Dear Reader,

When I began to write historical romances, I chose the Regency period for several reasons. I had always enjoyed Georgette Heyer’s novels—still among the best—and had spent part of my youth working at Newstead Abbey, the home of Lord Byron, one of the Regency’s most colorful characters. It involved me in reading many of the original letters and papers of a dynamic era in English history.

Later on when I researched even further into the period, I discovered that nothing I could invent was more exciting—or outrageous—than what had actually happened! What could be more natural, then, than to write a Regency romance and send it to Mills and Boon in England? It was accepted and that started me on a new career.

Like Georgette Heyer I try to create fiction out of and around fact for the enjoyment and entertainment of myself and my readers. It is often forgotten that the Regency men had equally powerful wives, mothers and sisters—even if they had no public role—so I make my heroines able to match my heroes in their wit and courage.

Paula Marshall

Paula Marshall, married, with three children, has had a varied and interesting life. She began her career in a large library and ended it as a senior academic in charge of teaching history in a polytechnic. She has traveled widely, has been a swimming coach, embroiders, paints pictures and has appeared on quiz shows in Britain. She has always wanted to write, and likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor.

The Wolfe’s Mate
Paula Marshall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Prologue

July 1815

‘Jilted!’ screeched Mrs Mitchell, throwing herself carefully backwards into the nearest comfortable chair. ‘That a child of mine should be left at the altar. Call him out, or horsewhip him, do, Mr Mitchell, it is all he deserves.’

‘Difficult,’ responded her husband drily, ‘seeing that his letter informs us that he was setting sail for France last night!’

His restraint was all the more remarkable because, until an hour ago, he had been loudly congratulating himself on getting rid of his stepdaughter to a husband who was, all things considered, above her touch, he being a peer of the realm, and she a merchant’s daughter and not very remarkable in the looks department.

His wife’s only response was to drum her heels on the ground and announce that she was about to faint—which she did with as much panache as Mrs Siddons performing on stage. Her two young daughters by Mr Mitchell stood helplessly on each side of her, sobbing loudly. Mrs Mitchell’s companion was wringing her hands, and exclaiming at intervals, ‘Oh, the wretch, the wretch.’

The only calm person in the room was the jilted young woman herself, nineteen-year-old Susanna Beverly, who coolly wrenched a feather from her mother’s fan. She held it briefly in the fire and then placed it under Mrs Mitchell’s nose to revive her.

Revive her it did. She started up, exclaiming loudly, ‘Oh, Susanna, how can you be so unmoved when he has ruined you? The news will be all about town by tonight—it will be the sensation of the Season.’

‘Really, Mother,’ replied Susanna, who was clinging on to her self-possession for dear life, after just having been made the spectacle of the Season as well as its sensation, ‘don’t exaggerate. He hasn’t seduced me, only left me at the altar.’

‘Oh, Mr Mitchell,’ shrieked her mother, sitting up at last, ‘pray tell her that he might just as well have done so. Nobody, but nobody, will ever marry a jilted girl! Oh, whatever did you say to drive him away?’

She sank back into the chair again to be comforted by her companion, ignoring Susanna’s quiet reply. ‘Nothing, Mother, nothing. Perhaps that was what drove him away.’ Only her iron will prevented her from behaving in the abandoned fashion of the rest of her family.

Her unnatural calm, however, annoyed her stepfather as well as her mother, however much it was enabling her not to shriek to the heavens at the insult which had been offered her. To arrive at the church, to wait for a bridegroom who had never turned up, and had sent a letter instead of himself—and what a letter!

‘I have changed my mind and have no wish to be married, but have decided to set out for France this evening instead. Convey my respects to Susanna with the hope that she will soon find a more suitable bridegroom than Francis Sylvester.’

It had been handed to her by the best man who, to do him justice, had looked most unhappy while carrying out this quite untraditional role.

Susanna had read it, and then handed it to her stepfather who had been there to give her away. He had read it, then flung it down with an oath, before shouting at the assembled congregation, ‘There will be no wedding. The bridegroom has deloped and is no longer in the country!’

‘Deloped!’ Mrs Mitchell had shrieked. ‘Whatever can you mean, Mr Mitchell?’

‘What I have just said,’ he had roared. ‘Lord Sylvester has cried off. Failed to fire his pistol, or fired it in the air, call it what you will. Come, Susanna and Mrs Mitchell, we must return home before we become more of a laughingstock than we already are.’

Numbly Susanna had obeyed him. Noisily, Mrs Mitchell had done the same, abusing her daughter whose fault she claimed it to be.

Susanna scarcely heard her. Until an hour ago she had been secure in the knowledge that a handsome young man with a title and a moderate fortune, with whom she had just enjoyed several happy summer months, was going to be her husband. She had to confess that she did not love him madly, but then, who did love their husbands madly—other than the heroines of Minerva Press novels?

Nor did she think that he had loved her madly. Nevertheless, they had dealt well together, although their interests differed greatly. Francis Sylvester’s life had revolved around Jackson’s Boxing Salon and various racecourses in the day, and the more swell of London’s gaming hells, where he was a moderate gambler, at night. Susanna’s time, on the other hand, was spent reading, playing the piano, and painting—she was quite a considerable artist. These differences had not troubled either of them for they were commonplace in the marriages of the ton.

This being so, she could not imagine why he had behaved in such a heartless fashion. He had had ample time to cry off during the months of their betrothal when to have done so would not have ruined her as completely as his leaving her at the altar would do.

For Susanna knew full well that what her mother had said was true: to be jilted in such a fashion meant social ruin. Was it her looks? She knew that they were not remarkable—other than her deep grey-blue eyes, that was, on which Francis had frequently complimented her. Her hair was an almost chestnut, her face an almost-perfect oval. Her nose and mouth, whilst not exactly distinguished, were not undistinguished, either.

Her height was neither short nor tall, but somewhere in between. Her carriage had often been called graceful. Susanna, however, knew full well that she was not a raving beauty in the fashionable style which her two half-sisters promised to be. Both of them were blonde, blue-eyed and slightly plump: ‘my two cherubs,’ her stepfather called them.

Nor was her fortune remarkable. Like herself, it might be described as comfortable, her father having died suddenly before he had been able to make it greater. Her stepfather, having daughters of his own to care for—and still hoping for a son—had not considered it his duty to enlarge it.

She straightened herself and held her head as high as she could. There was no use in repining. What was done, was done.

‘I am going to my room,’ she said. ‘Send Mary to me, Mother. I wish to change out of these clothes. They have become hateful to me.’

Even as she spoke, she saw by the expressions on her mother’s and stepfather’s faces that she had become hateful to them: a symbol of their disappointment. Not only had they lost an aristocratic son-in-law, but they were saddled with a daughter who had become unmarriageable.

As her mother said mournfully as soon as she was out of the room, ‘No one will marry her now, Mr Mitchell. Whatever is to become of her?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Do not distress yourself further, my dear. Leave everything to me. I shall make suitable arrangements for her. We cannot have Charlotte and Caroline’s reputations muddied by her continued presence. I have great plans for them, as you know.’

His busy, cunning brain had been working out how to deal with this contretemps ever since he had read Francis Sylvester’s letter.

‘Now follow Miss Beverly’s example, my dear, and change out of your unsuitable bridal finery. Let us put this behind us. I shall speak to her in the morning.’

His tone was so firm that his wife immediately ceased her repining. Although he was usually indulgent towards her and all her three daughters, he invariably spoke to them as though they were recalcitrant clerks when he wished to make it plain that they must obey him immediately.

It was thus he addressed Susanna on the following morning when she arrived in his study in response to his request made over breakfast.

‘It is necessary, Miss Beverly, that we discuss your unfortunate situation immediately. It brooks of no delay. I shall expect to see you in my room at eleven of the clock precisely.’

He had never called her Miss Beverly before. Indeed, in the past few months his manner to her had been particularly affectionate, but there was nothing left of that when he spoke to her then, or later on, when she arrived to find him seated at his desk writing furiously.

Nor did he stand up when she entered, nor cease to write, until he flung his pen down and said, ‘This is a sad business, my dear. I was depending on this marriage to see you settled. I was prepared to find the money for your dowry, seeing that the match was such a splendid one, but, alas, now that your reputation has gone and you are unlikely to marry, such charity on my part is out of the question.’

Susanna listened to him in some bewilderment. She had always been under the impression that her father had left a large sum of money in a Trust for her which should have made it unnecessary for her stepfather to extend her any charity at all in the matter of a dowry.

And so she told him.

He smiled pityingly at her. ‘Dear child, that was a kind fib I told you and your mother. Your father left little—he made many unfortunate investments before his untimely death. The Trust was consequently worthless. I was willing to keep you and even give you the dowry your father would have left you when I hoped that you would make a good marriage—as you so nearly did.

‘But, alas, now that your reputation is blown—through no fault of yours, I freely allow—there is no point in me continuing this useful fiction. I have the unhappy task of informing you that, whilst I will assist you towards establishing yourself in a new life, I cannot afford to continue to provide you with either a large income or a dowry.’

Susanna was not to know that there was not a word of truth in what her stepfather was saying. It was he who had made the unfortunate investments, not her father. He had been stealing from the Trust to help to keep himself afloat ever since he had married Susanna’s mother and he now saw a splendid opportunity to annex the whole of it to himself.

His wife would suspect nothing, for her way of life would continue unchanged: Susanna would be the only sufferer.

‘I shall,’ he continued, ‘settle a small annual income on you, for I would not have my wife’s daughter left in penury. Indeed, no. What I have also done is write a letter to an elderly friend of mine, a Miss Stanton, who lives in Yorkshire. She has asked me to find her a companion and I shall have no hesitation in recommending you to her. She will give you a comfortable home in exchange for a few, easily performed, duties. You may even be fortunate enough to meet someone who, not knowing of your sad history, will offer for you.’

He smiled at her, saying in the kindest voice he could assume, ‘You see, my dear, I continue to have your best interests at heart.’

Susanna sat in stunned silence, her heart beating rapidly. ‘I had no notion,’ she began. ‘Had I been aware of my true position, I would have thanked you before now—as it is…’

Samuel Mitchell raised a proprietorial—and hypocritical—finger. ‘Think nothing of it, my dear. I was but doing my duty. I shall send off the letter immediately, but have no fear, I am sure that Miss Stanton will be only too happy to employ you. Until then, continue to enjoy your position in my home as one of my daughters.’

Susanna nodded her head numbly. She felt deprived of the power of speech. The day before yesterday, she had been the only child and heiress of a reasonably rich merchant of good family. Yesterday, she had been about to become Lady Sylvester. Today, she had been informed that she was a poverty-stricken orphan who was to be sent away to be an elderly lady’s companion—with all that that entailed. Running errands, walking the pug: someone who was neither a servant nor a gentlewoman, but something in-between.

Later, alone in her room, she began to question a little what her stepfather had just told her. Was it really true that her father had left her nothing? That the Trust had been false, nothing but a lying fiction? That she had been living for the past twelve years on her stepfather’s charity? Surely she and her mother would have been informed of that if such had been the case.

She made up her mind to visit the family solicitors to discover the truth. She would not tell Mr Mitchell of her intentions, merely say that she needed to take the air in the family carriage.

But her stepfather, knowing her strong and determined character, so like her late father’s, had foreseen that she might wish to do such a thing, and was able to prevent it by informing her mother that, until it was time for Susanna to travel to Yorkshire, it would be unwise for her to go out in public.

‘The female mind is so delicate,’ he said, ‘that it might, in such a situation as Susanna finds herself in, be inadvisable for her to venture out of doors. A brief period at home, before she makes the long journey to Yorkshire, will do her a power of good.’

‘If you say so,’ her mother said falteringly.

‘Oh, I do say so, Mrs Mitchell. After all, like you, I have her best interests at heart!’

It had been her mother who told Susanna of her stepfather’s decision.

Susanna had stared at her, more sure than ever that something was wrong. She had been about to refuse to obey any such ban and even considered telling her mother of her suspicion that Mr Mitchell had been lying about the Trust and her father’s not having left her anything.

Then she looked at her mother with newly opened eyes and knew that she would not believe that her husband was lying, would simply see Susanna as trouble-making and ungrateful towards a man who had graciously taken the place of her father ever since she had married Mr Mitchell.

Not only would Mr Mitchell make doubly sure that she was confined to the house, but she would make an enemy of them both, to no profit to herself. He would simply assert that the misery of being jilted had unhinged her mind—and she had no answer to that. She was helpless and knew it.

Susanna had taken her mother in her arms and kissed her childhood innocence goodbye. She would go to Yorkshire and try to make a new life there, far from the home which was no longer her home, and where she was not wanted.

Somehow, some day, God willing, she would try to repair the ruin which Francis Sylvester had made of her life…

Chapter One

1819

It had been one of Lady Leominster’s most successful balls, she afterwards boasted to her lord the next morning, who merely grunted and continued to read the Morning Post. His wife’s conversation was only wallpaper in the background of his busy life. It would never do to let her know how useful her balls and other entertainments were, she would only get above herself and, heaven knew, she was too much above herself as it was without his praise elevating her even further.

‘And even the Wolf, the Nabob himself, came—after refusing everyone else’s invitations, even Emily Exford’s.’

M’lord grunted again. This time in appreciation. He had spent a happy half-hour with Benjamin Wolfe, discussing the current state of England, gaining advice on where he might profitably invest his money as the post-war depression roared on, showing no signs of breaking.

‘Not a bad move, that,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘The feller seems both knowledgeable and helpful. Invite him to our next dinner.’

‘They say that he is looking for a wife.’

‘Shouldn’t have any difficulty finding one, my dear. With all that money.’

‘True, m’lord, but his birth? What of that? Does anyone know of his family?’

‘Well, I do, for one,’ said Lord Leominster, smiling because for once he knew of a piece of gossip which his wife didn’t. ‘Same family as the General of that name. Poor gentry—went to India and made his pile there, or so he says. Besides, money sweetens everything. It’s its own lineage, you know. Half the peerage goes back to nameless thrusters who received titles and consequence solely because of their newly gained riches—nothing wrong in that.’

Lord Leominster’s distant ancestor had been a pirate with Francis Drake and was the founder of the family’s wealth with loot wrested from Spanish treasure ships.

His wife shrugged and abandoned Ben Wolfe as a topic. ‘They say that Darlington is about to offer for Amelia Western—that should be a meeting of money, and no mistake. He was paying her the most marked attention last night.’

She received no answer. Lord Leominster was not interested in idle gossip for its own sake. Ben Wolfe, now, was different. Such creatures had their uses.

Lady Leominster was almost right. The previous evening, George Wychwood, Viscount Darlington, had offered for Miss Amelia Western and been accepted. He had spoken to her father and received his blessing earlier in the day and had come to Leominster House solely to propose to her.

As usual, she had that dowdy goody of hers in tow. Well, she wouldn’t be needing a duenna when she was his wife, as she surely would be soon, and the dowdy goody could be given her notice, move on either to be some old trot’s companion or to shepherd some other innocent young woman and make sure that the wolves didn’t get at her before the honest men did.

And speaking of wolves, wasn’t that Ben Wolfe in earnest conversation with their host? George Darlington frowned. He had mentioned Ben Wolfe’s name to his father, the Earl of Babbacombe, earlier that day, and the Earl had made a wry face and said, ‘You would do well to avoid him like the plague. His father was a wretch, and like father, like son, I always say—although there were rumours that he was not Charles Wolfe’s son at all, just some by-blow brought in when Wolfe’s own son died at birth. I thought that he had gone off to India—enlisted as a private in that skimble-skamble Company army. What can he be doing in decent society?’

Uninterested, George had shrugged. ‘Made a fortune there, they say. Became a Nabob, no less. Been put up for White’s and accepted.’

He had little time for his father’s follies and foibles, having too many of his own to worry about.

‘Money,’ said his father disgustedly. ‘Whitewashes everything.’

His tone was bitter. There were few to know that the Wychwood family was on its beam-ends and desperately needed the marriage which George was about to make. Lady Leominster had been wrong in her assumption that money was about to marry money.

Certainly George had no knowledge of how near his father was to drowning in the River Tick and, if he had, would have thought Ben Wolfe a useful man to ask for advice on matters financial, not someone to despise.

As it was, he passed him by and concentrated on looking for pretty Amelia, whom he found sitting in a corner, her companion by her side. He ignored the companion and asked Amelia to partner him in the next dance.

‘After that,’ he said, ‘I have something particular to say to you, if Miss—’ and he looked enquiringly at the companion ‘—will allow you to walk on the terrace with me—alone. It is most particular,’ he added with a meaningful smile.

‘Oh, Miss Beverly,’ said Amelia, ‘I’m sure that you will allow me to accompany George on the terrace alone if what he has to say to me is most particular. After all, we have known one another since childhood.’

Susanna, who had been Amelia Western’s companion and somewhat youthful duenna since her previous employer, Miss Stanton, had suddenly died, knew perfectly well what it was that George Darlington wished to say to her charge. She also knew that, although she and George had met several times, and even conversed, he would not have known her had he met her in the street. He had twice been told her name, but it had made no impression on him.

She rose to answer him and, as it chanced, stood on George’s left. He had Amelia on his right. At that very moment, Ben Wolfe, who was looking across the room at them, asked Lord Leominster, who had just been joined by his lady, ‘Is that George Darlington over there?’

It was Lady Leominster who answered him eagerly, ‘Oh, indeed.’ She leaned forward confidentially, saying, ‘He is speaking to Amelia Western, the great heiress. I am sure that he is about to propose to her tonight.’

‘He is?’ Ben looked at them again, and asked, apparently idly, ‘I see that he has two young ladies with him. Which is the heiress?’

Never loath to pass on information, Lady Leominster answered, ‘Oh, the young woman on his left.’

She was, of course, wrong—but then, she had never known her right from her left—but before Lord Leominster could open his mouth to correct her, she had seized Ben Wolfe’s arm and exclaimed, ‘Oh, do come and be introduced to Lady Camelford, she has two beautiful daughters, both unmarried, and both, I am assured, well endowed for marriage’—so the mistake went uncorrected.

She was never to know that her careless remark would profoundly alter the course of several lives.

Ben had no further opportunity to see George Darlington or his future bride together, but later in the evening, as he was about to leave, Miss Western suddenly came out of one of the ballrooms. He was able to step back and inspect her briefly at close range.

She was modestly dressed, to be sure, but in quiet good taste in a dress of plain cream silk. She sported no other jewellery than a string of small pearls around her neck. She was no great beauty, either, but that was true of many heiresses, and he could only commend those who were responsible for her appearance in not succumbing to the desire to deck her about with the King’s ransom which she undoubtedly owned.

Susanna, on her way back to the ballroom, was aware of his close scrutiny. She had seen him once or twice during the evening and his appearance had intrigued her. One of the other companions, to whom she had chatted while the musicians were playing and their charges were enjoying themselves in the dance, had told her who he was and that he was nicknamed the Wolf.

She thought that the name suited him. He was tall, with broad shoulders, a trim waist and narrow hips—in that, he was like many of the younger men present. But few had a face such as his. It was, she thought, a lived-in face, still tanned from the Indian sun, with a dominant jutting nose, a strong chin, a long firm mouth—and the coldest grey eyes which she had ever seen. His hair was jet-black, already slightly silvered although he was still in his early thirties.

Susanna had read that wolves bayed at the moon and that they were merciless with their prey. Well, the merciless bit fitted his face, so perhaps he bayed at the moon as well—although she couldn’t imagine it.

Her mouth turned up at the corners as she thought this and the action transformed her own apparently undistinguished face, giving it both charm and character, which Ben Wolfe registered for a fleeting moment before she passed him.

So that was the young woman who was going to revive Babbacombe’s flagging fortunes. He had seen prettier, but then, money gilded everything, even looks, as he knew only too well. He laughed soundlessly to himself. Oh, but Amelia Western’s fortune was never going to gild Lord Babbacombe’s empty coffers—as he would soon find out.

If Susanna could have read Ben Wolfe’s most secret thoughts she would have known exactly how accurate his nickname was and how much he was truly to be feared. As it was she returned to the ballroom feeling, not for the first time, cheated of life: a duenna soon to reach her last prayers, doomed to spinsterhood because of the callous behaviour of a careless young man.

Francis Sylvester had never returned to England. He had taken up residence in Naples and seemed set to stay there for life.

Susanna shivered, but not with cold. She wanted to be a child again, home in bed, all her life before her. After she had been jilted, everyone had praised her coolness, the courage with which she had faced life, but once she had ceased to be a nine days’ wonder she had been forgotten. When Miss Stanton died and she had returned to society as Amelia Western’s companion, there were few who remembered her.

She was perpetually doomed to sit at the back of the room, unconsidered and overlooked. She had visited her old home, but her mother and stepfather had made it plain that they had no wish for her company, even though the scandal surrounding her was long dead. There was no place for her there, now.

‘You’re quiet tonight, Miss Beverly, are you feeling a trifle overset?’ asked one of her fellow companions kindly.

‘Oh, no,’ replied Susanna briskly. She had made a resolution long ago never to repine, always to put a brave face on things. ‘It’s just that, sometimes, one does not feel in the mood for idle chatter.’

‘I know that feeling,’ said her friend softly. ‘You would prefer a quiet room and a good book, no doubt, to being here.’

And someone kind and charming to dance with, thought Susanna rebelliously, not simply to sit mumchance and watch other young women dance with kind and charming young men.

But she said nothing, merely smiled and watched Ben Wolfe bearded again by Lady Leominster and handed over to Charlotte Cavender, one of the Season’s crop of young beauties and young heiresses. For a big man who was rumoured to have few social graces he was a good dancer, remarkably light on his feet—as so many big men were, Susanna had already noticed.

She sometimes thought it a pity that her common sense, her understanding of the world and men and women, honed by her opportunities for ceaseless observation would never be put to good use.

Stop that! she told herself sternly, just at the moment that the patterns of the dance brought Ben Wolfe swinging past her. To her astonishment, he gave her a nod of the head and a small secret smile.

Now, whatever could that mean?

Probably nothing at all. He must have meant it for his partner, but she had gone by him before she had had time to receive it. Susanna watched him disappear into the crowd of dancers, and then she never saw him again.

It was a trick of the light, perhaps, or of her own brain which was demanding that someone acknowledge that she still lived other than as an appendage to Amelia, who, having been proposed to by young Darlington, would shortly not be needing her services any more.

Which would mean turning up at Miss Shanks’s Employment Bureau off Oxford Street to discover whether she had any suitable posts as governess, companion or duenna for which she might apply.

The prospect did not appeal.

Now, if only she were a young man, similarly placed, there were a thousand things she could do. Ship herself off to India, perhaps, and make a fortune—like Ben Wolfe, for example.

Drat the man! Why was he haunting her? She had never looked at a man other than in loathing since Francis’s betrayal and now she could not stop thinking about someone who, rumour said, was even more dubious than Francis.

And he wasn’t even good-looking and she hadn’t so much as spoken to him! She must be going mad with boredom—yes, that was it.

Fortunately, at this point, Amelia returned and said excitedly, ‘Oh, Miss Beverly, I feel so happy now that George has finally proposed. It will mean that once I’m married I shall be my own mistress, do as I please, go where I wish, and not be everlastingly told how a young lady ought to behave.’

Susanna could not prevent herself from saying, ‘You are not worried, then, that George might demand some say in where you go and what you do?’

‘Oh, no.’ Amelia was all charming eagerness. ‘By no means. We have already agreed that we shall live our own lives—particularly after I have provided him with an heir. That is understood these days, is it not?’

And all this worldly wisdom between future husband and wife as to their married life had been agreed in less than an hour after the proposal!

‘Of course,’ said Amelia. ‘It will mean that I shall not be needing a duenna after the wedding ceremony. But then, you knew that would be the case when you undertook the post. It’s what duennas must expect, George says.’

Amelia’s pretty face was all aglow at the prospect of the delights of being a married woman. She was a little surprised that Susanna wasn’t sharing her pleasure.

‘He’s promised to drive me in the Park tomorrow and he’s going to insist to Mama that I go without you now that it’s understood that we are to marry. You can have the afternoon off to look for a post, George says. He’s very considerate that way.’

Susanna could have thought of another word to describe him, but decided not to say it.

‘If your mama agrees,’ she said.

‘Oh, of course she will,’ exclaimed Amelia. ‘Why ever not?’

And, of course, Mrs. Western did.

She also agreed with her daughter that Susanna should—as a great concession—take the afternoon off to visit Miss Shanks about another post. ‘I would not like you to think us inconsiderate,’ she finished.

She must have been talking to George Darlington was Susanna’s sardonic inward comment. But, again, she said nothing, which was the common fate of duennas, she had discovered, when faced with the unacceptable and the impossibility of remarking on it.

Fortunately for both Amelia and Susanna the afternoon was a fine one. The sun was out, but it was not impossibly hot, and after Susanna had seen that Amelia was as spick and span as a young engaged girl ought to be, she dressed herself in her most dull and proper outfit in order to impress Miss Shanks with her severe suitability and set off for Oxford Street—on her own.

It never failed to amuse her that although Amelia, only a few years younger than herself, was never allowed to go out without someone accompanying her, it was always assumed that it was perfectly safe for Susanna to do so. Who, indeed, would wish to assault a plainish and badly dressed young woman who was visibly too old for a nighthouse and too poor to be kidnapped for her inheritance?

So it was that, enjoying the fine afternoon, the passing show and the freedom from needing to accommodate herself to the whims of others, Susanna almost skipped along with no thought as to her safety or otherwise.

Nor did she notice when she had reached Oxford Street that she had been followed from Piccadilly by a closed carriage driven at a slow speed and with two burly men inside, so that when she turned into the small side street and the carriage and men followed her, she thought nothing of it until one of the men, looking around him to see that no one was about, acted violently and immediately.

He caught Susanna from behind, threw a blanket over her head and, helped by his companion, bundled her into the carriage, which drove off at twice its previous speed in the direction of the Great North Road.

Chapter Two

Susanna started to scream—and then changed her mind. She only knew that she was inside a carriage and had been snatched off the street by two men. Best, perhaps, not to provoke them. She was about to try to remove the restraining blanket from her head when one of the men removed it for her.

She found herself inside a luxuriously appointed chaise whose window blinds were down so that she had no notion of where she was, or where she might be going. Facing her, on the opposite seat, were two large men, both well dressed, not at all like the kind of persons one might think went about kidnapping young women.

She said, trying not to let her voice betray her fear, ‘Let me out, at once! At once, do you hear me! I cannot imagine why you should wish to kidnap me. There must be some mistake.’

The larger of the two men shook his head. ‘No mistake, Miss Western. We had express orders to kidnap you and no one else. And there is no need to be frightened. No harm will come to you. I do assure you.’

Somehow the fact that he was well dressed and decently spoken made the whole business worse. And what did he mean by calling her Miss Western?

Her fright as well as her anger now plain in her voice Susanna exclaimed, ‘You are quite mistaken. I am not Miss Western, so you may let me out at once. In any case, why should you wish to kidnap Miss Western?’

‘Come, come, missy,’ said the second man, whose speech was coarser and more familiar than that of the first, ‘Don’t waste your time trying to flummox us. Sit back and enjoy the ride. This ’ere carriage ’as the finest springs on the market.’

Susanna’s voice soared. ‘Enjoy the ride, indeed! I can’t see a thing, and I have urgent business to attend to this afternoon. You have made a dreadful mistake, but if you let me go at once I shall not inform the Runners of what you have done, which I promise you I surely will once I am free again.’

Number One drawled, ‘That’s enough. You’re a lively piece and no mistake, but we have a job to do and no tricks of yours will prevent us from doing it, so my advice to you is to behave yourself.’

‘Indeed I won’t!’ Susanna leaned forward and began to tug at the window blind with one hand whilst trying to open the carriage door with the other. ‘I have no intention of behaving myself,’ she shouted at him as he caught her round the waist and pulled her back into her seat.

He laughed and said, rueful admiration written on his face, ‘Oh, my employer is going to enjoy taming your spirit, I’m sure, but I haven’t time to argue with you. I shall have to tie your hands if you continue to try to escape. Sit quiet and do as you’re bid without any more nonsense, or I’ll tie your ankles together and gag you as well. Even if I was ordered to handle you gently, you’re leaving me no choice.’

He spoke quietly, even deferentially to her, but Susanna had no doubt that he would carry out his threats. She sank sullenly back into her seat and tried to put a brave face on things.

They thought that she was Amelia—if so, the reason why they would want to kidnap her was plain. Amelia Western was a noted heiress and it would not be the first time that a man wanting money had carried off an heiress and married her. It was a risky business since the penalty for such an act was death or transportation if the parents or guardians of the girl pursued the matter. Some did not, preferring to accept the forced marriage, if the man were reasonably respectable, rather than have the girl’s reputation destroyed.

Equally plainly they had mistaken her for Amelia—and how they had come to do so was a mystery. A further mystery was who could Amelia have possibly met in the recent past who was capable of carrying out such a criminal act? None of the men who had surrounded her since her entrance into society seemed likely candidates—or had Amelia been privately meeting an unknown lover and they had arranged this between them?

If so, why had she been snatched off the street? For, if Amelia had been conspiring with someone, it would have been simpler for her to have manufactured some excuse to meet him in secret to save him from risking exposure by kidnapping her in broad daylight.

Not that any of this speculation was of the slightest use when each yard the chaise travelled was carrying her further away from Oxford Street, Piccadilly and her temporary home there, and into the unknown.

And what in the world would be awaiting her at her journey’s end?

She was not to know for some time. They changed horses at a posthouse on the edge of London where Number One put a hand over her mouth to prevent her from calling for help while Number Two made all the necessary arrangements at their stop—which included taking on board a hamper of food.

Number One unpacked the hamper and offered her a cooked chicken leg, which she refused indignantly.

‘Don’t like chicken, eh? How about this, then?’ and he held out a ham sandwich. She shook her head so he gifted Number Two with the chicken and the sandwich before rummaging around in the hamper and fishing out of it a roll filled with cold roast beef, saying, ‘Beef, perhaps?’

She waved it away with as much hauteur as she could summon, announcing rebelliously, ‘I don’t want to eat. Under the circumstances it would choke me.’

‘Suit yourself, my dear. No skin off my nose. More for us, eh, Tozzy? My employer will be most disappointed. He particularly wanted you to be properly fed on the way home.’

‘How very gracious of him,’ Susanna snapped back. ‘Even more gracious of you if you turned the chaise round and took me back to Oxford Street.’

‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid,’ said Number One indistinctly since his mouth was full of the beef sandwich which she had rejected. ‘How about some pound cake? No?’

It might be childish of her, but Susanna found that the only way to demonstrate her displeasure at what was happening to her was to turn her back on him and sniff loudly, like the cook in the Westerns’ kitchen when something had happened to cause her aggravation—an event which occurred at least five times a day.

Eating over, silence fell.

Susanna resumed a more normal position, folded her arms, leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. She felt as exhausted as though she were a child again and had been running and jumping all afternoon with her cousin William—and whatever had happened to him? He had disappeared from her life when her mother had married again. And what a time to think of him!

The lack of light and the swaying of the chaise lulled her so that she was on the verge of dozing.

Number Two said softly to Number One, ‘She’s a good plucked ’un and no mistake. She’ll be a match for ’im, that’s for sure.’

‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ yawned Number One. ‘Never met anyone who was a match for him in all the years I’ve been with him. Pass a bottle of wine over, Tozzy, kidnapping’s thirsty work.’

Even through her half-sleep Susanna heard what he said and was fired with indignation. Just let this journey be over so that she could tell their employer—whoever he might be—exactly what she thought of him for arranging a kidnapping at all, let alone one in which the wrong woman had been carried off!

Ben Wolfe was looking out of the window in the library of his great house in Buckinghamshire which had been known as The Den ever since six generations of Wolfes had lived there. Before that it had simply been called the Hall. It had been left derelict when his father had died and he had gone to India, but since his return he had spared no expense in returning it to its former glory.

He looked at his fob watch. If everything had gone as he had ordered—and he assumed that it had since Jess Fitzroy had never botched a job for him yet—it should not be long before the chaise turned into the sweep before the front of the house. He could then begin to take his revenge for the wrongs which had destroyed not only his family’s wealth, but had driven his father into an early grave.

It was a pity that the girl was not particularly beautiful, but then, one could not have everything. He smiled as he thought of Babbacombe’s anger when the splendid match for his son fell through and he was left penniless, ruin staring him in the face. He was absolutely sure that, even though he had carried their daughter off in order to marry her, the Westerns would find him an even more suitable husband for her than Darlington—once they had discovered the astonishing extent of his wealth and the Wychwood family’s lack of it, that was, for he would take good care to let them know of it.

Even acquiring an Earl’s title would not make up for that lack. Especially since someone as rich as Ben was—and with an old name into the bargain—would almost certainly be a candidate for a title of his own before very long.

Not that Ben cared about titles and all that flimflam, but the Westerns did.

He had just reached this point in his musings when the chaise turned into the sweep. As he had hoped, Jess had successfully carried out yet another task for him—and would be suitably rewarded. He had given orders for Miss Western, soon to be Mrs Ben Wolfe, to be taken initially to her suite of rooms on the first floor so that she might refresh herself after the journey.

After that she would be conducted to the Turkish drawing room—a salon designed and furnished by a seventeenth-century Wolfe who had been an Ambassador to that country—where the teaboard would be ready and where he would at last introduce himself to her.

As was his usual habit, he had planned everything carefully to the last detail so that nothing would go wrong and all would go right. Even the clothes he was wearing had been chosen with great care to give off the right aura of effortless self-command and good taste. They were neither careless nor were they dandified, but somewhere in between. His boots, whilst black and shiny, bore no gold tassels. His clothes had been cut for him by a tailor whose taste was impeccable—there were to be no wasp-waisted jackets or garish waistcoats for Mr Ben Wolfe.

He sat himself down to wait for Jess to report to him, after which he would visit the drawing room where Miss Western would be waiting for him.

Susanna stared numbly at the beautiful façade of The Den when a footman opened the chaise door and Number One helped her out. When she had first been kidnapped she had supposed that she might be taken off to some low nighthouse either in the Haymarket or London’s East End. When, instead, they had obviously been driving into the country, she could form no idea of what her ultimate destination might be like.

Such splendour as Susanna saw all about her in the house and gardens awed her, and for the life of her she could not imagine why it had been necessary to carry Amelia off and bring her here. Surely the owner of such magnificence would be able to court Amelia in proper form, with no need to treat her so cavalierly? And surely, also, the owner of it would be shocked to learn that he had merely acquired a plain and poverty-stricken duenna and not the wealthy heiress she had been guarding for the past half-year.

When she walked up the steps to the double doors held open by splendidly liveried footmen she found herself shuddering slightly, not from cold or fright, but for some reason which passed her understanding. It was as though, once she walked through them, she knew that, somehow, she would find herself in a totally new world, where nothing that had happened to her in the past mattered, only what would happen in the future.

And then this sensation disappeared as though it had never been and she was plain-spoken, downright, sane and sensible Miss Susanna Beverly again, who never suffered from whim-whams or premonitions and was about to give a piece of her mind to the fool or knave who had caused her to be kidnapped.

But not yet. She had to endure a fluttering little maid and a pleasant middle-aged woman who led her upstairs to a suite of rooms so beautiful and grand that she was overset all over again. Indeed, the splendours she saw all about her temporarily silenced her so that she did not complain of her mistreatment to the women even when they called her Miss Western and tried to persuade her to change into the beautiful garments laid out on the bed.

She shook her head in refusal dazedly, but she did use the other facilities offered her—to put it delicately—and finally washed herself and allowed her hair to be ordered a little by the maid.

Then she was taken downstairs by the motherly body into a drawing room which was even grander than the upstairs rooms, where she was offered a seat and tea, which she also refused. When the motherly body, shaking her head a little at her silence, retreated, she sat down at last—to stare at a wall full of beautiful paintings and prints of a foreign civilisation such as she had never seen before.

Outside the sun was shining. In the distance a fountain was playing. Standing in the window through which she was looking was a new pianoforte. Objects of great beauty and vertu surrounded her. It would almost be like living in a rare and well-arranged museum to take up residence here, she thought in confusion.

And then the double doors were thrown open, and a man walked in.

A man who was her captor—and he was, of all people, Mr Ben Wolfe looking his most wolfish.

Mr Ben Wolfe, who had nodded and smiled at her at Lady Leominster’s ball.

This must, Susanna decided, be a nightmare. She would shortly wake up to find herself safely back in bed in the Westerns’ Piccadilly home. Except that everything about her seemed as sharp and well defined as objects are in real life, not at all cloudy and shifting like those in a dream. Only Mr Ben Wolfe’s presence partook of the dream.

And if he were truly here, in this disturbing and unreal present, then she would give him as short shrift as she was capable of offering in her unfortunate position. She could form no notion at all of why he had had her kidnapped or why he was bowing and smiling at her in a manner he doubtless considered ingratiating.

Well, she would not be ingratiated, not she! He could go straight to the devil and ingratiate himself with him if he could. She would demand to be sent straight back home, at once, on the instant…

Except, except…it was already late afternoon. There was no way in which she could be returned before nightfall and offer any reasonable explanation of where she had been and what she had been doing. Indeed, by now, her absence would already have been discovered.

If anything, this dreadful thought inflamed her the further. So she said nothing, merely stared at Mr Ben Wolfe, who was bowing low to her. That over, he motioned her to a seat before a low table on which a teaboard was set out, saying, ‘Pray be seated, Miss Western. You are doubtless wondering why you are here. May I say that I intend you no harm. Quite the contrary.’

It was the first time she had heard him speak. He had a deep gravel voice, eminently suited to his harsh features. Susanna’s first impulse was to inform him immediately that he was much mistaken: she was not Miss Western, his hired villains having carried off the wrong woman.

She wondered briefly why Amelia was the right woman. For what purpose would she have been brought here? She made an instant and daring decision: she would not tell him straight away that she was not Amelia, and then only after she had discovered what his wicked game was. It would be a pleasure to wrongfoot him.

Aloud she said, ‘No, I will not be seated. And I do so hope, Mr Ben Wolfe—you are Mr Ben Wolfe, are you not?—that you have a satisfactory explanation for my forced presence here.’

He smiled at her, displaying strong white teeth—all the better to eat you with, my dear, being Susanna’s inward response to that for was he not behaving exactly like the wolf whose name he bore in the fairy tale Red Riding Hood?

Mr Ben Wolfe, on the other hand, evidently thought that he was the good fairy in Cinderella, murmuring in a kind voice, ‘Do not be frightened. Miss Western. My intentions towards you are strictly honourable, I do assure you. As for my reasons for bringing you here thus abruptly, you will forgive me if I leave any necessary explanation for them until later.’

‘No, indeed, I do not forgive you at all. I don’t believe in your so-called honourable intentions; I have no notion of whether you intend to wed me or bed me. Or neither. I do so hope it’s neither. I should like very much to return home untouched—and as soon as possible.’

His smile this time was rueful. ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Miss Western. You see, I wish to marry you, to make you the wife of one of the richest men in England instead of one of the poorest. I’m sure, on mature and rational consideration, you—and your family—would prefer that.’

Susanna stared at all six foot one of masculine bravura, superbly turned out from the top of his glossy black head to the tips of his glossy black boots.

‘Then, in the name of wonder, Mr Benjamin Wolfe, why did you not approach my parents in proper form and make an honourable offer in an honourable fashion instead of having me carried off, hugger-mugger, like a parcel from the post office?’

She was beginning to enjoy herself, hugging gleefully to her bosom the knowledge that he was not talking to his proposed forced bride at all but to her unconsidered and poverty-stricken governess. He evidently believed her to be Amelia and had no suspicion that he was mistaken. The longer she continued to deceive him, the more her pleasure grew.

On the other hand, by the looks of him he had a fine and wilful temper, which offered her the problem of how he would react when she finally enlightened him as to her true identity. But that could wait. Susanna had endured her disastrous fall into penury by living only for the moment and ignoring the future. What will come, would come, being her motto.

Mr Ben Wolfe bowed to her again. ‘My dear girl, I have already informed you that I have my reasons and will reveal them to you on a suitable occasion. That occasion is not now. Now is the time for us to come to know one another better. To that end, pray pour us some tea before it grows cold. We shall both feel better for it.’

‘There are only two things wrong with your last remark, Mr Ben Wolfe,’ returned Susanna, all sweetness and light. ‘The first is that I have no wish to know you any better—quite the contrary. The second is that I have no wish either to pour you tea, or drink it myself—I should certainly not feel any better for it. A fast post-chaise and an immediate return to London are the only requests I have to make of you.’

They were standing at some distance apart, for Mr Ben Wolfe had entered with no immediate desire to frighten his captive. On the other hand, he had expected to meet a young girl whom he could easily control by the gentlest of means. Instead, he was confronted with a talkative, self-possessed creature, older than her eighteen years in her command of language, who was evidently going to take a deal of coaxing before she agreed to become Mrs. Ben Wolfe without making overmuch fuss.

He decided to continue being agreeable and charming, praying that his patience would not run out. ‘I regret,’ he told her, bowing, ‘that is one of the few requests which you might make of me which I must refuse. My plans for you involve you remaining here for the time being. Later, perhaps.’

‘Later will not do at all!’ said Susanna, who wished most heartily that he would stop bowing at her. Most unsuitable when all he did was contradict her. ‘I have my reputation to consider.’

Mr Ben Wolfe suddenly overwhelmed her with what she could only consider was the most inappropriate gallantry, all things considered. ‘No need to trouble yourself about that. I shall take the greatest care of you.’

‘Indeed? I am pleased to hear it—but I am a little at a loss to grasp the finer details of that statement. I ask you again do you intend to wed me—or to bed me?’

This unbecoming frankness from a single female of gentle nurture almost overset Ben Wolfe. Nothing had prepared him for it. Might it not, he momentarily considered, have been more useful for him to have been equally as frank with her from the beginning of this interview?

No matter. He smiled, and if the smile was a trifle strained, which it was, then damn him, thought Susanna uncharitably, it is all he deserves.

‘Oh, my intentions are quite honourable. I mean to marry you and to that end I have already procured a special licence from the Archbishop of Canterbury himself.’

Marriage! He proposed to marry her—or rather Amelia. In the cat-and-mouse game she was playing with him Susanna had almost forgotten that she was not the target of Mr Ben Wolfe’s plans. For a moment she considered enlightening him immediately, but he deserved to live in his fool’s paradise a little longer, for was there not an interesting reply which she could make to his last confident declaration?

‘You do surprise me, sir. First of all, you seem to forget that you have not yet asked me whether I wish to marry you and, all things considered, I’m sure that I don’t; secondly, aren’t you forgetting that I am already betrothed to George Darlington?’

‘No, indeed—for that is precisely why you are here.’

His eyes gleamed as he came out with this, and the look he gave her was so predatory that Susanna shuddered. She was playing with a tiger. A tiger who had intended to kidnap an innocent young girl and force her to marry him in order, apparently, to prevent her from marrying George, Viscount Darlington.

Now Susanna did not like George Darlington and, by the look on his face when he had uttered his name, neither, for some reason, did Ben Wolfe, but she didn’t think that he deserved to be treated quite so scurvily as to lose his proposed bride, and when she had finally confessed who she truly was she would so inform her captor.

If he was prepared to let her get a word in edgeways, that was—for she was beginning to understand that Mr Ben Wolfe in a thwarted rage might be a very formidable creature, indeed.

Unconsciously they had moved closer and closer together so that, when Susanna echoed him again by murmuring ‘By saying “Precisely why you are here”, you mean—I take it—that you have kidnapped me in order to thwart George Darlington by depriving him of his bride—and her money,’ he bent down to take her hand, saying,

‘Yes—and you are a clever child to have worked that out so quickly. I think that I may be gaining a real prize in marrying you, Miss Western.’

Susanna smiled up into his inclined face. ‘Oh, I think not, Mr Ben Wolfe. All of this would be very fine if I were Amelia Western but, seeing that I am not, you have given yourself a great deal of trouble for exactly nothing.

‘Your hirelings have only succeeded in kidnapping not Miss Western, but her poverty-stricken nothing of a governess, Susanna Beverly, who possesses no fortune and no reputation, either. By carrying me off by mistake you have destroyed the last remnants of that for good—and gained only frustration for yourself.’

His response to this bold and truthful declaration was to smile down at her and say gently, ‘Well tried, my dear. You surely don’t expect me to believe that Banbury tale!’

Really! He was being as impossibly stupid as his two hired bravos—which was not his reputation at all.

‘Of course I do—for that is the truth. I told those two bruisers of yours that they had snatched the wrong woman—but would they listen to me? Oh, no, not they!—and now you are as bad as they were.’

His face proclaimed his disbelief. She had carried being Amelia off so well that she risked being stuck with her false identity, if not for life, for the time being at least. So much for his immediately exploding into anger when she made her belated revelation!

Instead it was she who stamped her foot. ‘Of course I’m not Amelia. Do I look like a simple-minded eighteen-year-old? Do I speak like one? Come to your senses, sir, if you have any, which I beg leave to doubt on the evidence of what I have seen of you so far. It is time that you recognised that you have organised the kidnapping of the wrong woman and are now unlikely to carry off the right one, for once I am free again I shall proclaim your villainy to the world. The punishment for kidnapping an heiress is either death or transportation. I have no notion what the penalty is for a mistaken kidnapping, but it ought to be pretty severe, don’t you think? Unless, of course, you could manage to get it lessened on the grounds of your insanity.’

Susanna’s transformation from a reasonably spoken young woman of good birth into a flaming virago was a complete one—inspired by the fear that, will she, nil she, having been kidnapped by mistake she was going to find herself married by mistake as well!

Ben Wolfe’s face changed, became thunderous. He controlled himself with difficulty, and murmured through his teeth, ‘Tell me, madam, were you playing with me then—or now? Was Amelia Western the pretence, or Susanna Beverly? Answer me.’

‘I have already answered you. I am Susanna Beverly and therefore nothing to your purpose at all.’

The look he gave her would have stopped the late Emperor of France in his tracks it was so inimical, so truly wolf-like as he barked out, ‘And how do I know that that is the truth? I assure you that you look and sound like no duenna I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. You are far too young to begin with. No, I fear that this is but a clever ploy to persuade me to let you go.’

‘Well, I assure you that I don’t find you clever at all. Quite the contrary,’ exclaimed Susanna, exasperation plain in her voice. ‘Call in that big man of yours and he will inform you that from the moment he threw me into your carriage I never stopped trying to tell him that he had carried off the wrong woman.’

Ben Wolfe knew at once that, whoever she was, there was no intimidating her—short of silencing her by throttling her—and he was not quite ready to do that, although heaven knew, if she taunted him much more, he might lose his self-control and have at her.

Choosing his words carefully, he said, ‘Let us sit down, enjoy a cup of tea and talk this matter over quietly and rationally.’

Biting each word out as coldly as she could, Susanna said, ‘If you offer me a cup of tea again, Mr Ben Wolfe, I shall scream!’

His answer was, oddly enough, to throw his head back and laugh. ‘Well, I don’t fancy tea, either. Would a glass of Madeira tempt you at all?’

‘It might tempt me, but I shan’t fall. A wise friend of mine once said that an offer of a glass of Madeira from a gentleman when you were alone with him was the first step on the road to ruin, so thank you, no.’

‘Very prudent of you, I’m sure. Although, if you are Miss Western, you may be certain that I shall not attempt to ruin you. As I said earlier, my intentions towards you—or her—are strictly honourable. I intend to marry you—or her.’

‘But since I am Miss Beverly, what will be your intentions towards me? Seeing that, by your reckless act, I shall have been irrevocably ruined?’

Before he could answer, Susanna added quickly, ‘What I am at a loss to understand, Mr Wolfe, is how you came to mistake me for her. We are not at all alike. How did you discover who I was—or rather, who you thought I was?’

‘Oh, that is not difficult to explain,’ he returned, although for the first time an element of doubt had crept into his voice. ‘At my express wish you were pointed out to me by Lady Leominster herself on the occasion of her grand ball the other evening. You were standing next to George Darlington at the time.’

‘Was I, indeed? On the other side of the room? With another woman on his other hand?’

‘Does that matter? But, yes—or so I seem to remember.’

Susanna began to laugh. ‘Oh, it matters very much. One thing I know of Lady Leominster, but not many do, is that she cannot distinguish between her right or her left. Be certain, Mr Wolfe, that you have indeed carried off the duenna and not her charge. You should have asked to be introduced to Miss Western—but you had no wish to do that, did you? It would have saved you a deal of trouble and no mistake.’

Ben Wolfe, his mind whirling, tried to remember the exact circumstances in which he had seen the supposed Miss Western. Yes, it had been as she said. George Darlington had been standing between two women, and Lady Leominster had pointed out the wrong one—if the woman before him was telling the truth.

He smothered an oath. Her proud defiance was beginning to work on him—and had she not earlier told him to ask his ‘big man’ whom she had claimed to be when they had first captured her?

‘For heaven’s sake, woman,’ he exclaimed, being coarse and abrupt with her for the first time now that it began to appear that she really might be only the duenna of his intended prey, ‘sit down, do, don’t stand there like Nemesis in person, and I’ll send for Jess Fitzroy and question him. But that doesn’t mean that I accept your changed story.’

‘Pray do,’ replied Susanna, whose legs were beginning to fail her and who badly needed the relief and comfort of one of the room’s many comfortable chairs, ‘and I will do as you ask. As a great concession, I might even drink some of the tea which you keep offering me.’

‘Oh, damn the tea,’ half-snarled Ben Wolfe before going to the door, summoning a footman and bidding him to bring Fitzroy and Tozzy to him at the double.

‘By the way, before the footman leaves,’ carolled Susanna, who was beginning to enjoy herself in a manic kind of way, very like someone embracing ruin because it was inevitable rather than trying to repel it, ‘tell him to bring the reticule which flew from my hand on to the floor after I was dragged into the chaise. There is something in it which might help you to make up your mind about me.’

‘Oh, I’ve already done that,’ ground out Ben Wolfe through gritted teeth as he handed her a cup of tea. ‘A more noisy and talkative shrew it has seldom been my misfortune to meet.’

‘Twice,’ riposted Susanna, drinking tea with an air, ‘you’ve already said that twice now—you earlier announced that you had a similar misfortune with duennas. When I was a little girl, my tutor told me to avoid such repetition in speech or writing. It is the mark of a careless mind he said.’

She drank a little more tea before assuring the smouldering man before her, ‘Not surprising, though, seeing that your careless mind has secured you the wrong young woman. You would do well to be a little more careful in future.’

This was teasing the wolf whom Ben so greatly resembled with a vengeance but, seeing that she had so little to lose, Susanna thought that she might as well enjoy herself before the heavens fell in.

Afterwards! Well, afterwards was afterwards—and to the devil with it.

Ben Wolfe, leaning against the wall as though he needed its support, looked as though he were ready to send her to the devil on the instant. He did not deign to answer her because he was beginning to believe that she wasn’t Amelia Western, and that, for once, he had made an unholy botch of things.

No, not for once—for the very first time. He had always prided himself on his ability to plan matters so meticulously that events always went exactly as he had intended them to and he had built a massive fortune for himself on that very basis.

The glare he gave Miss Who-ever-she-was was baleful in the extreme, but appeared to worry her not one whit. There was a plate of macaroons on the teaboard and Susanna began to devour them with a will. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and all this untoward excitement was making her hungry.

It was thus Ben Wolfe who greeted the arrival of his henchman with relief. Tozzy, the junior of the two, was carrying a woman’s reticule, a grin on his stupid face. Fitzroy, more acute, knew at once that his employer was in one of his rare, but legendary, tempers and assumed the most serious expression he could.

‘Is that your reticule?’ demanded Ben of Susanna, who was busy pouring herself another cup of tea. ‘I thought that you didn’t care for tea,’ he added accusingly, mindful of her former refusals.

‘Oh, it wasn’t the tea I didn’t care for,’ Susanna told him smugly, ‘it was the company and the occasion on which I was drinking it which incurred my dislike. I’m much happier now,’ she added untruthfully, ‘and, yes, that is my reticule.’

‘Then hand it to her, man,’ roared Ben who, being gentleman enough, just, not to shout at Susanna, shouted at Tozzy instead.

Tozzy, having handed the reticule back to Susanna, opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled by the beleaguered Ben saying to Fitzroy, ‘Look here, Jess, Miss Who-ever-she-is says that when you picked her up in Oxford Street—’

‘Kidnapped me,’ corrected Susanna, who was now inspecting the contents of her little bag and smiling at them as she did so.

‘You picked her up in Oxford Street,’ repeated Ben through his excellent teeth, ‘and she told you that she was not Miss Western. Is that true?’

Jess looked away from his employer before saying, ‘Yes. I called her Miss Western and she immediately informed me that she was not.’

‘And who did she say that she was?’

‘She claimed to be Miss Western’s duenna, Miss Beverly. But you had pointed her out to me as Miss Western yesterday in Hyde Park so I knew that she was only saying that in order to try to make me let her go. So I took no notice of her.’

‘You took no notice of her,’ said Ben, who found that he had recently acquired the distressing habit of repeating not only what he had said, but everything said to him. ‘Didn’t it occur to you to tell me that she had made such a claim?’

‘Not exactly, no. You’ve never, to my knowledge, ever made such a mistake before—indeed, I can’t remember you ever making a mistake of any kind in any enterprise we’ve been engaged on, it’s not your way, not your way at all…’

‘Jess!’ said Ben awefully. ‘Shut up, will you? Just tell me this. Which do you think she is? She has, in the last half-hour, claimed to be both Miss Western and Miss Beverly.’

Jess was too fascinated to be tactful. ‘Both? How could she do that?’

‘Easily,’ said Ben. ‘Damme, man. Answer the question.’

Jess looked Susanna up and down as though she were a prize horse. ‘Well,’ he said doubtfully, ‘she’s only supposed to be eighteen. I’d put her as a little older than that. On the other hand, she claimed to be a duenna and, in my experience, duennas are usually middle-aged; she certainly doesn’t resemble or behave like any duenna I’ve ever met and—’

‘Jess! Stop it. You’re blithering. I know what duennas look like. Give me a straight answer.’

‘Wouldn’t it be simpler if you listened to me?’ Susanna was all helpfulness. ‘Perhaps you could explain why, if I’m Miss Western, heiress, I should be kidnapped outside an office for the placement of young gentlewomen needing employment, i.e. Miss Shanks’s Employment Bureau, and carry its card in my reticule. Look,’ and she handed it to Ben Wolfe who stared at it as though it were a grenade about to go off at any moment.

‘She has a point,’ observed Jess gloomily.

‘Does that mean, yes, she’s Miss Western or, no, she’s Miss Beverly?’ snapped Ben, tossing Jess the card.

‘No, she’s Miss Beverly.’

‘God help me, I think so, too. You picked up the wrong woman.’

‘Kidnapped her, on your orders, which he faithfully carried out,’ interrupted Susanna, her mouth full of the last macaroon. ‘You really can’t pretend that you’re not the one responsible for me being here.’

Master and man stared at one another.

‘Apart from gagging her to stop her everlasting nagging, what the hell do we do now?’ asked Mr Ben Wolfe of Mr Jess Fitzroy, who slowly shook his head.

Chapter Three

‘Missing?’ said Mrs Western to Amelia’s maid, who had been sent to remind Miss Beverly that she should have been in attendance on Amelia at six of the clock precisely to see that she was turned out à point in order to attend the little supper party which the Earl, George’s father, was giving for them at Babbacombe House that evening.

‘She’s not in her room, madam, and the housekeeper says that she went out early this afternoon, saying that it would not be long before she returned. She has not been seen since.’

‘You visited her room, I collect. Was there any sign that she had intended to be away for some time?’

The maid shook her head. ‘Not at all, madam. The ensemble which she proposed to wear this evening was laid out on her bed, together with her slippers, evening reticule and fan.’

Mrs Western heaved a great sigh. ‘How provoking of her! You are sure that she is not in the house—hiding in the library, perhaps? She spends a great deal of time there which would be better spent with Miss Western.’

‘I enquired of the librarian, madam, but she has not visited it today.’

‘I should never have hired her—although, until now, she has carried out her duties well enough—but tigers do not change their spots…or do I mean leopards? What are you smiling at, Amelia?’

‘It’s leopards, mama, I’m sure—or so Miss Beverly always says. But it’s no great thing that she’s missing. I am to marry soon and shall not be needing a duenna—and in any case, young women about to be married are always allowed greater freedom than those who are not. We could let her go immediately. I, for one, shall not miss her.’

‘Not until you’re married,’ moaned Mrs Western. ‘We must be seen to do the right thing.’

She snapped her fingers at the maid. ‘Keep a watch out for Miss Beverly and tell her to report to me the moment she returns—she cannot be long now, surely. Her absence is most inconvenient.’

The maid bobbed a curtsy and said, ‘Yes, madam.’ Later, after the maid had spoken to the housekeeper, they agreed with Mrs Western that the duenna would shortly turn up. But no, time wore on—the Westerns left for Babbacombe House and still the duenna had not reappeared.

‘Run off with someone, no doubt,’ offered Mr Western when they reached home again and she was still missing. ‘If she’s not back by morning, we’ll inform the Runners of her absence—just in case something odd might have occurred.’

‘Never mind that, Mr Western—whatever the circumstances, you will agree with me that she’s to be turned away without a reference.’

‘Indeed, my dear. Amelia is right. She no longer needs a duenna for these last few weeks before she marries.’

Susanna was not to know—although she had already guessed—the manner in which her disappearance was treated by the Western family and the way in which it would complete the ruin which Francis Sylvester had begun.

While Mrs Western and Amelia were discussing her fate so callously, she was sitting alone before the now-empty teaboard, Ben Wolfe and his chief henchman having retreated to Ben’s study in order to discuss how to extricate themselves from the quagmire into which they had fallen as a result of kidnapping the wrong woman.

Not, Susanna concluded, wondering whether to ring the bell and ask for something more to eat, that there was such a thing as the right woman where kidnapping was concerned! And why was Mr Wolfe so bent on depriving George Darlington of his bride? There was a fine puzzle for her to solve.

The secret little smile she gave when she thought of what the two men might be planning in order to repair their present unhappy situation was quite a naughty one.

I really should not be amused, she told herself severely, for I can think of no happy way out of this brouhaha for myself. On the other hand…She paused, and thought carefully for some minutes. On the other hand, I must admit that Ben Wolfe seems to be a man of great resourcefulness, but he will need all of that to disentangle himself from the spider’s web which he has created.

She was not far wrong about Ben. Once out of the sound of Susanna’s mocking voice, constantly reminding him of what a cake he had made of himself, he had recovered the cold-blooded and cold-hearted equanimity which had taken him from poverty to immense riches.

‘Don’t say anything, Jess,’ he had commanded, his right hand raised, when they reached his study, a comfortable room that was all oak, leather and bookshelves. ‘I freely acknowledge my error. I am entirely to blame, and conceit has been my undoing. You carried out my orders to the letter and the only thing I can fault you for is not reporting to me the lady’s reaction when you kidnapped her. What I have to do now is save the situation from becoming even worse than it already is.

‘I cannot allow this innocent young woman to suffer as a consequence of my folly, but how to rescue her poses a number of difficulties. If you have any suggestions to offer, pray make them now.’

He flung himself into a high-backed chair which stood before a large oak desk on which pens, papers, sand, sealing wax, rulers and a large ledger were carefully arranged. As elsewhere in the house the room was meticulously ordered, a monument to the care with which Ben Wolfe normally arranged his life and that of those around him.

Jess looked down at him, a rueful smile on his face. ‘If I had a magic sentence which, once uttered, put all to rights again, then I would offer it to you,’ he said. ‘But for the life of me I cannot think what would mend matters—or, indeed, if they could be mended. The young woman is here, will be missed by her employers and will have no tale to offer them which would not end in ruining us all—including her.’

‘Job,’ said Ben bitterly. ‘I might have known that you would be Job’s comforter. One thing, she cannot stay here long, in a house of men, with no duenna for herself, so that must be the first remedy—but how?’

He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his eyes closed. Jess had seen him do this many times before when he was concentrating, so he remained as still and silent as he could.

Ben began by reproaching himself for his carelessness. The young woman, Susanna, had the right of it. But enough of that. He needed a duenna for the duenna. But who? And how? How much time passed as he cleared his mind of thought and waited for inspiration to strike he never knew.

He lifted his head, looked at Jess, and said, ‘I have it. Celeste. I wonder that I did not think of her before.’

‘Celeste?’ asked Jess, puzzled.

‘Yes. Celeste. Madame la Comtesse de Saulx who is living not two miles away and whose reputation is beyond reproach.’

‘You mean the Frenchwoman who has rented the Hall outside Lavendon. She is the epitome of all that is proper,’ returned Jess. ‘I had no notion that you knew her.’

‘I know her, and she is not French—although she sounds as though she is.’

‘And you think that she would agree to help us?’

Ben smiled. He had never looked so wolfish. ‘Oh, I think she might be persuaded.’

He did not say, I know that she will and for reasons which I cannot discuss with you—or anyone else. All that remained was for him to ride over to her home, Primrose Hall, and ask her to help him—and immediately.

Jess watched him as he rose, saying, ‘Ask Nicholson to have my curricle and my best pair of chestnuts ready as soon as possible. I’ll drive over immediately. It’s only a short run and she can come back with me straight away. Tell the housekeeper to prepare another suite of rooms for her and for her maid—and possibly an attendant if she wishes to stay overnight. I doubt that she will, but one never knows.

‘In her hands, Miss Beverly’s reputation should be quite safe.’

He bounded out of the room, all his usual violent energy restored.

Jess called after him, ‘And I am to tell Miss Beverly of what you are planning?’

‘You are to tell Miss Beverly nothing of that. Tell Mrs Ashton to attend on her and suggest that she goes to her room, change into the clothing provided for her, and be ready to eat an early supper with you, myself, and at least one other guest. That is all.’

Jess watched him go. Now, how in the world had he come to know Madame de Saulx? And know her well enough to demand such a favour of her? She was too old, surely, to be, or have been, his mistress; in any case, she was widely known for her virtue as well as her strong sense of propriety.

He shook his head. He had known and worked for Ben Wolfe for many years—but he still had no real notion of the true man he was, or of the many secret affairs which his employer chose to keep to himself.

Ben himself, cursing his folly, made short work of his visit to Madame de Saulx. He drove at a pace which, although it could not exactly be described as ventre à terre, was near to it. He knew that Madame would receive him immediately, not keep him waiting, at whatever hour he chose to arrive.

He was shown into a drawing room which already bore the marks of Madame’s impeccable taste, and it was not long before she appeared. She was in her middle fifties, was tall beyond the common height of women, and bore the remains of a great beauty. She was dressed modestly, although her turnout had that air of je ne sais quoi which most Frenchwomen of noble birth possessed.

Her shrewdness was demonstrated immediately when, after Ben had performed the common courtesies which a gentleman owed to the lady whom he was visiting, she said gently, ‘Pray, sit down. I know by your face that you must have come on some matter of great moment, but we can still discuss it in comfort. I have no mind to have you pacing my drawing room like a caged tiger!’

Ben gave a short laugh and did as he was bid. ‘How well you know me! I have come, as you have doubtless guessed, to ask a great favour of you.’

‘You may ask as many favours of me as you please, great or small. Nothing I can do for you could equal the one great favour you did for me.’

‘You exaggerate, but let me come to the meat of my problem as soon as may be,’ and he immediately began to tell her the sad tale of how he had, by chance, come to kidnap the wrong woman, and how urgently he needed her assistance to save three reputations.

‘Bien sûr,’ she said, her voice and manner grave, ‘that I shall certainly not ask you why you chose to do such a thing—but I can guess. What do you propose that will mend matters?’

‘That you will come immediately to The Den to be introduced to Miss Susanna Beverly as a French noblewoman of impeccable birth, who is ready to assist her in every way after hearing of the sad mischance which I have so carelessly brought about. I have concocted an explanation which I believe will do the trick of allowing her to retain her reputation and which will also disassociate her completely from any connection with me—that is, if you agree to it.

‘It goes as follows. You were being driven along Oxford Street when you saw this young gentlewoman overcome by faintness. Of your infinite compassion you stopped, assisted her into your chaise and took care of her. She did not recover for some time and, when she did, she was temporarily afflicted with a distressing loss of memory. Again, of your compassion, you drove her to your pied à terre in Stanhope Street near Regent’s Park, where you cared for her until her memory returned. After which you immediately arranged to restore her to the family by whom she is at present employed.’

Madame clapped her hands together gently.

‘Excellent. You should be writing plays for Drury Lane! I shall, of course, need to drive the young woman secretly back to London and make it known that I had recently arrived there in order to take part in the Season. I shall be happy to oblige you, seeing that I need to visit the capital in order to renew my wardrobe and visit a few old friends.’

‘Excellent,’ echoed Ben, looking happy for the first time for several hours. ‘All that remains is for you to meet Miss Beverly as soon as possible. She seems a most respectable young woman, except that she said something rather odd to me, to the effect that, if it were known that she had apparently run off with me, it would finally destroy her reputation which was damaged already. Have you heard of any scandal relating to a young woman of that name? If you have, I think that you ought to tell me. It would be as well to know exactly where we stand.’

‘Very true,’ nodded Madame gravely. ‘You and I, of all people, know the necessity of guarding our backs. The name is a little familiar—but I will try to gain her confidence this evening; if anything important crops up, I shall not hesitate to inform you.’

She smiled and said after a fashion as cool as his, ‘By the by, I must congratulate you on your choice of words to describe the criminal act which you have just committed! To describe an innocent young lady’s forcible kidnapping as “a sad mischance” is a feat worthy of the late Dr Johnson himself!’

Ben’s grin was somewhat shamefaced. ‘You never spare me, Madame,’ he told her.

‘Indeed not. There ought to be someone in the world who is capable of compelling you to face the truth about yourself occasionally, mon cher.’

And so it was arranged. On the one hand, in London, Susanna’s future was being busily destroyed whilst, in the country, a practised pair of conspirators were equally busily trying to rebuild it!

Chapter Four

Whilst Ben was occupying himself at Lavendon by covering up his blunder, Susanna, at the urgings of Mr Jess Fitzroy, allowed the housekeeper, Mrs Ashton, and the little maid to accompany her upstairs, bathe her, and dress her in the modish clothing which lay on the bed in her suite of rooms.

It was many years since she had worn anything so fine, so expensive and yet so ladylike. Looking in the long mirror, she saw herself transformed. Mrs Ashton who had been a lady’s maid herself long ago, not only dressed her hair for her, but also applied a soupçon of rouge with a fine hare’s-foot brush, despite Susanna exclaiming that she never used it.

‘You are a little wan, my dear. The tiniest application of colour to your cheeks will soon remedy that. There—’ and she swung Susanna towards the mirror again so that she could see for herself that the ravages of the afternoon had been repaired.

‘Now, you must go downstairs,’ said her new guardian. ‘I understand that it will not be long before the Master returns and, shortly after that, dinner will be served. It will be at an odd hour, to be sure, but then, Mr Wolfe has his own ways of going on—as you have doubtless discovered.’

Oh, yes, Miss Susanna Beverly had already discovered that! She arrived in the drawing room to find Mr Jess Fitzroy there, dressed in a superfine blue jacket, cream pantaloons and the most elegant evening slippers—to say nothing of an artistically tied cravat and suitably dishevelled hair in the latest fashion.

He bowed to her gracefully. ‘Allow me to congratulate you on your appearance, Miss Beverly. Most fitting.’

‘Fitting for what, Mr Fitzroy—to be kidnapped again? And maltreated into the bargain?’

He bowed again. ‘I pray you, forgive me for that—but do admit…my unfortunate behaviour to you was based on a complete misunderstanding.’

‘And am I to infer from that, that all would have been well if you had carried off Miss Western and not myself? If so, I wonder at your morality, sir, as well as your common sense.’

By Jove, Ben had been right. The woman had a tongue like a viper and did not hesitate to use it!

Nevertheless, Jess Fitzroy had the grace to look a trifle ashamed of himself before he muttered, ‘Why, as to that, Miss Beverly, there are reasons—’

He got no further before Susanna exclaimed, ‘Pray do not enlarge on them, sir, for I am sure that I should neither approve of them nor like them!’

Jess was saved from having to reply by the arrival of Ben Wolfe, with Celeste, Comtesse de Saulx, on his arm. Both of them were dressed in the latest stare of fashion appropriate to their sex and to their different ages.

Ben, indeed, had for once allowed his valet to do his best for him—why, he did not know. It was not that he wished to attract Miss Susanna Beverly in any way, far from it, simply that he wished to reassure both the Comtesse and her as to his claims to respectability.

The Comtesse had not only acceded to his demand that she return to The Den with him immediately, but she had also had herself dressed for dinner with exemplary speed after her arrival there. Ben’s valet had passed on to him the welcome news that Miss Beverly had joined Mr Fitzroy in the Turkish drawing room where they were awaiting his arrival.

At least the argumentative virago had had the grace to give way over something. Ben had not relished the thought of another slanging match occasioned by his unwanted guest refusing to oblige him by dining with him. Not only that, when he walked in, he saw immediately that she had also obliged him by assuming the clothes which she had earlier refused.

But that was not all that he saw—or experienced—either when she rose to greet him, or when he took her hand to kiss its back after the continental fashion of which he knew Madame la Comtesse would approve. For, seeing Susanna for the first time as a woman, and neither as an object destined to bring about his long-awaited revenge on the Wychwoods, nor as the wretched nuisance who had been carried off as the result of his own folly, had the oddest effect on him.

That indomitable spirit, which had allowed Susanna to overcome the series of disasters which had afflicted her since her father’s death, shone through the envelope of flesh which clothed it, and, in doing so, touched Ben Wolfe’s own proud and unyielding soul.

There was nothing of the flesh about this experience for either of them. It affected Ben the more strongly and immediately precisely because it was so different from anything he had ever known before. It was not Susanna’s fine eyes, or her tender mouth, nor her carefully arranged and lustrous hair, or even the delicate figure revealed by the arts of a Parisian dressmaker, attractive though these were, which were having such a strong effect on him.

No, it was something more, something which passed his understanding and which made him see Susanna in a totally new light. And when he took her small hand in his to kiss the back of it, a shudder passed through both of them.

Susanna’s eyes widened and she withdrew her hand as though it had been stung. Nevertheless, so instantaneous was their reaction that even the keen-eyed Comtesse did not notice that Ben Wolfe and the pretty young woman whom he was now presenting to her were sharing something which neither of them could explain.

Why meeting Ben Wolfe again after a short absence should affect her so differently and so profoundly from her first sight of him, Susanna did not know. Perhaps, she told herself, it was my anger at being so vilely mistreated on his orders which made my first reaction to him one of acute distaste. That, and the harsh manner in which we both attacked one another.

But I must not trust him until he has proved that he is worthy to be trusted—he and this grande dame who has sprung from nowhere and whose reputation for virtue is such that the whole world knows of it.

As though he had just read her mind, Ben said, ‘Madame de Saulx has kindly consented to join with me in arranging that you shall suffer nothing from the mischance which has befallen you today. We shall speak of it later at our leisure, after we have enjoyed the excellent meal which the butler tells me the chef has prepared for us.’

Thus, she had no alternative but to fall in with his wishes when Madame de Saulx said approvingly in her prettily accented English, ‘What a splendid notion, cher Ben. I hope Miss Beverly will understand that all her troubles are now over, and that she has nothing more to fear.’

‘Other than that when I do return to the Westerns, whatever explanation we may offer them, they will almost certainly terminate my employment,’ Susanna could not prevent herself from saying.

‘Oh, as to that, my dear young lady,’ Madame reassured her, ‘you need have no fear. One way or another you will be taken care of. It is the very least that Mr Wolfe can do for you after causing you so much mental and physical agony as a consequence of his foolishness. Is not that so, cher Ben?’

Susanna was pleased to see that, for once, ‘cher Ben’ looked a trifle discomfited by this rebuke. Jess Fitzroy even smiled a little at it, only to earn from Madame a rebuke of his own. ‘And you need not smirk so condescendingly at your employer, Mr Fitzroy, for your own part in this unhappy business is not without its share of blame.’

Bravo, Madame, was Susanna’s inward comment, even as the butler entered to inform them that dinner was served, and Mr Fitzroy proceeded to offer her his arm so that they might properly follow Madame la Comtesse and Mr Wolfe into the dining room where she might forget for a time her unfortunate predicament.

‘Allow me, Miss Beverly,’ said Ben, ‘to inform you at length of the measures which I have taken to explain your strange disappearance from London earlier today.’

They were all back in the Turkish drawing room again; the inevitable teaboard before them. They had just enjoyed the excellent meal which Ben had promised them. During it they had spoken only of the lightest matters, such as the health of the present monarch; the latest scandal about that old and faded figure, the Prince Regent; of his equally faded and scandalous wife, Princess Caroline of Wales; the recent birth of the Princess Victoria and even, at Madame’s instigation, of the change in women’s dress brought about by the slight lowering of the waistline.

‘So there you have it, Miss Beverly,’ said Ben, after he had finished outlining his plans for Susanna’s immediate future. ‘Madame has agreed to be our saviour and we can but hope that you will approve of the arrangements which we have made to bring about such a happy outcome.’

‘I am struck dumb by your ingenuity,’ returned Susanna, ‘and can only hope that it will impress the Westerns sufficiently to save me. Were anyone with a reputation less than that of Madame’s to sponsor me, I believe that the task might be difficult, nay, impossible, but, as it is—’ she shrugged her shoulders ‘—I can only thank her for her kindness and condescension in offering to assist me at such short notice.’

Madame’s glance for her was an approving one. ‘Properly and graciously spoken,’ she said, ‘as I am sure Mr Wolfe will acknowledge.’

Ben put down a china teacup which was so small that his big hand dwarfed it. ‘With one small rider,’ he added. ‘Much, I fear, depends on the fact that Miss Beverly’s own reputation is a spotless one. I was a little perturbed by a statement which she made to me earlier this afternoon to the effect that she possessed neither fortune nor reputation, and that by carrying her off I had destroyed the last remnants of the latter. I wonder if you would care to enlarge on that, Miss Beverly, so that we might all know where we stand?’

The white smile which he offered Susanna as he asked his question had her mentally echoing Red Riding Hood again: Oh, Grandma, what big teeth you have! It was plain that little said or done escaped him, and although she had no wish to tell Ben Wolfe of all people her sad story, let alone two other strangers on whose charity she now depended, tell it she must.

What was it that her father had said to her when she was a child? ‘Speak the truth and shame the devil, my dear.’ Well, she would do exactly that.

Aloud, after a little hesitation, she said, ‘The explanation for my remark is a simple one. I believe that what happened to me should cause no one to think any the worse of me, but the world chooses to believe quite otherwise. Four years ago I was jilted by Lord Sylvester. He was cruel enough to leave me waiting for him at the altar where I received, not my bridegroom, but a letter informing me that he no longer wished to marry me.

‘You must all be aware of what such an action does to the reputation of a woman, however innocent she might be, and I was truly innocent—but I was ruined, none the less. No man wishes to marry a woman who has been jilted.’

Madame said thoughtfully. ‘So, you are that Miss Beverly, the late William Beverly’s only child and heiress. I did wonder if you might be, but I thought it would be considered tactless to question you on the matter if you proved not to be her.’

Ben Wolfe, however, leaned forward in his chair, intent it seemed, on quizzing her further.

‘You say that you are employed by the Westerns as a duenna. I was out of England at the time and consequently knew nothing of the scandal which followed. But if you are the India merchant William Beverly’s heiress, how is it that you have descended into becoming a duenna, a paid servant? He was as rich as Croesus, to my certain knowledge.’

However painful it might be to tell them more of her sad situation, Susanna had no alternative but to do so.

‘And so I thought when he died, some twelve years before I was to have married Lord Sylvester. My mother married again, one Samuel Mitchell, soon after my father’s death, but after I was jilted my stepfather informed me that, contrary to public—and my—belief, my father had died a ruined man, and he had been keeping me since my mother’s marriage.

‘It was, he said, he who was providing my ample dowry in the hope that I would make a good marriage. Now that my chance of making any sort of marriage had gone, he was no longer prepared either to keep me or to be responsible for my dowry. Consequently it was necessary for me to find employment.’

No one spoke for a moment. Madame said gently, ‘En effet, he turned you out?’

‘I suppose you might say so.’

‘Oh, I do say so.’ It was not Madame who answered her, but Ben Wolfe, and the look he gave her was quite different from any he had offered her before. There was pity in it for the first time.

Damn his pity! She didn’t want it, or anything else from him—especially the odd sensations which she was feeling every time she looked at him.

‘You were not to know,’ she told him.

‘No, but nor should I have treated you so harshly this afternoon—but, in fairness to myself you did, at first, lead me to think that you were Amelia Western, which made it difficult for me to believe that you were telling the truth when you finally claimed to be Susanna Beverly. My apology to you for carrying you off, and then vilifying you, may be late but, believe me, it is sincere.’

They might as well have been alone in the room, so intent was each on the other. His grey eyes were no longer cold, his harsh features had softened into a smile. Susanna found it difficult to offer him one back. What she did do was acknowledge to him her own complicity in creating the situation which had set them so distressfully at odds.

‘I should not have claimed to be Miss Western,’ she admitted, ‘but your cavalier attitude towards me—and indirectly towards her—angered me beyond reason. I am still at a loss as to why you should plan to do anything so wicked as carry off a young girl in order to make her your forced wife.’

As she said this, Susanna registered that Madame la Comtesse de Saulx was nodding her elegant head in agreement.

‘That is neither here, nor there,’ riposted Ben loftily.

Rightly or wrongly, Susanna could not leave it at that. ‘And do you still intend to kidnap poor Amelia? If so, then regardless of anything which is done to assist me, I must inform the Westerns—’

Ben said, his tone regretful, ‘Alas, no, that plan has been thwarted forever by the mistake which I made in identifying the wrong woman. Miss Western has nothing further to fear from me. More than that I cannot promise.’

So he was still considering further action of a lawless kind and, judging by what he had said in their first furious interview, it must concern the Wychwoods. But this was no business of hers. She owed them nothing. Her one concern was that young and innocent—even if silly and selfish—Amelia Western should be protected from the predator named Ben Wolfe.

Something of her emotions showed on her face, or Ben Wolfe was mind reading, for he said gravely, ‘What are you thinking of, Miss Beverly, that causes your smooth young brow to furrow and your eyes to harden as they examine me in my own drawing room?’

‘That you are a ruthless man, Mr Wolfe, and that I should not like you for an enemy—and that once you have set out to perform some action, whether lawful or lawless you are not easily deterred from carrying it through.’

‘Bravo, Miss Beverly!’ exclaimed Madame de Saulx, ‘our friend Ben Wolfe is often in need of hearing some plain speaking and in this case you are the right person to supply it!’

Susanna’s eyes glowed with honest indignation. ‘He is not my friend, Madame, and it was an ill day when he mistook me for another woman. I shall accept his help in restoring myself, unstained, to society again, for he owes me that favour, but afterwards I shall thank him, bid him goodbye and try to forget that I ever met him.’

This brave and spirited declaration was admired by all three of her hearers, including Ben Wolfe. Madame clapped her hands together, and Jess could not restrain himself from saying, ‘Well spoken, Miss Beverly, but may I be excepted from the interdict which you have proclaimed against Mr Wolfe since I should so wish to meet you again under happier circumstances?’

He avoided looking at Ben as he came out with this small act of defiance. His reward for it came when Susanna, regarding him thoughtfully, said, ‘So soon as I am settled in life again, Mr Fitzroy, you may call upon me. More than that I cannot say. I must remember that you were merely carrying out your employer’s orders, and only those like myself who are in a similar subordinate position can sympathise with the necessity to do so in order to earn one’s bread.’

‘Earn one’s bread!’ exclaimed Ben sourly, glaring at Jess’s peacock-like splendour. ‘I pay him much more than that, I think, if he can turn himself out like a Bond Street dandy, ready to make eyes at any pretty woman.’

Jealous! thought Madame, he’s jealous because Miss Beverly spoke kindly to his aide, but not to him. Whoever would have guessed it? Now, what does that tell me? She examined Ben with knowing eyes. That’s the first time in our long acquaintance that I have ever known him display such an emotion or care two pins about what any woman thought of him—or any man, either. Always excepting myself, that is.

Goodness, does that mean that he thinks of me as pretty? was Susanna’s response. And could he possibly have been hurt because I spoke kindly to Mr Fitzroy and not to him?

Ben, indeed, scarcely knew what to think of himself. He waved a hand at Jess who opened his mouth to answer him. ‘No,’ he said, ‘forgive me. I have made enough mistakes, as well as one unwanted enemy today, without my being graceless to my most faithful friend—for that, Miss Beverly,’ he added, turning to her, ‘is how I think of Jess.’

Jess, surprised by this unwonted declaration mumbled, ‘You do me too much honour, Ben,’ while Susanna murmured,

‘So you can be kind, Mr Wolfe, and, after a fashion, you have reprimanded me, for the Lord tells us to forgive our enemies, and now that you are not even my enemy I should have answered you more kindly.’

‘And that,’ announced Madame firmly, ‘is enough of that. Heartsearching is a thankless occupation if overdone. Do you sing or play, Miss Beverly? Ben has a fine Broadwood piano and I have a mind either to play it, or to hear you play.’

‘I can play a little, but I am a better singer,’ answered Susanna.

‘Good,’ said Madame, ‘then we shall entertain the company. Are you acquainted with Mr Tom Moore’s songs?’

‘Certainly. My favourite is “The Last Rose of Summer.”’

‘How fortunate, for it is also one of mine! And, that being so, let us perform it first of all. Shakespeare has said that music hath charms to soothe the savage breast. Let it soothe ours and we shall all sleep the more easily.’

Was it a coincidence that Madame was gazing at Ben Wolfe when she came out with this? Ben thought not. As he listened to Susanna’s pure young soprano soar effortlessly towards the painted ceiling, the power of the music lulled his restless mind and his busy plotting brain into temporary tranquillity, as well as increasing his unwilling admiration for his unwanted guest.

What had he done to his calmly controlled existence by dragging Miss Susanna Beverly into it? For the first time in his life he found himself considering a woman as something more than someone there to entertain him briefly and then be forgotten.

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