Scandal and Miss Markham

by Janice Preston

  ‘What sort of things?’

  He wagged his head at her, stifling another grin at her clear frustration. ‘You cannot possibly expect me to divulge such secrets, Miss Markham. Suffice it to say that I have a better chance of prising information from them than you.’

  The tiniest wobble of her lower lip reminded Vernon that, however brave the face she presented, beneath it, she must be devastated.

  ‘Do not despair, Miss Markham. I shall find Daniel.’

  Hope lit her eyes and, having raised it, he was not about to dash it by voicing aloud the thought that followed: Alive or dead, I shall find him.

  Footsteps clacked along the hall outside, getting nearer, and then the door behind Vernon opened. Miss Markham’s expression blanked and she tensed.

  ‘Dorothea.’ A woman’s voice. ‘There you—oh!’

  Vernon looked around. A middle-aged woman, her greying hair bundled into a cap, had entered the room.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said to Vernon. ‘I was not informed we had visitors.’ Annoyance lent an edge to her tone and the look she cast Miss Markham—Dorothea—was...bitter.

  Dorothea, meanwhile, had hurried around the desk, but halted before she got too close to the other woman. To Vernon’s eyes, she appeared to stand at attention, her hands clasped at her waist, her fingers twisting together.

  ‘Mama! There was no need to inform you of L... Mr Beauchamp’s visit. He called in on a matter of business and is about to leave. I am sorry. Did you have need of me?’

  This was her mother? Vernon looked from one to the other, wondering at those noticeable cracks in their relationship.

  Mrs Markham gave a tight smile, but ignored her daughter’s question.

  ‘I trust my daughter was able to satisfactorily answer your queries, Mr Beauchamp? It is unfortunate my son should happen to be away from home at present. He is on urgent business, but Dorothea is familiar with every aspect of the manufactory.’

  ‘She has proved most satisfactory, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ He was clearly of little interest to the woman, for she turned her full attention to her daughter. ‘Your father feels well enough to sit in his chair today, Dorothea, so I shall stay with him. Have a small repast sent up around noon, if you please. Now—’ she flicked a glance at Vernon ‘—I must return to my husband, Mr Beauchamp. I am sure you will excuse me?’

  Vernon bowed again as Dorothea walked with her mother to the door. There was no further exchange of words between mother and daughter. Mrs Markham left and Dorothea shut the door, muffling the tip-tap of her mother’s rapidly departing footsteps. She turned to face Vernon.

  ‘Mr Beauchamp?’ He raised his brows. ‘Might I ask why?’

  ‘I do not want my parents to wonder why a lord is calling upon Daniel. I cannot allow them to be worried; they have enough to cope with. They believe Daniel is in Birmingham on business—that is another reason I asked the grooms not to spread the news that Daniel is missing, for it would be sure to reach the house servants’ ears and they would tell my mother.’

  ‘What is wrong with your father?’

  ‘He had a stroke. Six years ago.’ Her face twisted: grief, guilt. ‘He cannot walk or talk properly. Mama devotes herself to him.’

  ‘He must require a lot of care. Your parents are fortunate to have you here to help.’

  ‘M-Mama says my visits agitate Papa; she d-discourages me from attending him.’ For the flash of a second, a bewildered child stared out of those huge hazel orbs. Then it seemed as though a shutter closed and the brisk, efficient Dorothea Markham returned. ‘Daniel took over the running of the business when Papa...when it happened. I help as much as I can, but now Daniel is missing and, somehow, your cousin is involved, and I—Mannington!’

  Her voice suddenly rang with excitement and she captured Vernon’s gaze, her eyes sparkling, sending a jolt of heat sizzling through his veins. He could barely concentrate on her words, so taken aback was he by his unexpected physical response.

  ‘I recall... I am sure I have seen...’

  She ran past Vernon to the desk, leaving a trail of floral scent wafting in her wake.

  Roses. A summer garden. Quintessentially feminine.

  She snatched up a handful of papers from the pile he had noticed before and began to leaf through them. After a few minutes she exclaimed in triumph, extracted a sheet of notepaper, and waved it in the air. ‘It did not resonate with me at first, but then... I remembered.’

  ‘May I see?’ Vernon reached for the sheet of paper.

  Her gaze flicked to his outstretched hand, but she made no move to hand it to him. ‘I thought it was the name of a place,’ she continued. ‘It never occurred to me that Mannington was a person. At last, I have a definite clue.’

  Vernon did not retract his outstretched hand, merely waited until she capitulated and handed him the paper.

  ‘Thank you.’ He scanned the sheet. It took no time at all, for there were only two words, separated by a pair of initials.

  Mannington—R.H.—Willingdale?

  Vernon frowned. ‘What...or where...is Willingdale? And who, do you suppose, is R.H?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Silence reigned. A glance revealed Dorothea seemingly deep in thought as she leaned back against the edge of the desk, her arms folded as she gazed unseeingly past Vernon, a vertical groove between her brows.

  Vernon reread the words written on the paper.

  Willingdale... A village? An estate? The name of a person?

  He was torn from his thoughts by a muffled whimper.

  Chapter Three

  Thea tried so hard to hold back her tears, but she simply could not. She dropped her chin into her chest, hand pressed against her lips as her sight blurred. To her horror a single tear plopped on to her bodice, leaving a damp splodge as the fabric absorbed it. Then another tear fell, and another. A large handkerchief was pressed into her hands. She dabbed at her eyes and forced herself to look up. The sympathy in Vernon’s green eyes almost set her off again, but she gritted her teeth and cleared her throat.

  ‘I am sorry. I was just thinking...if only I had paid more attention...’

  ‘You must not blame yourself.’

  Thea swallowed her bitter laugh. Blame herself? She had done nothing but blame herself for the past six years.

  ‘Where is he?’ The words burst from her. ‘Why has he not even wr-written?’ Her voice choked in her throat, and she buried her head in her hands. ‘I fear the worst...’ A sob broke free. Then another. ‘B-but I must know. I c-cannot bear this...this ignorance. I f-feel so...so alone.’

  Two arms wrapped around her and her head was pressed to a strong chest, the thud of his heart steady and reassuring in her ear. He held her, and stroked her hair, and she gave way to the storm of tears she had dammed up ever since the morning she had discovered that Daniel had failed to come home.

  Finally the tears slowed, leaving empty shame at having succumbed to such womanly weakness. What must he think of her? Her breath hitched as she battled for control.

  ‘Do not despair, Miss Markham.’ Vernon’s deep voice rumbled into the ear pressed against his chest, reverberating through her entire body. Words he had spoken before but somehow, this time, of even more comfort. ‘You no longer carry this burden alone.’

  Thankfulness and hope floated into her heart. Her need to confide, to have somebody on her side, was so strong it almost overwhelmed her innate caution. She felt torn: she wanted so much to believe him...to follow the instincts that told her she could trust him, but...he was a stranger. She could not be certain of what was in his heart.

  As she grew calm again a single thought clarified in her mind. She cared not how she managed it but—if Vernon was going to search for Daniel—she was going, too.

 
‘I am sorry,’ she said, mopping her eyes again with his handkerchief, as she wriggled free of his arms. She blew her nose. ‘I am not normally given to such displays.’

  She crossed to the table near the window to finish off her glass of Madeira, then squared her shoulders and turned to face Vernon. It was time to stop moping and take action.

  ‘Shall we discuss strategy?’

  ‘Strategy, Miss Markham?’

  The laughter lines at the corner of his eyes deepened although his lips remained perfectly straight. Thea scowled at this spoilt lord who clearly found her an object of fun.

  ‘I have no need of strategy. With this information...’ he picked up the discarded note from the desk, folded it and tucked it inside his jacket ‘...and a quick chat with your grooms, I have everything I need.’

  He swung around and strode for the study door and panic swamped Thea.

  What have I done?

  ‘Wait!’

  She had handed this stranger information that might help him trace Daniel, but could she trust him? What if he meant Daniel harm? This was happening too quickly. He might have decided he needed no strategy, but she needed time to think. To plan.

  Above all, she needed reassurance that this man was precisely what he appeared to be: a charming, cultured gentleman. She recalled her fanciful notion that she had glimpsed a wolf beneath his surface: a wolf that watched and waited. What if he had a hidden agenda? What if he was like Jasper Connor who, for months on end, had duped Thea and her entire family into thinking he was something he was not?

  Vernon had halted at her command and he slowly rotated to face her. He raised a brow, the epitome of aristocratic arrogance. An idea started to form in Thea’s brain. If she could but delay his departure a short while...

  ‘You will stay and have luncheon before you set out?’

  ‘I thought time was of the essence?’

  ‘It is. But a few hours will not make much difference. You must eat.’

  Doubt—and masculinity—radiated from the man: his booted feet planted a yard apart, his arms folded tight across his chest, his lips compressed.

  Inspiration struck. ‘You cannot go to the Nag’s Head dressed as you are.’

  He glowered. ‘What is wrong with the way I am dressed?’ He unfolded his arms and took a pace towards her. ‘I’ll have you know this coat is by Weston. It is—’

  ‘It proclaims you for what you are,’ Thea said. She stepped closer, and held his gaze. ‘A wealthy gentleman. Places such as the Nag’s Head are not patronised by members of the aristocracy, but by ordinary men: businessmen, tradesmen, farmers. They will not speak openly to a man of your ilk. A stranger.

  ‘Why don’t you go to the stables and speak to the grooms,’ she went on, ‘and by the time you return to the house there will be food ready for you to eat and, after that, I shall find you something appropriate of Daniel’s to wear.’ She looked him up and down. ‘You are of a similar height and build to him. His clothes will help you to blend in.’

  That should buy her time to put her plans into place.

  ‘Very well.’ Vernon paused as he was about to leave the study. ‘I just wish I could be certain Daniel’s disappearance is connected to Henry Manning. If the two things are coincidental, I might end up on a wild goose chase.’

  And that proves I am right to be cautious. If the two enquiries lead in different directions, I make no doubt Lord Vernon Beauchamp will go chasing after his cousin and consign poor Daniel to the Devil.

  * * *

  Vernon strode back to the house half an hour later, not much wiser about how he might discover what had happened to Daniel Markham. The grooms could not tell him who or what was Willingdale and nor did the initials R.H. mean anything. None of them had ever accompanied Daniel on his more recent daily excursions—although they confirmed Dorothea’s story that her brother had been troubled—and nor could they offer any reason for this change in Daniel’s behaviour. They were frustrated that they had been stopped from making enquiries—and Vernon had learned that was mainly due to Dorothea’s concern that any worries about Daniel’s welfare would damage confidence in Stour Crystal—and they had scoffed at the notion that Daniel had run up gaming debts.

  ‘Mr Daniel ain’t never been a one for gambling, sir,’ the head man, Pritchard, had said. ‘Not since his papa lost all their money. Both Mr Daniel and Miss Thea have worked too hard to save the business to put it at risk again.’

  Mr Markham senior would not be the first man to gamble away a fortune, but Vernon’s comment along those lines had resulted in a fierce denial that the money had been lost at the gaming tables. Pritchard had then clammed up, refusing to elaborate further.

  Vernon had not pressed Pritchard, but had caught Bickling’s eye and given him the nod before returning to the house, confident his trusty groom would winkle out the truth and pass the information on to Vernon later.

  Dorothea—Miss Thea, Pritchard had called her, which was much less of a mouthful—must have been watching for him, because she appeared at a side door and beckoned him inside. He followed her along a passageway, eyeing her neat figure with appreciation, the smell of roses and summer teasing at his senses.

  ‘I have laid out some clothes for you to change into,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘and there is food for you in here.’

  She threw open a door that led into a shabby but homely parlour, the table laid with cold cuts, meat pies, bread, cheese and fruit, reminding Vernon of his hunger. The decor would have been the height of fashion a decade ago—in stark contrast with the ostentatious entrance hall and its grand staircase and even the more subdued but still luxurious furnishings in the study. Vernon recalled his initial scathing assessment of the well-tended surrounds of Stourwell Court as he had driven up the carriageway. The house—relatively newly built, with no passing architectural fashion left unsampled—had screamed new money to one familiar with the sprawling ancient Beauchamp family seat of Cheriton Abbey in the County of Devonshire.

  Having learned of the family’s financial loss and subsequent struggle, Vernon was unsurprised by the tactic he had seen many times in the past: a family on its uppers, putting what money they could spare into the public rooms where visitors were entertained in order to keep up appearances.

  ‘Did you discover anything new?’

  Thea came straight to the point as she closed the door behind them. Vernon was unsurprised—she had already impressed him with her directness, as well as her quick understanding.

  ‘Only the names of some of Daniel’s friends who drink at the Nag’s Head.’ He had no intention of revealing that the grooms had spoken of her family’s past financial difficulties. ‘Pritchard was of the opinion that Daniel had spent much of his time in Birmingham in the days before he went missing. He also reckons your brother called in at the Nag’s Head most nights on his way home. So that will definitely be my first port of call.’

  ‘Will you drive your curricle, or ride?’

  ‘I had not thought that far ahead,’ Vernon admitted. ‘If, as you say, my clothing would excite interest, then no doubt my curricle and pair will as well.’

  ‘A top-of-the-tree rig such as yours? I should say so,’ she said, gravely, but with a twinkle in her eye. When she wasn’t scowling she was an attractive woman. ‘You may take one of Daniel’s horses. They are perfectly decent animals, suitable for a gentleman of your standing.’

  Vernon grinned. ‘I am delighted to hear it. A man of my consequence cannot be too careful.’

  He might as well pander to her opinion of him as a spoilt aristocrat.

  ‘We had better eat.’ Thea crossed the room to the table and picked up a plate. ‘It will be more practical to go on horseback. We can take shortcuts across country—’

  ‘We?’ Vernon strode forward, grasped her arm and tugged her round to face him. ‘
What...? Oh, no. No, no, no! Definitely not. You are not coming with me.’

  Thea’s tawny brows snapped together, meeting across the bridge of her freckled nose as she drew herself up to her full height. Which was short.

  ‘You cannot stop me. Daniel is my brother. I want to come.’

  Vernon stared down at her mutinous expression and heaved a silent sigh. He was hungry and he was anxious to set off, now he had a definite idea of where to start with his search. First he must deal with this hissing, spitting kitten.

  Thea shrugged out of his hold, replaced her plate on the table with a crack that made Vernon wince and folded her arms.

  ‘You cannot tell me what to do. I am going.’

  Vernon squared his shoulders. ‘Not with me you are not.’

  ‘You cannot stop me.’

  ‘You are correct. I cannot stop you going anywhere or doing anything you wish. But I tell you here and now...you will not do it with me. I shall return to London and you may never discover what has happened to your brother.’

  Her eyes widened.

  Good. That has shaken her.

  ‘You would not do that.’ Her voice lacked conviction.

  Vernon lowered his own voice, injecting a silky menace into his tone. ‘If you put me to the test, Miss Markham, I think you will find that I do not make empty threats either.’

  Her lips thinned as she glared at him. ‘What about your cousin?’

  Vernon shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I shall pay an investigator to track him down and report to me in London. What you choose to forget, Miss Markham, is that I have neither desire nor need to remain here in Worcestershire, or to embark upon a search for a man I have never met. I offered my services because it is unsafe for you, as a female, to go into the places on that list. Which, incidentally, is the exact reason you cannot come with me: it is not safe. I admit to some curiosity as to my cousin’s involvement, but I shall not lose any sleep over it and you will do well to remember that.’