I remembered from my childhood, or play card games with him for pennies.’ She half-smiled at the memory.

  ‘I was with him for two years. Towards the end, when he was seriously ill, he told me he was arranging to make me safe. “I’m going to make sure your future is secure, Isobel”—those were his actual words. But I never learned any more and soon afterwards he died.

  ‘During my time with him, I saw few people apart from his servants—he had become almost a recluse. Of course, I’d guessed that evil gossip would have spread about me. I knew that many would have assumed I was his mistress. I didn’t really care at the time, because with him, I felt safe. But on his death I was quite alone. Everyone, without exception, believed the worst of me. Who could blame them?’

  She was almost calm now—told herself she was past caring. ‘Of course I shouldn’t blame you, Connor, for believing it also. Tonight has been—fun. Is that what one is supposed to say? And then, I think, the next thing to say is—best to pretend it never happened. Don’t you agree?’

  She was buttoning her dress as she spoke, then putting on her shoes. Before he could stop her, she’d gathered up the rest of her things and swept out.

  And she left by the servants’ door.

  * * *

  Connor cursed himself roundly and solidly. The knowledge of how she must have suffered, and how she’d had to bear her suffering alone, was like red-hot needles piercing his skin.

  As a girl, she’d had abominable parents and she’d had no one to turn to—except, perhaps, him. After that came London. She’d endured a round of parties and balls which she must have hated, before her dying father, in drunken desperation, offered her up to the highest bidder.

  She was bought by Loxley. Connor hadn’t heard about the auction, but he’d heard she was living with the notorious Viscount and had believed the worst, along with everyone else. But this summer he’d met her again at the fair, and—swept up by his eagerness for his new school—he’d big-heartedly decided to let bygones be bygones and to give her a second chance.

  Generous of you, he told himself now, with great bitterness. When all the time you’d been planning—what? To get her into your bed?

  He’d been not only a fool, but an unjust fool. Yes, there had always been incidents that made him doubt the stories of her time with Loxley. For instance, the way she closed up on any talk about her past. Her obvious shock when he even touched her, let alone kissed her.

  And what untold harm had he done to her now?

  After Loxley’s death she’d found friends in Joseph and Agnes Molina and had been happy with them. Until he, Connor, came along, to wrench her from her peaceful existence—and all the time, he’d been wanting her for himself.

  Isobel Blake, he realised now, was exactly what she had always been: brave and stubborn and passionate, with a huge sense of justice. And how must she be judging him, this minute?

  She was probably deciding that she had thrown her innocence away on someone utterly undeserving of her.

  Her mixture of vulnerability and courage gripped him so badly that his own bruises were nothing compared to the almighty ache at his heart. He could go to her now and explain. But what on earth could he say? I’m sorry I believed those lies about you, even for a minute. That wouldn’t be enough. It never would be enough—but he had to at least try, because he wanted her. He needed her. He loved her.

  Tomorrow. He would give her the chance to calm down and rest, then he would go to her tomorrow and try again. He didn’t go back to his bed; instead he sat in the chair by the window, staring out into the night and thinking about Isobel.

  Chapter Twenty

  Isobel rose earlier than ever the next morning and went straight to the chapel in the cold light of dawn. During a long sleepless night she’d thought about running away, but that would be cowardly—best to carry on for the last few days of her contract, as if nothing had happened. Because nothing had happened really, except that she knew now how wrongly Connor had judged her—like everyone else. She’d hoped that he of all people would believe in her—but she’d expected too much.

  Slowly she set out everything for the morning’s lesson and all the while she felt the enveloping joy she’d experienced last night seeping out of her as the sun’s rays filled the chapel with harsh reality.

  What on earth had she hoped might be the result of this?

  Yes, he’d made love to her—if love was the word. They were physically drawn to one another and had been from the start—there could be no denying that. And last night, dear God, she had blatantly encouraged him, so it was no wonder he’d accepted her willing embrace! Embarrassment flooded her body at the memory of what she’d let him do.

  He’d bedded Isobel Blake, the daughter of his old enemy and also the scandalous young mistress of Viscount Loxley. Or so the gossips loved to whisper. Connor must know as well as she did that what had happened between them could never happen again—he was an extremely rich man of business now and it was his duty to shore up his company’s position, to strengthen his connections both in commerce and in public life.

  He had to marry well. He could not afford to have his name dragged through the mire by a connection with her.

  * * *

  Somehow she got through the morning in the chapel—after all, how could you remain absorbed for long in your own mess of a life, when over a dozen eager faces were listening to your every word? Afterwards she walked back slowly to the Hall, praying she wouldn’t meet anyone. But as she headed for the side entrance, Haskins approached.

  He must have been watching for her. ‘Yes, Haskins?’

  ‘Mr Hamilton would like to see you in his ground-floor study straight away, Miss Blake.’

  Probably, she told herself wearily, to send her packing with a pay-off, so he could put an end to their mutual embarrassment over last night.

  He was working at his desk when she entered the room, but he rose and went to shut the door once she was in. She realised with a sudden burst of pity that he looked terribly tired and that bruise on his jaw hadn’t faded in
the least.

  ‘Isobel,’ he said. ‘About last night. We need to talk, you and I.’

  She feigned mild surprise. ‘We tried that last night. And it didn’t exactly help, did it, Connor?’

  His expression remained grave. ‘We must talk,’ he repeated.

  She shrugged, her smile still fixed to her face. So you can tell me that, though you respect me very much, and so on, and so forth, you don’t want me in your bed or in your life?

  But she nodded. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

  He offered her a chair, but she shook her head. ‘I’ve got four more days of teaching the children,’ she said, ‘and then my contract ends—much to the relief, I’m sure, of your staff and yourself. You know the old saying, Connor—all good things must come to an end...’

  Her voice tailed off as he closed the distance between them and gripped her shoulders. ‘Isobel,’ he said almost violently, ‘Isobel, I don’t want this to end. I don’t want you to go. Do you hear me?’

  She felt the breath being punched from her lungs. She tried to laugh, but it came out all wrong. ‘You’re surely not asking me to be your mistress? Now, that would really astonish people. First you buy Calverley Hall and then you take over its disgraced former heiress—you truly can’t be serious!’

  ‘I don’t want it to end,’ he repeated, his voice raw. ‘I can’t bear to lose you.’

  For a moment she couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. His hands on her shoulders trapped her in a surge of impossible longing; his eyes were dark with passion. His shirt was open at the neck and he still hadn’t shaved; his hair was wild and those shadows beneath his eyes implied he hadn’t slept a wink. Just like her.

  And he looked utterly, heartbreakingly desirable.

  This was going to take all her strength. This was going to be the biggest and hardest battle she’d ever fought. With her stomach twisting itself into hard, painful knots, she forced herself to say, ‘Connor. I realise, even if you don’t, that last night was a huge mistake, which you’re going to regret every time my name is mentioned. So let’s forget that it ever happened, shall we? Fortunately I have only a few days left of my contract, so we can perhaps put last night down to an episode of foolishness between two adults who ought to know better.’

  ‘Foolishness?’ He exhaled sharply. ‘Is that really how you think of everything that’s happened between the two of us?’ She saw how his hands had clenched into fists. There was something dark and agonised in his gaze and he looked as if she’d torn him wide open.

  Which was how she herself had been feeling since that day at the midsummer fair, only now it was worse; now she felt as if being close to him was like a knife being turned in her heart and she didn’t think she could bear it. Not any more. She pulled herself away.

  ‘I think,’ she said quietly, ‘that it’s best if I go now, don’t you? And leave you to the real business of your life. Those new docks you’re going to build.’ She was glancing at the papers on his desk.

  He was dragging his hand across his unshaved jaw. ‘It’s uncertain,’ he said at last, ‘whether I’ll get the contract now.’

  ‘Really?’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage it somehow. After all, you usually get exactly what you want.’

  ‘Isobel—’ He broke off as there was a knock at the door and a footman entered, clearly not seeing Isobel at first.

  ‘Tom the groom has just called, sir,’ he said, ‘and says he wants to speak with you—Oh!’ He’d noticed Isobel. ‘I do beg your pardon, Miss Blake...’

  ‘I’ll come,’ Connor said. He turned to Isobel. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes. Isobel, will you stay here?’

  She looked very pale. ‘I’d really rather not—’

  ‘Please,’ he said.

  * * *

  The business with Tom didn’t take long, but it was still longer than Connor wanted. Old Tom was desperately eager to tell him that his attackers, after the beating they’d taken, had packed up and disappeared from the district. But all Connor was thinking as he finally made his way back to his study, was, Please let her still be there.

  What a mess he’d made of everything. She still obsessed him. Even dressed in her usual drab gown, she looked utterly lovely. Her sweet face, her soft skin, her voice, her scented body—they all haunted his dreams. He suddenly wished that they were meeting for the first time, without all the clutter of their previous lives to untangle. With an enormous effort of willpower, he pulled himself together and went in.

  And he realised she was sitting at his desk, looking through the papers spread out there.

  She sprang to her feet as he entered, looking agitated. ‘Connor, these calculations. I noticed them last night, on your desk upstairs. Did you realise they’re wrong?’

  ‘What?’

  She was pointing at them. ‘Whoever wrote them out has made errors in the totals. They’re not easy to spot, but they’re enough to make the final figures completely wrong.’

  He was staring at her, then at those lethal papers that proved his plans were completely uneconomic. Clearly she was interpreting his silence as hostility.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she went on very quietly, ‘I realise it’s no business of mine, but as I say I spotted a couple of errors last night and couldn’t help but look at them more closely just now. May I show you?’ She was pointing at the columns of tightly written accountants’ figures. ‘For example, there are errors here and here, with at least another one on every page. You know I’m hopeless at spelling, but I think I told you I’m rather good at arithmetic. I’ve started writing down where the numbers are astray. Take a look—you might find it interesting. But now I must leave you to your work—’

  He broke in. ‘Isobel. Can you possibly sort through it all for me, now? This is really important. These figures relate to my docks contract. I’m due to set off for London this afternoon, because tomorrow I have to present my cost estimates to my investors and then to a committee set up by Parliament. I was going to check them myself, but if you’ll do it first, I can see if my own calculations match yours.’

  She looked rather shaken. ‘It will take me a little while. Not the maths, but the writing it down—I cannot do it as neatly as you might require...’

  ‘It doesn’t matter in the slightest! As long as your figures are legible, and correct, that’s really all I’m concerned about. Please, Isobel, do what you can. This is important.’

  She nodded slowly, and sat at his desk with her back to him. He paced the room while she worked, mentally lashing himself. After all his false assumptions about her, his complete misjudgement of her, he expected her to help him?

  She had no family. She’d lost her home, which he’d dragged her back to, and forced her to work for him. She’d done everything and more to adapt to her new situation in life. She’d been respectful to him and Laura, and lovely to Elvie and the traveller children—and what had he done in return?

  He’d seduced her. She was going to find it hard to forgive him for the many other ways he’d wronged her. The trouble was that Connor really couldn’t imagine, now that Isobel Blake had come back into his life, how he was going to live without her. And in the meantime, there was something else that troubled him deeply. The accountants who’d prepared those figures had been recommended by Roderick Staithe.

  * * *

  Isobel sat there with a pencil in her hand, her emotions in turmoil. When Connor had said I can’t bear to lose you she’d felt such a huge rush of longing that it had taken every ounce of her physical and emotional strength to stop her stupid self from rushing headlong into his arms.

  How can you be such a fool, Isobel? She glanced swiftly up at him; he’d stopped pacing and was staring out of the window, his profile harsh and almost haunted. And she realised she had no defence against this man. None at all. But she did know that his feelings for her could ruin him.

&nb
sp; She realised suddenly that he was looking at her, his eyes shadowed by an emotion she couldn’t read. ‘Isobel. If this is too difficult for you—’

  She said, ‘This isn’t difficult. This is easy.’

  It was everything else in her life that lay in ruins.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she pulled the sheets of paper towards her. Yes, the actual calculations were simple enough for her; she was gifted, she could do them in her head. But Connor needed it all written down, and she was afraid that in her awkward scrawl, he might not be able to make any sense of it.

  Then she remembered something Elvie had said to her. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your brain, Miss Blake. You can read everything perfectly—can’t you? It’s just that when it comes to writing, your right hand won’t do what you tell it to. Why not use your left hand instead?’

  So she did. Connor wouldn’t notice—and anyway, hadn’t he told her he didn’t even care? She worked on, and he didn’t interrupt, but he lit more candles on his desk for her as the light faded.

  * * *

  Connor watched and waited. He was thinking, How could I have been so blind to misjudge her so? How can I make amends? But—why didn’t she try to defend herself by telling the truth to everyone?

  He could see she was working her way swiftly through those daunting sheets of numbers, using her left hand, creating column after column of workings-out on the blank paper he’d provided. At last she turned to him, her gaze steady.

  ‘I was right,’ she said. ‘These costings you have been given are faulty. They overestimate the cost of your requirements by almost a thousand pounds. It’s been done skilfully.’

  He felt a thump in his chest. ‘You’re saying the errors are deliberate?’

  ‘Yes. Let me show you.’ She pointed. ‘Where the numbers have been carried over to the next page, some of them have been shifted to the left, by one column—not all of them by any means, or it would have been easy to spot. But enough to make a big difference to the total. Somebody knew exactly what they were doing.’