Back in the carriage, Lady Edgecumbe, who had the grace to be ashamed of her daughters’ ill breeding, began to demonstrate a livelier interest in the surrounding countryside than she had heretofore. Her questions were well informed and to the point, and Sarah was just beginning to feel more in charity with the woman when Cordelia sang out, “Oh, there is the chevalier!” and waved at him in such a way that even her mother, who was noted for her outrageously forthright manner, remonstrated with her. “Cordelia, you must not behave like such a hoyden. Really, I cannot think that you learned such manners in Buckinghamshire. If a Season in town is responsible for such behavior, it is obvious that we shall have to remain in the country after this.”
Cordelia retreated into sulky silence, but the damage had been done, and the chevalier, who had been emerging from the taproom of the Red Lion, sauntered over to the carriage. He was the image of sartorial splendor, from the brim of his curly beaver set at a rakish angle on his glossy locks, to his bottle green jacket, dove colored breeches, and brilliantly polished Hessians.
Sarah thought he did not look best pleased when he first caught sight of them, but recovering quickly, he donned a brilliant smile and made as if to approach. Much to the girls’ delight, Sarah requested John to pull up, and the chevalier hurried over, exclaiming at his good fortune in encountering so many charming ladies at one time. “There is something so invigorating about this fresh country air and the so beautiful surroundings”—he nodded toward Sarah—“that makes one wish to enjoy it all. In London I do not even rise until well after noon and never set foot out of my door until five o’clock at the earliest. But here”—he included the village in an expansive gesture—“one simply must be out enjoying the day.”
Doing it rather much too brown, are you not, my fine sir, Sarah muttered to herself. Until this moment she had not paid much attention to the chevalier, but now she found his effusive enthusiasm a trifle overdone.
“Upon the recommendation of those who know, I have come down here to sample the local ale. It is said that the best to be had in all of Kent is made right here by the landlord.” He gestured theatrically toward the Red Lion. “Of course, I allow for local prejudices, but, having imbibed mine host’s home brewed, I can assure you it is excellent. We French have our wine, you know, but there is nothing quite so satisfying as a hearty tankard of ale.” Then, noticing the slightly glazed expressions on their faces, he excused himself. “Please do forgive me for expounding on a subject that must be of the greatest indifference to you ladies, but I am filled with delight at this magnificent day and this charming spot.”
Sarah had begun to ignore the chevalier’s ridiculous prattle, but his mention of the ale caught her attention. She was not, naturally enough, unacquainted with the specialities of the local hostelries, but she had heard enough of their reputations to know that it was the George and Dragon, not the Red Lion that served the best ale—ale that was renowned far beyond the local village.
Richard, when he was at Tredington, often boasted of it to his guests, and Sarah had seen many a riotous party making its erratic way back to Tredington Park from the George and Dragon after several hours spent in the taproom. The chevalier, was clearly up to something at the Red Lion, and it was not tasting the local brew. He must have been meeting someone there, but who? Was it one of the villagers or someone from London?
Having deduced this much, Sarah suddenly became most anxious to return to Cranleigh and the Earl of Burnleigh. She racked her brain for excuses to cut short their excursion, a move that was certain to please Lucinda and Cordelia, who were more animated in the presence of the chevalier than she had ever seen them. “It seems a great shame to waste such beautiful weather making calls to the villagers, and now that we have met the chevalier, it would be a pity to deprive ourselves of his presence. Will you not accompany us back to Cranleigh, sir? I believe there was some mention of a boating party on the lake. There is a most charming grotto on the island in the middle that is sure to delight anyone who visits it.”
“Oh, yes.” Cordelia clapped her hands. “That is an enchanting idea. I do so adore a boat ride. We have an elegant ornamental water at Hatherleigh, but Papa is never home so there is no one to row us about. However, I am sure that you are a most excellent oarsman, Chevalier.” She fixed the Frenchman with a soulful gaze while her sister, furious at having missed her opportunity to win the chevalier’s attention, scowled most dreadfully.
“It is set, then. John, please take us back to Cranleigh.” Sarah glanced over at Lady Edgecumbe, who shrugged. Knowing the propensities of her flighty daughters, she appeared to be resigned to the change in plan. Meanwhile, Sarah settled back to plot an unobtrusive encounter with Lord Farringdon.
Chapter Twenty-one
Chance was in Sarah’s favor as the little party that had gone into the village dispersed quickly upon their return to Cranleigh. Cordelia and Lucinda, each clutching an arm of the unfortunate chevalier, dragged him off toward the boathouse while their mother repaired to her chamber to write a long list of instructions to the housekeeper at Hatherleigh. They barely noticed Sarah as she bid them good day and slipped off to the library to sort out her thoughts and devise her plans.
The minute she entered the library, she grabbed a book off the shelf so as to appear occupied should anyone happen to find her there, but once seated, she stared off into space, the book unopened in her lap. How was she to discover the identity of the person the chevalier was meeting at the Red Lion, for meeting someone he was. It was highly out of character for the fastidious Frenchman to consort with the locals. She herself could not investigate this further, nor could the earl, who unless he was a master of disguise, was just as noticeable as she was and therefore unable to observe the Frenchman’s movements without causing a stir. Truly, it was a sticky problem.
Sarah sat for some time considering it all when she was startled by a slight noise. She turned, listening intently. There it was again, as though someone had sighed heavily. She rose and crept softly toward the deep wing chair by the window. At first she perceived nothing, but then, as she drew closer, she saw a dark head leaning against one of the wings and long legs thrust under a low table in front of it. There was only one member of the house party of such a height as to possess legs of such length—Lord Farringdon. Closer inspection revealed him to be fast asleep, and the sound she had heard was the deep breathing of a man dead to the world.
Sarah remained transfixed, staring at him, enjoying the opportunity to observe Lord Farringdon without anyone’s being the wiser. Somehow, he did not look nearly so forbidding this way. The thick, dark lashes lying against the high cheekbones softened the angular contours of his face, and sleep smoothed out the cynical lines around his mouth that gave him a perpetually sardonic expression. In fact, seeing his face in repose, Sarah found herself drawn to him in ways that she had not dreamt of before. Not put off by the defensive, mocking, knowing look she usually saw in his eyes, she could admit to herself that he really was most attractive.
The sleeper stirred, wincing as he did so. The regular heavy breathing faltered for a moment, and Sarah felt a twinge of remorse at having to interrupt his welcome moment of oblivion, but it was such a perfect opportunity to talk to him alone, and she had something of importance to tell him. There was nothing for it, but to give him a gentle shake.
The earl’s gray eyes snapped open, instantly alert, and two purposeful fists half raised before he caught sight of Sarah and, recognizing her, grimaced ruefully. “A fine conspirator I am to awake in such a suspiciously hostile manner. It is a lucky thing that you and not someone else awoke me or there would be most uncomfortable questions asked as to what sort of person it is who wakes from a deep slumber prepared to come to blows.”
Sarah was silent for a moment. What a shame it was that the earl led a life that made waking up such a tricky business. How lonely it must be to have to watch out for oneself constantly as he apparently did. For a fleeting moment she had the strangest urg
e to smooth back the dark hair that had fallen forward over his brow and assure him that she would stand guard while he slept. She banished such an absurd notion as quickly as it had come. The earl was a man of the world. What need had he of a green girl’s assistance? “If you fall asleep in libraries, particularly this one, you need have no fear of interruption,” she responded drily, revealing nothing of the treacherous thoughts in either her voice or expression. “I have come to tell you that we encountered the chevalier in the village, which is not in itself any way odd, but he was coming out of the Red Lion in what seemed to me to be a furtive manner. Furthermore, he claimed to have gone there to sample their excellent ale, and everyone knows the George and Dragon, not the Red Lion, has a reputation in at least two counties for its home brew.”
“It does, does it? And how, pray tell, do you know?” Lord Farringdon quizzed her, smiling wickedly.
Sarah was not to be drawn. “Everyone knows. Why even you, being a friend of Richard’s, must be well acquainted with it. At any rate, how I know is neither here nor there. The point is that he did not; therefore, he must have been there to meet someone.”
“And how did you deduce that, fair lady?”
Sarah snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “Men such as the chevalier do not frequent common taprooms. You know that as well as I do. Consorting with greasy farmers and hearty squires is not quite in the chevalier’s style.”
The earl’s eyes narrowed. “What a very observant person you are, to be sure, Lady Sarah. I believe that you are entirely correct in your suspicions. Now, the question is, what is to be done about it?” He gazed out over the gardens of Cranleigh, mulling over the various possibilities. “That must be where he meets the locals who help land his messengers from France, or perhaps he is sending word back to someone in London, though I doubt it, for it strikes me that our chevalier is not the sort to share anything with anybody, especially if it is power or information. I shall have to see what I can do to discover who this contact is.”
“But you are wounded,” Sarah objected. “You should not even be out of bed, much less chasing after someone, particularly a dangerous French agent. Besides, even if you do succeed in catching him meeting with someone, you will not know who that person is. If I send John Coachman, however, we shall know the identity of his contact and can then very likely figure out who else is involved because we will know his customary companions.”
The logic was unanswerable, which did not necessarily do any more to recommend the suggestion to Alistair, who had begun to feel almost superfluous next to this fearsomely capable young lady. However, there was far more than his mere pride at stake. “You are in the right of it. Lady Sarah. What is this John Coachman like, and is he capable of such a task?”
“He is infinitely reliable and extremely loyal. He has been with the family for years and watched over me since he threw me on my first pony. If anything, he is overly protective of me.”
Alistair could not imagine Sarah’s allowing anyone watching out for her enough to be called overly protective, but he let it pass. “I would be exceedingly grateful for such information. In the main, most of the people who aid and abet someone like the chevalier do so purely for the money, and where money is concerned, one can usually enlist their assistance by offering them more money.” Lord Farringdon nodded slowly. “We shall see who wins this round, Chevalier, we shall see.”
The grim lines of his mouth and the determined set of his jaw boded no good for the Frenchman. What a change from his earlier peaceful expression, Sarah thought. At all times the earl appeared to be a force to be reckoned with; now he looked positively ferocious.
Alistair glanced up to see her regarding him with some concern. “Forgive me. I do not mean to trouble a lady with such things. However”—he cocked his head, eyeing her speculatively—“I do have my suspicions that you are enjoying this more than you are shocked by it.” Detecting the sparkle of intrigue in her green eyes, he laughed. “I thought as much, and I must say, it is extraordinarily helpful to have an extra pair of eyes and ears as I cannot be constantly in sight of the chevalier.” He twisted slightly in his chair and frowned as the stab of pain reminded him that his activities were also hampered to some extent by his injury.
Sarah was quick to notice his slight grimace. “Good heavens, your wound! We must attend to it. I shall return to Ashworth at once to procure fresh dressings and more salve. Miss Trimble has gone into the village to do some marketing, so I shall not be noticed. There is a large spinney on the road just before it turns into the drive to Ashworth. Can you contrive to meet me there in an hour’s time?”
The earl nodded. He was loath to depend on anyone, especially a mere slip of a girl, for assistance of any sort, but he needed to remain as strong and healthy as possible, and Lady Sarah’s help would ensure that he did so.
“Good then. I shall bid you adieu and see you soon.” Hastily gathering up her skirts, she hurried from the library, leaving Alistair to reflect on what an abundance of energy was contained in her slim figure and how much intelligence there was under the smooth gold tresses coiled so neatly at the nape of her neck.
Then he, too, arose and headed off to prepare for their meeting.
Lord Farringdon was as good as his word, and, entering the spinney precisely an hour later, Sarah found him seated on a fallen log, swinging one booted foot and watching the antics of a pair of squirrels chasing one another from limb to limb high above him. He was not so absorbed, however, that he did not look up the instant she entered the spinney. Dismounting and moving closer toward him, Sarah observed that his right hand, which appeared to be resting beside him on the log, was, in fact, gripping a most deadly looking pistol.
“Small wonder you have such a dangerous reputation among women of the ton if this is how you conduct your assignations.” Sarah could not help chuckling as she pointed to his weapon.
“I carry this only because I am meeting with a most daunting female. In the main, I have no need of such precautions,” he teased.
Not certain if this was meant as a compliment or an insult, Sarah turned to lift a satchel off her saddle and proceeded in a most businesslike manner to lay out a jug of water, fresh dressings, and more salve. “Now then, if you will let me help you with your jacket, I can examine the wound,” she began briskly.
Suddenly serious, the earl turned quickly and captured one slim white hand. “Surely you must realize that I gave you a compliment of the highest order. Any other female I could be confident of winning over by flattering her with sweet nothings and all the admiring glances she hoped to attract, but not you. You are awake on every suit, and thus I treat you as an equal. But how do you know about my reputation? I thought you paid no heed to the gossip of the ton?”
Sarah blushed. “Ordinarily, I do not, but in the carriage today I could not help overhearing what Cordelia and Lucinda were saying.”
“The Edgecumbe girls!” Alistair snorted in disgust. “They are typical of the worst sort of gossip. They select only the most scandalous on-dits to spread about because they have so little scandal in their own lives. They have so little real connection with the people involved that they have no way of knowing the truth, and care less just so long as it calls attention to them.” He laughed cynically. “Furthermore, I have no doubt that it was all done for your benefit.”
“For my benefit?” Sarah was mystified. “But why?”
“Because they are jealous of you.”
“Jealous? Now you are offering me Spanish coin. Whyever would they be jealous of me?”
“Because you are beautiful and...” The patent expression of disbelief on Sarah’s face at these words would have been ludicrous if it had not been so touching. Alistair felt oddly moved by it and the humble look of hope, or was it gratitude, in her eyes. Had no one ever admired her before, he wondered. How very sad. “Yes, you are beautiful, but I shall dwell on that later. Chiefly, they are jealous of you because they can see that I find you interesting and that I
enjoy your company, that you are completely oblivious to this fact, and that you do not even care whether or not I do enjoy your company. It is bad enough to want something that someone else has, but when that someone else looks at the object of your envy with patent scorn, then that is even more humiliating.” He smiled up at her. “You are a very clever woman, Lady Sarah, but you have a great deal to learn about the way of the world. If you care to learn about it, that is, which I suspect you do not. And now that is quite enough. I have been carrying on like a regular jaw-me-dead. I promise I shall be a good patient and take up no more of your time.”
Sarah was grateful that she was so occupied with cleaning and examining the wound for the next quarter of an hour that Lord Farringdon could not see her face, nor did he appear to expect a response to his astounding revelations. That anyone could envy her anything, other than the fortune she had just inherited and which she set no store by, was an astounding idea to say the very least. What was worse, she could not help feeling just the tiniest bit gratified by it, though she despised herself for being so. Even more gratifying was the impression the earl seemed to have that she was so uninterested in him as to be—what had he called it?—oblivious to him. Would that she were oblivious to him! In Sarah’s opinion she spent entirely too much of her time thinking about him, and she enjoyed his company far too much than was good for her.
Admiring the smoothness of his muscular chest as she deftly wound the bandage around him one last time, Sarah thought that she was definitely experiencing longings and urges that no proper young woman should even be aware of, much less relive, as she often did in the privacy of her bedchamber. Impossible though it was to believe, apparently none of these ridiculous impulses appeared to be noticeable, though she was uncomfortably conscious of them. Surely, it was a miracle that she had not betrayed herself, for it was not owing to any control or self-discipline on her part. Where the Earl of Burnleigh was concerned, she appeared to have none.
The Reluctant Heiress Page 17