His Lady Mistress

Chapter One

Late summer 1822

‘What are you doing here, girl? How dare you waste time reading when Celia’s flounce requires mending!’

The girl known as Selina Dering scrambled up and hurriedly put the book away in the bottom half of the battered campaign chest at the foot of her bed.

‘I’m sorry, Aunt Faringdon. I…I didn’t know that Celia’s flounce was torn.’

Lady Faringdon was plainly not minded to accept this excuse. ‘How would you know anything if you sneak away to your bedchamber to loll about reading? And no lady sits on her bed like that! She sits properly with ladylike decorum.’

‘You and Celia both told me to stay out of the way,’ protested Verity. She refrained from pointing out that there was nothing at all in the room save the bed and the campaign chest, its bottom at the foot of the bed and the top acting as a window seat. Certainly nothing upon which anyone could sit with ladylike decorum. Or even reasonable comfort.

‘Don’t answer back, girl! Do you want another whipping? Go down to Celia now and mend that flounce! Before his lordship and our other guests arrive!’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

She spoke to thin air, since Lady Faringdon had already stormed from the room. Arguing was a waste of breath. The mildest protest drew as heavy a retribution as full-scale rebellion. Not even over the hated name Selina did she object now.

Resigned, Verity locked the chest with the key she wore on a plaited string around her neck. Giving the chest an affectionate pat, she gathered herself together, picked up her workbasket and left the bleak little room in her aunt’s wake. Celia, of course, would be hysterical with fury over the torn flounce, blaming everything and everyone for the catastrophe save her own carelessness.

‘Where have you been?’ screeched Celia, as Verity entered the elegant bedchamber. ‘Just look at this! And Lord Blakehurst may arrive at any minute!’

Verity selected the matching cotton and threaded her needle, biting back the urge to point out that Lord Blakehurst would be admitted to the house by the butler and every footman available and would be greeted with all due ceremony by his host and hostess. Furthermore, since he would doubtless repair immediately to his bedchamber to adjust his cravat and swill brandy, he would scarcely notice the absence of his hosts’ eldest daughter, with or without a torn flounce. At least that was her considered opinion, based on the observation of other visiting gentlemen. There was no reason to suspect that Earl Blakehurst would differ from the rest in any degree. Except, of course, in being richer.

She knelt down at Celia’s hem and began to stitch.

‘Hurry up!’ whined Celia, whirling away to the window and dragging the offending flounce out of Verity’s grasp. A ripping sound rewarded this indiscretion.

‘Look what you’ve done!’ Celia’s shriek of fury outdid her previous efforts. ‘Oh, Mama! Look what she’s done! She did it on purpose, too!’

Biting back some very unladylike language, Verity turned to see her aunt advancing into the room.

‘Ungrateful girl!’ cried Lady Faringdon. ‘After all we’ve done for you! The very clothes on your back!’

Verity rather thought the light-devouring black dress she wore was one discarded by the Rectory housekeeper, but she bit her tongue and concentrated grimly on stitching up Celia’s flounce as efficiently as possible. With a modicum of luck Lord Blakehurst would marry the girl and prove to be a veritable Bluebeard.

Nothing she heard about Lord Blakehurst in the next twenty-four hours led her to revise her estimate that it would be a match richly deserved by both parties. Lord Blakehurst had arrived late, snubbed at least three people at dinner, whom he plainly considered beneath his exalted touch, and everyone was hanging upon his every utterance.

‘Such a personable man!’ sighed Celia the following evening as she prepared for bed. ‘Terribly rich of course. One can only wonder that he has left it so long to marry! Of course, he came into the title unexpectedly when his brother died three years ago.’

Verity, tidying away her cousin’s clothes, thought it entirely possible that no female would have so conceited a man as his lordship must be, only to dismiss the idea. Anyone that rich could be as conceited as he liked and society would still deem him a personable man.

‘And, of course, he must be seeking a bride if he has come here,’ continued Celia.

Verity blinked as she put away a chemise. ‘Oh?’ That leap of logic evaded her. She had yet to learn that a visit to Faringdon Hall was a prerequisite for matrimonially inclined Earls.

‘He never accepts invitations to house parties, except from his closest friends,’ explained Celia, in tones of gracious condescension. Or boasting, more like. Verity shut the drawer with a snap on the chemise. Pity it wasn’t Celia in there.

‘Conceive for yourself how pleased Mama was when his lordship indicated that an invitation would be accepted.’ Celia preened in the mirror, all golden-haired, blue-eyed conceit. ‘Naturally he wishes to court me a little more privately than is possible in London.’

Since when did a house party with over twenty guests afford any privacy for a courtship? Verity swallowed the observation. If it made Celia happy, then who was she to cavil?

‘I’m surprised you came up so early, then,’ she remarked.

Celia shrugged. ‘Oh, Blakehurst disappeared to the billiard room with a few of the other gentlemen. And Mama had to invite that tedious Arabella Hollingsworth with her parents, so what was the point? All she does is brag about her betrothal to Sir Bartholomew!’ Celia pouted. ‘So I said I had the headache and came up. Anyway, gentlemen prefer a female to be a little fragile.’

Verity hid a grin. If Celia were as lucky as her erstwhile friend in snaring a husband, namely Lord Blakehurst, then cock-a-hoop wouldn’t begin to describe her. No doubt Celia’s sudden recognition of Miss Hollingsworth’s tediousness had its origins in jealousy. As for fragile—Celia was about as fragile as a viper.

‘You may brush my hair now, Selina.’ Celia gazed at her reflection in satisfaction, patting a bobbing curl.

Verity reminded herself not to rip the curl out and picked up the silver-backed hairbrush.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Celia sadly. ‘Just look at all those disgusting freckles!’

Staring at her cousin’s flawless complexion in the mirror, Verity wondered what maggot had entered her head now.

‘I can’t see any,’ she said unguardedly, ‘but the Denmark lotion is there on your dressing table if you need it.’

The reflection smiled spitefully. ‘I meant your freckles, Selina.’

Verity took a firmer grip on the brush along with her temper and began brushing. Much safer to say it all to her pillow. Unlike Celia, the pillow would not carry tales and earn her further punishment. If nothing else, the Faringdons had taught her the virtue of hiding her feelings under a stolid demeanour.

She shivered. Being Selina made that so much easier. Frighteningly easy. At times it felt as though Verity had retreated into a numbing mist. That one day she might not be able to find the way out again.

Verity wriggled her shoulders pleasurably as the sun poured over them, sinking deep. Not even the basket full of mending daunted her when she had managed to escape from everyone for a couple of hours. No doubt she’d have a few more freckles on her nose to add to the ones Celia had found so disgusting the previous evening. It seemed a small enough price for a morning spent out of doors.

Her mind drifted as her needle flashed over the torn sheet, insensibly soothed by the trickle of the fountain, and the occasional flicker of a goldfish between the lily pads. A contented bee hummed in the lavender behind her. Here she could dream. Pretend that in the house, or somewhere about the estate, was someone who cared for her. She could be Verity, not Selina.

Here in the centre of the maze she was safe for the time being. Except, of course, for her toes. They were in imminent danger of being devoured. She wiggled them gently in the water as she scissored her bare legs and felt the flutter as the startled fish fled.

‘Oh, Lord Blakehurst! What a tarradiddle! You are the most dreadful creature!’

Celia’s most flirtatious simper, followed by a very male rumble, shattered her peace. What on earth was Celia—whom the servants dubbed Mistress Slug-a-bed—doing in the maze at nine o’clock in the morning, let alone with Lord Blakehurst? Not for the first time Verity crashed headfirst into her aunt’s towering hypocrisy—only to a man of massive fortune and noble degree would Lady Faringdon have entrusted her virtuous treasure in such a potential den of iniquity as the garden maze. And in any other damsel such behaviour would be condemned as shameless.

Another giggle reminded Verity of the precarious nature of her situation. She surged to her feet, stuffing mending as well as her stockings and slippers into the basket and suppressing a curse as she pricked her finger on the needle. Which path were they on? She had to pick one that wouldn’t bring her face to face with Celia and her swain. She shivered. If they caught her here, it would be one more hiding place crossed off her diminishing list.

Frowning, she listened. They weren’t far away. She waited, poised for flight. The voices drew nearer. She tensed, then saw a flash of jonquil muslin through a thin patch in the hedge. Realising that she had about five seconds to escape she swept up the basket and fled, bare feet flying across the turf. She reached the opening on the opposite side of the pond and whipped out of sight.

‘Whatever was that?’

Celia’s surprised question froze Verity. Drat. They’d heard her. She fought to steady her breathing.

‘A bird? A rabbit?’ suggested Lord Blakehurst. ‘Didn’t you say your brother would be here?’

Verity just managed to choke back a snort of laughter at the faintly questioning note in his voice, not to mention the suspicion. Heavens! What a slowtop to fall for that trick! That or he didn’t know Godfrey very well. Godfrey Faringdon meet his own sister in the middle of a maze, in order to play gooseberry? Not this side of Judgement Day. Obviously Lord Blakehurst, petted darling of society, the quarry of every mama with a marriageable daughter, had been neatly cozened.

Unable to resist temptation, she peered around the hedge. If Lord Blakehurst didn’t take care, he would find himself leg-shackled to—

Her heart nearly stopped and she jerked herself back, shaking. It couldn’t be. Could it? Unable to believe what she had seen, she dragged in a deep breath and stole another look. Celia, dressed in her prettiest sprig muslin, with the merest suggestion of dainty ankle below the flounce, was pouting up at…Max.

Shock gripped Verity. She couldn’t be mistaken. Every feature of that face was etched on her memory. The hard angles, the square jaw. Her heart pounded as she absorbed every detail. Max. Here.

‘Perhaps we should go back, Miss Faringdon?’

‘Oh, pish!’ Celia disposed herself on the seat with a graceful swish of her skirts. ‘Why should anyone think anything of it? After all, such good friends as we are, Lord Blakehurst…’

Such good friends?

His lordship’s voice dripped indifference. ‘I’ll bid you good morning, Miss Faringdon. Believe me, my friendship with your reputation far outweighs any other consideration!’

Verity nearly choked as Celia’s brow knit, trying to work out if this remark added up to a compliment. Even as she watched, his lordship bowed to Celia and made to leave the maze.

Celia leapt to her feet. ‘Oh, sir! I must guide you, lest you become confused. Our maze is renowned for all the guests who have become hopelessly lost in it!’

Verity slumped against the hedge. She would have to give them plenty of time before she returned. She listened to the fading voices.

Maybe the maze wasn’t such a good place with the house full of visitors. Too easy to become trapped, no matter how well she knew it. She couldn’t risk being caught and giving Aunt Faringdon more ammunition.

But Max was here…why? Could he really be courting Celia? Max? Her gentle, tender Max? Did he know she was here? Oh, for goodness sake! Why should he?

She didn’t think she had told him who her uncle was. And apparently Max had left the village very early on the morning after her father’s burial. He would not have seen Lord Faringdon. And what if he found out she was here? She bit her lip. The only way in which he could help her would be to remove her from the Faringdons’ care. And he wouldn’t be able to do that, even if he wanted to. He might force them to treat her properly while he remained, but after he left— Despite the warmth of the day a chill stole through her. It would be worse than ever.

She couldn’t understand it. They didn’t want her here. They hated her. Why, then, did Aunt Faringdon refuse to write her a reference and let her go?

No. She must stay out of his way. Not that he was likely to recognise her after five years…she’d been a child. A thin, underdeveloped fifteen seen by a tallow candle. No. He would never recognise her.

In her dreams Max always knew her instantly, swept her up on to his horse and took her away. Lord Blakehurst was another matter entirely. Earls did not sweep indigent females up on to their precious bloodstock and carry them off to the obligatory happy ever after. Somehow she had to banish Lord Blakehurst and think only of Max. Otherwise she had lost her comforting dream.

The following evening Max, Earl Blakehurst, sighed with relief as the ladies left the dining room in the wake of Lady Faringdon. What in Hades had possessed him to accept this invitation? He hated gatherings like this. A veneer of pretension and affectation on the part of the ladies, concealing a solid core of hypocrisy. And the gentlemen were not much better.

Across the table young Godfrey Faringdon’s bragging account of some tale involving a lady’s companion at another house party grated on him. He gritted his teeth. In consigning Colonel Scott’s daughter to the care of her loving family, he had made a serious error of judgement.

‘Ah, Blakehurst? You there, old chap?’

He looked across the table to Mr Marlbury.

‘You’re being chased,’ said Marlbury, in a helpful spirit.

Max looked at him blankly. He knew that. Celia Faringdon’s subtlety at dinner had rivalled her mama’s. And as for her little stratagem this morning! He shuddered. That was the stuff of nightmares. Trapped. By a conniving little baggage!

‘The brandy!’ urged Marlbury.

‘Oh.’ Max became aware of Thornfield, to his left, attempting to pass him the brandy decanter. ‘Sorry, Thornfield.’ He poured himself a glass and took a cautious sip. He barely suppressed another shudder. Just as atrocious as the previous night. Lord. The things a man would do in response to a guilty conscience: attending ghastly house parties and drinking appalling brandy to name a couple.

‘I say, Blakehurst,’ said Thornfield in a low voice, ‘Miss Celia seems quite taken with you!’ He leered at Max. ‘Dare say you’ve only got to drop your handkerchief.’

Max gulped brandy. One thing he could guarantee: Miss Celia might be taken with him, but she would not be taken by him. His handkerchief would stay in his pocket. And he would stay out of the maze.

‘Of course, if that don’t appeal,’ went on Thornfield, showing remarkable percipience for a man in his inebriated condition, ‘you could always amuse yourself with Fanny Moncrieff or Kate Highbury. They won’t expect marriage.’ He attempted a lascivious wink.

Max returned a non-committal reply and reminded himself that he did, after all, bear a certain reputation. But had he realised that Lady Moncrieff and Mrs Highbury were to be present, casting their jaded, world-weary lures in his direction, then he would definitely have reconsidered his strategy in attending.

Oh, the devil! Too late for second thoughts now. He was here and he should have come years ago. Indeed, even being in the house had not yielded results. He had found out nothing, so he would have to ask his host point-blank. And how he was supposed to ask tactfully escaped him.

In the end, he eschewed tact, cornering his host as they left the dining room. ‘Faringdon, perhaps I might have a private word with you?’

Lord Faringdon blinked. And then smiled. An oily, triumphant sort of smile that put every nerve on full battle alert. ‘Why, of course, Blakehurst. My library is private. This way!’ He signalled to his son. ‘Godfrey, tell my lady that I am engaged on some urgent business with Blakehurst.’

Max eyed him with extreme disfavour. Good God! The man was fairly rubbing his hands in glee! What the devil did he—? The truth crashed over him. Faringdon thought he was about to make an offer. For Celia. Mentally cursing his own idiocy, Max followed his host to the library.

‘More brandy, Blakehurst?’

Max abandoned good manners. ‘No. Thank you.’

Faringdon favoured him with a conspiratorial grin and poured a glass anyway, thrusting it at him. ‘No, no, Blakehurst. This ain’t the same stuff we had in the dining room! Wouldn’t waste this on that lot!’

‘I’ve had enough,’ Max informed him coldly.

Faringdon stared. ‘Had enough? Oh, ah…yes, well.’ He took a sip himself. ‘To business, then. I take it, you like what you see. She’s had only the best, so…’

Max headed him off at once. ‘Lord Faringdon, I wonder if you could give me any news of Miss Scott?’

‘Miss Scott?’ The brandy in Lord Faringdon’s glass slopped over.

Max frowned at the reaction. Faringdon’s eyes flickered under his hard gaze. Fear.

He pressed on, relentless. ‘Yes. I believe her to be a niece of Lady Faringdon and under your care. Her late father was my C.O. and I thought to enquire after her.’ He pretended to examine a painting.

‘Oh.’ Disdain came through clearly. ‘I’m afraid she is no longer with us.’

Anger surged through Max and he swung back to stare at Faringdon. Just as he’d feared. Verity Scott had been bundled off God knew where. Somewhere her tragic story could not embarrass the socially ambitious Faringdons. He could see it now—packed off to be a companion to a cantankersome old hag, or immured in some foul girls’ school as a drudge. Well, he wouldn’t permit it!

He saw with satisfaction that Faringdon had paled and forcibly relaxed his hands. Clenched fists were not the best way to draw information out of a reluctant man. Not discreetly, anyway.

‘Perhaps you could give me her direction, Faringdon. I should like to pay my respects.’ What had they done to her? Could he help her? Might Lady Arnsworth, his Aunt Almeria, employ her?

Lord Faringdon said quickly, ‘I fear you misunderstand me, Blakehurst. When I said that Miss Scott was no longer with us, I meant that she has…that she is…’

Cold horror, laced with shocking pain, shuddered through Max. ‘She’s dead.’ Statement, not question, and something inside him tore apart as Lord Faringdon inclined his head in assent.

‘Wh…when?’ He could not control the break in his voice. That poor, gallant child. Dead. It lacerated him.

‘Oh, quite soon after she came to us, you know.’ Lord Faringdon manufactured a sigh. ‘All very sad of course, but no doubt for the best. There was nothing much one could do for her after Scott’s disgraceful end, you know. Dare say she felt it.’

Max remembered a fifteen-year-old girl crouched, weeping in the mud of her father’s grave, planting bluebells, and came close to strangling his host.

‘I’ve little doubt she did.’ He hardly recognised his own voice, hoarse and shaking.

Faringdon glanced at him. ‘Sure you won’t have a drink, Blakehurst? You sound as though something’s caught in your throat.’

Something was—bile. A drink wouldn’t answer the purpose. He’d be tempted to fling it in Faringdon’s face. Somehow he managed to say, ‘I take it she’s buried in the churchyard, then. I’ll pay my respects there.’ Bluebells. She’d liked bluebells. He’d beg some bulbs from the gardeners. A queer sound from Lord Faringdon brought him around. His jaw clenched, Max raised his brows questioningly.