She turned her thoughts, with difficulty, back to Mr Kendrick.
‘Will you be sending someone down to London to return Mr Kendrick’s things?’ she asked nonchalantly as she took another sip of chocolate. She had no wish to bump into one of Frederick’s men, and wanted to know what Frederick’s actions were going to be.
‘No.’ Frederick spread a generous helping of marmalade on his toast. ‘I don’t have enough men for that. I’ve written to him and asked him to let me know exactly what he lost, and once I’ve made sure I have everything I’ll invite him to collect his things the next time he visits the area.’
Eleanor said no more on the subject. Instead, she said, ‘I wonder if I could ask you to frank a letter for me?’ She took the letter out of her reticule. ‘I’ve written to Arabella to tell her that I’ve been delayed, and I would like her to find the letter waiting for her when she gets home. Otherwise she will worry if she returns from her friend’s house and finds that I am not there.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Frederick approvingly. ‘Arabella has enough to worry about at the moment. She will be all in a jitter over the wedding.’ He took the letter. ‘I’ll see that it catches the mail.’
Eleanor thanked him. ‘And do you happen to know the time of the next coach for London?’ she asked, as he tucked the letter in his pocket.
Before he could reply the door opened and Lydia entered the room. She was looking fresh and elegant in a high-waisted cambric gown.
‘The stagecoach will be leaving in just over an hour,’ she said, having overheard the last part of the conversation. ‘That should give you time to finish your breakfast and ready yourself for the journey. I think I will come with you into town.’
‘But your guests,’ protested Eleanor, not wanting to make difficulties for her kindly hostess.
‘Most of them will still be in bed,’ said Lydia practically. ‘I have one or two purchases I need to make, and besides, it will allow me to spend a little extra time with you, so that you can tell me all about the wedding plans.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I want to hear all about Arabella’s gown!’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘I am sworn to secrecy!’ she said with a smile.
‘Then I will just have to wait until the wedding to see it,’ said Lydia. ‘Oh, I am so looking forward to it. It will be the event of the year. To think of little Arabella marrying a future duke! What a wonderful occasion it will be.’
Eleanor finished her breakfast and retired to her room, where she dressed for the journey before meeting Lydia in the hall.
The two ladies went outside. The carriage had been brought round and a footman opened the door. They stepped into the carriage and settled themselves comfortably, then Lydia knocked on the floor with her parasol and the carriage pulled away.
They chattered happily until they reached the nearby town and Eleanor transferred to the stage coach. With a fond farewell and one last cry of, "Make sure it’s a pretty dress" ringing in her ears Eleanor took her seat, and then she was on her way to London.
Going down to breakfast, Lucien was relieved to discover that Miss Grantham had already left the house. She had given him a number of anxious moments and he was glad that he would not have to see her again. And yet it was not just because of the anxious moments that he was relieved to discover she had left. It was also because of the feelings she had stirred inside him.
He was used to women of every type, or so he had thought. But Eleanor had been unique. She had not simpered at him in the manner of the débutantes who haunted society’s ballrooms. Nor had she flirted with him, or given him arch looks, as the older and more experienced women he came across liked to do. Instead she had regarded him as a person; a man who could be argued with, reasoned with, even remonstrated with.
When she had stood up to him on the highway he had been intrigued by her attitude, and impressed. She had neither trembled nor quaked, and she had told him what she thought of him - in no uncertain terms! For an earl who was used to being courted it made a refreshing change.
But it was when she had continued to treat him in the same manner, even when she had discovered his rank, that his interest had been firmly caught. She did not then start to simper at him, or even use her knowledge of his masquerade to coerce him into matrimony - something a number of young ladies of his acquaintance, ably aided and abetted by their matchmaking mamas, would have had no hesitation in doing. Instead she had continued to stand up to him, and the sensation had been surprisingly enjoyable.
And yet for all that she had her flaws. Not least of which was her willingness to risk her neck by consorting with an evil piece of goods like Kendrick, just to retrieve some compromising letters.
It had been an unsettling moment for him when he had heard her mention Mr Kendrick’s name, and he had wondered what she knew about the man. He had even considered the possibility that she could have been one of Kendrick’s accomplices, particularly when he had found her in his room. But then he had discovered that she was looking for love letters.
He couldn’t understand why she had been so determined to retrieve them. She didn’t love her correspondent, of that he was sure, because for the few moments he had held her in his arms, she had been his.
A thoughtful smile crossed his face. She was not a great beauty, but still her response to him had enlivened him more than a similar response from a beautiful woman would have done. Beautiful women were ten-a-penny. Women with courage and character were rare indeed. In fact, until he had met Eleanor, he had not known they existed.
The realization was strangely unsettling. It made him think of - but no. He was too young to set up his nurseries. Miss Grantham had left Godmersham Park. She would go to London, visit the modiste’s, then return home again. And a good thing, too, for he was involved in a dangerous and difficult mission, and he could not afford to lose his concentration.
‘Mr Kendrick.’
Eleanor, newly arrived in London, was holding an imaginary conversation with the blackmailer. She was sitting in the back of a hackney cab which was rattling its way through the streets towards Mr Kendrick’s house in Pall Mall.
‘Mr Kendrick,’ she began again, ‘I have come to speak to you about Arabella’s - Miss Arabella Grantham’s - letters. You have demanded a thousand guineas from her, but you must know she does not have so much money. I have fifty guineas here. Will you not give me the letters in return? Consider this. If you show them to her betrothed you will only arouse his hostility, and the hostility of a future duke is not something to be taken lightly. If, on the other hand, you return the letters to me you will have fifty guineas and you will spare yourself the anger of an influential man.’
She frowned. Would that work? Possibly. But somehow she didn’t believe it.
She tried again.
‘Mr Kendrick, you are mistaken in thinking that my sister will be able to find a thousand guineas. She would certainly never ask Charles for the money, and there is no other way she could possibly get it.’
She sighed. No, that did not sound right either. Whatever she said, she did not think Mr Kendrick would take any notice of her, but she must try. If she tried, she at least had a chance of succeeding, whereas if she didn’t, she would have no chance at all.
She was saved from further attempts to find the right words as the hackney cab turned into Pall Mall.
At last, she thought, I’ve arrived.
‘Where did you say you wanted to be?’ called the driver.
‘This will do very well,’ said Eleanor, who did not want the carriage to pull up directly in front of the house. ‘You may stop here.’
The driver slowed the cab and as soon as it stopped, Eleanor stepped out. Having paid her fare she proceeded to the right address, which she had carefully noted down. It was a splendid gentleman’s residence. Brightly-polished brasses gleamed on the door, and the windows shone like mirrors. Everything about it exuded an air of wealth.
As she arranged the folds of her shabby cloak,
Eleanor felt a moment of doubt. Would she be admitted to such a grand house? she wondered. Well, there was no use delaying. She must just get on with it and hope for the best.
Straightening her spine, she resolutely approached the front door. She lifted the lion’s-head knocker and let it drop, then she stood with bated breath, waiting for an answer. But nothing happened.
Thinking she must not have knocked hard enough she lifted the lion’s head again and this time brought it down firmly in a series of loud raps. As she gave the last, determined, knock she was surprised to feel the door give a little.
She drew back her hand, startled. Why had the door swung open a crack? Had it already been ajar? Perhaps. Even so, it seemed odd. She stood and waited, expecting a butler or a liveried footman to appear at any moment and ask her what her business was. But still no one came.
She had come too far now to turn back, however, and after waiting for another minute she decided to go in. Cautiously she pushed the door wide. It revealed a palatial hall. She gasped in awe. She had never seen anything like it. Blackmailing was obviously a lucrative business.
The hall was dominated by a magnificent staircase, which swept upwards to a dizzying height. Above it, a glass dome was set into the roof, flooding the hall with daylight.
Her eyes travelled down again, taking in the costly gilded furniture and objects’ d’art. Marble columns supported Sèvres vases; inlaid console tables held ormolu clocks. Classical pieces, brought back from the Continent, shimmered in the sunlight.
It was magnificent, thought Eleanor, before reminding herself that it was built on ill-gotten gains. No doubt Arabella’s thousand guineas, should she have been able to produce that sum, would have provided more masterpieces for the already crowded walls.
The thought sobered Eleanor. Taking her eyes away from the dazzling splendour, she looked about her for some sign of life. But there was nothing. There should have been a footman at least, but the hall was empty.
Had Mr Kendrick perhaps not arrived? But the knocker had been on the door, and that indicated he was in town. It was all very curious.
She moved forwards. She tried to go quietly but she could not prevent her footsteps from echoing as she crossed the marble floor. She shivered, and pulled her cloak more closely about herself. There was something eerie about the silent house, and she felt the small hairs rise on the back of her neck.
If there was anyone at home, they would most probably be in the drawing-room. Knowing that it would be found on the first floor she set foot on the stairs. She looked up, her eyes travelling over the banister to the landing above in an effort to discover some sign of life, but still she could see no one.
Fighting down an irrational fear she began to climb. The stairs were broad and shallow. Once at the top, she went along the landing and pushed open the first door she came to. It revealed a sumptuously-decorated ante-room. Mr Kendrick had spared no expense when it came to furnishing and decorating his house. An Aubusson carpet covered the floor. Brocaded sofas vied with gilded chairs for attention. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the ceiling itself was painted with a large picture of Zeus.
But still there was no sign of Mr Kendrick.
She went into the next room. It was splendidly decorated, but had a different character to the rest of the house. This was a place to work. A large mahogany desk was set at one side, with a leather-bound chair pushed up next to it. The walls were covered with bookcases . . . and the room had been ransacked.
Eleanor’s eyes ran over the jumble and confusion in dismay. The drawers had been wrenched out of the desk and turned upside down, their contents scattered all over. Piles of papers leaned drunkenly on the edge of the desk, looking as if they could topple over at any moment, and documents of every kind covered the floor.
What was the meaning of it? Had Mr Kendrick been the subject of a common burglary, or had one of his victims decided to reclaim their possessions without meeting his greedy demands?
She gave a sudden start as she heard a dull thud, then laughed with relief as she realized that it had been caused by nothing more than one of the piles of papers overbalancing and falling to the floor.
She turned her attention back to the papers. Could Arabella’s letters be amongst them? It was certainly possible. She was just about to start looking for them when she heard a sound from below. She felt her heart skip a beat. It was the sound of voices. And they were coming up the stairs.
Instinctively she backed away from the door. . . and found herself stopped by something large and hard. She gasped. And then her heart began to hammer in her chest. Whatever she had bumped into, it was not a piece of furniture. It was hard, but it had yielded a little as she had bumped into it, and it was warm.
Summoning her courage she told herself she must turn round, but before she could accomplish the act a hand reached round and clamped itself over her mouth and she was dragged forcibly backwards into a large cupboard, with her unknown assailant’s arms wrapped tightly round her. Feeling an overwhelming need to get away, she bit into the fingers clamped over her mouth.
There was a stifled curse, and then a voice she recognised hissed in her ear, ‘Don’t fight me, you little fool. Keep still.’
‘Lord Silverton!’
He pulled the cupboard door closed, and Eleanor felt her heart start to escalate as she realized she was trapped in a confined space with the one man in all the world she did not want to be with. She could feel the hardness of his body at her back, and the ridged muscles of his arms and chest. His legs, long and lean, were pressed against hers.
She did not know what danger awaited her outside the door but she began to feel it could not be any worse than this. She tried to move. If she could just inch forward she would not have to feel his body pressing so tightly against her. She pulled against his restraining arms and moved one leg, but this was even worse. The friction sent an unwelcome tremor coursing through her.
‘Don’t move,’ he commanded.
She was about to make another effort to free herself, despite his warning, when she heard the voices drawing closer. They were now on the landing. She felt Lord Silverton tense again, and her own muscles tightened, too. She did not know what she had stumbled into, but it was obviously dangerous. She stopped struggling. For the first time she was glad of Lord Silverton’s strength at her back.
Through a crack in the door she could see one of the men entering the room. He was tall and fair, and he was dressed in a brown tailcoat and breeches. She watched as he glanced around the room. ‘It doesn’t look like there’s anyone here.’
‘Then what was that noise?’ said the second man.
‘I don’t know.’
The fair man looked round the room again and then, to her horror, she saw that his eyes had fallen on the cupboard. She forgot to breathe. He started to walk towards it . . . and then another of the piles of papers on the desk suddenly shifted under its own weight, before sliding with a soft thump! onto the floor.
The man, his attention caught, cast his eye over the paper littering the floor, and seemed satisfied that the noise he had heard from downstairs had been caused by a similar slide.
‘It was nothing,’ he said. ‘Just some papers shifting. Let’s do what we came to do, then we can get out of here.’
The two men rifled the papers.
‘Here they are,’ said one of the men.
‘Good. Let’s go.’
Their steps could be heard going along the landing.
Eleanor began to breathe more normally again, but Lord Silverton’s arms were still around her, and she knew she would have no peace until she had removed herself from his embrace. She made a move to pull away from him, but he held her firm.
‘Wait,’ he commanded.
She listened to the footsteps as they went down the stairs, and finally she heard a soft thunk! as the front door closed.
As soon as it had done so she struggled to break free of his grasp. She needed to get out of the
cupboard. Being so close to him made her feel vulnerable, and she had to escape. To her relief he let her go. Turning the handle she leant heavily against the cupboard door, and, in her haste she almost fell. Stumbling, she righted herself and quickly straightened up, re-settling her bonnet and arranging the folds of her cloak in an effort to still her trembling nerves.
Lord Silverton followed her. She turned to face him, intending to berate him for dragging her into the cupboard, when she saw the look on his face and faltered. He wasn’t smiling, as she had expected he would be, or throwing her a mocking glance. Instead he was glowering down at her, and his eyes were smouldering with unsuppressed anger.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘suppose you tell me what the devil you are doing here?’
She took a step back and then stopped. She refused to be intimidated, even though he was looking dangerous enough to intimidate an entire army.
‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ she returned. ‘I am trying to reclaim my letters.’
She saw his eyes narrow, as though trying to read her mind. His mouth suddenly hardened. ‘Then you’re a little fool.’
Her eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Oh, no, you don’t. You’re far too pig-headed to do that.’
‘Have you finished insulting me?’ she asked, as anger took over from astonishment.
‘I haven’t even begun. You seek out Kendrick, knowing just what kind of man he is, and then you refuse to abandon your mission even when anyone but a fool would realize they were in over their head.’
‘That’s the second time you’ve called me a fool —’
‘And it isn’t enough! What do you think you’re doing, coming here and putting yourself in danger, and all to reclaim the letters of someone you don’t even love?’
‘Of course I love him,’ she returned angrily. ‘You know nothing about it.’
The Silverton Scandal Page 6