His Lady Mistress (3 page)

No. It hadn’t been his fault…But still, if only Scott hadn’t deflected that bayonet. A clean death on the battlefield for Max Blakehurst would not have been such a tragedy. If only he hadn’t been swayed by the family insistence that he go to the embassy in Vienna, he might have heard sooner of Scott’s difficulties, been able to do something. Now all he could do was mourn.

He couldn’t even help the child sleeping upstairs. Her family would look after her now. And the last thing she needed was to be reminded of this dreadful night. No. She was better off without him hanging around.

He’d find out where she was going. Perhaps if the family taking her needed some help he could offer it anonymously, but otherwise he should stay out of her life.

Verity came downstairs shortly after dawn, wishing she had defied Max over her supper and left some of it for breakfast. And whatever had she done with her wet clothes the previous night? Surely she’d simply dropped them on the floor of her bedchamber, but they certainly weren’t there this morning.

Her stomach rumbled hopefully. She ignored it. She’d have to set the fire again to dry her clothes when she found them. There was a little fuel left.

She reached the kitchen and stared. The fire blazed brightly and her clothes hung over the back of the chair. Nearly dry.

Tears pricking at her eyes, she looked around. On the table were four eggs, bacon, a fresh loaf of bread, a pat of butter, some cheese and six apples. And a jug of…she peeped in…milk. The tears spilt over. Judging by the state of the fire, he hadn’t been gone long. He’d stayed all night, then gone out to find her breakfast.

He’d even dried her clothes for her. She looked more
closely. The mudstains were nearly gone. He’d sponged them. The grey, bleak dawn brightened suddenly. She had one friend. Even if she never saw him again, somewhere in the world was Max. Someone she could love.

Chapter One

Late summer 1822

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, Aunt.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Whatever was that?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Perhaps we should go back, Miss Faringdon?’

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

Such good friends?

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

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

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

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

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