The Secrets Of Wiscombe Chase
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‘I said, my home is not an inn.’ His voice was rising again, as was his temper.
Aston cringed. ‘Of course not, Captain Wiscombe.’ Then why did he sound doubtful?
‘But?’ Gerry gave a coaxing twitch of his fingers and waited for the rest of the story.
‘The Misters North entertain here. Frequently,’ Mrs Fitz said, with a little sniff of disapproval.
‘There are often large house parties,’ Aston supplied. ‘Guests come from the city for hunting and cards.’
‘Friends of the family?’ Gerry suggested.
‘The Earl of Greywall is usually among the party. But the rest...’ Aston looked uncomfortable. ‘Very few guests are invited twice.’
‘I see.’ In truth, he did not. Why would Ronald and his father bring crowds of strangers to such a remote location? And why was Greywall here? He knew he was not welcome and he had a perfectly good residence only a few miles away.
He considered. ‘Is the earl in residence now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Damn. When he was alive, Gerry’s father had loathed the peer who could not seem to limit himself to the game on his own side of the property line. After he’d died, Greywall had not waited for the body to cool before he’d begun to pester Gerry to sell house and land for less than they were worth. The crass insensitivity of his offers had convinced Gerry that anything, including a sudden marriage and military career, would be preferable to giving in to Greywall’s demands.
His stubbornness had netted nothing if the earl had caged a permanent invitation to house and grounds. It was about to be rescinded, of course. But it would have to be done carefully. Even peers one did not like demanded special handling in situations like this. He sighed. ‘Then I suspect I will meet him and the rest over dinner.’
‘Very good, sir. Do you require assistance in changing? A shave, perhaps?’
‘As long as my bag and kit are waiting, I can manage on my own,’ he said, although the thought of the master dressing without help clearly appalled his poor butler. He gave them both an encouraging smile. No matter what had occurred in his absence, the staff was not at fault. ‘It is good to be home,’ he added.
They smiled back, and Mrs Fitz bobbed a curtsy. ‘And to see you again, safe and well, sir. If you need anything...’
‘I will ring,’ he assured her and gave a brief nod of thanks to dismiss them. Then he opened the door and entered his room.
For a moment, he paused on the threshold, confused. Before his sudden marriage and equally sudden departure, he’d never felt at home in the master suite. He had gone from the nursery to school, returning only on news of his father’s death. For most of his life this had not been his space at all, but his father’s.
He’d felt woefully out of place during the few months he’d been master of the house. Days had been spent in his father’s study trying to decipher the bookkeeping and poring over stacks of unpaid bills. Nights had been marked with uneasy sleep in his father’s bed, too embarrassed to admit that he missed his cot in the nursery. How was one expected to get any rest, surrounded by so many judgemental eyes?
His father had been a mediocre parent, but an avid sportsman. The bedroom, like so many other rooms in the house, was full of his trophies. Gerry did not mind the pelts, so much. He would even admit to a childish fascination for the rugs of tiger and bearskin in the billiard room. But what was the point of decorating the room in which one slept with the heads of animals one had killed? Stags stared moodily down from the walls. Foxes sat on the mantel, watching him with beady glass eyes. Antlers and boar tusks jutted from the wall behind the bed as though they might, at any moment, fall to impale the sleeper.
Gerry had proved in countless battles that he was no coward. When the killing was done, he’d treated the dead with as much respect as he was able. He had hoped for the same, should his luck fail him and circumstances be reversed. A gentleman should not gloat on the lives he’d taken, especially not at bedtime.
His father had not shared the sentiment. Of course, to the best of Gerry’s knowledge, his father had never killed a man, much less dozens of them. The stuffed heads had been nothing more than decorations to him. But to Gerry, they would be reminders of other soulless eyes, judging him as he tried to sleep. It was with trepidation that he opened the door tonight, prepared for the distasteful sights within.
He stood on the threshold, confused.
Today, as he’d walked through the house, he’d noted the subtle changes that had been made to the decorating. The overt masculinity had been retained. There could be no doubt that he was in a hunting lodge and not a London town house. But the stained and faded silks had been removed from the walls and replaced. Paint had been freshened. Furniture had been re-upholstered and rearranged. Though most of the trophies remained where he remembered them, they had at least been dusted. One could entertain both ladies and gentlemen here, without fear of embarrassment.
But no room he’d seen so far had been so totally transformed as his own bedroom. The dusty velvet chairs had been replaced with benches and stools covered in saddle leather. The heavy green baize on the walls had been exchanged for a cream-coloured, watered silk. The hangings over the bed were no longer maroon brocade. They were now a blue sarsenet shot through with silver. To stare up at the canopy would be like staring into a night sky full of stars.
The table at the side of the bed held the two volumes of the Théorie Analytique des Probabilités and a fine wooden version of Roget’s new slide rule. He’d heard about the advances in mathematics since he’d been away and had been eager to return to his books. If he wished, he could take up his studies this very night.
Best of all, he could do it without the distractions of dozens of glass eyes. All evidence of his father’s skill as a hunter had been removed. The walls were decorated with watercolour landscapes. He stepped closer to admire the work and started in surprise.
He knew the place in the picture. He had been there himself. It was Talavera de la Reina in Spain. But the picture was of the sleepy village and not the backdrop for battle. The next was of the Nive flowing through France. And here was Waterloo. Beautiful places all, not that he’d had the time to enjoy the scenery when he was there. But this was how he wanted to think of them. The land had healed. The blood he had shed was not muddying the dust. It had soaked into the ground and left only grass and wildflowers as memorial to the dead.
As he admired the work, he felt relaxed and at peace, as though he had finally come home. This was his room, totally and completely. If he had written his wishes out and sent them ahead, he could not have been more pleased with the results. The years of sacrifice had been rewarded with a haven of tranquillity. He could leave the war behind and become the man he had once intended to be.
This must have been Lillian’s doing. No mere servant would have dared to take such liberties. Hadn’t Mrs Fitz said it had been his wife’s orders to keep the place locked until his return? But how had she known what he would like? How had she managed this without consulting him?
Most importantly, why had she done it?
Chapter Five
‘The diamonds, or the pearls, madam?’ The maid was holding one earring to each ear, so Lily could judge the effect in her dressing table mirror.
She frowned back at her own reflection. She wished to look her best for the captain’s first night at home. Despite their current difficulties, she could not help the wistful desire that he might admire her looks and perhaps even comment on them. When he’d proposed she had been a foolish young girl, so supremely confident in her ability to enthral him that she hadn’t even bothered to try. She certainly wouldn’t have needed jewels to enhance her appearance. But now that he could compare her to half the señoritas and mademoiselles of Europe she was obsessing over each detail in an effort to win his praise.
And what message did it send to wear jewellery that he had not bought for her? The diamonds had been a gift from Father for her last birthday. But suppose he suspected they’d come from a lover? It would be better to wear the pearls she’d inherited from her mother. She’d been wearing them on the day the captain had proposed.
Would he remember them? Even if he did not, they were modest enough that he could not accuse her of profligate spending or accepting gifts from strangers. She pointed to the pearl drops and the maid affixed them and brought out the matching necklace.
On her left hand, she wore the simple gold ring that had belonged to his mother. When they’d married, he’d had nothing else to offer her but the ring and the house. His fortunes had improved since then. She was not sure how much money he had sent back from Portugal, but his banker in London had assured her that any bills she submitted would be paid without question. She hoped he was a rich man. He deserved to live comfortably after sacrificing a third of his life to the army.
But she had done nothing to earn a share of his wealth and had done her best not to abuse his generosity. She had taken very little from the accounts for frivolities, preferring to make sparing use of the allowance that had been provided for her. One of the first lessons learned as a member of the North family was to keep back a portion of any success for the moment when things went wrong and a quick escape was necessary. To that end, she had a tightly rolled pile of bank notes hidden in her dresser that not even her father was aware of.
The gown she was wearing had been one of her rare purchases, a London design that had arrived not two weeks ago. The pearls did not suit it at all, but they would have to do.
There was a knock on the bedroom door and her brother entered without waiting for her welcome.
She did not bother to turn to him, frowning at his reflection. ‘Such rude behaviour is why my door is almost always locked.’
‘Surely you have nothing to worry about, with your husband in the next room.’ Ronald was smiling back at her, as if he thought the prospect of rescue was unlikely, even if she needed it.
‘You have more to fear from Captain Wiscombe than I do,’ she said, amazed that he would joke about such a thing.
‘The day will never come when I can’t out-think Gerry Wiscombe.’ Ronald’s arrogance was undimmed by recent events. ‘Nothing he said to you today after I left the room will make me believe otherwise.’
This was probably his way of requesting a report of her conversation with the captain. She ignored it, turning her attention back to her maid so that they might finish her toilette.
Ronald made no move to leave her, leaning against the wall by the door and staring as she made Jenny re-pin her braids and fuss over the ribbons at her shoulders until it was plain to everyone in the room that she was stalling. At last, she gave up and dismissed the maid, remaining silent until the door was shut and she could hear the girl’s retreating footsteps at the far end of the hall.
‘Well?’ her brother said, arms folded over his chest. ‘What did he say to you?’
She stared back at him, expressionless. ‘If the words were meant for you, he’d have spoken them in your presence.’
‘Ho-ho,’ Ronald responded with an ugly smirk. ‘You mean to side with him in this?’
She blinked innocently. ‘Was that not the intention, when you and Father gave me to him?’
‘I doubt Father expected that the day would come when you would throw your own flesh and blood to the wolves to save yourself.’
‘Throw you to the wolves?’ She laughed. ‘If Captain Wiscombe has a problem with you or Father, I will have no say in it.’
‘But what about your son?’
‘What of him?’ she said. Ronald had always been the least subtle of the Norths, trying to force information from her rather than waiting for it to be revealed. She turned back to the mirror, giving full attention to her appearance and none to his simmering anger.
‘Gerry did not seem overly surprised by his presence.’
‘Why should he be? We are married. There is a child.’ Ronald had hinted his suspicions before. Now was not the time to confirm them.
‘Your child was born nearly ten months after your husband left for the army.’
‘You exaggerate,’ she said, adding a touch more powder to her cheeks. She shouldn’t have bothered. The addition took her from perfection to unhealthy pallor.
‘When Stewart’s next birthday arrives, even a man as stupid as Gerry Wiscombe will count out the months and have questions for you.’
She turned to glare at him. ‘My husband is no fool.’
At this, her brother laughed out loud. ‘So sorry to offend you, little sister. If that is what you wish, I will try not to think of him as the poor gull who I tricked into marrying you.’
‘You tricked him?’ Now she was the one who doubted.
‘I told him you had seen him from afar. That it was practically a love match and that all it would take to win one of the most celebrated beauties of the Season was a show of courage on his part and an offer. He asked for your hand. Then, dutifully as a child, he ran off to war to impress you.’
‘That is how you remember it?’ Perhaps Gerald had shown a different face to her family than he had to her. Though his proposal had been gallant enough, she’d got no sense that he was dazzled by her beauty. He’d been a man with a plan. Marriage to her had been little more than a point of intersection between his goals and those of her father.
Her brother was still smiling at the memory. ‘I had never met a fellow so easily persuaded or so quick to act against his own best interests as Gerry Wiscombe the day he proposed to you. It was a pity he had nothing more to offer than the house. If there had been money in his purse, I’d have got it all in one hand of cards.’
‘It does not matter who he was when he left England,’ Lily said, disgusted. ‘The man who returned is different from the boy you remember.’
‘So you claim,’ he said with a sceptical nod. ‘But when we spoke today he was the same amiable dolt I went to school with.’
‘His successes on the Peninsula were not those of a halfwit. If you’d read the accounts of the battles...’
Ronald held up a hand to stop her. ‘Your obsession with the war has always been most unladylike. Now that Napoleon is imprisoned, I wish to hear no more of it. Even your brave captain admitted that it was luck that saw him safely home. That seems far more likely than a magical transformation into a man of action. Just an hour ago, he was smiling over nothing and all but upsetting your wine glass.’
‘It is an act,’ she said and immediately wondered if she had already broken her vow of loyalty to her husband by giving him away. But his bravery and tactical acumen were hardly a secret to one who bothered to read the papers. ‘Even if he was not shamming this afternoon, you must realise that he plans to take control of his estate. Your games with Father must end.’
‘Must they?’ Ronald gave her an innocent stare. ‘I see no reason that they cannot continue, once we have taken the time to convince Gerry of their usefulness.’
‘You mean to convince a man of honour to run what is little more than a crooked gaming hell?’
Her brother clucked his tongue at her. ‘Such a way to describe your own home. This is not a professional establishment. It is merely a resort for those from the city who like sport, good wine and deep play.’
‘Call it what you will,’ she said. ‘It is not, and never has been, your house. Now that the master has returned, things will be different.’
‘Yes, they will,’ Ronald agreed. ‘Once Gerry has settled his account with us...’
‘Settled with you?’
‘The upkeep on such a large place is extensive. The slates. The curtains. The wine in the cellar...’
‘You do not mean to charge him for wine that he has not even tasted. And though he gave you permission to live here, he did not ask you to fix up the house.’
Ronald held his hands palms up in an innocent shrug. ‘I am sure he did not intend for us to live with rain pouring through the holes in the roof. Something needed to be done. How much blunt does he have, do you think?’
‘Even if I knew, I would not tell you.’ However much he had, her brother would see to it that the captain owed him double. If a direct appeal for funds failed, Ronald would win it at cards or billiards, or through any other weakness that could be discovered and exploited. Before he knew it, her husband would have empty pockets and the struggles of the past few years would be for naught. That was the way the Norths did business.
Ronald smiled. ‘We might be persuaded to forget his debt, as we did for Greywall. The chance to meet the famous Captain Wiscombe will bring even more people up from London. I am sure he must have friends recently retired from service who would enjoy a chance to share our hospitality. We simply have to persuade him.’
‘You will never convince him to do such a thing,’ she said, praying that it was true.
‘Perhaps not. But I will not have to. You are so very good with men, little sister,’ he said, touching her shoulder.
She shrugged off his hand. ‘I will not help you hurt him.’
‘You did once, Lillian.’ He patted her shoulder again.
‘And I regret it,’ she said. She had been young and foolish, and there had been no choice. It would not happen again.
‘Regret?’ Ronald laughed. ‘You are a North, Lillian. That is not an emotion we are capable of. The time will come when blood will tell and you will come around to our way of thinking again.’
‘Never,’ she said.
‘We shall see. But now I must go to my own room to dress. I will see you at dinner.’ He smiled. ‘Remember to look your best for Gerry. If he is a happy and contented husband, it will be that much easier to bring him into the fold. And once we are assured of his help, we will be even better off than before.’
* * *
As it usually was at Wiscombe Chase, dinner was a motley affair. Guests were either tired from the hunt, well on the way to inebriation, or both. Today, most of them still wore their fox-hunting pinks, having gone from the stable to the brandy decanter without bothering to change for dinner.
At the centre of the table, as it so often was, there was venison. When she’d first arrived here, Lily had liked the meat. She had to admit that Cook prepared it well. The haunch was crisp at the end and rare and tender in the middle. The ragout was savoury, with thick chunks of vegetables from the kitchen garden. The pies were surrounded by a crust that flaked and melted in the mouth like butter.
But venison today meant that yesterday another stag had been shot and butchered. The supply of them seemed endless, as did the stream of guests that came to hunt them. Was it too much to ask that, just once, a hunt would end in failure? Perhaps then the word would spread that the Chase was no longer a prime destination to slaughter God’s creatures.
Of course, if there were no more deer, they would just switch to quail. A brace of them had been served in aspic as the first course. At tomorrow’s breakfast, there would be Stewart’s fresh fish. A starving person might have praised the Lord for such abundance, but Lily had come to dread meals when requesting vegetables had begun to feel like an act of defiance.
At the head of the table, Captain Wiscombe stared down the length at the plates and gave a single nod of approval. His eye turned to the guests and the approbation vanished. And then he looked at her. Did she see the slightest scornful curl of his lip?
He must think her totally without manners to have arranged the table with no thought to precedence. But she could hardly be blamed for the tangled mess that these dinners had become. Attempts to arrange the ladies according to rank before entry to the dining room were met with failure, as none of them seemed to understand their place. If she resorted to name cards beside their plates, they simply rearranged them and sat according to who wished to speak to whom. The men were even worse, with businessmen bullying lords to take the place next to the earl.
With the addition of Captain Wiscombe, things were even more out of balance than usual. The ladies at either side of him were the youngest of the four. Miss Fellowes, who had pulled her chair so close that she was brushing his right sleeve with her arm, was not even married. Mrs Carstairs hung on his left, laughing too loudly at everything that he said, as though polite dinner conversation were a music-hall comedy.
Her father and brother had packed themselves into the middle of the table on either side and chatted animatedly with the guests who lacked the spirit to fight for a better chair.
On her end of the table, the earl took her right, as he always did. He remained oblivious to the insult of the cit at his other side, as long as he was supplied with plenty of wine and an opportunity to ogle her décolletage.
The space between them was punctuated by silence. He had long ago learned that if he attempted to speak to her, she would not respond. But even if she did not look in his direction, she could still feel his eyes upon her like a snail trail on her skin. She took a deep sip of her wine to combat the headache that came with pretending indifference to it.
On her left was Sir Chauncey, staring dejectedly up the table at Miss Fellowes as though watching his romantic hopes disappearing over the horizon. Tonight she made a half-hearted effort to engage him in conversation, to take his mind from the sight of his lover flirting with her husband. But eventually she tired of his monosyllabic responses and let their end of the table return to silence.
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