“It is you, isn’t it?” the man said. “Tris Grant of the Queen’s Own?”
Abruptly, the years fell away.
“Keith!” he exclaimed, throwing out his hand. “Good Lord, how are you?”
Lieutenant Keith—or had he been a captain the last time they’d met on the battlefields of Spain?—grasped his hand and shook it warmly. “Couldn’t be better, as it happens. What are you doing in this civilian backwater? Surely you haven’t left the army?”
“Some three years ago.”
Keith looked him up and down. “You’re not here for your health, are you?” he asked. “Wounded?”
“Recovered. No, I’m the curate.”
Keith blinked. His lips twitched. “Curate,” he repeated. “You’re joking me.”
“Serious as a clergyman, give you my word. You seem to be out of uniform, also.”
“Five years ago. I inherited my brother’s estate.”
“You look well on it,” Grant allowed. “Although I’m sorry for the loss of your brother. What brings you to Blackhaven?”
“My wife,” Keith said with just a faint intonation of pride, as if he couldn’t help it. “Her family is here. In fact, you must come to dinner tonight, if you’re free.”
“I’d love to, if your wife would not object.”
“Oh no, she’s very sociable. Come around seven. The Haven in Cliff Crescent.”
“The Haven?” Grant said at once. “Then you’re Bernard Muir’s brother-in-law? But that makes you—”
“Wickenden,” said the erstwhile Lieutenant Keith apologetically.
The Wicked Baron himself. Grant couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Well, here is another strange friendship for the local gossips!”
*
“There’s a letter for you, my lady,” Little greeted Kate when she returned to the hotel.
Kate’s heart gave an unpleasant little dive. “From London?”
“Oh no, hand delivered,” Little replied, swiping it from the mantelpiece and handing it over.
Kate didn’t recognize the writing. She shrugged off the cape of her habit and tossed the hat after it on the sofa, before breaking the seal on the letter.
“Good lord,” she said faintly. “It’s an invitation from Mrs. Winslow to Henrit House, to her ball next Saturday.”
Little grinned, clearly pleased by this provincial social success. “There. She must like you now, having met you at the vicarage.”
“There’s nothing as respectable as a vicar,” Kate murmured, and immediately thought of the curate’s sinful kisses.
“You will go?” Little asked anxiously.
“I might,” Kate said, carelessly dropping the note. “Help me out of this habit, will you? I think I might step round the pump room and take the waters. After all, I’m meant to be here for my health.”
The frequenters of the pump room that day were, for the most part, visitors to Blackhaven. Most were unknown to Kate, or known only by name, but they must have grown used to the idea of her presence, because she encountered only civility. And when she left again, having forced down two whole cups of the clear, if quite ordinary tasting water, she passed Mrs. Fenton and her daughter in the street. Both bowed to her with a polite greeting.
My, Kate thought, impressed in spite of herself. She tried to make fun of it, but in truth she felt ridiculously pleased by this apparent softening of the town toward her. She began to think she might even enjoy her time here.
Her optimism lasted all the way to the hotel, where she was told a visitor awaited her in the coffee room. Immediately, she was sure it was Mr. Grant and turned toward the room with a smile she couldn’t hide.
Lord Vernon strolled through the door toward her. “Kate, you look delicious enough to eat. How are you?”
Kate blinked. “Good God. What are you doing in Blackhaven?”
Grant’s half-brother smiled lazily, coming to a halt before her. “I’ve come to see you, of course.”
Once, she’d enjoyed flirting with him so much that she’d come close to finally forming a liaison with him. She’d liked him so much that a note from him had sent her rushing gullibly from a ball to his aid. At three o’clock in the morning. The ruse, however, she’d found so annoying and petty that she’d stalked out without even removing her shawl. It had been pure bad luck to run into Dickie and his creatures in the hallway. Looking for her to tell her Crowmore was dead.
She hadn’t laid eyes on Vernon from the moment until this. He’d vanished from her life, leaving her to face the combined onslaught of her own family and the Crowmores alone. And the resulting scandal that had surrounded the burial. She hadn’t really cared at the time. Vernon’s lack of support was exactly what she expected of men. But even then, she’d known it was over before it had begun, that she was finished with him. And now, he was an irritant.
“Well, you’ve seen me,” she observed, stepping around him. “Felicitations. Goodbye, Vernon.”
His astonished expression was ludicrous, and yet as she sailed across the foyer and upstairs, she had no desire to laugh. His presence here appalled her and it took a moment for her to realize why. She didn’t want her old life, her old scandals following her to Blackhaven, not when she’d found she could begin to shake them off. Not now that she’d met Tristram Grant who meant … she wasn’t quite sure what, but something important, something larger than she’d ever encountered before.
Little’s eyes were large and anxious when she met Kate in her rooms. “Lord Vernon’s here,” the maid said, obviously trying very hard not to sound disapproving. “At the hotel, I mean.”
“I know. I met him downstairs. Damn the man, what’s he doing here? See if you can find out, Little. Make conversation with his valet, or the hotel staff. See what they know.”
“Well, I will, but surely you’re the only reason he’d have come here.”
“Just to add fuel to the scandal when it’s beginning to die down?” Kate paced furiously to the window.
“Maybe…” Little paused and swallowed and began again more determinedly. “Maybe he loves you.”
Kate laughed. “And pigs might fly.”
More likely, he was broke and wanted to borrow a hundred to see him through. And he’d inflict himself on her in the public dining room. If she took a private one and he tried to do the same, she’d be obliged to have the hotel staff throw him out, and that would be more scandal. She could always pack up and move on, maybe to Edinburgh, except that it went against the grain to let anyone drive her away from where she wished to be. Which was Blackhaven.
Besides, Grant wouldn’t follow her to Edinburgh. Though Vernon might, if he was desperate enough.
Kate stripped off her gloves and threw them on the nearest chair without looking. Would Grant know his brother was here? Would he think she had summoned him? Would Vernon’s presence kill whatever feeling Grant had for her? Feelings which, after all, could hardly be very deep considering the few days they’d been acquainted.
Vaguely, Kate was aware of Little picking up the gloves. If only clearing up the rest of her life was as easy!
“Little—”
A knock at the door interrupted her. She swung around, meeting the maid’s gaze. Little lifted her eyebrows, silently asking if she should answer it.
“I’m not at home,” Kate said. “On no account, let him in here.”
Little squared her shoulders. She could be quite formidable when she chose to be. It was one of the reasons Kate employed her.
Her back to the window, she watched Little walk across the room and open the door little more than a crack. Then she opened it wider, exchanged a quick word or two with whoever was on the other side, and stepped back, closing it once more.
“It’s another letter,” she said, waving the epistle. “Yet another invitation, I daresay. You are in demand today!”
To her relief, the writing was not Lord Vernon’s. It was strong and flowing and unknown to her. She opened it and, scanning it, gave a quick, re
lieved breath of laughter.
“We are saved,” she said flippantly, “for one night at least. Mrs. Muir has invited me for dinner.”
“Who’s Mrs. Muir? Another of the vicarage ladies?” Little asked hopefully.
“Not to my knowledge. I imagine she’s Roman Catholic, being Spanish. Her step-children are friends of mine. Sort of.”
Gillie and Wickenden must have arrived. She wondered how Gillie felt about having her in the house. Gillie had guessed their past relationship before marrying Wickenden, but that didn’t mean the younger woman would trust her now. She should probably make that right, too.
“So you’ll go?” Little persisted.
Kate walked across to the desk and sat, drawing a sheet of paper in front of her, and then reaching for the pen. “I shall go. And you shall carry my acceptance.”
*
Cornelius was bored. Although he’d managed to dress himself, with Tris’s help, he was too weak to go out or even walk around much. And then, he was under orders not to let Mrs. Walsh hear him walking around the room. She stayed late on a Monday, apparently, to finish the laundry. So, Cornelius had several books piled up on his bed to try to distract himself. But he hadn’t read more than a paragraph of any of them. He wished he had someone to talk to instead, but Tris had gone out and left him, saying that the doctor might call round while he was away, and he’d given him a key to get in, in case Mrs. Walsh had already gone.
Cornelius, his bored ears taking in every tiny sound in the house, knew she hadn’t gone when the peremptory knocking pounded at the front door.
“Oh, I’m coming, I’m coming,” he heard the woman grumble her way up from the kitchen toward the front door. “Where’s the fire, for goodness’s sake?”
The front door seemed to slam open with a suddenness that made Cornelius jump.
“Here!” Mrs. Walsh cried in mingled alarm and outrage. “You can’t burst in here like this! This is the vicarage!”
“We know where and what it is, ma’am,” said a gentleman’s voice curtly. “Please stand aside or my men will remove you.”
Cornelius jumped to his feet, boredom and weakness forgotten. My men? Surely this must be the soldiers who’d taken delivery of him and the other prisoners from Captain Alban. He was at his bedchamber door before he knew it, opening the door a crack. Heavy boots trampled in the hall downstairs.
“Where is Mr. Grant?” the officer demanded.
“He’s out!” Mrs. Walsh exclaimed. “And he won’t be pleased when he gets back neither!”
“And your guest?” the officer asked.
Damnation. They know about me. Cornelius cast a quick glance over his shoulder, but there was nothing in the room that wasn’t Tris’s. He’d burned Cornelius’s torn and bloody clothes.
“What other guest?” Mrs. Walsh demanded. “There’s no one here but Mr. Grant. The vicar and his family are away.”
Cornelius slipped out of the bedchamber and crept along the passage toward the attic stairs. Not a moment too soon, for he could hear boots clumping upstairs.
“You’d better damage nothing, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Walsh warned. “And you can explain to Mr. Grant the muddy boot prints on my clean floor!”
Cornelius grinned as he slipped behind the door to the attic stairs and began to climb. If Mr. Grant even noticed mud on clean floors he was a much-changed man.
The attic consisted of a storeroom and a couple of tiny bedchambers. Tris thought about hiding in a trunk, but the soldiers might be too thorough for that. Glancing upward, he realized that although the walls sloped, the ceiling was flat. There was roof space above the main attic. A quick search found a half-open trap door at the back of the storeroom, and even a rickety ladder.
While the soldiers clumped about below, Cornelius shinned up the ladder, pushed aside the trap, and scrambled into the cramped space. He was still drawing up the ladder when someone opened the attic door. Fortunately, they couldn’t see him from there, so he had time to bring the ladder right up and softly replace the trap door, while the soldiers opened trunks and looked under the servants’ beds.
“You ask me, it’s a complete hum,” one of the soldiers muttered. “Why the devil would Mr. Grant of all people hide an escaped prisoner?”
“It’s true he bumped into him before the Frenchman escaped,” the other replied.
“I don’t see what that has to say to anything,” the first man argued, letting a trunk lid fall with a crash. “There’s no one here.”
“Of course there’s no one here,” Mrs. Walsh’s voice said with deep contempt. “I told you Mr. Grant was out.”
“Why is he sleeping in two different bedchambers?” the officer asked from beyond the attic.
“Because he can,” Mrs. Walsh retorted. “His own chamber’s right above the kitchen, so I expect he prefers the more peaceful front room when the Hoags are away. Ask him!”
“I will,” the officer assured her. “Where did you say Mr. Grant was?”
“I didn’t. But he went to the Muirs in Cliff Crescent. I wish you’d call there next because Mrs. Muir’s a fierce Spanish lady and she eats insolent cubs like you for breakfast!”
Cornelius grinned, warming to the housekeeper he’d never met. But as she shooed them all out of the house and he contemplated leaving his attic, he began to wonder if he could actually do it. Now that the excitement was lessening, he felt weak as a kitten. His wound throbbed and his head ached.
*
By the time Kate walked round to Cliff Crescent, she had worked out that Mrs. Muir, whom she’d never met, had been most likely inspired to invite her by Bernard. She had no idea how any anyone else in the house would regard her attendance at a cozy family reunion dinner. So, she did what she always did, hid her nerves in the familiar, languidly fashionable pose.
The last time she’d been in Blackhaven, she’d been most curious to see behind the front door of the house rumored to be a gambling den. For the sake of Lady Braithwaite, her hostess, she had refrained from visiting and had never come closer than viewing from a carriage in the crescent. Which at least made the house simple to find.
Inevitably it was small, by Kate’s standards, but the door was opened by a polite young footman who took her pelisse and showed her into a salon on the ground floor. She could already hear the voices and laughter before he opened the door and announced, “Lady Crowmore.”
She had grown used to the sudden silences that followed her entrance to any establishment these days, so she kept the faint, cynical smile on her lips as she strolled into the room. At least the three men within stood up at once, and she was welcomed immediately by the lady of the house. A very dark woman, a few years older than Kate, came to her with hand extended.
“Lady Crowmore, how kind of you to come,” she said in heavily accented English. “I am Isabella Muir, Gillie and Bernard’s stepmother.”
“How kind of you to invite me,” Kate said, and then Gillie was there, offering her hand with a happy smile of welcome that made Kate blink.
Of course, Gillie was much better dressed than on their last encounter—trust David to see to that—and her hair was cut more fashionably. But she still appeared to be the same open, lively creature Kate had warmed to in spite of herself two months ago. Except, perhaps, that she seemed a little more self-assured. Her eyes shone with something Kate took a moment to recognize as sheer happiness. It made Kate’s heart twist with a very strange mixture of pleasure and envy.
“I was so surprised when Bernard told us you were back in Blackhaven!” Gillie said, shaking hands.
“Likewise,” Kate said languidly. “I was sure Wickenden would be dragging you through London’s social whirl by now.”
“Oh dear, no,” Gillie said. “It will take me months just to get used to Wickenden Hall!”
Bernard eased his sister out of the way to greet Kate with a grin. “So glad you could come. Now, tell me, have you ever seen Wickenden in this position before?”
The brother and si
ster stood aside, giving her a direct view of the wicked baron dandling a baby in his arms. He didn’t, however, look remotely sheepish, merely passed the baby to another man Kate didn’t quite see for everyone else moving in the room, and came to kiss her cheek.
“Why, yes, I have,” Kate said. “You must know he is a great favorite with his little nieces, who treat him with a lot less decorum. You’re looking well, Wickenden.” She turned to Mrs. Muir. “This is your son, ma’am? You must be very proud.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Muir’s face broke into a huge smile, and the man holding the baby stepped forward to return him to his mother. Which is when Kate realized the man was Tristram Grant. Her heart gave a thud of recognition. She had no idea how to keep the flush from her cheeks, could only hope no one would guess the reason.
“Mr. Grant,” she murmured.
“Lady Crowmore.”
“You know each other already,” Gillie observed, while the sleeping baby was passed to his mother and duly admired by Kate from a safe distance—she had no clue how to deal with infants. “How comfortable! David bumped into Mr. Grant in the street this morning. It seems they are old friends.”
“From my army days,” Wickenden explained. “We were wild young officers together in India and the Peninsula.”
“Of course you were,” Kate murmured. Was there anyone she knew not intimately connected with Grant in some way?
Bernard presented her with a glass of sherry.
“I met an acquaintance of yours the other day,” she remarked. “A Miss Smallwood?”
Bernard flushed.
“Jenny Smallwood?” Gillie exclaimed. “How is she?”
“Glowing with youthful health and beauty,” Kate said flippantly. She sipped her sherry and sat in the nearest chair. “We are going to take tea together.”
Bernard looked appalled.
“Perhaps you should come, too, Lady Wickenden,” Kate pursued.
The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2) Page 9