Книга - The Wayward Governess

The Wayward Governess
Joanna Fulford


‘I will not become a rich man’s plaything! ’ Threatened with an unwelcome marriage, Claire Davenport flees to the wilds of Yorkshire. There, the darkly enigmatic Marcus Edenbridge, Viscount Destermere, comes to her rescue – and employs her as governess to his orphaned niece. Finding his brother’s killer has all but consumed Marcus until Claire enters his life. Her innocent beauty and quick mind are an irresistible combination, but she is forbidden fruit.It’s not until their secrets plunge them both into danger that Marcus realises he cannot let happiness slip through his fingers again…









Praise for Joanna Fulford’s debut novel:


THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE

‘Fulford’s story of lust and love set in the Dark Ages is reminiscent of Woodiwiss’

THE FLAME AND THE FLOWER.’

—RT Book Reviews


Claire drew in a sharp breath.

His flesh was fiery to the touch. Hastily she poured more cold water into the basin and rinsed the cloth again. Then she bathed his chest as far as the line of the bandage would permit, her gaze taking in each visible detail of the powerful torso. She had not thought a man’s body could be beautiful until now. Beautiful and disturbing too, for it engendered other thoughts.



She had fled her uncle’s house to avoid being married to a lecherous old man, but what of being married to a younger one, a man like this? If her suitor had looked and behaved like Eden would she have fled? Would the thought of sharing his bed repel her?



Shocked by the tenor of her thoughts, she tried to dismiss them. He was a stranger who had once come to her aid. She knew nothing more about him. Perhaps she never would.



The thought was abruptly broken off by a hand closing round hers.


Joanna Fulford is a compulsive scribbler, with a passion for literature and history, both of which she has studied to postgraduate level. Other countries and cultures have always exerted a fascination, and she has travelled widely, living and working abroad for many years. However, her roots are in England, and are now firmly established in the Peak District, where she lives with her husband, Brian. When not pressing a hot keyboard she likes to be out on the hills, either walking or on horseback. However, these days equestrian activity is confined to sedate hacking rather than riding at high speed towards solid obstacles.




The Wayward Governess

Joanna Fulford











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)


To Vee Leighton for her insight and encouragement throughout the writing of this book.




Author Note


The background for this book was suggested some time ago by a visit to Cromford Mill in Derbyshire: it presented a fascinating and often disturbing insight into England’s industrial past. On the one hand the mills represented progress, on the other privation and hardship for people made redundant by machines. As the Luddite element sought to protect their livelihoods, looms, mills and mill-owners came under attack. Draconian penalties were imposed by a government already made jittery by the years of revolution in France. At the same time large profits awaited those unscrupulous enough to use the resulting conflict for their own ends. This last became an important element of the story’s sub-plot.

Unusually, the hero came to my mind first. Marcus Edenbridge is an unwilling protagonist who is haunted by the past, overtaken by events beyond his control, forced to take on a role he didn’t choose in a place he didn’t want to be, and caught up in a dangerous web of intrigue. No pressure, then. Just to keep him on his toes I introduced him to Claire, a disturbingly attractive heroine with a secret of her own.




Chapter One


‘Gartside! Alight here for Gartside!’

The guard’s voice roused Claire from her doze. Feeling startled and disorientated, she looked about her and realised that the coach had stopped. She had no recollection of the last ten miles of the journey to Yorkshire and had no idea what hour it might be. At a guess it was some time in the midafternoon. Her cramped limbs felt as though they had been travelling for ever, though in reality it was three days. For more reasons than one it would be a relief to escape from the lumbering vehicle. Further reflection was denied her as the door opened.

‘This is where you get down, miss.’

She nodded and, under the curious eyes of the remaining passengers, retrieved her valise and descended onto the street in front of a small and lowly inn.

‘Can you tell me how far it is to Helmshaw?’ she asked. ‘And in which direction it lies?’

The guard jerked his head toward the far end of the street. ‘Five miles. That way.’

‘Thank you.’

After a grunted acknowledgement he closed the door of the coach and climbed back onto the box. Then the driver cracked his whip and the coach moved forwards. Watching it depart, Claire swallowed hard, for with it went every connection with her past life. Involuntarily her hand tightened round the handle of her bag. The latter contained all her worldly possessions, or all she had been able to carry when she left, apart from the last few shillings in her reticule. The rest of her small stock of money had been spent on the coach fare and the necessary board and lodging on her journey. Her last meal had been a frugal breakfast at dawn and she was hungry now, but the inn looked dingy and unprepossessing and she felt loath to enter it. Instead she hefted the valise and set off along the street in the direction the guard had indicated earlier.

It soon became clear that Gartside was not much of a place, being essentially a long street with houses on either side, and a few small shops. As she walked she received curious stares from the passers-by but no one spoke. A few ragged children watched from an open doorway. A little way ahead a small group of men loitered outside a tavern. Uncomfortably aware of being a stranger Claire hurried on, wanting to be gone. She hoped that Helmshaw would prove more congenial, but a five-mile walk lay between her and it. Massing clouds threatened rain. Would it hold off until she reached her destination? And when she got there, what would be her welcome? She hadn’t set eyes on Ellen Greystoke in seven years, and nor had there been any correspondence between them apart from that one letter, written to her aunt’s dictation, not long after Claire had removed there. Seven years. Would her old governess remember her? Would she still be at the same address? What if Miss Greystoke had moved on? Claire shivered, unwilling to contemplate the possibility. She had nowhere else to go, no money and no immediate prospect of earning any. Moreover, there was always the chance that her uncle would discover where she had gone.

For the past three days it had been her constant dread. Each time a faster vehicle had passed the public coach her heart lurched lest it should be he. Every feeling shrank from the scene that must surely follow, for he would not hesitate to compel her return. After that she would be lost. She had no illusions about her ability to resist her uncle’s will: those had been beaten out of her long since. His maxim was: Spare the rod and spoil the child, a policy he had upheld with the utmost rigour. He would have her submission all right, and would use any means to get it.

At the thought of what that submission meant her stomach churned. Within the week she would become Lady Mortimer, married against her will to a man old enough to be her father, a portly, balding baronet with a lascivious gaze that made her flesh crawl. The memory of his proposal was still horribly vivid. She had been left alone with him, an occurrence that had set warning bells ringing immediately. Her aunt and uncle were usually sticklers for propriety. After a few minutes of stilted conversation Sir Charles had seized her hand, declaring his passion in the most ardent terms. Repelled by the words and the feel of his hot, damp palms she had tried to break free, only to find herself tipped backwards onto the sofa cushions. Claire swallowed hard. Almost she could still feel his paunch pressing her down, could smell the oily sweetness of hair pomade and fetid breath on her face as he tried to kiss her. Somehow she had got a hand free and struck him. Taken aback he had slackened his hold, allowing her to struggle free of that noxious embrace and run, knowing she’d rather be dead than married to such a man. How her refusal had been represented to her uncle afterwards she could only guess, but his anger was plain.

‘You stupid, ungrateful girl! Who do you think you are to be refusing such an offer? Do you imagine you will ever get another as good?’

All her protestations had counted for nothing. She could see her uncle’s cold and furious face.

‘You have until tomorrow morning to change your mind or I’ll know the reason why. By the time I’ve finished with you, my girl, you’ll be only too glad to marry Sir Charles, believe me.’

She had believed him, knowing full well it was no idle threat, and so she had run away the same night.

‘Now there’s a fancy bit of muslin.’

‘Aye, I wouldn’t mind ten minutes behind the tavern with her.’

The voices jolted Claire from her thoughts and, as their lewd import dawned, she reddened, recognising the group of loafers she had seen before. From their dress they were of the labouring class, but dirtier and more unkempt than was usual. Uncomfortably aware of their close scrutiny Claire kept walking, determined to ignore them, but as she drew nigh the group one of them stepped in front of her blocking the way. When she tried to go round him he sidestepped too, blocking the path again. He looked to be in his early twenties. Taller than her by several inches and sturdily built, he was dressed like the others in a brown drab coat and breeches. A soiled green neckcloth was carelessly tied about his throat. Lank fair hair straggled beneath a greasy cap and framed a narrow unshaven face with a thin-lipped mouth and cold blue eyes. These were now appraising her, missing no detail of her appearance from her straw bonnet to the dark blue pelisse and sprigged muslin frock. Although she had dressed as plainly as she could to avoid attracting attention, there was no mistaking the fine quality and cut of her garments.

‘Can you spare a coin, miss?’

‘I’m sorry, no.’

‘Just a shilling, miss.’

‘I have none to spare.’

‘I find that hard to believe, a fine young lady like yourself.’

‘Believe what you like.’

She made to step round him again, but again he prevented it.

‘Suppose I take a look for myself.’

Before she could anticipate it he grabbed her reticule. Claire tried to snatch it back, but he held on. His four companions gathered round, grinning. Seeing herself surrounded she fought panic, knowing instinctively it would be a mistake to show fear. He shook the reticule and heard the chink of coins. Her last few shillings!

‘Sounds like money to me,’ he remarked with a wink to the general audience.

‘Give that back.’

He grinned. ‘What if I don’t, eh?’

Claire glared at her tormentor. She had not risked so much and come all this way merely to fall victim to another bully. Resentment welled up, fuelling her anger, and without warning she lashed out, dealing him a ringing crack across the cheek.

‘Give it back, you oaf!’

In sheer surprise he let go of the reticule while his companions drew audible breaths and looked on in delighted anticipation. Claire lifted her chin.

‘Get out of my way!’

She would have pushed past, but he recovered and seized her arm in a painful grip.

‘You’ll pay for that, you little bitch.’

Glaring up at him, she forced herself to meet the cold blue eyes.

‘Unhand me.’

‘High and mighty, aren’t we? But I’ll take you down a peg or two.’

‘Aye, that’s it, Jed,’ said a voice from the group. ‘Show her.’

A chorus of agreement followed and with pounding heart Claire saw them move in closer. Jed smiled, revealing stained and decaying teeth.

‘Since you won’t give a coin I’ll take payment in kind. Perhaps we all will, eh, lads?’

A murmur of agreement followed. Her captor glanced toward the alley that ran alongside the tavern. Claire, following that look, felt her stomach lurch.

‘Let go of me.’

She tried to twist free, but his grip only tightened. In desperation she kicked out. The blow connected and she heard him swear, but it was a temporary victory. Moments later she was dragged into the alley and shoved up against the outer wall of the inn. Then his arm was round her waist and his free hand exploring her breast. She could feel his hot breath on her neck. Claire struggled harder.

‘Aye, go on, fight me. I like it better that way.’

‘Let me go!’

‘Not before I’ve given you what you need, lass.’

‘Save some for us, Jed,’ said a voice from behind him.

He grinned appreciatively. ‘I reckon there’s enough here to go round. You’ll get your turns when I’m done.’

More laughter greeted this. Claire screamed as Jed’s hands fumbled with her skirt.

‘Let her go!’

Hearing that hard, cold command, the group fell silent, turning to look at the newcomer who had approached unnoticed. Claire swallowed hard, her heart pounding even as her gaze drank in every detail of her rescuer’s appearance. An arresting figure, he was a head taller than any present. His dress proclaimed the working man, but there the similarity ended: if anything his upright bearing smacked more of a military background. The brown serge coat had seen better days but it was clean and neat and covered powerful shoulders; waistcoat, breeches and boots adorned a lean, athletic figure that had not an ounce of fat on it. Dark hair was visible from beneath a low-crowned felt hat. However, it was the face that really held attention, with its strong bone structure and slightly aquiline nose, the chiselled, clean-shaven lines accentuated by a narrow scar that ran down the left side from cheek to jaw. The sculpted mouth was set in a hard, uncompromising line, as uncompromising as the expression in the grey eyes.

For a moment or two there was silence, but the hold on Claire’s arm slackened. With pounding heart she glanced up at the newcomer, but he wasn’t looking at her. The hawk-like gaze was fixed on her persecutor. The latter sneered.

‘This is none of your business, Eden.’

‘Then I’ll make it my business, Stone.’ The quiet voice had the same Yorkshire burr as the others, but it also held an inflexion of steel.

‘We were just having a little fun, that’s all.’

‘The lady doesn’t seem to share your idea of amusement.’

‘What’s it to you?’

The reply was a large clenched fist that connected with Stone’s jaw. The force of the blow pitched him backwards and sent him sprawling, stunned, in the mud of the alley. Before he could stir, one of his companions threw a punch at Eden. He blocked it and brought his knee up hard into his attacker’s groin. The man doubled over in agony. As he staggered away a third stepped in. Eden ducked under the swinging fist and landed his opponent a savage upper cut that lifted him off his feet and flung him backwards to lie in the mud with Stone. Seeing the fate of their fellows, the remaining two men hesitated, then backed away. Eden threw them one contemptuous glance and then looked at Claire.

‘Are you hurt, miss?’

‘No. I…I’m all right,’ she replied, hoping her voice wouldn’t shake.

‘Good. Then I’ll set you on your way.’

He looked round at the others as though daring them to challenge the words, but no one did. Instead they avoided his eye and moved aside. Seeing her bag lying nearby, Eden picked it up. As he did so, Stone came to, propping himself groggily on one elbow, his other hand massaging the lump on his jaw. Blood trickled from a split lip.

‘You’ll get yours, Eden, I swear it!’

If the other was in any way perturbed by the threat he gave no sign of it save that the glint in the grey eyes grew a shade harder.

‘I’ll look forward to that, Stone.’

Then, placing a firm but gentle hand under her elbow, he led Claire away from the scene.

For a few moments they walked in silence and she was grateful for the respite because it allowed her time to regain her self-control. She was trembling now with reaction and the knowledge of how narrow her escape had been. Moreover she was ashamed to the depths of her soul to have been seen in such a situation. Respectable young women did not travel unaccompanied and would never place themselves in circumstances where they might attract the attentions of such brutes as those. Her face reddened. What must he think?

She stole a glance at her protector, but the handsome face gave nothing away. Nor did he venture a comment of any kind. Instead they walked on in silence until they were well clear of the tavern, she all the while aware of the warmth of his hand beneath her elbow. It was a gesture that was both comforting and disturbing at once. Yet the nearness of this man was not threatening as those others had been. How much she owed him. She stole another look at his face.

‘Thank you, sir. I am most grateful for what you did back there.’

The grey eyes regarded her steadily a moment.

‘I beg you will not regard it, madam.’

Claire knew a moment’s surprise for the Yorkshire burr had disappeared to be replaced with the pure modulated diction associated with a very different social rank. However, fearing to seem rude, she did not remark on it.

‘Who were those men?’ she asked then.

‘Scum. They needn’t concern you further.’ He paused. ‘May I ask where you’re going?’

‘To Helmshaw.’

‘Helmshaw. That’s a fair walk from here.’

‘Yes, I believe so, but the public coach doesn’t go there.’

‘You came on the coach?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

Her cheeks reddened. ‘As you see.’

‘You have family in Helmshaw perhaps?’

‘A friend.’

‘But your friend is not expecting you.’

‘No, not exactly.’

‘Not at all, I’d say, or you would have been met at the coach.’

Not knowing what to say, Claire remained silent. A few moments later they reached the end of the street. There he paused, looking down at her.

‘Yonder lies the road to Helmshaw. I’d walk along with you, but I’ve important business requiring my attention here. However, I think you’ll not be troubled again.’

She managed a tremulous smile. ‘I’m sure I shan’t be. You’ve been most kind, sir.’

‘You’re welcome, Miss, er…’

‘Claire Davenport.’

He took the offered hand and bowed. For one brief moment she felt the warmth of his touch through her glove. Then he relinquished his hold.

‘Farewell, Miss Davenport.’

‘Farewell, Mr Eden. And thank you again.’

He handed her the valise and touched his hand to his hat. Then he turned and walked away. Feeling strangely bereft, she watched the tall departing figure with a rueful smile. In all likelihood they would never meet again, though she knew she would never forget him. With a sigh she turned and continued on her way.

As the man Eden had predicted she met with no more trouble on the road, but half an hour later it came on to rain, a thundery summer shower. The open roadway offered no shelter and in a very short time she was soaked through. It was with real relief that she saw the first houses on the edge of the village. An enquiry of a passing carter directed her to a grey stone house set back from the road in a pleasant garden. Claire paused by the gate, feeling her stomach knot in sudden apprehension. What if Miss Greystoke had moved on? It had been seven years after all. What would she do then? Where would she go? Taking a deep breath, she walked up the paved pathway to the front door and rang the bell. A maidservant answered. On seeing Claire’s bedraggled and muddied appearance she eyed her askance.

‘The doctor’s not at home,’ she said.

Shivering a little now, Claire stood her ground.

‘It is Miss Greystoke I seek, not the doctor.’

Before the girl could answer another voice spoke behind her.

‘Who is it, Eliza?’

Claire’s heart beat painfully hard. The woman’s elegant lavender-coloured gown was different, but everything else was familiar from the light brown hair to the blue eyes now regarding her with shock and concern.

‘Claire?’ The woman came closer, wonder writ large in her expression, and then a beaming smile lit her face. ‘Oh, my dear, it really is you!’

‘Miss Greystoke.’

‘What a wonderful surprise. But what am I doing talking here on the doorstep? Come inside, do.’

Only too happy to obey, Claire stepped into the hallway and for a moment the two women faced each other in silence. Then Ellen Greystoke opened her arms and drew her visitor into a warm embrace. Knowing herself safe for the first time in days, Claire began to shake.

‘Good gracious! How cold you are! We must get you out of those wet clothes at once. Then we shall sit down and have some tea and you can tell me everything.’

Claire was escorted to a pleasant upstairs bedroom, provided with hot water and towels, and then left in privacy. Shivering, she removed her bonnet and then stripped off her wet things. How good it was to be free of them at last and to be able to bathe again and tidy her hair. Having done so, she donned a clean gown. It was one of two that she had been able to bring. Apart from those, a russet spencer, a few necessary personal items and her sketchbook, the valise contained nothing of value. Involuntarily Claire’s hand sought the locket she wore around her neck. It was her sole piece of jewellery and it bore the only likeness of her parents that she possessed. She had inherited her mother’s dusky curls and hazel eyes and her face had the same fine bone structure. Her father too had been dark haired with rugged good looks. It was not hard to see why her parents had been attracted to each other or why Henry Davenport should fly in the face of his family’s disapproval and marry a young woman with only a pretty countenance and a hundred pounds a year to recommend her. Goodness was not a marketable quality in their eyes. Yet, contrary to all predictions, the marriage had been a success. Claire had fond memories of her early years, days filled with sunshine and laughter when she’d been truly happy and carefree. How long ago it all seemed and how like a dream.

An outbreak of typhus changed everything: her father had sickened first and then her mother, the fever carrying them off within three days of each other. At a stroke she was an orphan. Miss Greystoke had taken it upon herself to inform her father’s family and in due course Uncle Hector had arrived. Her thirteen-year-old self could see the likeness to her father in the dark hair and grey eyes, but there the similarity ended. The tall, unsmiling man in black was a stranger whose cold expression repelled her. She hadn’t wanted to go with him and had sobbed out her grief in Miss Greystoke’s arms. In the end though there had been no choice and she had been taken to live at her uncle’s house.

From the moment of her arrival she knew Aunt Maud disliked her and resented her presence there. At first she had not understood why, but as time passed and she grew from child to young woman the contrast between her and her much plainer cousins became marked. To be fair her cousins showed no resentment of her good looks, but then they were so timid that they never expressed an opinion on anything. Claire, outgoing and high-spirited, found them dull company. Moreover she found the educational regime in the house stifling.

From the start Miss Greystoke had always encouraged her to think for herself and to read widely and Claire’s naturally enquiring mind devoured the books she was given and easily assimilated what she found there. She loved learning for its own sake and enjoyed gaining new skills, whether it was drawing or playing the pianoforte, speaking in French or discussing current affairs. In her uncle’s house everything was different. Independent thought was discouraged, and only the most improving works considered suitable reading material. They were taught their lessons under the exacting eye of Miss Hardcastle, a hatchet-faced woman with strict views about what constituted a suitable education for young ladies, and an expectation of instant obedience in all things. In this she was fully supported by Aunt Maud and any infraction of discipline was punished. Claire, loathing the constraints imposed on her, had been openly rebellious at first, but she had soon learned the error of her ways. Remembering it now, she felt resentment rise in a wave. She would never return no matter what.

Some time later she joined Ellen in the parlour where she was plied with hot tea and slices of fruit cake. When she had finished she favoured her friend with an explanation of why she had fled her uncle’s house. Ellen listened without interruption, but the blue eyes were bright with anger and indignation. Claire swallowed hard.

‘I’m so sorry to impose on you like this, Miss Greystoke, but I didn’t know where else to turn.’

‘Where else should you turn but to me? And let us dispense with this formality. You must call me Ellen.’

‘You don’t know how I missed you all these years.’

‘And I you. My brightest pupil.’

‘Did you receive my letter?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘I wanted to write again, but my aunt would not permit it.’

‘Then you did not get my other letters?’

Claire stared at her. ‘What other letters?’

‘I wrote several, but there was never any reply, so in the end I stopped sending them.’

‘On my honour I never received them.’

‘No, after what you have told me I imagine you did not.’

Anger and indignation welled anew and Claire bit her lip. To think that all that time her aunt had lied to her, if only by omission.

‘It was the saddest day of my life when I had to leave you. Your parents’ house was such a happy place and they were always so good to me. I felt more like a member of the family than a governess.’

‘I feel as though I have been in prison for the past seven years. And then this. I could not do what they wanted, Ellen.’

‘Of course not! No woman should ever be compelled to marry a man she does not love and esteem. What your uncle did was shameful.’

‘But what if he finds me?’

‘He shall not remove you from this house.’

‘I wish I were not so afraid of him, Ellen.’

‘I am not surprised that you are. The man is a perfect brute.’

‘If my aunt read your letters, she will have seen the address and may guess where I am.’

‘She probably burnt them without reading them. In any case it was a long time ago. It is most unlikely she kept them.’

‘I pray she did not.’ Claire’s hands clenched. ‘If only I might reach my majority and be out of their power for good.’

‘That day cannot be so far away now. How old are you?’

‘Four months short of my twenty-first birthday.’

‘No time at all. It will soon pass and then you will be a free woman.’

‘Somehow I must earn my living and I am not afraid to work, provided it is honest employment. I do not wish to be a burden.’

Ellen smiled and squeezed her hand gently. ‘You could never be a burden to me.’

‘But what will your brother say when he returns?’

‘You leave George to me.’

Doctor Greystoke returned some time later. In his early forties, he was a little over the average height and had a strong athletic build, which made him seem younger than his years. His face was pleasant and open rather than handsome and, as yet, relatively unlined save for the creases round the eyes and mouth. Like his sister he had light brown hair, in his case greying a little at the temples and lending him a distinguished air. Claire thought he had a kindly face. Even so there was no way of knowing how he would respond to having his home invaded by a stranger—and a penniless stranger to boot.

She need not have worried. Having been apprised of the situation, he seated himself on the sofa beside his unexpected guest, regarding her keenly.

‘My sister has told me everything, Miss Davenport. I confess I am deeply shocked to learn of the reason for your coming here, but can in no way blame you for leaving. To force a young woman into marriage must be in every way repugnant to civilised thinking.’ He smiled. ‘You are welcome to remain here as long as you wish.’

‘Thank you. May I also ask that my reason for being here remains a secret?’

‘You may rely on it. Neither my sister nor I will divulge it to a soul.’

Claire’s eyes filled with tears and a lump formed in her throat.

‘Indeed, sir, you are very good.’

To her horror tears spilled over and ran down her face and she dashed them away with a trembling hand. Seeing it his face registered instant concern.

‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘You’re safe here.’

Claire drew in a shuddering breath and fumbled for a handkerchief. Before she could find it he produced his own.

‘Here, try this. I prescribe it for the relief of tears.’

It drew a wan smile and he nodded approvingly. ‘That’s it. Now dry your eyes and let us have no more of this. I absolutely forbid you to be sad here.’

Ellen rose and rang the bell to summon the maid.

‘Shall we have some more tea?’

Her brother looked up and grinned. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’




Chapter Two


Gleams of moonlight shone through flying rags of cloud, its pale glow illuminating the moor and the winding road along which the wagon made its steady progress. Drawn by four great draught horses it lumbered on, its load a dark mass concealed beneath a heavy tarpaulin. Apart from the driver and his companion on the box, six others accompanied the wagon, big men chosen for their physical strength. Two walked in front with lighted torches; the others rode on either side of the vehicle. All were armed with clubs and pistols. Conversation was kept to a minimum. The only sounds were the wind and the muffled rumbling of iron-rimmed wheels over the track. For it was more track than road, an ancient drovers’ trail that crossed the hills above Helmshaw. As they walked the men kept a sharp look out, their eyes scanning the roadway ahead and the pooled shadows to either side. No other sound or movement revealed any more human presences. The little convoy might have been the last living things upon the face of the earth.

‘All quiet so far,’ muttered the driver, ‘but I’ll not be sorry to see journey’s end.’

His companion merely grunted assent.

‘If it weren’t for t’money you’d not catch me out here with this lot,’ the other continued. ‘I thought long and hard about it I can tell thee. A man should be at his fireside of an evening, not wandering t’moors to be prey to scum.’

Another grunt greeted this. Seeing his companion wasn’t in a responsive mood, Jethro Timms gave up the attempt at conversation. From time to time he eyed the other man. A taciturn cove, he thought, and no mistake. However, what he lacked in amiability he made up for in sheer physical presence for he was tall and well made with a lean, athletic figure that had about it something of a military bearing, though nothing about his clothing suggested it. Coat, breeches and boots, though strong and serviceable, had seen better days. Still, the driver reflected, that was not surprising. Since Napoleon went to Elba there were lots of ex-soldiers roaming the land looking for work, though heaven knew it was in short supply. If a man was desperate enough he might volunteer to ride guard on a wagon in the middle of the night.

He gave his companion another sideways glance, but the other seemed unaware of it, his gaze on the way ahead. Dark hair was partly concealed under a hat which shadowed the strong lines of brow and jaw. Down one cheek the faint line of a scar was just visible. It might have been a sabre slash, but the driver didn’t care to ask. Something about those steel-grey eyes forbade it. Nevertheless, he thought, Eden was a comforting presence tonight, not least for the blunderbuss he held across his knee and the brace of pistols thrust into his belt.

Timms made no further attempt to break the silence and the wagon lumbered on. Gradually the scenery began to change, the open heath giving way to more rugged terrain as the track passed through a deep valley. On either hand the dark mass of the hillsides was just visible against the paler cloud above, but to one side the ground fell away in a steep drop to the stream. As it passed through the declivity the track narrowed. Suddenly Eden sat up, his expression intent.

Timms swallowed hard. ‘What is it?’

‘I thought I heard something. Stones sliding.’

‘I can’t hear owt.’

For a moment or two they listened, but the only sounds were the wind through the heather and the chuckling water below.

‘Tha must have imagined…’

The driver’s words were lost as the darkness erupted in a flash of fire and the sharp report of a pistol. A linkman cried out and fell, his torch lying unheeded on the path. As though at a signal a dozen dark shapes rose from the concealing heather and rushed forwards. Cursing, Timms reined in his startled team as a masked attacker reached up to drag him from his seat. Beside him the blunderbuss roared and a man screamed, falling back into the darkness. On the other side of the wagon two others launched themselves at Eden. He swung the blunderbuss hard and felt it connect with bone. His attacker staggered and fell. The other came on. Eden kicked out at the masked face and heard cartilage crunch beneath the sole of his boot. A muffled curse followed and the would-be assailant reeled away, clutching his ruined nose. Eden drew the pistols from his belt as his gaze took in the chaos of struggling shadowy forms in the roadway. As another masked face loomed out of the dark he loosed off a shot. The ball took the man between the eyes and he fell without a sound. Several others swarmed toward the wagon.

Timms, struggling to control the restive horses, cried a warning as hands reached up to drag him from the box. Eden heard it and, turning, fired the second pistol. He heard a yelp of pain and saw a man go down, but almost immediately another shot rang out and Timms swore, clutching his arm. A moment later he was dragged from the box and lost to view. Other hands caught hold of Eden. Instead of resisting them he threw himself forwards, diving off the wagon to land on top of his assailants in the road. Fists and feet connected with flesh amid muffled cries and oaths. Then he was free. Leaping to his feet, he spun round to find himself staring at the mouth of a pistol. Pale moonlight afforded a swift impression of cold eyes glinting above a mask, and below it a soiled green neckcloth. For one split second something stirred in Eden’s memory. Then there was a burst of flame and a loud report. Hot lead tore into flesh and he staggered, clutching his shoulder. Blood welled beneath his fingers and then vicious pain exploded in a burst of light behind his eyeballs and he fell.

He lay in the dirt for some moments, aware only of the pain that seemed to have replaced all other sensation. The sounds of fighting receded. With an effort of will he forced back the threatening faintness and became aware of a voice issuing instructions. Moonlight revealed dark figures round the wagon, some unhitching the horses, others loosening the ropes that held the load, flinging back the tarpaulin to reveal the crate beneath. Eden’s jaw tightened as the figures swarmed aboard and levered it off the wagon. As in slow motion it crashed onto the road and rolled forwards down the slope, tumbling over and over, gathering momentum until it came to rest, smashed and broken on the rocky streambed below. A ragged cheer went up from the wreckers. At that a man stepped forwards to face the remaining members of the escort. Like his companions his face was covered by a scarf and his hat pulled low.

‘Tell Harlston his machines are not wanted here,’ he said. ‘Any attempt to replace this one will result in more of the same.’

With that he jerked his head towards his companions and the whole group made off into the darkness. Eden tried to rise, but the pain scythed through his shoulder. Crimson bombs exploded behind his eyes and then blackness took him.

He had no idea how long he lay there; it might have been minutes or hours. For some moments he did not move, aware only of cold air on his face and the dull throbbing ache in his shoulder. Instinctively he lifted his hand to the wound and felt the stickiness of blood. Then the details began to return. As he became more aware of his surroundings the first thing that struck him was the eerie silence, a hush broken only by the wind and the stream. The sky was a lighter shade and the stars fading so dawn could not be far off. Experimentally he tried to rise; pain savaged him and he bit back a cry. With an effort of will he dragged himself to a nearby boulder and used it to support his back while he forced himself to a sitting position. The effort brought beads of cold sweat to his forehead and it was some minutes before he could catch his breath. Then he looked around. In the predawn half light he could make out the dark silent shapes that were the bodies of the slain. Grim-faced, he counted half a dozen. Where were the rest? The wreckers were long gone, but surely some of the wagon escort had lived. He could see no sign of the wagon or the horses. Had the surviving members just abandoned their fellows to their fate and saved their own skins?

Anger forced Eden to his knees and thence to his feet, using the rock to steady himself. Agony seared through the injured shoulder. His legs trembled like reeds. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he drew in a few deep breaths. As he did so he glanced over the edge of the hillside. Among the rocks that lined the stream he saw the smashed remains of the power loom and with it the wagon. At the sight his fists clenched, but he understood now why he had been left behind in this place. The survivors had taken the horses for themselves and the injured. He had been mistaken for one of the dead. The thought occurred that if he didn’t find help soon he might well be among their number. The nearest town was Helmshaw: Harlston’s Mill was located on its edge. It was perhaps two miles distant. Mentally girding himself for the effort and the coming pain, Eden stumbled away down the track.

His progress was pitifully slow because every few minutes he was forced to rest. The sky was much lighter now and the track clear enough, but pain clouded his mind until he could think of nothing else. Moreover, the darkened patch of dried blood on his coat was overlain with a new scarlet wetness that spread past the edges of the original stain. He had tried to stanch the bleeding with a wadded handkerchief, but that too was sodden red. His strength was ebbing fast and only sheer will forced him to put one foot in front of the other. He had gone perhaps half a mile when the level track began to rise at the start of a long steady climb up the next hill. Eden managed another fifty yards before pain and exhaustion overcame his will and he collapsed on the path in a dead faint.

Claire was woken just after dawn by heavy pounding on the front door. Her heart thumped painfully hard and for one dreadful moment she wondered if her uncle had discovered her whereabouts and was come to drag her away. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she slipped from the bed and threw a shawl about her shoulders. Then she crept to the bedroom door and opened it a crack, listening intently. The pounding on the door increased and was followed by Eliza’s indignant tones as she went to answer it. Then a man’s voice was heard demanding the doctor. Claire breathed a sigh of relief. Not her uncle, then.

‘What’s so urgent that the doctor must be dragged from his bed at this hour?’ demanded Eliza.

‘There’s half a dozen injured men at Harlston’s Mill,’ the man replied. ‘Some bad hurt.’

‘Good gracious! Not another accident?’

‘No accident. They were escorting a consignment of new machinery for t’mill. Seems they were attacked on their way over t’moor. There’s been some killed an’ all.’

‘Heaven preserve us from such wickedness! Wait here! I’ll fetch the doctor.’

Within a quarter of an hour Dr Greystoke had left the house. Claire heard the sound of horses’ hooves as the men rode away, and in some anxiety digested what she had heard. Her limited knowledge of the machinebreakers’ activities had been gleaned from newspaper accounts: here evidently it was far more than just a story of distant industrial unrest. Here the violence was all too real. Could it be true that men had lost their lives? The thought was chilling. What could make men so desperate that they were prepared to kill?

It was a question she put to Ellen when they met in the breakfast parlour some time later.

‘When the war with France cut off foreign trade it caused a lot of hardship hereabouts,’ her friend replied. ‘Even now that Napoleon is exiled the situation is slow to change. The advent of the power looms is seen as yet another threat to men’s livelihoods.’

‘Then why do mill owners like Harlston antagonise the workforce in that way?’

‘They see it as progress and in a way I suppose it is. The new machines are faster and more efficient by far than the old looms. All the same, it is hard to reconcile that knowledge with the sight of children starving.’

Claire pondered the words, for they suggested a world she had no experience of. In spite of recent events her life had been sheltered and comfortable for the most part and although she had lost her parents she had still been clothed and fed and there had always been a roof over her head. Other children were not as fortunate. For so many orphans the only choice was the workhouse. If they survived that, it usually led to a life of drudgery after. For a young and unprotected girl the world was hazardous indeed. Recalling the scene in Gartside, she shuddered.

‘Are you all right, Claire? You look awfully pale.’

‘Yes, a slight headache is all.’

‘No wonder with all you’ve been through.’

Claire managed a wan smile. She hadn’t told Ellen about the incident with Stone and his cronies. She had felt too ashamed; the memory of it made her feel dirty somehow and she wanted nothing more than to forget about it. Yet now it returned with force and with it the recollection of the man who had saved her.

‘Why don’t you go for a walk this morning?’ Ellen continued. ‘I’m sure the fresh air would do you good.’

‘Yes, perhaps you are right.’

‘There is a gate in the garden wall that leads out onto the moor. It is quite a climb, but the views from the top are worth the effort.’

‘I could take my sketchbook.’

Ellen smiled. ‘You have kept up your drawing, then?’

‘Oh, yes. It is one of my greatest pleasures.’

‘You were always so gifted that way. I shall look forward to seeing your work later.’

‘Will you not come with me?’

‘I wish I could, but this morning I have an engagement in town. Never fear, though, we shall take many walks together in future. The countryside hereabouts is very fine.’

Looking out across the sunlit moor an hour later Claire could only agree with her friend’s assessment. From her vantage point she could see the town below, and the mill, and then the wide expanse of rolling heath and the hills beyond. Far above her a skylark poured out its soul in song. Listening to it, Claire felt her spirits lift for the first time and suddenly the future seemed less threatening. Smiling, she walked on, revelling in the fresh air and exercise.

She had followed the track for another mile or so when she saw the figure lying on the path. It was a man and he was lying very still. Claire frowned. What on earth was he doing there? How had he got there? She approached with caution but he did not move. Her gaze took in boots, breeches and coat and the dark stain on the shoulder. It was unmistakably blood. Swallowing hard, she drew nearer and then gasped.

‘Mr Eden!’

In a moment she was beside him, her fingers seeking his wrist for a pulse. For a moment she couldn’t find one and her heart sank. Her fingers moved to his neck and in trembling relief she found it at last, a slow and feeble beat. His face was very pale, the skin waxy where it showed above the stubble of his beard. When she spoke to him again there was no response. Claire gently lifted the edge of his coat and her eyes widened.

‘Dear God,’ she murmured.

Shirt and waistcoat were soaked, as was the wadded handkerchief thrust between. He had been shot. Shocked to the core, she stared a second or two at the scarlet stain. Who could have done such a thing? Unbidden, the memory of their first meeting returned and she heard Stone’s voice: ‘You’ll get yours, Eden, I swear it.’ Feeling sick and guilty, Claire bit her lip. Was this her fault? Had his earlier action brought this on him? There was no time for further reflection; he needed help and soon. She looked around in desperation, her mind retracing her route and the length of time it would take to get back and wondering if she would find Ellen or her brother returned yet. In the midst of these thoughts her eye detected a movement further down the track. Straightening, she shaded her eyes and strained to see, praying it might be a rider. In fact it was several riders and in their midst a cart. Almost sobbing with relief, she waved frantically.

‘Help! Over here!’

It seemed to take an age before they heard her. Then two of the men spurred forwards to investigate. Claire stood on the track and watched them come. They reined in, regarding her with open curiosity. Then they noticed the still form lying at the edge of the path.

‘What’s happened here, lass?’ demanded the first.

‘He’s badly injured. He needs a doctor and soon.’

‘Have no fear. Help is at hand.’

The first rider dismounted and hastened over to the injured man. Then Claire heard a muffled exclamation.

‘Merciful heavens, it’s Mark Eden.’

‘What!’ His companion edged his mount closer. ‘I heard he was missing, believed dead.’

‘He soon will be if we don’t get him to a doctor. Help me get him onto my horse.’

Claire eyed the approaching vehicle. ‘Would it not be better to put him on the cart?’

The men exchanged glances, then shook their heads.

‘Better not, lass.’

‘I don’t understand.’

They gave no further explanation and she could only watch in helpless bewilderment as they lifted Eden and put him on the horse. Then one mounted behind, holding the inert form so it could not fall. They had no sooner done so than the lumbering wagon drew nigh. Seeing what it contained, Claire went very pale.

‘Come away, lass, it’s no sight for a woman’s eyes.’ The man’s voice was gruff but kindly. ‘I’ll take thee up on t’ horse behind me.’

‘Those men in the cart, are they…?’

‘Dead? Aye. Killed last night in the attack on Harlston’s machines.’

Claire drew in a deep breath and then glanced at the slumped form on the other horse, praying they had not come too late.

When Eden came round it was to the sound of voices and hurrying footsteps. Through a fog of pain he had an impression of walls and floor and ceiling. He didn’t recognise the room. It had a strange and yet familiar smell too, something vaguely chemical that resisted identification and yet one he thought he ought to know. He shifted a little and winced as pain knifed through his shoulder.

‘Don’t try to move.’

He looked up and saw a face bending over his. His mind registered a girl—no, a young woman. Twenty years old or thereabouts. Dark curls framed a face with high cheekbones and beautiful chiselled mouth. But it was the eyes one noticed most: huge hazel eyes deep enough to drown in. They seemed familiar somehow.

‘Where am I?’

‘At the doctor’s house.’

His brows knit, unable to comprehend how this had occurred, but having to trust the evidence of his eyes. Before he could say more he heard another voice.

‘Lift him onto the table. Gently now. That’s it.’

He stifled a groan as hands raised him, felt the hard, flat surface under his back. Then he heard the same voice speak again.

‘Fetch me hot water, Claire, and clean cloths.’

A swish of skirts announced her obedience to the command. Her quiet voice brought the two erstwhile assistants after her. As their footsteps receded a man’s face swam into view, a pleasant clean-shaven face with clear-cut features. It was framed by light brown hair, greying a little at the sides. The eyes were blue and now staring as though they had seen a ghost. The same shock was registered in the grey eyes of the injured man.

‘George,’ he murmured. ‘George Greystoke.’

‘Marcus?’ The doctor looked closer, taking in every detail of the pale face and resting on the scarred cheek. ‘Marcus Edenbridge. By the Lord Harry, it is you. But what in the name of—?’

He broke off as a hand closed over his in silent warning.

‘No, it’s Mark Eden at present.’

For a moment the blue eyes narrowed and then the doctor nodded. Then he took Eden’s hand in a warm grip.

‘Tell me later. Right now I must get that ball out of your shoulder or the wound will fester.’

Before either of them could say more the girl returned. With her was an older woman who seemed to resemble George. They set down the bowl of water and the cloths and then came to stand by the table. George glanced round.

‘Help me get his coat and shirt off, Ellen.’

They were gentle, but nevertheless Eden bit his lip against the pain. Once the task was accomplished George laid out his instruments and, selecting a probe, held it in the flame of a spirit lamp before dousing it in alcohol. He did the same with the forceps. Then he put a thick strip of leather between the patient’s jaws.

‘Bite down on this.’

Eden obeyed. A moment or two later the probe slid into the wound. Sweat started on his skin. Greystoke frowned in concentration and the silence stretched out. The probe went deeper. Eden’s jaw clenched. Then he heard the other speak.

‘Ah, here we are. Hand me the forceps, Ellen.’

Eden’s fists tightened as the pain intensified until it dominated every part of his being. Then the light in the room narrowed to a single point and winked out.

Claire watched Greystoke extract a wad of bloody cloth from the wound and drop it into a metal bowl. Then he returned for the ball. It dropped into the receptacle with a metallic clink. After that he swabbed the area liberally with alcohol before covering it with a thick pad of gauze and bandaging it securely in place.

‘Will he be all right?’

‘Time will tell,’ replied Greystoke. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood and is much weakened by it. There is also the chance of fever.’ Then, seeing Claire’s white face he gave her a gentle smile. ‘But he’s young and strong and with God’s grace and good nursing he may recover.’

Eden was riding down a dusty road. It was hot, very hot. He could feel the burning sun on his skin and therhythm of the horse beneath him, could hear the hoof beats and the jingling harness of the mounted column behind. The air smelled of dry earth and dung, spice and horse sweat. Above him the sky was a hard metallic blue. Then he heard shouting and the clash of swords, he saw the mêlée in the road ahead and the litter, its curtains a vivid splash of colour in the midst of all. Women screamed. Then his sword was in his hand and the column swept like a tide onto the dacoit raiders and washed them away or drowned them quite. And then there was silence and the curtains of the litter parted and he saw her: Lakshmi. For a moment he was struck dumb, unable to tear his eyes away. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, a living dream and lovelier than a fairy-tale princess, though a princess in all truth. Unable to help himself he smiled and she smiled too, though shyly. And he spoke to her in her language and she to him in his and he offered her his protection for the remainder of her journey home. Four days and four nights. Nights of velvet starlit skies and air fragrant with jasmine and frangipani, warm nights of firelight and shadow, cushioned with silk, scented with sandalwood and patchouli; nights made for love. Four nights. That was all. He had prayed that the fourth one might last for ever, but the daylight came anyway and brought with it the end of their road. He could see her face and the sadness written there and then the yawning palace gateway that swallowed her up. He thought his heart would break.

‘Lakshmi!’

Later he lay on his hard bed in the sweltering heat of the barracks, too hot even for a sheet, hearing the whineof mosquitoes in the sultry air while the sweat trickled down his skin. When he shut his eyes he saw her face, the wonderful eyes filled with love and longing. Sometimes he dreamed she was there, bending over him, speaking softly and bathing his forehead with cool cloths. But he knew it was a dream because she was lost to him, given in marriage to the rajah of a neighbouring state, a man old enough to be her grandfather.

‘Lakshmi.’

And then his brother was there, shaking his head.

‘Why the devil didn’t you take her away while you had the chance, you fool?’

And he was right. Greville was always right. But the chance was gone now. Why had he not acted? He had broken his promise.

‘I’ll find a way, my love.’

He had believed it too, then. They could have found a place somewhere; they could have carved out a future together. What matter if others looked askance; what matter if there was a scandal? He was no stranger to it. But the thought of what it might mean for her had stayed him for the news would have swept like fire through the length and breadth of the Indian continent. News travelled fast there. And while he hesitated, she was lost.

‘Lakshmi!’

Claire wrung out the cloth in cool water and laid it on Eden’s forehead. His flesh so pale before was now flushed and hot to touch. Though his eyes were open they did not register her presence and when she spoke to him he did not hear her, but tossed in feverish dreams, speaking the names of people and places she had never heard of. Sometimes he spoke in a strange foreign language whose origin she could only guess at. Her own helplessness tormented her. What if he were to die? She owed him so much and yet knew so little about him. How had he come to be involved in that dreadful business on the moors? She had gleaned a little from the men who brought him to the house, but many questions remained unanswered.

From the beginning she had insisted on doing her share of the nursing care, taking turns with Ellen when the doctor was from home dealing with his other patients. It was the least she could do and precious little at that. It was shocking to see so strong a man laid low. Yet half a dozen others had been hurt in this affair and seven killed. Five were Harlston’s men, the rest were wreckers. Yet death made no such distinctions. It mattered little whose hand fired the shot. She shivered. She knew it was illogical, but the uneasy feeling persisted that she was somehow to blame.

Lifting the cloth from his brow again, she replaced it with a cooler one and rinsed out the first, using it to wipe the sweat from his face and neck and the hollow above the collarbone. For a brief moment her hand brushed the skin of his breast. Claire drew in a sharp breath. His flesh was fiery to the touch. Hastily she poured more cold water into the basin and rinsed the cloth again. Then she bathed his chest as far as the line of the bandage would permit, her gaze taking in each visible detail of the powerful torso. She had not thought a man’s body could be beautiful until now. Beautiful and disturbing, too, for it engendered other thoughts.

She had fled her uncle’s house to avoid being married to a lecherous old man, but what of being married to a younger one, a man like this? If her suitor had looked and behaved like Eden, would she have fled? Would the thought of sharing his bed repel her? Her own flesh grew warmer then for it took but a second to know the answer. Yet what mattered most was the freedom to choose. She had always thought that somewhere there existed the man for her, though she had no idea of the circumstances in which she might meet him. What had not occurred to her was the idea that someone else might wish to do the choosing for her. How could one find love through another’s eyes? Only the very deepest love would ever tempt her into matrimony, the kind of love her parents had shared. It was that or nothing and on this she knew there could be no compromise.

Shocked by the tenor of her thoughts she tried to dismiss them, but it proved impossible while that powerful physique was before her demanding consideration. Her eyes returned to his breast, her hand travelling thence to his good shoulder, moving with smooth and gentle strokes down his arm. Beneath the fineveined skin she could see every detail of the curved musculature beneath, the strong bone at elbow and wrist, the dark hair along his forearms, the sinews in his hands. She took his hand in hers and drew the damp cloth down his palm to the fingertips, then turned it over and repeated the process. His hands were big yet finely shaped with long tapering fingers; hands capable of knocking a man down, or supporting a woman in need. The recollection sent a frisson along her spine. Disturbed by the memory for all sorts of reasons she forced it to the back of her mind. Mark Eden was a stranger who had once come to her aid. She knew nothing more about him. Perhaps she never would.

The thought was abruptly broken off by a hand closing round hers. Claire’s gaze returned at once to her patient’s face. His eyes were open now and apparently directed at her, though they shone with a strange inner fire.

‘Mr Eden?’

He made no reply save to carry her hand to his lips. Feeling their hot imprint on her skin, she tried to extricate herself from his hold. It tightened instead and pulled her down towards the bed. She fell across him and suddenly his lips were on her neck and cheek, seeking her mouth. Claire turned her head aside, feeling the rasp of stubble and hot breath on her skin.

‘Mr Eden, please!’

The words had no effect. His lips sought her ear instead and found it, his tongue exploring its curves. The touch sent a shiver through her whole body, awakening new and unexpected sensations.

‘Lakshmi,’ he murmured. ‘Lakshmi, my love.’

Claire stiffened and pulled away, heart thumping, but Eden was no longer looking at her, his head tossing on the pillow, the grey eyes feverish and unfocussed. She realised then that he had not seen her at all, in all likelihood had no idea of her presence. In his disordered mind he was with a very different woman.

The knowledge hit her with force. It was a timely reminder of how little she knew of this man or the events that had shaped him. Detaching herself from his slackened hold, she walked a little way from the bed and took several deep breaths to try and recover her composure, her thoughts awhirl with what she had heard. It raised so many questions. Questions she knew she would never dare to ask nor had any right to. Looking at her patient now, she thought he was an enigma in every way. She would swear he was not from the labouring class whatever his dress proclaimed. His speech, his whole manner, precluded it. And yet the men in Gartside obviously knew him and he them. However, he was as unlike them as fine wine was from vinegar. On the other hand many ex-soldiers, even of the educated officer class, were forced to look for alternative employment now that hostilities with France had ceased. No doubt Eden too had had to adapt to the circumstances in which he had found himself. Those circumstances would remove him from her sphere soon enough. It was a disagreeable thought, for she could not forget how his touch had made her feel, if only for a moment. Yet it was no use to dwell on it; another woman had his heart. She could only pray that when he was recovered he would recall nothing of what had just passed.

Marcus had no idea how long he was unconscious, but the next time he came round it was still light and he was lying in a large comfortable bed between clean white sheets. For a moment his mind was blank. Then memory began to return. Turning his head, he saw a familiar figure at the bedside.

‘George?’

‘Welcome back.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Almost two weeks.’

‘Two weeks!’ He started up, only to feel a painful twinge in his shoulder.

‘Have a care. It’s mending, thanks to the efforts of my sister and Miss Davenport, but you’re not there yet.’

Marcus lowered himself onto the pillows again. His friend was right; the savage pain was gone to be replaced with a dull ache. Clean bandages covered his injured shoulder and breast.

‘Could you manage a little broth?’ George inquired.

‘Yes, I think I could.’

In fact, with his friend’s help he managed half a bowlful.

‘Excellent. Your appetite is returning. You’ll soon be up and about.’ The doctor replaced the dish on the side table and smiled.

For a moment neither man spoke. Then Marcus met his friend’s eye.

‘Thank you for all you’ve done, George. That’s two I owe you now.’

‘You owe me nothing.’

‘Not so. I only hope I can repay you one day.’

‘My hope is that the men responsible for the outrage are found and brought to justice.’

‘You’re not alone in that.’

‘You were lucky, Marcus. It was a bad business. Seven men dead and six others injured. Those are the ones I know about. The wreckers took their wounded with them.’

‘They had no choice. Arrest would mean a death sentence.’

‘Aye, desperate men will do anything it seems.’

‘Including murder.’ Marcus’s jaw tightened. ‘They knew we were coming, George, and they knew our route. They chose a perfect spot for the ambush.’

‘So it would seem.’ Seeing the other man’s quizzical gaze, Marcus smiled faintly. ‘You want to know how the devil I got mixed up in it, but are too polite to ask.’

His friend laughed. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You were never good at hiding your thoughts. But I do owe you an explanation.’

‘I admit to curiosity.’

‘When I returned from India two months ago I was summoned to Whitehall.’

‘Whitehall?’

‘Yes. The government is keen to break the Luddite rebellion. That’s why the rewards for information are so generous. Intelligence gathering is dangerous, though, so they knew whoever they chose would have to be experienced.’ He paused. ‘They sent one of their finest operatives up to Yorkshire, a man born and bred in the county who, suitably disguised, would blend in.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was betrayed and murdered. Shot in the back.’

‘Good Lord!’ George shook his head in disgust. ‘But betrayed by whom?’

‘That’s what I mean to find out. I amhis replacement.’

‘You?’

‘Who better? I’ve done this kind of work before, for the Company in India. It seems word of that got back to London.’

‘But you could have refused.’

‘They knew I wouldn’t, though.’

‘How so?’

‘Because the murdered man was my brother.’




Chapter Three


For a moment George stared at him dumbfounded before the implications of the words struck home.

‘Greville?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dear Lord, Marcus, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I read about his death in The Times, but the piece said he’d had a riding accident.’

‘The matter was hushed up and the story fabricated. The authorities didn’t want the truth made public. Greville was a government agent working under the alias of David Gifford.’

‘Ye gods.’ George sat down while he tried to marshal his scattered wits. ‘The news of his death made quite an impact in these parts, what with Netherclough Hall being virtually on the doorstep.’

‘I can imagine. It rocked London, too. Greville was well known in diplomatic circles. Besides which he left no male heir, only a young daughter.’

‘Then the title and the estate pass to you.’

‘Yes. Behold the new Viscount Destermere.’ Marcus accompanied the words with a humourless smile. ‘It is a role I never thought to have.’

‘But one you will perform well nevertheless.’

‘Thank you for that vote of confidence. I’ll do my best, though I never wanted to step into my brother’s shoes. He was always welcome to them, for it seemed to me that my destiny lay elsewhere.’

‘Circumstances have a habit of changing our plans, do they not?’ said George.

‘As you say.’

‘So what now?’

‘Officially I’m not back from India yet, but I shall have to put in an appearance soon.’

‘And what of your niece?’

‘Lucy is now my ward. At present she is being cared for by an elderly aunt in Essex. Hardly a suitable state of affairs. I shall bring the child to live here in Yorkshire. After all, Netherclough is her ancestral home.’

‘I see.’

‘After that I shall pursue my investigations.’ He paused. ‘The house is ideally situated for the purpose, being right in the heart of things.’

‘You can’t be serious. These men are dangerous, Marcus. They’ve murdered Greville and tried to kill you. I know they had no idea of your true identity but, even so, if they got wind of your real purpose here…’

‘Let’s hope they don’t. But come what may I shall find out who killed my brother. It is a matter of family honour that the culprit be brought to justice. That is the very least I can do for his daughter.’ He paused. ‘Besides, I owe it to his memory.’

George nodded reluctantly. ‘I can’t blame you for wanting to discover the truth, but have a care, I beg you.’

‘I’ll be careful. As soon as I’m able I shall leave for London and Mark Eden can disappear for a while. Give it out that he went back to his family to convalesce.’

‘Very well.’

‘How much have you told your sister and Miss Davenport?’

‘They don’t know your real identity. Apart from that I stuck as close to the truth as possible.’

‘Good. I regret the necessity for deception.’

‘So do I. Ellen and I are very close and I should not like to impose on Miss Davenport.’

‘When the time is right they will be informed. I owe them that much at least. In the meantime I take it I can rely on your discretion.’

‘Need you ask?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Marcus sighed. ‘That was unpardonably rude after all you’ve done.’

‘Just promise me you won’t leave until you’re strong enough.’

‘You have my word. Besides, at this moment the thought of a journey to London fills me with dread.’ He ran a hand over his chin. ‘In the meantime I need to bathe and shave. I’m beginning to feel like a pirate.’

Having spent over two weeks abed, Marcus was determined to get up and, as George provided no opposition to the idea, he did so the very next day. Though still weaker than he would have wished, the pain of the wound had almost gone and provided he made no sudden movement it felt almost normal. Somewhat reluctantly he submitted to wearing a sling for a few days, but felt it a small price to pay, all things considered. A message had been sent to his lodgings and his things were duly sent round. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Marcus smiled wryly. The best that could be said was that the clothes were clean and serviceable and they fitted. They were hardly in the first stare of fashion. Just for a moment he saw his brother’s face in the glass and it wore a pained expression. Almost he could hear his voice:

‘Good Lord! What ragbag did you get those out of, Bro?’

Marcus grinned. A ragbag indeed, by Greville’s standards anyway. His brother had always been both extravagant and elegant in his dress. They hadn’t met since Marcus had been packed off to India ten years before. Now they would never meet again, or not in this life anyway. His jaw tightened. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would find the men responsible for that.

He finished dressing and made his way downstairs to the parlour. When he entered he discovered he was not the first there. A girl was sitting by the window, bent over the open sketchbook in her lap. For a moment he checked in surprise, sweeping her with a comprehensive gaze from the dusky curls to the toe of a small slipper peeping from beneath the hem of a primrose yellow morning gown. She looked familiar somehow. Then he remembered.

‘Ah, Miss Davenport. Good morning.’

The pencil hovered in mid-air as she looked up. Claire had been so absorbed in her task that she had not heard him come in. For a moment she was rooted to the spot and could only stare. She had forgotten just how imposing a presence he was. In addition to that she was only too aware of the scene that had taken place in the sickroom earlier. Did he remember any of it?

If he was discomposed by her scrutiny it was not evident. Indeed, the cool grey eyes met and held her gaze. His expression gave nothing away. Recollecting herself quickly, she returned the greeting.

‘Mr Eden, I am glad to see you so far recovered.’

‘If I am, it is in no small part due to you.’

‘I did very little, sir.’

‘George tells me you have been a most excellent nurse. An unusual role for a young lady.’

‘I…it was the least I could do.’

‘It is my profound regret that I have no recollection of it.’

Claire’s spirits rose in an instant. ‘I’m so glad.’ Then, seeing his eyebrow lift, ‘I mean, so glad that I was able to help—in some small way.’ Knowing herself to be on dangerous ground, and growing warm besides, she changed the subject. ‘Please, won’t you sit? You should avoid tiring yourself unduly.’

His lips curved in a satirical smile. Ordinarily he would have treated such advice as presumption and responded with a pithy set down, but on this occasion he said nothing. Having taken the suggestion, he watched her resume her seat. As she did so he let his gaze rest on her, quietly appraising. The sprigged muslin gown was a simple and elegant garment, but it revealed her figure to perfection. A most becoming figure, he noted. Moreover the primrose yellow colour suited her, enhancing her warm colouring and dark curls.

‘What are you drawing?’

‘It’s just a sketch that I wanted to finish.’

‘May I see it?’

‘If you like, but I wouldn’t want to excite your anticipation.’

She rose and handed him the book, watching as he leafed through it, wishing she were not so aware of his nearness, wishing she could divine the thoughts behind that impassive expression.

‘You are too modest, Miss Davenport. These landscapes are very fine. You have a real eye for line and form.’

‘You are kind, sir.’

‘I speak as I find.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Who taught you to draw?’

‘My mother, mostly. She was a talented artist. And Miss Greystoke taught me a great deal.’

‘Miss Greystoke?’

Claire was silent for a moment, conscious of having given away more than she had intended. Then she upbraided herself silently. It was a trivial detail and could make no possible difference.

‘Yes. She was once my governess.’

‘I see.’

Marcus was intrigued, for suddenly another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. However, he had not missed her earlier hesitation either. Why should she wish to hide the fact? Unwilling to antagonise her, but not wishing for the conversation to finish just yet, he continued to leaf casually through the book.

‘These are all local views, are they not?’

‘That’s right. The countryside hereabouts is an artist’s dream. It’s so wild and beautiful.’

‘And dangerous,’ he replied.

Claire’s cheeks grew hot as the recollections of their first encounter returned with force. It angered her that he should allude to it again for he must know it was painful in every way. However, it seemed she was wide of the mark for Eden gestured to the newspaper lying on the occasional table beside him.

‘Another mill has been attacked by a mob and another loom destroyed, and all in the space of a fortnight.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Recovering her composure, she followed his gaze to the paper. ‘Men fear for their livelihoods. So many have been laid off and those who are still in work have seen their wages cut.’

‘Does that excuse murder?’

‘No, of course not, but it does explain why people are so angry. It is well nigh impossible to feed a family on eight shillings a week.’

‘You say that with some authority.’

‘I have been with Miss Greystoke to visit several families in the town. She and her brother do what they can to help, but…’ The hazel eyes met and held his. ‘It is no pleasant thing to see children starving.’

‘No, it is not.’

‘You must have seen much poverty in India.’

‘Yes.’

‘Ironic, is it not, that it should exist in England too, a country we think more civilised in every way?’

There could be no mistaking the earnest tone or the sincerity in her face and he was surprised by both. In his experience young ladies of good family were usually preoccupied with balls and pretty dresses, not the problems of the poor. Would she prove to be one of those worthy but tiresome females eternally devoted to good causes?

‘True,’ he replied, ‘but the war with France has been much to blame. Until trade can be resumed at its normal levels the situation is unlikely to change.’

‘And in the meantime the mill owners lay off more men. The introduction of the steam looms only exacerbates the situation.’

‘Progress cannot be resisted for ever. The wreckers will be brought to a strict accounting eventually.’

She heard the harsh note in his voice and met it with a sympathetic look. After his recent experience it was not surprising that he should be angry.

‘Have you any idea who was responsible for shooting you?’ she asked.

‘No, but I do intend to find out.’

‘You will put yourself in great danger.’

‘So I apprehend.’

‘I wish you would not.’

‘Why?’

Again the grey gaze met hers and it was she who looked away first.

‘Because I would not see you killed. There has been enough bloodshed of late.’

‘I am grateful for your concern, but if bloodshed is to be prevented in future the men responsible must be brought to justice. I mean to see that they are.’

The tone, though quiet, was implacable, and for a moment there was an expression in the grey eyes that sent a shiver along her spine. Then it was gone.

‘But these are disagreeable subjects,’ he said. ‘Let us speak of other things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Tell me about yourself.’

‘It would hardly make for interesting conversation.’

‘On the contrary,’ he replied. ‘I find myself curious.’

Her heart missed a beat. ‘About what?’

‘About why a young lady like yourself should bury herself in a place like this.’

‘I am not buried here.’

‘No?’

Ignoring the provocative tone, she lifted her chin.

‘Certainly not. I have good friends and am kept busy enough.’

‘And what do you do for your own amusement? When you are not about your good works?’

‘I sketch, Mr Eden.’

‘Touché!’

Claire’s cheeks flushed a little, not least because she suspected he was the one in control of this situation. It was too dangerous to let it continue so, before he could question her further, she seized the initiative.

‘And what of you, sir?’

In spite of himself he was amused. ‘What of me?’

‘Doctor Greystoke said that you and he are old friends. From your days in India.’

‘That’s right.’

He was glad George had told a partial truth even if he could not divulge his friend’s real name. It made things easier. Anyway, he didn’t want to lie to her.

‘He said you were based in the same barracks at Mandrapore.’

‘Did he also tell you he saved my life?’

The hazel eyes widened. ‘No, he did not.’ She paused. ‘Won’t you tell me how?’

‘My men and I were ambushed by bandits and there was a fierce fight. Many of the force were killed and the rest of us left for dead. Fortunately, another contingent of soldiers happened along and took the survivors to the company barracks at Mandrapore. George Greystoke was the doctor in residence. It was thanks to his efforts that I pulled through. While I was convalescing we played a lot of chess and the friendship developed from there.’

‘He said only that you and he met as a result of his work.’

‘True enough, but also far too modest. Typical of George.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, I believe it is. He is a good and kind man in every way. You must have been glad to see him again after so many years.’

‘It was a welcome surprise, believe me. I had no idea he was here. Last time we spoke of such things his family was living in Richmond.’

‘Miss Greystoke told me that he removed here after their father died.’

‘I remember George left India to take care of the family’s affairs at that time.’

‘He was subsequently offered a position in Helmshaw,’ she explained. ‘When the previous doctor retired.’

‘And you, Miss Davenport?’ he asked. ‘How came you to be in Yorkshire?’

‘I told you, I came to visit Miss Greystoke.’

‘Your parents permitted you to travel alone?’

The pink colour deepened in her face, but she forced herself to meet his gaze.

‘My parents had no say in the matter since they are both dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, so am I.’

He heard the note of bitterness beneath the words and was surprised since it was at variance with her normally cheerful demeanour.

‘Then whom do you live with now?’

‘With my father’s relations.’

‘And when do you return to them?’

‘I…I have no set plans.’

For a moment there was a heart-thumping silence. She had told as much of the truth as possible and hoped now that he would let the subject drop. Much to her relief he seemed to accept it and merely nodded. Then he handed her the sketchbook.

‘I look forward to seeing the finished picture, Miss Davenport.’

She took it thankfully and retired to her seat by the window to continue the task. For a moment or two he watched and Claire, conscious of that penetrating gaze, had to force herself to ignore it. It was with relief that she heard the rustle of paper as he picked up the news sheets and began to read.

In fact, Marcus barely scanned the page in front of him. His mind was otherwise engaged. Far from accepting her words at face value he found his curiosity roused to a degree she would have found alarming. For all that she tried to pretend that there was nothing unusual in journeying alone to so remote a place as Helmshaw, he was quite undeceived. Ordinarily no respectable young woman would do so. And yet there was nothing in her that he found disreputable. Everything in her manners and appearance spoke of a gentle upbringing. She was no minx; naïve perhaps, but not of doubtful virtue. God knew, he’d had enough experience to judge. And she had spirit, enough anyway to stand up to Jed Stone. Recalling the incident and the perpetrators, Marcus felt only contempt. It was fortunate that he’d been there to intervene. She would have had no chance against such scum as those and he could no more stand by and see a woman assaulted than he could fly. Her self-control had been impressive. Most young women would have been reduced to hysterics by what had happened. Though much shaken, she had not treated him to a fit of the vapours nor even cried, though he could see she had wanted to. It was unexpected and oddly touching, serving to underline her vulnerability. At least he hadn’t come too late that time.

Disturbed by his own train of thought, Marcus laid aside the paper and glanced once more at Claire who, apparently, was engrossed in her drawing. Then he rose and, having excused himself politely, left the room. Claire watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. With a conscious effort she forced her attention back to what she was doing.

Marcus stood by the garden wall, looking out at the view. The scenery was beautiful and it was pleasant to feel the sun on his face once more. The enjoyment of the moment was enhanced by the knowledge that but for good fortune and expert doctoring he might never have done so again. His health was improving daily and he would soon be able to dispense with the sling. The inaction of the past few days was beginning to chafe now. Besides, there were several matters requiring his attention. Foremost of these was the need to return to Netherclough and take up the reins of government there.

When he had left it all those years ago he had little thought to see the place again. Who could have foreseen the circumstances that would demand his return? His father would be turning in his grave if he knew that his scapegrace son was now Viscount Destermere. Not without reason either. Thinking of the wild days of his youth and the reckless pranks he had embarked upon, he knew his father had had much to bear. Perhaps if they had been closer…Marcus grimaced inwardly. After their mother’s death, he and Greville were left to a succession of tutors before being packed off to school. They had seen little of their parent. It was Greville that he looked to for advice and guidance, not his father. Their last words together had been spoken in anger and yet, paradoxically, the old man might have been pleased with his son’s performance since. India suited Marcus down to the ground; it provided a disciplined environment but also enough scope for an adventurous spirit. He had loved its diversity, its colour, its vibrant life. Once he had thought to see out his days there. Now fate had decreed otherwise. He had responsibilities and he must fulfil them. It was time to face down the ghosts of the past and go home.

Having come to that decision, he imparted it to his friend when they met a little later. Greystoke heard him in silence and then nodded.

‘If that is what you wish to do then I will support you in any way I can.’

‘Thank you. There is one more thing, George. Before I go, your sister and Miss Davenport must be told of my real identity.’

‘If that is what you want.’

‘I owe them that much.’

‘Ellen will never breathe a word, and I believe that Miss Davenport is both sensible and discreet.’

Marcus nodded. ‘It has sat ill with me to dissemble to those who have done so much towards my recovery. It’s time they knew the truth.’

‘Do you wish me to speak to Ellen?’

‘Yes, as soon as may be. I will see Miss Davenport myself.’

He was waiting by the garden gate when Claire returned from her afternoon walk. At first she did not notice him, her attention on the steep track that led down off the hill, and her heart leapt to see the tall figure standing there. Suddenly she was conscious of her rumpled gown and windblown hair and of the fact that she was carrying her bonnet, not wearing it.

However, if he found anything amiss it was not apparent in his expression. He opened the gate to let her pass and then, offering her his arm, led her across the garden.

‘Will you spare me five minutes of your time?’ he asked. ‘I should like to speak to you.’

‘Of course.’

He found a convenient bench for them to sit on and, having seen her comfortably ensconced, favoured her with an explanation of recent events and of his identity. Claire heard him without interruption. More than anything else she was conscious of things falling into place: so many questions about this man had just been answered. Listening now, she wondered how she could have mistaken Marcus Edenbridge for anything other than the aristocrat he was. Everything about that tall commanding presence proclaimed it, from his physical appearance to his gentlemanly behaviour in championing her cause against Jed Stone and his cronies. It came as no surprise that he should seek out the men who killed his brother, even at the risk of his own life.

‘I apologise for the deception,’ he went on, ‘and I ask for your discretion now. The true identity of Mark Eden must not become generally known.’

‘You may be assured of my silence, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

She paused, dreading to ask the next question, but needing to know the answer. ‘May I ask when you intend to leave for London?’

‘In three days’ time.’

‘I see.’ Her spirits sank. It was hard to visualise this place without him somehow and she knew that his absence would leave a yawning gap.

‘It is a necessary stage in my plans.’

‘So you can announce the return of Viscount Destermere?’

‘Exactly. London will be thin of company at present, but word will get round all the same.’

‘Will you remain there, sir?’

‘No. I shall travel into Essex and collect my ward before returning to Yorkshire.’

Her hand clenched around the ribbons of her bonnet. He was coming back! Then she registered the remainder of what he had just said.

‘Your ward?’

‘Yes, my brother’s child, Lucy. She is six or thereabouts.’

‘Have you never seen her before, then?’

‘No, though, of course, I knew of her existence from Greville’s letters.’

‘Of course.’

‘Her mother died when Lucy was born.’

‘Poor little girl. She has lost a great deal in her short life. Six is too young to be orphaned.’

For a moment he regarded her shrewdly. ‘Yes, you are right.’

‘There is never a right time to lose one’s parents, but children are so vulnerable.’

‘Indeed they are.’

‘I am sure she will welcome some stability after all the disruption she has endured.’

‘In any event, I shall give her a home for as long as she needs it.’ He smiled and for a moment the grey eyes warmed. ‘When I return to Netherclough Hall I hope to have the honour of receiving you there, Miss Davenport, along with Dr and Miss Greystoke.’

At those words, Claire felt her heart miss a beat. She would see him again after all. Almost immediately she told herself not to be so foolish as to refine upon it. He was merely being polite. He owed the Greystokes such an invitation. If she was included, it was because good manners demanded that he did not slight their friend. Once honour was satisfied they would have nothing more to do with each other. The man she had known as Mark Eden was gone, replaced by Viscount Destermere, one who was so far her social superior as to make even the thought of such a connection truly laughable. That was reality. He belonged to another world, a world of wealth, position and power. One day in the not-too-distant future he would marry—a young woman of his own class who would provide the heirs to continue his line. That too was reality and she acknowledged it. All that had happened here would one day be relegated to the back of his memory and she with it. It was an oddly dispiriting thought.




Chapter Four


Lying in bed later that night, Claire found herself unable to sleep for her mind was racing, turning over all she had learnt. It turned too on her situation. This interlude with the Greystokes had been a welcome respite from trouble but, having been here nearly a month, she did not deceive herself that it could continue. They had been more than kind, but she could not impose on them much longer. Besides which, the uneasy thought persisted that her aunt might have kept Ellen’s letters and might remember them now. Her uncle had been made to look a fool, a situation that would not long endure if he so much as suspected there was a remedy. She must find a secure position and soon, a place her uncle would never think of looking.

And then the germ of an idea occurred to her. An idea that was both wild and wonderful together. Could it work? Would she dare suggest it? And if she did, what would be the response? Almost she could see the Viscount’s expression, the cold reserve returning to those grey eyes. He could be an intimidating figure when he chose. Would he consider it the greatest piece of presumption? Would he even listen? Claire bit her lip. There was only one way to find out: she must seek an opportunity to speak with him alone and then ask him.

The first part of her plan proved quite easy; the following morning Dr Greystoke went out on his rounds at ten and Ellen left to call on someone in the town. Their noble guest was ensconced in the parlour, perusing the newspaper. Hearing the door open, he glanced up and, perceiving Claire, rose from his chair and made her an elegant bow.

‘Miss Davenport.’ His gaze swept her from head to toe. ‘No need to ask if you are well.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Not knowing what else to say, she sat down on the edge of the couch and watched him resume his seat. She swallowed hard. It had all seemed so easy when she was lying in bed last night, but now that the moment had come it was a different matter. There was a knot in her stomach and her mouth felt dry. For all his polished manners he seemed so commanding a presence, so remote from her in every way. How could she have presumed to think he would agree to her request? And yet…She closed her eyes a moment and saw her uncle’s face. Could she risk his finding her because she had lacked the resolution even to try to put her plan into action? Claire lifted her chin.

‘May I speak to you, sir?’

He laid aside the paper. ‘Of course.’

She had his attention. It was now or never. She took a deep breath.

‘I would like a position in your household…as governess to your ward.’ Before he could say a word she hurried on. ‘My education is good. I can speak French and Italian and write a fine hand. I know about arithmetic and the use of the globes. I can play the pianoforte and sing and sew and draw. Miss Greystoke can attest to my family background and character. And I like children. I used to teach my younger cousins.’

It was out. She had said it. With thumping heart Claire waited. For a moment he did not move or speak though the grey gaze never left her face, and under their cool, appraising stare she felt her cheeks grow warm.

‘I confess I am surprised, Miss Davenport,’ he said then. ‘Not by the quality of your education, but by your desire to become a governess.’

‘As I told you, my parents are dead and I must earn my living, sir.’

‘And what of your other relations? The ones with whom you live.’

‘They cannot provide for me indefinitely. I always knew that I should have to find a suitable position one day.’

‘And why do you think this suitable?’

‘Your ward is of excellent family, she is motherless and she needs someone who will look after her.’

‘Do you think that I will not look after her?’

‘No, of course not. I never meant to imply any such thing.’ She paused. ‘But a young girl also needs a woman’s presence.’

‘True. How old are you, Miss Davenport?’

Her colour deepened but she met his eye. ‘I am almost one and twenty.’

‘Are you not a little young for the role?’

‘By no means. I know how it feels to lose one’s parents and how important it is for a child to feel secure, to know that there will always be a sympathetic female presence she can turn to for guidance, someone who will always have her best interests at heart, someone who will really care.’

It came out with quiet passion. In fact, it was not just the tone but the words that took him aback for he could not doubt the sincerity of either. He knew she was speaking from experience. Had her own life been unhappy after the death of her parents? Had that anything to do with the relatives she spoke of? His curiosity mounted and with it the feeling that there was something he wasn’t being told.

‘My estate at Netherclough is remote. Apart from the local village there is no society for miles around. How would you bear the solitariness of the place?’

‘I should bear it very well, sir. I was born in the country and spent the first thirteen years of my life there. Thirteen happy years.’

He heard the wistful note and was unexpectedly touched by it. Even so he felt the need to probe a bit further.

‘And when your parents died you went to live with your father’s relations.’

‘Yes.’ Her heart began to beat a little faster.

‘And your uncle resides in…?’

‘Northamptonshire.’

‘You are a long way from home, aren’t you?’

Not far enough, she thought. Aloud she replied, ‘Oh, not so far. Stage coach travel is improving all the time, is it not?’

‘Is it?’

Claire could have kicked herself. Of course, a man like this would never use stage coaches. Why would he, with a stable of fine horses and numerous carriages at his beck and call?

‘Surely your uncle would be most alarmed by your failure to return home,’ he continued.

‘Not at all, sir, since I should write and inform him of the altered circumstances.’ It was a blatant lie but it couldn’t be helped. She went on, ‘Besides, he would be the last person to stand in my way. He told me so himself.’ That part was true at any rate.

‘I see. And what sort of salary would you require?’

This was something she had not considered and for a moment was thrown. What did governesses earn? Knowing a response was required of her she plucked a figure out of thin air.

‘Thirty pounds per annum.’

‘You set a high price on your skills, Miss Davenport.’

Her cheeks went scarlet. However, if he expected her to retract he was mistaken. Instead her chin lifted.

‘My services are worth the money, sir.’

‘That has yet to be determined.’

‘Then you will employ me?’

If she had hoped not to betray too much eagerness she was wide of the mark. He could see it in her face. Moreover, it was underlain by something akin to desperation. She really wanted this job. Thinking carefully, he weighed up the possibility. His ward was certainly going to need a governess and that was a serious responsibility since whoever filled the role must fit the child to take her place in society one day. Such a person must be intellectually capable and of unimpeachable reputation. Miss Davenport, though young, was well educated and evidently of good family. George and his sister spoke well of her. Though he sensed a mystery somewhere, what did he actually know against her? Nothing, he decided. In spite of the somewhat unusual manner of her arrival in Yorkshire, he believed her reputation to be good. She was courageous; she had come to his aid when he needed it. It was clear that she needed the situation and he was in a position to help.

He remembered all too clearly how it felt when one could do nothing. For a second Lakshmi’s face swam into his mind. Could he abandon another young woman to her fate? The world was a hard place when one did not have the protection of wealth. Claire Davenport was not asking for money; she was asking for the means to earn it and he respected that. Did she not deserve a chance? He threw her a cool, appraising look and made up his mind.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Consider yourself hired—for a probationary period of three months. If we are both satisfied with the situation at the end of that time, the post will become permanent.’

For a second she wasn’t sure that she had heard him correctly. Then it sank in and fierce joy swept through her.

‘Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it, I promise you.’

‘See to it that I don’t, Miss Davenport.’ The grey eyes locked with hers. ‘I give you fair warning that I expect the highest standards in every respect. If they are not met the arrangement will be terminated immediately. Is that clear?’

‘Very clear, sir.’

‘As long as we understand each other.’

Claire left him shortly afterwards and, unable to contain her elation, went into the garden. Once there she let out a whoop of joy. Three months! Three months to prove herself. And she would prove herself! She would try by every means in her power to make a success of this. Her uncle would never think of looking for her at Netherclough, and by the time her probation was complete she would have reached her majority. She would be free.

Alone in the parlour the Viscount stood awhile, gazing down into the fire. He was committed now. Time would tell whether the decision was the right one. Yet there was something about Claire Davenport that he found hard to dismiss: beneath that outward show of spirit was an underlying vulnerability. Moreover, he acknowledged that she was a very pretty girl. No doubt his ward would prefer someone young and attractive as a governess. What really mattered, of course, was competence. That would become evident soon enough. Three months would demonstrate whether his decision had been the right one or not.

Two days later he prepared to leave for London, having first taken his leave of his hosts and of Claire.

‘We shall meet again very soon, Miss Davenport. In the meantime is there anything I can bring you from the capital?’

It had never occurred to her that he would even ask and the question threw her.

‘I thank you, no, sir.’

‘You must be the first woman ever to say so,’ he replied, regarding her with the familiar cool appraisal that caused a fluttering sensation in her stomach. ‘I half expected a lengthy shopping list.’

‘Then you have been spared it.’

‘So it would seem. I suppose I should be grateful.’

Thinking of the little money remaining to her, she knew there was no possibility of indulging herself, even if she had thought of it.

‘I expect to be gone for two weeks or so,’ he went on. ‘I shall inform the housekeeper at Netherclough when to expect me. At that time I shall arrange for a carriage to collect you.’

It was an attention she had not expected.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It is my wish that you should be there when I return so that you can become acquainted with my ward from the outset. I think we should start as we mean to go on.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

‘Until then, Miss Davenport.’

He favoured her with a bow and then was gone. Watching his departing figure, she was conscious of a strange sense of loss.

The feeling stayed with her in the days that followed. He was such a charismatic figure that when he was absent the house felt different, not less friendly or less welcoming exactly and yet still lacking. Although she made every attempt to keep busy, Claire found herself counting the days until she should be able to take up her new position. It represented a first step into a larger world, one that only a few short weeks ago she could never have thought of entering.

Eventually the day came, a fortnight later, when a carriage arrived to transport her to Netherclough Hall. With very real regret she said farewell to Ellen and George Greystoke and thanked them for their kindness. Like his sister, George seemed genuinely affected to see her go.

‘I wish you all good fortune in your new life, Miss Davenport,’ he said as they stood together by the gate.

Ellen smiled. ‘I hope you will be very happy, my dear.’

‘I’m sure I shall be,’ Claire replied. ‘I’ll write as soon as I can and tell you how I go on.’

‘I shall look forward to that.’ She took Claire’s hand for a moment and gazed very earnestly into her face. ‘You know that you can always come to me if you need to, my dear.’

‘Thank you.’

Claire gave her friend a last hug and climbed into the carriage. A liveried footman put up the steps and closed the door. As the vehicle pulled away she leaned from the window to wave. Only when her friends were out of sight did she settle back into her seat and look around her. The carriage was larger and more opulent than anything she had ever seen. Furthermore it was so well sprung that even the worst bumps in the road went almost unnoticed. The four bays that pulled it were spirited and swift, as different as could be from her uncle’s carriage horses. He could never have afforded any as fine as these. Never would she have expected to ride in such style or comfort.

Glancing at the valise beside her, she was forcefully reminded that it contained all her worldly possessions. If the footman had been surprised by the lack of baggage, he was too well trained to betray it. Perhaps he had assumed her trunks would be following later. She smiled ruefully. A governess had no need of fine gowns. As long as her appearance was clean and neat it would suffice. A new chapter of her life was beginning and for the first time she had a measure of control over how it would unfold.

For a while she was so wrapped in thought that she paid no heed to the country through which they were passing, but eventually it impinged on her consciousness again and she found herself curious to see Netherclough Hall. By repute it was a very grand old house and set in a large attractive park. That at least would afford long walks in the fresh air and some pleasant scenes to sketch. For all the Viscount’s doubts she had no fear of solitude and had never minded her own company.





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