The Runaway Heiress (28 page)

Aldeborough left the house dressed for an
evening at his club. First he called at Torrington's address in St James's
Square, to be informed by a disinterested but informative footman that Mr
Hanwell was not at home, but was expected back later that evening. No, he
thought that Mr Hanwell had no specific invitation for that evening. Perhaps he
intended, to dine and then visit his club?

Aldeborough stopped off first at White's, his own
club. He was hailed by a number of acquaintances, but refused an invitation to
join in a hand of whist when he saw that Charles was not present. Ambrose was,
having lately returned from his uncle's estate, and he elected to accompany
Aldeborough. He received no satisfactory explanation as to why Hugh needed to
find Charles Hanwell so urgently, knowing nothing of the events of the previous
day, but he was not deterred. He was struck by the controlled passion in
Aldeborough’s eyes and decided that it did not bode well for Hanwell. On the
off chance that he might have put in an appearance at Brooks's, they strolled
across St James's Street, but again with no success. They tried Boodle's, where
Charles might have decided to dine, but again they drew a blank. This left a
number of gaming establishments, notorious for their high stakes and wild play.
Aldeborough sighed and began what
looked like an exhausting and
frustrating night.

At Storridge's in
Pall Mall, one of the first people he saw at the faro table was Matthew.
Aldeborough raised an eyebrow in some surprise, moving quietly to stand behind
him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

'I will not ask what you are doing here,' he
murmured in his ear and stayed to watch as his brother finished the hand
somewhat self-consciously and promptly lost.

'I was winning until you arrived,' Matthew retorted
as he threw down the cards in disgust, but had the grace to look a little
sheepish.

'How much have you lost? No, don't tell me. Perhaps
I should let you go to Spain. I would worry about you less. Have you seen
Charles Hanwell tonight?'

'No. I suppose you have tried all the usual places?
I will not ask why you want him, although I think I can guess.' He thought for
a moment. 'Have you tried the new establishment a few doors along? Very
discreet. And expensive, I am told. Too rich for me.'

'Despite his lack of funds, it sounds the sort of
place Hanwell would frequent. Will you come?'

The hour was late when they were shown in to the
discreet establishment by a black-clad footman. The club was still quiet, but
there were sufficient gamblers to allow games of Macao and faro to be under
way.

There, involved in a game of whist, was Charles Hanwell.
He looked pale and hollow-eyed, but otherwise none the worse for wear
considering his injury of the previous night. Any bruising from Frances's
well-aimed statuette was hidden by his hair. He was laughing, indulging in some
light witticisms with his partner, Lord Belmont, a glass of port at his side.
Sir John Masters, always a keen gambler, threw down his hand of cards in
disgust, and on seeing Aldeborough approach, raised his hand in greeting.

'Come and join us, Aldeborough. You might change my
run of bad luck.'

'I doubt it.' Aldeborough picked up the discarded
cards and grimaced at the poor hand. 'I would call it a night if I were you.'

Charles Hanwell raised his eyes to fix them on
Aldeborough standing before him, flanked by Matthew and Ambrose.

Perhaps he grew a little paler, but he clearly
decided to brazen out the situation. He greeted Aldeborough with false conviviality.

'Good evening, Aldeborough. Come to play a hand of
cards?' His lips twisted in sardonic malice. 'Or perhaps you prefer dice?'

'I have no preference.' Aldeborough replied lightly
but his eyes were bleak and icy as they rested on his wife's abductor. 'Other
than who I play with, of course.'

'I cannot pretend to understand you, my lord.'
Hanwell looked at Aldeborough speculatively, considering the direction of the
conversation. Aldeborough was obviously here for a purpose but he would be
prepared to gamble on the fact that the Marquis was unlikely to do or say
anything to harm his wife's reputation.

'I am sure you do. Unless you have a very short
memory for events of last night?'

Charles inhaled sharply. So. He had been wrong.
This was to be a confrontation. On the attack, he took up the challenge with
his next words.

'I am surprised that I am worthy of your interest,
Aldeborough. I have little money. You saw to that when you abducted my
cousin, who should have been my wife, and so ruined myself and my father.' The deliberate
venom behind the words had the other gamblers around the table shifting
uncomfortably in their seats. Aldeborough circled the table take a vacant seat
opposite Hanwell as if his intention we indeed to play.

'I have reason to believe that your cousin is more
than satisfied with the outcome of that night.' His tone was still light,
conciliatory. 'Your father was certainly not wise in his gambling on her
inheritance to put your estate to rights. Perhaps you will be more successful.'
Aldeborough shrugged. 'But perhaps I should warn you. My luck is in at
present.'

'I know. I backed against your horse at Newmarket!'
John Masters added with a grimace. 'And lost.'

'You have the devil's own luck, haven't you?' Hanwell
sneered.

'Yes. I believe I do.'

'Perhaps it is time it ran out.' Hanwell lifted the
wine glass to his lips, his expression set as he determined to push events to a
definite conclusion one way or the other. He disliked the impression of cat and
mouse, with himself as the tormented rodent.

'Why would you think that? Are you ill wishing me?
We are family, after all. Are we not, Charles?'

Aldeborough raised his hand to summon a passing
footman with a tray of claret, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Hanwell.

'I think you are the one out of luck,' he
continued. 'I spoiled your plan for keeping the heiress for yourself, for
marrying her against her wishes and against her best interests. And, as I
understand, she played her own imaginative role— only last night—in escaping
from your clutches.'

A fascinated audience now concentrated on every
word, watching the faces of both men.

'But does your wife realise,' Hanwell took a rapid
decision in an attempt to deflect any further detrimental revelations, 'that
since her marriage to you her life has been put at risk? There have been too
many incidents, haven't there, Aldeborough? Is it your intention to get rid of
her? After all, your brother met an untimely death too, didn't he? And that was
an accident. Or was it? We are all aware that the unfortunate occurrence was
very much to your advantage.'

Silence fell on the room, all ears tuned to the
outcome of such provocation, horror registering on many faces. But a sense of
relief flashed momentarily into Aldeborough's eyes. Charles had taken the bait.

'No...look, man, you can't say things like
that!...Richard Lafford's death was an accident... He broke his neck... There
is no blame...' A dozen voices broke the lull.

'Well, Charles?' The smile on Aldeborough's face
was not pleasant.

'It is common knowledge that Richard Lafford's
death handed a title and a fortune to Aldeborough, isn't it?' Hanwell looked
round the circle of incredulous faces for support.

'I would suggest that an accident would seem far
too coincidental.'

'No! You will withdraw such slander.' Matthew,
previously a silent spectator of his brother's campaign, leaned across to
grasp Hanwell by his cravat and almost drag him from his seat.

Aldeborough stretched out a hand to restrain
Matthew. 'Leave it, Matthew,' he ordered gently. 'Let me finish this.' He
turned back to Charles with deliberate intent, and lowered his voice.

'It is true. I certainly gained financially from my
brother's death. But I would find no advantage in my wife's death, would I? I
trust you know the terms of her mother's will— of her inheritance? Of course
you do! There is only one person here who would gain if my wife died now. And
that is
you
in the long term.
Her fortune would go by default to your father, and thus to you. I think the
incidents
, as you term them, have more to do with you
than with me.'

'How dare you! How dare you try to blacken my
reputation with ill-founded accusations?' Charles's voice rose as panic crept
in, but he kept his eyes fixed on Aldeborough like a rabbit on a hunting eagle.

'It was your choice to discuss this unsavoury
affair in public.'

'Pushed into it by you!'

'Then let me push a little harder,
Cousin Charles.'

Aldeborough picked up his untouched glass of claret
as if to raise it to his lips—and flung the contents in Hanwell's face. As the
blood-red liquid dripped from Charles's furious and shocked features on to his
coat and shirt, he leapt to his feet, prepared to fling himself at his
tormentor, only to restrained by those who stood nearest.

'You will meet me
for this, my lord Aldeborough,' snarled.

'Do you think so?'

Matthew put a restraining hand on his brother's
shoulder. 'No. Don't take the challenge. He's too drunk to know what he's
saying.'

'Are you too drunk, Hanwell?' Aldeborough enquired
gently. 'I don't think so.'

'No. You know I am not. Do you accept the charge of
cowardice and murder? Or do you accept my challenge?'

'Of course I take your challenge.' Aldeborough's
lips curved to show his teeth in a smile, all the more deadly because of its
complete absence of humour and the satisfaction that his plan had worked. 'You
know I never refuse a challenge. I will meet you with utmost satisfaction.
Perhaps your seconds would care to discuss arrangements with mine. Matthew?
Ambrose? If I might suggest, Hanwell, it would be wise to choose your seconds
from the gentlemen present.' He looked round the expectant faces, anticipating
the nods of acceptance. 'It would not be politic to broadcast the content of
our... disagreement.'

'It shall all be arranged.' Ambrose shook off his
astonishment at the rapid turn of events—he must discover from Matthew what
exactly had occurred in his absence—and found his voice again. 'With all speed.
This affair should be settled quickly to prevent further gossip.' He had never
known his friend to act with such deliberate provocation.

Aldeborough nodded in agreement. 'Until tomorrow,
then. Seven o'clock. The Archer's Field.'

He
inclined his head abruptly to Hanwell and the assembled company and left, well
satisfied with the events of the night, oblivious to the reaction that
immediately erupted behind him.

By the time Aldeborough returned to Cavendish
Square, the hour was far advanced.

He undressed, shrugged into his dressing gown and,
without knocking, let himself in to his wife's room. She was asleep, but with
a candle still burning on the nightstand as if she had been awaiting his
return. He sat beside her on the bed, gently so that he would not disturb her.
Her hair was severely confined into a plait for the night, but curls had
escaped around her face, which was faintly flushed in sleep. The fingers of her
right hand curled on the lace bedspread.

She looked very young and vulnerable. He would, he
thought, give his life to ensure that she remain safe. The thought did not
surprise him at all, even though he had known her for such a little time. He
decided, against the prompting of his body, to retire and leave her
undisturbed, but she stirred and opened her eyes. She smiled at him in complete
trust. His heart quickened its beat at the knowledge that he had achieved this
response in her. He could not leave her.

'I worried about you,' she whispered sleepily.

He caressed her cheek with fingers that trembled
from the powerful and instant surge of emotion through his veins.

'Sleep with me, Frances Rosalind. I need to be with
you tonight.'

'Of course. You need not ask.' Her eyelids were
already closing again.

He cast aside the dressing gown and stretched
beside her, drawing her close, her head on his shoulder. She sighed and let
herself sink once again towards sleep.

'Frances?'

'Yes, my lord?'

'Nothing, really.' He smiled. 'Just that I thought
I should tell you that I love you. Tell you how much you have come to mean to
me.'

'Hmm?"

Not the reaction that he would have hoped for, but
he was J not to be deterred. A deep-seated need drove him on. It was suddenly
imperative that he tell her. That he explain. That she should know the longings
and desires which he had kept hidden in the depths of his heart.

'I love you so much. I cannot understand why it has
taken me so long to discover it, to accept it.' He turned his cheek against her
hair, marvelling at its softness against his skin, His voice low, an edge of
weariness in it, he hesitated a little as he let his mind drift back over the
weeks, intent on putting into words his overwhelming emotions towards the woman
in his arms. 'God knows, I did not want to marry you,' he admitted. 'You knew
that. And I did not love you—I hardly knew you. You were an unnecessary
complication that I neither needed nor looked for in my life. Our marriage was
simply a way out of a difficult situation, for both of us. And I expected
nothing more.' His smile held a degree of bitterness as he remembered his
careless acceptance of responsibility towards a wife, his determination that
she should make no demands on him or bring any significant change to the
pattern of his life. I wanted you, without doubt. You are very lovely and it
pleased me to kiss you, to touch you and take you to my bed. But love...that
was something I did not look for. But then I simply fell in love with you.
Slowly. Imperceptibly. Until I found that I could not get you out of my mind,
what you were doing, what you were thinking... You mattered to me. It was as
simple as that.'