Книга - Mr. Trelawney’s Proposal

Mr. Trelawney's Proposal
Mary Brendan


AN INDECENT PROPOSAL!Miss Rebecca Nash had found refuge and a kind landlord in Robin, Lord Rumsden. She'd needed both five years ago, when she'd lost her parents and fiance, and her brother Simon had disappeared with her dowry. Now, suddenly, Robin was dead, and his heir, Luke Trelawney, intended to wind matters up quickly before he returned to Cornwall.At his first sight of Rebecca, he changed his mind. Mistakenly believing Rebecca to have been Robin's mistress, he saw no reason she could not be his, as well. But Rebecca had other ideas!







Dear Reader,

Bad boys can be fascinating. With this in mind I decided to write about some, and the result is a miniseries of Regencies that commences with Mr. Trelawney’s Proposal. The novels feature heroes, linked by family or friendship, who are definite rogues—wickedly charming, wryly humorous, dangerously attractive. Good girls can’t resist them. But innocence can be as captivating as sophistication: the heroines are more than a match for their jaded suitors.

Gentle widow Victoria Hart succeeds in taming and securing the devotion of cynical rake Viscount Courtenay in A Kind and Decent Man. His friend, Sir Richard Du Quesne, is equally predatory and disreputable in The Silver Squire, and relentlessly pursues unassuming spinster Emma Worthington…until she catches him and brings him very willingly to his knees.

As their separate stories unfold, the couples battle through a maelstrom of action and emotion. I hope you enjoy their passionate skirmishing, the laughter and tears that pave the way to harmony and happiness, as much as I have enjoyed writing the novels for you.

Mary Brendan


Mary Brendan was born in north London and lived there for nineteen years before marrying and migrating to Hertfordshire. She was grammar school educated and has been at various times in her working life a personnel secretary for an international oil company, a property developer and a landlady. Presently working part-time at a local library, she dedicates hard-won leisure time to antiques browsing, curries and keeping up with two lively sons.




Mr. Trelawney’s Proposal

Mary Brendan







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




Contents


Chapter One (#u487741b8-4471-5ce4-b44b-cfdd9ac4ecd3)

Chapter Two (#u499e6979-cfa8-5169-91ad-40dce4fb0ffe)

Chapter Three (#u328760ad-d960-5298-8f1c-dab534a49b9d)

Chapter Four (#u7b1e7cb7-fa78-57fa-a6a3-1f708c21f975)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


1814

‘So you are travelling back from visiting your sister in London, Miss Nash,’ remarked that unpleasantly soft voice for the second time in five minutes.

‘Indeed, yes, I am,’ Rebecca Nash agreed, struggling to keep impatience from her voice and revulsion from her eyes as she again raised them from her teacup to glance at the slightly built man sitting opposite her. Having redrawn her attention to himself, Rupert Mayhew lounged his wiry frame back into the battered leather wing-chair.

Rebecca forced a polite smile and tried to prevent her eyes from fixing too obviously on the arrangement of lank, greying strands of hair which threaded across the man’s balding pate. At one time he must have had a thatch of gingery-fair hair, she guessed, judging by what remained. The colour would have been similar to those beastly yellow eyes that leeched on to her every movement.

During the twenty minutes or so since she had arrived, whenever she had shifted slightly on the ancient hide wing-chair, a pair with the one in which he was ensconced, his feline eyes had stared boldly as though anticipating something interesting might be revealed.

Rupert Mayhew slid his scrawny frame forward on his seat, enquiring solicitiously of the beautiful young woman opposite, ‘And how is your dear sister? And the new babe? Well, I trust?’

‘Thank you, yes,’ Rebecca replied civilly, suppressing the urge to shrink back as he leaned towards her.

‘My own dear wife is in the same delicate condition…as I believe I mentioned in my last letter to you,’ he reminded her with a sly smirk.

This time Rebecca was unable to prevent a tremor of revulsion, clinking her delicate china cup against its saucer.

‘Had she not been indisposed, Caroline would, of course, have been happy to meet with you today,’ Rupert Mayhew informed her smoothly. ‘But we are about to be blessed with our infant at any time now, so Dr Willis informs me. So my lady wife is staying with her dear sister in Shoreham for her confinement.’ Yellow eyes slid from Rebecca’s face to craftily linger on the closely buttoned bodice of her sprigged cotton gown.

The ensuing lengthy silence seemed to be metered by the sonorous tick of the heavy oaken grandmother clock positioned behind Rupert Mayhew’s chair. Rebecca felt her spine stiffen and her flesh creep. Desperate for casual conversation to distract his hooded, wolfish gaze, she remarked lightly, ‘You must be glad of your stepdaughters’ company while your wife is away. Lucy is fifteen, is she not, and the younger, Mary…?’ She hesitated, expecting him to advise her of the younger girl’s age.

His only response was to mutter on a grunting laugh, ‘At times they have their uses.’ His manner and words heightened her uneasiness.

Rebecca replaced her pretty china cup and saucer on a low table close by. ‘I am most grateful for the refreshment, sir, but I really need to be back on the road to Graveley, without delay,’ she informed him with a busy, professional tone. ‘Perhaps you would discover whether your stepdaughter is now ready to depart. I’m sure you’re aware this unseasonable heat makes travelling after noon quite unbearable.’

As though to reinforce her anxieties about the climate, Rebecca dragged her eyes from Rupert Mayhew’s sparsely covered head, where they had once again drifted, and stared through the casement window to one side of her.

On this late September morning. the atmosphere glowed bright and lucid, threatening another blazing, sultry afternoon. Her intention to be directly abroad had as much to do with the valid reason voiced as with the desperation to escape this odious man’s presence.

Rupert Mayhew’s thin visage pinched further. He straightened himself in the chair and leaned stiffly back into it. Bony fingers steepled together and he regarded Rebecca imperiously across them and the hooked bridge of his nose. He obviously had no intention of acceding to her courteous request and wanted her to be aware of it.

It was hard to determine what about him was the most repellent, Rebecca realised: his puny build, his ugly countenance or his objectionable manner. Thank goodness all prior contact had been carried out by letter. Had she previously been subjected to his obnoxious presence, she might well have turned down his application to send his stepdaughter, Lucy, to board at her school. The notion that she could afford to reject custom, however unwelcome, caused a wry smile to escape her.

Misinterpreting this melancholy humour as cordiality, Rupert Mayhew’s arrogant bearing relaxed. One blackened tooth was displayed centrally in an otherwise surprisingly clean set as he smiled widely. His eyes narrowed to gleaming yellow dots as he purred insinuatingly, ‘You barely look old enough, Miss Nash, to have acquired the teaching experience to which you lay claim.’ His unpleasant smile was back as he noticed her reaction.

An attractive blush immediately rimmed Rebecca’s high cheekbones, accentuating the sculpted contours of her ivory-skinned oval face. Her youthful looks were a constant source of embarrassment to her. But her chin tilted defensively.

Rupert Mayhew’s avid appraisal continued, his beastly eyes targeting full, shapely lips that hinted at a promise of sensuality. A small straight nose was skipped past as he examined a pair of wide, lustrous eyes of the most extraordinary and exquisite colour. He stared into glossy turquoise depths, lushly fringed with lengthy dusky lashes before his voracious interest roved on to her thick dark-gold hair. Loosely wound ringlets dropped to curl like honeyed silk against the crisp sprigged cotton of her serviceable travelling dress.

But for Rupert Mayhew, the most outstanding feature of this delectable young woman was that she chose to earn her living by running a young ladies’ academy situated in the backwoods of a small Sussex coastal hamlet. He had travelled widely and visited the fashionable spa towns of Bath and Harrogate, yet he was hard pressed now to recall a face as classically beautiful. Her figure was too slender for his profligate taste. Yet even so, he knew of skinnier wenches who had procured wealthy protectors and opulent lifestyles only dreamed of by most young women in straitened circumstances.

He regretted now not having taken the time to visit her and her poky establishment at Graveley. He knew from the meagre fees she charged that the business she ran must be struggling to survive and had accordingly negotiated even more favourable terms through their correspondence. Rupert Mayhew knew himself for nothing if not an astute businessman.

And he’d imagined her to be some spinsterish blue-stocking! Undoubtedly she kept herself hidden away in that wooded copse, for Graveley was little more than that as he recalled from passing through. Or did she? he reflected with quickening pulse, his tongue flicking out to moisten thin lips. She resided on the Ramsden estate. Robin Ramsden was her landlord. He could have hardly overlooked her.

‘Wily Old Ram’, as he was nicknamed, was reputed to exercise his droit de seigneur at every opportunity. The last laundry maid he had impregnated had been ejected from Ramsden Manor and bundled off into a labourer’s cottage as second wife and mother to that widower and his brood. Bawdy jesting had abounded amongst Rupert Mayhew and his cronies, especially when gossip had it that the newly wed girl had been sneaked back into the house for a repeat performance. The labourer now, by all accounts, had two brats undeniably resembling the lord of the manor.

His darting, foxy eyes pounced on a glimpse of ankle as Rebecca shifted on her chair. She seemed a haughty chit, though. Perhaps increasing her prospects by lowering her principles—and certain items of clothing, he inwardly smirked—was beneath her. How he’d like her beneath—

‘I am twenty-five years old, Mr Mayhew, as I believe I mentioned to you in our earliest correspondence,’ Rebecca cut coldly into his lecherous musings, having conquered her indignation. ‘I believe my qualifications also met with your approval at that time.’

‘My dear Miss Nash, don’t feel you have to be defensive with me,’ he smugly dismissed, waving a bloodless hand. ‘You come most highly recommended. I contacted Mr Freeman as you suggested I might. He continually regaled me with the successes his daughter has enjoyed since leaving your establishment two summers ago. She has bagged a Viscount as fiancé, no less. Mr Freeman was generous enough to credit your establishment with helping them snare the quarry.’

‘I’m pleased to hear—’

Rebecca’s mild approval was cut short as Rupert Mayhew interjected bitterly, ‘Should you be able to achieve anything similar with the lazy, sullen minx skulking upstairs, I shall be above contentment.’

At the mention of her prospective new pupil, Rebecca stood up with a purposeful finality. A hint of genuine amusement hovered about her full, soft mouth as she was abruptly made aware of two things. Firstly, that her ex-pupil, Alexandra Freeman, a girl of little talent and even less to recommend her in the way of either looks or personality, had done so well for herself. Secondly, that the odious little man, who now rose from his chair to stand over-close to her, had little liking for his eldest stepdaughter. Rebecca sensed an immediate empathy with the fifteen-year-old girl she had yet to meet. Judging by the barely concealed envy in Rupert Mayhew’s tone as he recounted Alexandra Freeman’s excellent prospects, he was now anticipating some similar good fortune to befall the Mayhews.

‘Well, the sooner your stepdaughter and I are able to set upon the road, the nearer we come to achieving your ambitions,’ Rebecca announced, striving to banish mockery from her tone.

Rupert Mayhew’s ochre eyes were on a level with her own and she was certainly not regarded as tall for her sex. Yet she had misjudged in thinking him perhaps frail. There was a wiry strength about him which was now apparent close up. A squat, corded neck and thick expanse of collar bone were exposed by his open-necked linen shirt. The same sparse greying hair that streaked his scalp poked from the unbuttoned collar.

The weather recently had been uncommonly hot for late September, but even so, she wished he had made some effort to dress in the manner as befitted a wealthy gentlemen farmer in the presence of a lady caller. Perhaps he classed her as just an employee and unworthy of any special considerations. Well, she was just such, she supposed, and the sooner he settled his account for Lucy’s board and lessons and the sooner they were on their way to Graveley, the happier she would be.

Rebecca tore her offended gaze away from the coarse hairs sprouting from his throat and distanced herself from him by wandering to the large casement window. She gazed out. Heat was beginning to shimmer across the meadow just glimpsed beyond the formal gardens of Rupert Mayhew’s house. A splendid house it was too, she realised, rather forlornly, because its solid graceful character was so at variance with that of its master.

When she had alighted from the London post here in the village of Crosby some forty-five minutes ago, the house’s classical porticoed façade set in mellow stonework had seemed welcoming and auspicious. At that time, she had imagined cordial introductions between herself and her new pupil, perhaps an opportunity to discuss with Lucy’s fond parents any matters of special interest concerning their daughter’s ultimate refinement before she was launched into society. And then they would travel on to the Summer House Lodge, her home for the past five years.

She remembered Rupert Mayhew informing her of his wife’s delicate condition. But nothing in any of his correspondence had prepared her for the vile man she had met today. From his letters, she had guessed him to be perhaps a little pompous. And she recalled thinking it a trifle odd that the girl’s parents had not taken it upon themselves to visit her establishment to assess its suitability for their daughter. The hamlet of Graveley and the village of Crosby were, after all, barely fourteen miles apart along the coast road. Rupert Mayhew had obviously been content to settle his stepdaughter’s future on the strength of his neighbour’s success. Rebecca couldn’t grumble at that: such recommendations were what kept her small, thriftily run establishment in business. No doubt the low fees she charged had also been a consideration. Rupert Mayhew didn’t seem a man generous in spirit or coin.

An abrupt noise from behind splintered Rebecca’s musing, jerking her attention from the tranquil garden scene into the spartanly furnished parlour. Rupert Mayhew was overlooked as Rebecca gazed towards the polished mahogany door which now gaped wide on its hinges.

The auburn-haired young lady who slouched in its opening was quite lovely, despite the aggressive glower, the sulky, slanted mouth and the livid purple bruising which shadowed one sapphire eye.

Luke Trelawney’s dark head fell forward to momentarily rest in his cupped hands before long, blunt fingers threaded through thick, raven hair, drawing it away from his damp forehead. He jerked himself back against the uncomfortable squabs of the hired travelling coach and swore. An irritated flick of a glance took in the sun-yellowed grassy banks along the road side as a dark hand moved to release yet more mother-of-pearl buttons, hidden among the snowy ruffles of his lawn shirt.

‘If you’re intending supping at the Red Lion naked to the waist, don’t expect me to protect your honour,’ Ross Trelawney remarked with a grin from the opposite side of the coach. He nevertheless followed his handsome older brother’s lead and loosened his upper torso from the clinging confines of a perspiration-soaked shirt.

‘Infernal weather,’ Luke Trelawney growled. ‘That damned fool of a coachman must have taken a wrong turn. He promised us this Red Lion inn was within spitting distance some ten miles back. If we’re not upon it soon, I’m out and walking.’ Another black glance took in the arid scenery, scorched by a lengthy summer parched of rain, before he relented and half-smiled at his younger brother. ‘I told you we should have used one of my coaches…at least we could have roasted in comfort. The springs in this contraption are more out of the seat than in it.’

Ross grimaced a wry apology at his older sibling, aware of his exasperation and the reason for it.

Luke Trelawney was one of the largest landowners in Cornwall. He owned Melrose, a magnificent house set in parkland. He owned an impressive fleet of traders sailing from the port of Bristol and mining interests closer to home in Cornwall. Today, however, the most piquant irony was derived from the fact that the coach house at Melrose was filled with every type of conveyance any gentleman was ever likely to need. The estate also boasted stables full of thoroughbred horseflesh the equal of any aristocrat’s equine collection. And it had been Ross who had persuaded Luke to hire a coach for this journey…just for the hell of it, he had said. And hell it had been…complete with furnace. For himself, though, ever seeking just another untasted experience, he rather enjoyed the beggarly novelty of it all.

He looked across at his brother, scowling at passing scenery again, irritation distorting his narrow yet sensuously curved mouth.

Luke had strived to provide himself with the very best. As the oldest son of Jago and Demelza Trelawney he had, on their father’s death, taken that gentleman’s sizable bequest and increased it a thousandfold. He now had wealth and reputation that no other Cornish landowner could match. There were other things they would certainly never equal, Ross realised wryly: his astounding dark good looks; his eligibility, which had every hopeful mama, trailing nubile daughters, visiting their mother and sister under any ridiculous pretext they could deviously devise. And all to no avail for, at thirty-two, Luke had resisted all temptations, threats and ludicrously transparent plots to hook him.

Ross dwelt on Wenna Kendall, with some relish and not a little envy. The voluptuous dark-haired mistress Luke had installed in fine style in Penzance obviously satisfied him physically, but emotionally…? He gazed at the side of Luke’s lean, tanned face, still idly turned towards the uninspiring passing scenery. Emotions were not something often associated with his older brother. They were kept tightly reined, as controlled as every other aspect of his life. Their father’s death some eleven years ago was the last time he could recall witnessing Luke in distress. Apart from that, family problems, business pressures, all were dealt with in the same calm, disciplined way.

But he knew how to enjoy himself…as all Trelawney males did. Roistering bouts of drinking and wenching were a regular part of life, so long as business never suffered. And dependable Luke was always there to ensure it certainly never did. Status and wealth were Luke’s motivation and priority.

An urgent solicitor’s letter, hand-delivered from Bath, had set Luke on the road, unwillingly and with many a curse, but it had moved him as Ross had known it would. For Luke never shirked his responsibilities, even those that disturbed memories of generation-old family rifts. But that estrangement was of little consequence to the present Trelawney clan.

Ross had decided to go along for the ride and to alleviate the insatiable restlessness that dogged him. Melrose had been left in the capable hands of their imperturbable brother Tristan who, at thirty, happily married and living on the Trelawney estate, was the most sensible choice. Being second eldest also made him natural deputy, Ross always thought, when justifying his need to slope off, courting fresh excitement.

Besides, Luke had made it clear the matter was to be dealt with as expediently as possible with a quick return to Cornwall. Luke had neither the time nor inclination to linger in rural Brighton once business was satisfactorily settled.

Luke relaxed back into the battered squabs. He withdrew a half-sovereign from a pocket and tossed it in his palm a few times. The pair of nags doing their best to convey the ancient coach towards Brighton was increasing pace: a sure sign that, having travelled the route many times, they recognised water and sustenance were soon to be had. ‘A half-sovereign says we reach this dive within five minutes,’ he challenged his younger brother, stretching long, muscular legs out in front of him and flexing powerful shoulders in an attempt to ease niggling cramps.

‘Three minutes,’ countered Ross, as aware as Luke of the horses’ renewed efforts. They were fairly bowling along now.

Five minutes later the rickety coach swung abruptly left and into the dusty courtyard of the Red Lion inn.

‘Order up whatever they’ve got that’s long, cool…’ Luke hesitated, noting the direction of Ross’s gaze, which had, on alighting, immediately been drawn to a titian-haired tavern wench ‘…and comes in a tankard,’ he finished drily. ‘See what sort of food they’ve got about the place too,’ he said but with little enthusiasm, as cynical peat-brown eyes roved the dirty, whitewashed building.

The seedy-looking Jacobean hostelry was nevertheless a hive of activity. Well situated along the coastal road to refresh those travelling from the west country towards the fashionable gathering place of Brighton, it attracted the patronage of both farmer and gentleman alike.

Luke glanced around in cursory fashion. A coach, displaying an Earl’s coat of arms, protected its glossy paintwork beneath the shade of a massive spreading oak on the perimeter of the courtyard.

Two young ladies, elegantly and coolly dressed in pastel muslin, sat, with parasols twirling, beneath the shielding canopy of boughs on a spread tartan travelling rug. Their coy attention was with Ross and himself. Aware of his observation, their daintily coiffured heads collided as they chattered and giggled, parasols whirling faster. He glanced away, feeling unaccountably irritated. The fact that Ross was now torn between giving them or the flame-haired serving girl the benefit of his hazel-eyed silent charm irked him further.

Not that he was unused to female interest: all Trelawney males had the tall, dark good looks women seemed to find hard to resist. He knew without particular conceit or satisfaction that due to his superior height, and the classical set of his features, framed by a mass of thick, jet-black hair, he, more than any, was most sought after. His looks, coupled with his status and wealth, ensured a limitless supply of eager women. Thus the need for charm or seduction was rarely required for amorous conquests. When the mood or need took him, therefore, he seldom bothered with either, exploiting his attractiveness and willing partners to the full. Occasionally, acknowledging this callousness made him uneasy. Why the sight of two simpering debutantes at a strange tavern on a blazing afternoon should induce one of those conscience-ridden moments he had no idea, and it only served to needle him further.

He kicked at the parched, powdery gravel beneath one dusty Hessian boot and looked down the two or more inches at the top of Ross’s sun-glossed chestnut head. He smiled slowly, consciously lightening his exasperation which he knew had much to do with the unwanted responsibility that brought him to this neck of the woods. He inwardly cursed all the Ramsdens to perdition as his businessman’s brain sorted through all he’d left in abeyance at Melrose and all that awaited him at Brighton. He clicked his fingers in front of Ross’s line of vision, redrawing his brother’s attention to himself.

‘I’ll visit the stables and see what sort of horseflesh they’ve got on offer. I’d sooner ride a farm hack the remaining miles to Westbrook than set foot back in that boneshaking contraption.’

‘If she dunt wanta move then she dunt and she wunt,’ the old man announced morosely, nodding sagely, yet eying the horse with what seemed to Rebecca like any amount of satisfaction.

‘Can’t you coax her a bit?’ Rebecca suggested with a wheedling smile at the squint-eyed old groom, as her lacy scrap of handkerchief again found its way to her perspiring brow.

‘Just beat the stupid animal,’ was Lucy Mayhew’s heartless instruction to the granite-faced old retainer, who served as a stablehand for her stepfather now that advancing years had numbered his farm-labouring days. Bert Morris stared straight ahead not deigning to react at all to this outrageous proposal of treatment for his old Bessy. He fished in his shirt pocket, removed a clay pipe and began to stuff the bowl of it with some foul-looking dried grass extracted from the same source.

Rebecca alighted nimbly from the one-axle carriage and immediately flexed her cramped limbs. The worn benchseat was barely wide enough for two people travelling in comfort. For three packed close together in this stifling early afternoon heat, it was unbearable. The fact that Bert Morris smelled as though he not only groomed but slept amongst his treasured horses had largely added to the discomfort.

Rebecca bestowed a sympathetic look on the exhausted elderly mare who refused to travel up the steep wooded incline towards the Summer House Lodge in the hamlet of Graveley. As though aware of observation, the animal swayed her head round. Such solemn, apologetic eyes, Rebecca thought, before she lifted her face towards the breeze, closed her eyes and, momentarily, savoured the wonderfully refreshing sensation. Soft cooling air disturbed honey-gold hair clinging in damp tendrils to her slender, graceful neck. Then she gazed up into the carriage where the old man smoked stoically, apparently undisturbed either by circumstances or the heat. Lucy Mayhew returned her a sullen look, swiping a careless hand across her forehead to remove beading perspiration.

‘We can walk from here,’ Rebecca encouraged her with a smile. ‘It’s barely a quarter of a mile and mostly through woodland. The shade will be delightfully cool and most welcome.’ She anticipated objection but Lucy had gathered up her cotton floral gown in eager hands and jumped from the carriage in a trice.

Rebecca reached up behind the benchseat, grasping her own and Lucy’s travelling carpet bags. Old Bert Morris stirred himself enough then to aid her attempts at unwedging them, dropping them carelessly to the dusty ground.

‘You will ensure that the trunks are delivered as soon as possible?’ Rebecca enquired of the old man. He grunted some unintelligible noise past the pipe clenched in stained teeth which she took to be an affirmative.

Rupert Mayhew had testily decreed that a carpet bag of essentials must suffice today and the trunks be forwarded later in the week. Had they travelled in a sturdier carriage pulled by an energetic pair they could have brought all with them and would now be alighting at the familiar white-boarded doorway of her Summer House Lodge.

Without another word, Bert Morris clicked encouragement at the tired mare to back step along the narrow path. The animal did so with amazing briskness, considering its previous lethargy. Soon the small trap had turned in the clearing and was making good progress back towards the village of Crosby.

With a smile at her new charge, Rebecca directed brightly, ‘Now you take one of the handles to your bag, Lucy, and I shall take the other. Thus we can share the load as we walk, for the woodland path is a little on an incline.’

‘What of your bag?’ Lucy asked doubtfully. ‘Will you manage that too?’

‘There’s little in it,’ Rebecca reassured her with a smile, surprised and heartened by the girl’s concern. Lucy had hitherto on the hour-long journey from Crosby displayed nothing apart from a scowling profile and a great reluctance to be drawn into any light conversation. Uncomfortable silence had been the prevailing feature of the journey: the blistering heat and her travelling companions equally to blame.

Rebecca stole a quick glance at her new pupil, trying to ascertain her mood. Lucy’s small hand was fastened on the crown of her poke bonnet, shielding her face from the sun’s fierce rays as she dragged her bag across shrivelled yellow grass. Rebecca took the same sensible precaution, settling her own straw headgear firmly on her golden head.

With an encouraging smile, Rebecca lead the way towards the cool, inviting wooded pathway.

Rebecca sensed that the girl now might chat, but her attention was sidetracked by the painful-looking bruising shadowing one of Lucy’s eyes. An aged yellowing could be glimpsed amongst the fresh purple and Rebecca’s heart went out to the young girl.

Lucy informed her abruptly, ‘He did it…but you know that, don’t you.’

‘I guessed…yes, that your stepfather must have chastised you.’

‘Chastised me?’ Lucy repeated with a sneer coarsening her voice. ‘I don’t mind it when he hits me,’ she muttered vehemently before changing the subject abruptly. ‘Do you always collect your new pupils from their homes? I would have imagined you to be too busy. Where are the other pupils? Who’s looking after them?’ she ran on, barely pausing for breath.

‘Well,’ Rebecca began, troubled by Lucy’s attitude to her stepfather but glad she displayed an interest in her fellow pupils, ‘to answer the first part of your question: No, I rarely collect my pupils from their homes. They are usually delivered to the Summer House by their parents. But while my school has been closed for the summer months…There,’ she interrupted herself, ‘I have answered the second part of your question first. The school has been closed since July and the boarders now gone. I have only a very small school premises and board only one or, at the most, two girls at a time. You will be boarding alone. But there are day pupils too,’ Rebecca hastily added, keen to let Lucy know she would have company and perhaps make friends. ‘I have spent two months in London, visiting my elder sister. Elizabeth has recently been blessed with her first-born son and invited me to stay with her for company while she was confined.’ And a little fetching and carrying, Rebecca could have added but didn’t and felt uncharitable for even thinking it. ‘Since I was travelling back through Crosby today, I informed your stepfather that it would be no hardship to break my journey and collect you.’

Lucy was gazing around at tangled undergrowth during this explanation. She abruptly threw back her brunette head, scouring the canopy of shivering greenery entwined above them. ‘It’s very quiet,’ she breathed conspiratorially.

‘And very refreshing after the heat on the road,’ Rebecca commented.

A magpie flew with a raucous cry between treetops, contradicting Lucy’s words. Within seconds its colourful mate joined it in the whispering foliage.

‘That’s an auspicious sign. Sighting a pair of magpies signifies good fortune, Lucy. You shall obviously enjoy great success at the Summer House,’ Rebecca said lightly with no thought for her own future. Her aqua eyes fixed on the birds as she recited softly, ‘One for sorrow, two for joy…’

Rebecca’s vague smile faded as she noticed the poignancy on her young companion’s face: a wistful mingling of misery and hope.

Aware of observation, Lucy became petulant. ‘I’ve never been superstitious,’ she sneered, pointedly turning her face away from Rebecca. The bag held between them swung savagely before Lucy dropped her side to the ground. She stalked off and started exploring the perimeter of matted undergrowth.

‘I’m hot and thirsty,’ she flung back over her floral cotton shoulder. Yanking at the ribbons beneath her chin, she carelessly flung her bonnet down on to peaty ground. Plump fingers raked through her thick, auburn hair, lifting it away from her neck. Then she swirled around, holding the skirt of her pretty, summer dress away from her warm legs.

The two bags Rebecca held slid to the ground and she sighed. It was still hot and sticky, even within this shielding woodland, and she had to admit that she too was thirsty.

‘We can have a short rest, if you like.’ Following Lucy’s example, she undid the ribbons on her own straw hat. Golden tendrils of hair were loosened from her moist neck by a pale hand. ‘There’s a pretty pond close by, to your left a bit. We could sit there a while.

It was a sizable pond too. Fed from a spring as well as from the tinkling stream that ran through the gully from the hamlet of Graveley, it retained depth and clarity, despite the recent hot, dry weather. ‘Not that you can slake your thirst there, of course,’ Rebecca cautioned with a smile. ‘I’ve seen all manner of creatures in the water.’

Lucy managed a weak grin at this. She wordlessly demonstrated her agreement by catching hold of the handle of her bag.

‘I shall tell you a bit about Lord Ramsden, our landlord, while we rest.’ Rebecca offered conversationally. ‘He resides at Ramsden Manor in the village of Westbrook, which adjoins Graveley. The Summer House Lodge is part of his estate. A very good and kind landlord he is too,’ she praised him unreservedly, as she led the way off the main track.

They threaded their way gingerly through creeping undergrowth. ‘Take care your gown doesn’t snag. There are some brambles concealed amongst the ferns,’ Rebecca cautioned Lucy.

A musical sound of running water became audible. Rebecca pushed aside the last of the pliant branches that barred their way and they stood in a picturesque rough-grassed glade, a large pond situated centrally.

A small sound of delight burst from Lucy. She immediately relinquished her side of the bag again, but before she rushed away Rebecca received an apologetic smile. Reaching the bank of the pond on fleet feet she called back, ‘Look, a toad, there on the water lilies.’

Rebecca nodded and smiled, repressing a shudder at the sight of the enormous speckled creature. She knew all manner of wildlife took refuge in this quiet oasis. She had often sought its soothing sanctuary herself in the past when needing privacy and solitude.

Lucy slipped her soft shoes off and Rebecca enjoyed a pleasant, relaxed moment before it dawned on her that the girl was, incredibly, intending to wade out to fetch the creature. No doubt that sort of slimy beast was preferable to the one Lucy was obliged to share a home with, Rebecca surmised with a sigh.

‘Lucy…come back at once,’ Rebecca admonished, threat and plea mingling in her voice as the girl eagerly hitched up her skirt and inched forward into the still green depths of the pond.

Lucy’s high-pitched giggle was all the response Rebecca received. Anxiously watching Lucy’s painstaking progress towards the glossy flat-leaved lilies was nerve-racking. Foreboding was taking hold of her with a vengeance. The uneasiness that she had experienced earlier that day with Rupert Mayhew returned to haunt Rebecca. She was becoming certain she would have fared better without this family’s patronage. She was an accomplished tutor and took pride in what she achieved with her students, but so far Lucy’s moods had been totally unfathomable and unpredictable. At times her conduct and attitude seemed completely inappropriate. Disciplining her might prove impossible.

Sensing danger, the toad dived into the still surface of the pond.

‘Come back now, Lucy,’ Rebecca ordered firmly, an icy prickling stalking her spine, as she noticed the girl’s dress dragging in the water.

In response, Lucy ducked herself down in the water, submerging up to the shoulders. She twirled about, and gaily coaxed, ‘Come in…it’s so cool.’

‘Come back here this minute, Lucy,’ Rebecca bit out through clenched teeth, her heart now in her mouth. She knew the pond was quite deep towards the centre. Her worst fears were realised when Lucy suddenly shrieked and slipped backwards, thrashing her arms.

Without further conscious thought, yet inwardly cursing, Rebecca sped to the pond and began wading, skirt gripped high about her thighs, towards the struggling girl. As she approached, Lucy surfaced, giggling. ‘See…I told you it was refreshing. It’s better than the spa at Bath. It’s better than sea bathing at Brighton. Have you swum in the sea at Brighton?’ she demanded gaily, splashing water at Rebecca’s still relatively dry figure.

Rebecca gathered her skirts into a clenched hand. The other covered her face, clearing pond water and shielding the raging fury and utter disbelief contorting her delicate features. Had Lucy been within reach, she would have shaken her until her teeth rattled and her stupid, selfish head fell off.

‘Well, what have we here?’ came a sardonic male voice. ‘Water sprites? Woodland elves? A welcome diversion?’




Chapter Two


The ironic well-modulated voice had Rebecca swirling unsteadily around.

Two strangers were watching their antics from the pond bank mere yards away. Rebecca felt her heart pumping painfully as she hurriedly smeared filming pond residue from her vision. Then she stared, horrified.

One man sat astride a grey farm horse, the other was lounging comfortably against the bole of a centuries-old oak, and was the most handsome man she had ever before seen in her life. His long, thick hair appeared jet-black beneath the shading oak. His narrow mouth was curved a little with the same mocking humour that had tinged his words, for she knew instinctively that it was he who had spoken. Peat-dark eyes were heavy-lidded and fixed on her with the same intensity that she watched him. In one hand he idly held the reins of a second rather mangy-looking horse, placidly cropping the rough grass. As his lazy gaze lowered to slowly survey her drenched form, her fists abruptly opened, dropping her thigh-high skirts into the water.

Rebecca closed her gritty, stinging eyes momentarily in utter despair. Why did disasters invariably always cluster together? Why would they never spread themselves out a bit in her life? This was too much for one day! Thank heavens five years had lapsed since she had last endured times such as this, crammed with alarm and anxiety.

The stranger astride the horse, who had fairer colouring and looked to be younger by some years, laughed down at his broad-shouldered companion and exchanged a few quiet words. Earthy eyes skimmed to her sodden bodice and aquamarine eyes lowered there too. The thin wet cotton was almost transparent and clung to her bosom like a second skin. As her breasts hardened with shame and her nipples stung she instinctively closed screening arms about herself.

She remembered Lucy, positioned somewhere behind her. Her pupil’s safety and well being were now her responsibility. Through the girl’s stupid recklessness they now found themselves stranded in soaked clothes that served only to display every feminine contour they were designed to cover. They were in the densest part of the wood, still a good way from home, with two complete strangers witnessing their discomfort.

She had never seen either of them before. She would have remembered if she had. Both were memorably good looking but the powerfully built, darker man was quite ridiculously so. She was acquainted with most people in the small communities of Graveley, Westbrook and the immediate surrounding areas. These two were probably just passing through. They might be miscreants…

The disturbing possibility possessed her abruptly, monopolising every thought. Why were they off the main track and in private woodland? Why were they dressed in finely tailored black breeches and white lawn shirts but, confusingly, in possession of horses that looked little better than tired farm hacks? She had heard fearsome gossip about young village women being mistreated by bored gentlemen out looking for diversion. Even as she thought the word, she recalled him uttering it, and her temples hammered as blood surged through her veins.

The hideous danger in their predicament forced itself mercilessly upon her and she twisted towards Lucy, wanting to reassure the girl. The expression on her young pupil’s face was the most daunting aspect of the whole nightmare situation. Excited interest was darkening and widening Lucy’s blue eyes as she ignored Rebecca and stared at the strangers on the bank.

‘Who are you? Why are you trespassing?’ Rebecca demanded tremulously of the man who still relentlessly watched her. Before he could reply she swivelled away, aware of Lucy approaching her through the water. She believed the girl to be seeking her closenesss for safety, but Lucy made to glide straight past. Catching at one of Lucy’s wet arms she attempted to detain her in the pond. Should the need arise for physical protection it would be far better to be close together. Lucy impatiently slipped her arm through Rebecca’s cold, stiff fingers and swayed herself forward. As she approached dry land, her plump arms raised and the movement caused her precociously curvaceous body to be quite deliberately outlined as she slowly wrung out her dripping dark hair.

Rebecca watched in horrified embarrassment as Lucy brushed closely past the tall, athletic figure leaning against the tree. A slight deepening of the cynical smile curving his mouth was the only reaction. His eyes remained with Rebecca. She watched anxiously as the younger man dismounted, his eyes following Lucy’s hip-swinging progress.

Fury and humiliation engulfed her. It made her wrap her arms tighter about herself and snap out, albeit it tremulously, ‘I asked you who you are and what you are doing here.’

The raven-haired man shoved himself away from the ancient oak then and walked the few paces to the pond. ‘Are you intending to stay in there?’ That deep, sardonic voice caused Rebecca to involuntarily shiver and take a step back. She attempted to dart a glance past him, desperate to see Lucy’s continuing safety from his companion.

‘I asked you who you are.’ She challenged in a fierce shaky whisper.

Her simultaneous fear and courage erased his amusement. ‘Well, why don’t you come here and perhaps I’ll tell you,’ he cut soothingly into her unsteady speech. He extended a lean, tanned hand towards her. When she still didn’t move but merely stared at it, he beckoned peremptorily.

Remaining there like a fool to defy him was, she knew, ridiculous. She forced her boneless legs forward but chose to ignore his offer of aid. She scrambled up the bank, slithering a little as her sodden skirt hampered her, and belatedly, gratefully, sought his hand, preventing herself sliding back.

A warm, firm grip pulled her to within a few inches of his tall, spare body and she could feel the heat of him warming her chilled form. Without meeting his eyes, she quickly disengaged her hand, mumbled her thanks and then felt churlish and cowardly. Besides, she wanted so much to look at him more closely. She drew a silent, steeling breath and forced herself to slowly raise her damp gold head in a semblance of pride and confidence.

Turquoise eyes fused with dark brown for a timeless moment. She wasn’t mistaken. He was as exceptionally handsome as she had thought. No warts, moles or pockmarks to mar the lightly bronzed angular planes of his face. His hair was as glossy and pitch black as it had seemed when he lounged beneath the shading oak. A small crescent-shaped scar by one thick dark brow was an imperfection yet it only served to enhance the beautifully piratical air about him.

‘Thank you for your aid, sir,’ she said, striving to casually modulate her tone. But she knew she had failed miserably when one side of his sculpted, narrow mouth lifted in a vestige of returning amusement.

‘Do you often wade fully clothed into woodland ponds? Is it a local custom of sorts?’ he teased, the humour in his eyes strengthening as they roved her damp and tousled dark honey hair.

Rebecca raised an impulsive hand to her unruly locks, realising just what a fright she must look. She stepped away from him hurriedly, aware that his outstanding attractiveness made her feel even more bedraggled than she probably was. She averted her crimsoning face from sepia-coloured eyes knowing she could do nothing to conceal her accentuated silhouette from his heavy-lidded scrutiny. She hastened towards Lucy who stood idly sliding bold glances at his companion from beneath moisture-spiky lashes.

Rebecca hastily grabbed up Lucy’s carpet bag from the ground and with shaking fingers pulled the clasp apart. She grabbed at the dry garments within and brusquely shook them out. She thrust a plain lemon day dress at Lucy, snapping in a vehement undertone, ‘Hold this in front of you.’ The undiluted anger in Rebecca’s voice and the icy sparks in her turquoise eyes made Lucy wordlessly do as she was bid. Removing a dress in the same way from her own carpet bag, Rebecca finally spun back towards the two men. She gulped another calming breath and even managed a wavering smile.

‘Thank you once more for your aid. But if you would now be so kind…my pupil and I need to dry ourselves after our mishap. I’m sure you wouldn’t want either of us to take a chill…’ Her voice trailed off as she watched a tanned, squarish jaw set as he realised he was being summarily dismissed.

‘I thought you were keen to know who I am,’ he drily reminded her.

‘It matters little,’ Rebecca rebuffed him, nevertheless managing a small, conciliatory smile. She was quite astonishing herself, accomplishing this sham composure. It disintegrated with equally astounding ease as he commenced strolling towards them. She spontaneously stepped protectively in front of Lucy, and her dress, gripped in white-knuckled hands, was raised a little.

He hesitated and seemed momentarily undecided before changing direction, gathering the reins of his grazing horse, and mounting the beast in a swift athletic movement. He sat thoughtfully considering her before suggesting soothingly, ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me who you are then, as you appear to have lost interest in my identity…Miss…?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ Rebecca agreed, compelling herself to sound polite and confident. ‘My name is Nash…Rebecca Nash. And this is Miss Mayhew…a pupil from my school at the Summer House Lodge. We are returning there directly. It is barely a few minutes’ walk away,’ she lied for good measure, ‘on Lord Ramsden’s estate.’

His eyes narrowed instantly at this information and she caught the younger man darting a swift, searching look at him.

‘I should warn you,’ Rebecca informed helpfully, when he made no move to depart, ‘that Lord Ramsden prosecutes all trespassers. He has a reputation for dealing harshly with all such. You really should leave now before his gamekeeper happens upon you.’ She seized upon the idea at once, a relieved breath breaking from between her bloodless, trembling lips. ‘The gamekeeper…keepers, for there are several,’ she lied again, ‘scour these woods ceaselessly for poachers…’

His spontaneous smile at this local news made her blush hotly. She was sure he was about to call her bluff.

‘You think I’m a poacher?’ he enquired softly. ‘Do I look like a poacher?’

‘It matters not how you look,’ she countered sharply. ‘Williams is apt to shoot first and examine you later.’

‘Williams?’ he mildly queried.

‘Lord Ramsden’s gamekeeper,’ she explained. ‘Please, sir. If you and your companion would be so kind…’ She snatched a searching glance at Lucy who was shivering and now looking as though one of her dejected moods was taking a grip. ‘My pupil needs to dry herself and you should make haste to depart. Believe me when I say if you are discovered you will be prosecuted.’

‘And what do you suppose…’ he paused ‘…Lord Ramsden’s reaction is to you trespassing in his pond?’ he persisted silkily, as he controlled his restless mount with a cursory flick of the hand.

Rebecca gave a short, dismissive laugh. ‘Lord Ramsden and I are well acquainted,’ she informed him with a deal of satisfaction. ‘I have no fears on that score.’

This confident declaration drew an amused snort from the younger man. He appeared about to speak but a swift, silencing gesture from his darker companion made him simply shake his head disbelievingly and examine the leaves that sighed above him.

‘Lord Ramsden doesn’t frighten you?’ the dark man suggested with a half-smile as he nudged the horse slowly forward.

‘Not at all,’ Rebecca confirmed, shifting slowly to keep him in sight and Lucy positioned behind her, as he approached. She sensed a new, disturbing undercurrent to their exchange.

‘Good,’ was his brief, dulcet response as he reined in close and looked down at her in the same thoughtfully amused way.

He extended a dark hand towards her in the gesture of one wishing to shake hands before departing. Clutching her shielding garment in front of her in one, she politely offered her other pale, slender hand to him.

‘Luke Trelawney and my brother Ross…at your service,’ he introduced them both as his warm fingers retained her cool ones in his firm grip. A dark thumb traced the delicate skin of her palm in a careful, camouflaged caress as he reluctantly relinquished it.

‘Mr. Trelawney…’ Rebecca courteously acknowledged, with a small dip of her head, as his horse passed her. She nodded civilly to Ross also as he followed Luke.

Rebecca’s eyes stayed unwaveringly with them until they had disappeared from view, when they closed in utter thankfulness.

As the two cart horses started an ambling trot down the grassy bank towards the track that lead to Westbrook, Ross grunted a low, lascivious laugh. ‘I’m most definitely at her service. Servicing that wench would be no hardship—’

Luke pulled his horse up sharp and swung about in the saddle. His perfect features were savage as he ground out, ‘Touch her and I’ll—’ The fierce caution ceased mid-flow. He was as aware as Ross of what he had astonishingly been about to threaten.

‘—be most put out,’ he remedied, relaxing a little. But a wry grimace was the closest he got to apology…or to analysing his aggression, before he urged his lumbering nag into something approaching a canter.

Rebecca gently disengaged herself from the grey-haired woman’s firm embrace. ‘It’s good to be home, Martha,’ she greeted her with a sweet smile as the woman dabbed at her eyes with her grubby starched apron. ‘Hush,’ Rebecca soothed. ‘I’ve only been gone just four weeks. I’ll wager you’ve hardly missed me at all,’ she teased. She contentedly surveyed the familiar pristine interior of her kitchen at the Summer House. Everything looked as meticulously ordered as it always did when Martha Turner was in attendance.

Martha and her husband Gregory lived in a tiny spartan dwelling, on the perimeter of the woodland Rebecca and Lucy had just traversed. Their cottage was situated barely a stone’s throw from the Summer House, easily within walking distance for the elderly couple who made the journey each day.

While Martha prepared meals and cleaned, generally helping Rebecca run the household, her husband coaxed the sizeable vegetable patch situated along the western flank wall into providing Rebecca and her boarding pupils with fresh produce. Gregory Turner also tended the few chickens and geese they kept with the same natural diligence, ensuring his wife always had fresh eggs and poultry available to prepare nourishing fare.

The Turners’ property, which had been settled on them by Robin Ramsden on their retirement from his service, had very little tillable land surrounding it. Woodland predominated on three sides, rendering it picturesque but poorly self-sufficient. In a way this unfortunate situation had benefited Rebecca and she often felt ashamed acknowledging it. She was well aware that she would never have been able to pay this dear couple for their aid. But she could offer an arrangement whereby, in return for housekeeping and gardening services, the Turners helped themselves to whatever surplus eggs, poultry and fresh fruit and vegetables the Summer House gardens produced.

Approaching the large floury patch on the scrubbed pine table, Rebecca idly dusted her arms free of pastry traces from Martha’s welcoming hands. She peered at the mouthwatering sweet and savoury ingredients assembled for supper. As her stomach gurgled a little, she realised just how hungry she was. She had eaten nothing since departing from the King’s Head hostelry early that morning at Guildford, when setting out on the last leg of her journey home.

Martha’s silver-bright eyes were crinkle-cornered as she regarded Lucy, standing subdued and quiet by the open kitchen door. Her smile faltered a little and Rebecca knew Martha was focussing on the bruising about Lucy’s eye. As she noted Martha’s troubled reaction to the injury, she finally relented and gave Lucy a small smile.

It was the first token of friendship she had felt capable of bestowing on the girl following the fiasco at the woodland pool. She was still in equal parts furious and bewildered by Lucy’s behaviour.

Having both changed hastily into dry dresses, their final trek through the woods had passed in strained, chilly silence. Rebecca had decided that until her anger was again under control, it was best to keep quiet and keep walking lest she say or do something she might regret. But every speedy step taken had been filled with an inner wrangling about whether to contact Lucy’s stepfather to ask him to fetch her. The fact that her meagre income would be again reduced, leaving her in severe financial difficulties, had been the only consideration in the girl’s favour. As she looked at Lucy now and met those injured blue eyes, Rebecca sensed a niggling sympathy. Lucy seemed resigned to being rejected.

‘This is Lucy…Lucy Mayhew, who is going to be joining us for a while,’ Rebecca introduced her, with a strengthening smile for Lucy. ‘Lucy, Martha and her husband Gregory have been giving me invaluable help here at the Summer House over the past five years.’ Trying to lighten their moods, she indicated Martha’s laden table. ‘Martha’s cooking is delicious, Lucy, it is very easy to over-indulge.’ Lucy gave the cook a shy smile before perching demurely on a kitchen chair and gazing interestedly about.

Such a picture of youthful innocence, Rebecca couldn’t help ironically surmising. But she cheered herself with again acknowledging just how fortunate she had been since the double tragedy of her parents’ and fiancé’s deaths some five years ago. At that time, circumstances had conspired to make a future in harsh employment or marriage to the first man to offer for her seem the only avenues. Instead, she now had a kind and generous landlord, friendship and aid from the Turners and also from dear friends who lived close by. But, most of all, she had this small, pretty Summer House, providing her with home and employment. She sighed her contentment, acknowledging that she would persevere with Lucy’s education.

Martha fetched a stone jug from the dark pantry and set about filling two glasses with aromatic lemonade. Rebecca smiled her thanks, determined not to let this afternoon’s humiliating episode spoil her pleasure at being home. Consciously recalling the incident allowed raven hair and earthy dark eyes to once more dominate her thoughts, but only momentarily before she determinedly banished them.

Luke Trelawney disturbed her by fascinating her far too much. But he had now gone and she would never again see him or his brother Ross. The strange bittersweet pang tightening her chest at that certainty made her fingers instinctively seek the large silver locket she wore. She could feel its warm, solid shape beneath her cotton dress. Her fingers smoothed its oval silhouette as she held on to the dear memory of David, her mourned fiancé.

‘I knew you’d be wanting some lemonade. I made that fresh this morning.’ Martha broke into her wistful reverie, arms crossing contentedly as she watched the two young women draining their tumblers. ‘I knew you’d be along and hot and thirsty,’ she emphasised with a wag of the head. ‘Mind you,’ she cautioned, rolling her sleeves back to her elbows before expertly pummelling the dough on the table. ‘Mind you…’ she repeated for good measure ‘…Gregory reckons that rain is on the way at last and you know he’s rarely wrong.’ Her head bobbed again as deft hands rolled the pastry into a ball. ‘His legs have been playing up bad again…a sure sign o’ wet on the way…biscuits are nearly done,’ she tacked incongrously on the end. ‘I can smell them coming along nicely.’ She smiled at Lucy. ‘I reckon a healthy young lady like you can polish off quite a few before her dinner.’

Lucy nodded, settling expectantly back into her chair like a biddable child. Watching her, Rebecca wondered how she could veer so rapidly between wanton sophistication and childlike innocence. But if what Gregory predicted was true and rain was on its way, she had pressing matters to attend to. She replaced her tumbler on the table.

‘Has John fixed the roof while I’ve been away, Martha?’ she enquired anxiously, remembering Robin Ramsden’s promise that he would send his young carpenter to repair some summer storm damage.

‘No…we’ve seen not hide nor hair of that young man. Gregory was going to attempt it hisself…but his affliction in the knees meant he could barely rise up three rungs of the ladder.’

‘Is Lord Ramsden returned yet from Bath?’ Rebecca quickly interrogated.

‘Well, he wasn’t at the manor five days ago when Gregory fetched the provisions but Miles was expecting him at any time. I reckon he must be at home now. If you chase that John up he’ll be over and fix that roof quick as can be before his lordship finds out he’s been idling again while he was away.’

‘How many staff remain?’ Luke asked the sombrely dressed elderly man standing stiff and quiet behind him, as he idly surveyed the weed-strewn gravel driveway. The chippings were piled high at the perimeter of the circular carriage sweep, testament to how long it had been since it was tended or raked. Numerous coach wheels were quite visibly imprinted in the dusty grit.

Both dark hands were raised, bracing against the framework of the large casement window he stood by. He gazed out, far into the wooded distance, his mind still deep in that quiet sanctuary with a girl with turquoise eyes.

‘Eight,’ came the terse response from behind.

Luke’s eyes narrowed, his jaw setting as he recognised the barely concealed insolence in the elderly butler’s tone. He swung away from the large square-paned window and faced him across the mellow yew desk.

Edward Miles must have been seventy if he was a day, and in a way Luke could understand his belligerence. What he could not comprehend was the man’s stupidity. Had he any sense at all, he would take great pains to appear pleasant and obliging. His livelihood was now at great risk. For an aged butler of three score years and ten, employment was scarce. Employment without a reference would be impossible, as would keeping a roof over his sparsely covered head in his twilight years.

Luke knew he was tired, he knew he was thirsty but mostly, he knew, today he had been frustrated and that irritated him. Meeting the first woman in an age who had tried to rid herself of his presence at the earliest opportunity was quite a novelty and one he now realised he could have done without. Rejection came hard. And the more he dwelt on it, the more he knew it was ridiculous to allow it to matter. He forced himself to concentrate on Edward Miles. A rheumy-eyed gaze challenged him unwaveringly.

‘Is there some brandy about this place?’ Luke demanded testily, determining to leave matters for an hour or so whilst Ross and he refreshed themselves. They had been travelling solidly for almost two days with barely an overnight stop.

A slow, satisfied shake of the head met this request.

‘Some wine of some sort?’ Luke persisted, his patience with the butler’s aloof attitude nearly at an end.

‘Judith might have made some lemonade,’ the old man advised dolefully. ‘I can ascertain, if you wish.’

Luke stared at him, wondering if he was being deliberately facetious. But Edward Miles returned his black-eyed stare phlegmatically.

‘Fine,’ Luke agreed, knowing it wasn’t fine at all, and wondering how he was going to break the news to Ross. And where the hell was Ross? Since they had arrived in the village of Westbrook an hour ago he had been off exploring. Luke allowed himself a rueful smile; at times his twenty-five-year-old brother was a fitting playmate for his young nephew of five. Thinking of that little lad brought Tristan to mind. His brother Tristan had his own wife and family to look after and couldn’t be left to cope alone for too long, sensible and dependable as he was. He needed to deal speedily with this matter and set on the road home to Cornwall

‘I’ll meet with the staff in the main hallway in an hour. Assemble them there at three o’clock…and bring some sort of refreshment to this study, if you please,’ Luke dictated steadily to Miles. The elderly man gave a creaky, insolent bow and quit the wood-panelled study with Luke close on his heels.

Miles ambled slowly towards the kitchens on stiff joints. He slid a recalcitrant glower up at Luke’s handsome face as he passed him with one long, easy pace.

Luke descended the stone steps and strode around the side of the house towards the outbuildings, hoping that Ross’s lengthy absence didn’t mean he’d found a distracting servant girl to seduce. The notion made the throbbing in his own loins increase, and he cursed as he pushed open the barn door and walked in. He wished to God he’d never seen her. If they’d stayed on the main track instead of seeking shelter from the sun in those woods, he damned well never would have. Since the moment she had spun, dripping, to face him in that pond, he had been uncomfortably aware of the impact she’d had on him.

‘Mr Trelawney!’ Rebecca breathed out the name in utter astonishment as she shielded her eyes from the dusty sunlight streaming in through the open barn door.




Chapter Three


They stared at each other in stunned silence for a moment before Luke removed his hand from the planked door and it swung shut, obliterating most of the light. He approached Rebecca slowly, cautiously, sure she must be a tormenting figment of his lustful imagination. Sun streaking in through windows set high in the barn wall behind him burnished her honey hair with golden tints and made her squint those beautiful eyes. She stepped back, re-positioning herself close to stacked hay bales, so she had an unimpeded view of him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, but with an ingenuous, welcoming smile. It was impossible for her to hide her pleasure at seeing him again. She had believed him to be long gone from the neighbourhood. ‘Oh, no! Did Williams catch you trespassing after all?’ she softly exclaimed. ‘Where is your brother?’ The tumbling queries didn’t halt his slow, purposeful pursuit. She backed off instinctively, angling away from him, still attempting to keep the fierce sunbeams from impairing her vision.

‘Are you in trouble…with Lord Ramsden?’ His continuing silence started to unnerve her a little so she offered breathlessly, ‘I could speak to him for you…tell him how you assisted…’ Warmth suffused her cheeks. She hadn’t intended reminding him or herself of the sight she had presented when he had hauled her out of the pond. Her tongue tip came out to moisten her dry lips. The closer he came, the taller and broader he appeared. She felt infinitely small and fragile…and vulnerable. She attempted to peer past him and the piled hay to the exit. Why wouldn’t he talk to her? Why wouldn’t he say something…anything? Just hello would suffice.

Making to slide past his obstructing body, so near hers now, she announced nervously, ‘I’m sure I could persuade him. I’ll go and look for him.’

A muscular arm shot out to brace itself against the rough brick wall, blocking her intended flight to the door. ‘You’ve found him,’ he said softly. ‘How are you going to persuade me?’

Rebecca placed a tentative hand on his linen-clad arm, feeling rock-like sinewed muscle flex at her feeble attempt to move him. She looked up into his dark intense features, struck again by how unbelievably handsome he was.

‘That’s not funny,’ she mildly rebuked him, managing a small, sweet smile even though she didn’t understand his sense of humour. ‘Robin Ramsden can be very…understanding. I’ve found him so,’ she falteringly explained, as she carefully removed her hand from his lawn shirt-sleeve and unobtrusively retreated, giving herself room to detour to the exit.

Luke watched her back off, his black-pupilled eyes heavy-lidded as they discreetly surveyed her from head to foot. Dried off, wearing a plain cotton dress, she was as beautiful and desirable as she’d been with her clothes plastered to her slender curves and damp tendrils of honey hair clinging to her delicate face. Perhaps not quite so erotic…

His tormenting reminiscence tailed off. Her turquoise eyes were watchful, a blend of caution and courage again coalescing in their glossy depths. He recognised it from their last encounter. Then it had been enough to make him reluctantly leave. She was intending to go this time. He had frightened her again. He could tell from the way her eyes slid furtively past him that she was within a hair’s-breadth of making a dash for the door.

He didn’t want that. If she ran he would stop her and if he touched her that way…No woman yet had caused him to lose self-control, he wryly reminded himself. Nevertheless, he dropped his arm and walked away a yard or so but still casually blocking any escape route.

‘Are you often to be found in Lord Ramsden’s barn, Rebecca?’ he asked mildly, with a charming, boyish smile. His calculated ploy worked. Rebecca visibly relaxed.

‘Only when I’m looking for John,’ she said, returning his smile and feeling unaccountably pleased he had remembered her name.

‘John?’ he echoed with deceptive softness, as his smile thinned and he became furiously certain he had just interrupted a lovers’ tryst. She didn’t look in the least chagrined at having been thus discovered. Perhaps he should have let her try to escape after all, he thought cynically. If she’d been abandoned by some spineless rustic swain, he was sure he would prove a more than satisfactory substitute.

‘Lord Ramsden’s carpenter…well, he is an apprentice, really,’ Rebecca pleasantly interrupted his savage supposition. ‘But he’s quite capable of repairing my roof.’ She gazed about then as though she might spy the lad lurking somewhere. ‘He’s usually to be found in here, sleeping away hot afternoons…when he thinks he can get away with it.’

Silence between them lengthened and Rebecca became uneasily aware of dark eyes fixed unwaveringly on her. ‘For it is about to rain, you know,’ she said distractedly. ‘Gregory Turner…oh, he and his wife help me at the Summer House…well, Gregory is quite sure that rain is finally due. He’s rarely proved wrong. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if…’

She trailed off, aware that Luke had approached her again while she had been nervously chatting. He now rested against a hay bale within a foot of her, a disturbing sleepiness in his velvet-brown eyes. ‘…it rains tonight,’ she breathlessly finished, her aquamarine eyes wide and entrapped by his.

A slow hand moved unthreateningly to her face, cupping her fragile jaw. She remained entranced as a dark thumb traced the curve of her lower lip with featherlight softness. Either he wasn’t as tall as she had at first thought or…He was bending to kiss her, she realised wildly as his face neared hers. Their eyes were still inextricably merged and when the leisurely descent of his narrow mouth brought their faces within inches of touching, Rebecca breathed out, ‘What are you doing here?’ She watched him frown and slowly, frustratedly, close his eyes as she shattered the spell he’d been casting.

‘Were you discovered by Williams trespassing?’ she asked, reverting to her initial line of questioning, stepping away again.

‘No,’ was the extent of his terse response and she sensed his irritation. He threw his head back and gazed up at the fanlight windows set high in the barn wall. He sighed, knowing explanations were long overdue. But then, so was easing the tantalising ache in his loins she had provoked hours before, and was now innocently boosting. Tumbling her in a sultry barn in the middle of the afternoon…it was hardly the time or place.

Besides, he knew he wasn’t going to be that lucky. He almost laughed at his arrogance. Getting close enough for a kiss was proving one hell of a job. What was it he had mourned earlier today? The lack of necessary charm and seduction in his life? He had an unshakeable notion that he was about to dredge up every skill he had ever mastered in those areas. He gazed back at her, momentarily undecided, then said softly, ‘Come.’

Approaching the barn door, he stretched out a hand behind him, beckoning for her to follow. She did so, ducking under his arm to gain the dry heat of the afternoon as he held the door open for her.

‘Miss Rebecca!’ Rebecca twisted about and then hurried the few paces towards Edward Miles as he hobbled across parched grass towards the barn.

‘Miles,’ she greeted him, for no one who knew him well ever used his given name. Miles was always just Miles. She gave the elderly man an affectionate peck on the cheek, as always, aware of his pleasure at seeing her. His faint watery eyes peered past her to the tall, dark man who impassively watched the scene.

‘So you’ve met the new master, Miss Rebecca,’ Miles bitterly muttered.

Rebecca’s welcoming smile faded. She frowned her bemusement. ‘What do you mean?’

Miles glared purposefully past her. She turned then to watch as Luke Trelawney approached them, aware, oddly for the first time, of overwhelming authority and power in his manner and bearing. Her mind raced back to his puzzling statement in the barn when she had offered to seek out Lord Ramsden. ‘You’ve found him…’ he had said and she had believed him to be joking; had wondered at his odd sense of humour. Her eyes sought Miles quickly, pleading for immediate explanations before Luke reached them. But the butler’s attention was with his employer.

‘The servants are assembled in the hall as you wished, my lord,’ he informed with a certain disrespectful emphasis on the title which didn’t pass unnoticed either by Luke or Rebecca.

Mingling horror, disbelief and recrimination strained and whitened Rebecca’s face. She whispered, ‘Why didn’t you…?’

‘I did,’ Luke reminded her curtly. ‘You weren’t listening.’

‘In the woods…you could have told me hours ago in the woods. You let me make a fool of myself. Where is Robin Ramsden? You let me warn you needlessly earlier today…about prosecution…about the gamekeeper…’ The disjointed accusations and queries jumbled together in her distress.

‘As I recall,’ he mentioned silkily, ‘you seemed to lose all interest in who I was. You were more concerned with ridding yourself of my presence at the earliest opportunity.’ He caught proprietorially at her arm as he made for the oaken entrance to Ramsden Manor, intending to take her with him. Rebecca immediately shook him off, her feverish mind foraging for information.

‘Where is Robin Ramsden?’ she demanded shakily of her new landlord.

He returned her stare impassively. ‘Well, come inside the house and I’ll tell you,’ he coolly answered. ‘The staff are assembled.’ He cursed inwardly as he realised he had made it sound as though he classed her amongst them. But Rebecca deliberately shunned him, turning to Miles. As Luke alone walked ahead, a solitary thick tear trickled from the corner of one turquoise eye.

Ross weaved down the steps of the Manor, just as Luke was about to ascend them. Luke swore softly, wondering if the day could yet get worse. He grabbed at his younger brother’s arm, turning him and making him mount the steps with him and enter the hallway. Ross waved the bottle he grasped under Luke’s nose and slurred conspiratorially, ‘Found the wine store, big brother.’

‘So I see…’ Luke replied drily, at one and the same time relieved and exasperated by knowing the reason for his brother’s lengthy absence. He was beginning to wish to God he’d made this trip alone. Ross was becoming just another burden he had to deal with. Heaven only knew what he might get up to next. He supposed he ought to be grateful he hadn’t discovered Ross naked with one of the female servants he was about to sack.

Two elderly, and three young, women scrambled to stand in a straight line as Luke entered the dim, cool hallway. They shuffled uneasily until they had the courage to look up. All were then instantly still with riveted attention.

Rebecca entered with Miles, and Gregory who had brought her over to the manor in the small trap. She noted the women’s unwavering interest and being female knew the reason for it. As mouths dropped open and heads angled back to gaze at perfect features, she realised dully her estimation of his outstanding looks was being openly endorsed.

Cathy, Joan and Sally, the three young women who worked below stairs at the Manor, stared with unabashed amazement. There then began a chain reaction of clandestine rib digging, Joan forgetting herself enough to actually nudge the middle-aged housekeeper in the same way.

Judith instinctively slapped at her for this insubordination before freezing to attention as her new employer’s smouldering dark eyes settled on her. She nervously jangled the keys at her waist and then gripped her hands behind her back.

Ross walked with intoxicated precision to the sweeping ebonized stairway, and leaning on the newel post, allowed himself to swing around and sit on a stair. He smiled amiably at everyone, his eyes lingering on the three homely young servants who, aware of his inspection, all blushed furiously and recommenced discreet elbowing.

Luke collected a black superfine tailcoat from a mahogany hall chair. He shrugged casually into it before strolling to stand centrally in front of them and then turned to look at Rebecca. She and Gregory hovered by the open doorway, although Miles paced resolutely forward on arthritic joints to merge with the paltry line of servants awaiting their new master’s oratory. Luke stepped back from the people ranged in front of him so that Rebecca was kept in his line of vision. He shot a penetrating look at the elderly man with her, wondering who he was, wondering too why the whole place didn’t seem to have an able-bodied man about it. Remembering Rebecca talk of a carpenter’s apprentice, and a gamekeeper, he enquired, ‘Is there anyone else?’

‘Only young John, and Williams the gamekeeper,’ Miles informed him stiffly. ‘I can’t find them anywhere.’

Luke moved a dismissing hand, signalling he wasn’t about to wait longer. He looked at the sorry assortment in front of him. At Melrose he had more staff than this working in the gardens and three times as many working in the house. In fact, he was barely aware any more of just how many servants he did have. His mother and sister dealt with such matters for him.

‘I should like to introduce myself to you,’ he began in a firm baritone, without preamble, ‘and tell you of the circumstances surrounding my inheritance of the Ramsden estate and title. I am Luke Trelawney of Pendrake in Cornwall and this is my brother, Ross. We are here because the fifth baron, your late master, has tragically and unexpectedly died of a heart complaint while away from the estate in Bath. He will be buried, in accordance with his wishes, in Bath, beside his wife in the Granger family crypt.’

He paused as a ripple of dismay from the amassed servants swelled in volume. Sally and Joan raised their white pinafores to dab at damp eyes and shake their heads in disbelief. Luke turned his head and stared at Rebecca, his eyes narrowed as they searched her tense white face. Solemn, sparkling aquamarine eyes unblinkingly returned his gaze. He started to speak again, his head still turned in her direction, which made the others in the hallway dart curious looks at her.

‘I am sixth Baron Ramsden,’ he stressed quietly, ‘and have inherited this house and the entire estate and buildings upon it. The estate and title is remaindered to heirs male which means it has passed to me through my great-grandmother Charlotte Ramsden. She left this area and settled in Cornwall more than a hundred years ago,’ was the extent of his terse explanation. ‘As you know, Robin Ramsden was a widower and on his late wife’s death there were no legitimate heirs of the union.’

Another wave of murmuring and coughing interrupted his speech. All were aware of two estate children who bore striking resemblance to their late master. ‘Daughters in any case,’ was heard to be whispered in a sibilant female voice.

Luke paced restlessly to where Ross sat, speaking to him while waiting for the muttering to quieten. It did almost immediately. He planted a dusty boot on the first step and addressed them from the foot of the imposing stairway.

‘You should know that I have no intention of leaving Cornwall or the estates I have there to settle in Sussex.’ A renewed buzzing met this information but now he spoke clearly over it, keen to get matters finalised. ‘I therefore propose to sell this estate in its entirety.’ This time only stunned silence reverberated about the great hall.

‘I will honour all back wages due and furnish each of you with references. I will do whatever is in my power to obtain alternative employment for those who wish it.’ Luke’s eyes tracked Rebecca as he noticed her gliding back to the open doorway. He started to move forward, passing the line of silent, shocked servants, as he stated quickly, ‘There will also be a generous severance payment commensurate with length of service…’

He quit the hall and descended the stone steps two at a time and caught up with her just as she was about to flee towards the waiting trap.

He caught at her arm and she half-turned, but seeing it wasn’t old Gregory after all, she swung away again trying to break free. He crowded close to her, forcing her back against the mellow brickwork of the house, an open palm braced either side of her golden head.

‘Listen…’ he soothed but she jerked her white, tear-streaked face away from his.

‘Rebecca…listen,’ he ordered, authority abrading his tone this time.

Glossy sea-green eyes met earth-brown eyes then and he slowly moved a hand from the wall towards her stained face. She ducked, trying to evade him, but his open palm was flat against the brick before she’d caught her breath enough to bolt. Her abrupt movement brought her cheek up hard against his black superfine shoulder and he moved closer so that she had nowhere left to go apart from him.

Strong arms closed around her as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him to offer her comfort now he had shattered her world. He could feel the thundering of her heart against his chest and smell the scent of lavender in her golden hair. His head dipped, and a lingering sigh escaped him as his mouth sought its perfumed softness and he knew with utter certainty, and quiet amazement, that he was going nowhere without her. He’d known her not yet a full day but nevertheless would take her with him.

Rebecca closed her hot eyes. They stung with unshed tears but she was determined not to cry any more. She would never cry in front of him. At home…at the Summer House, perhaps. She had no home…that was the whole point. She no longer had a home or a business premises. She had nothing other than the paltry few pounds Rupert Mayhew had paid her for Lucy’s board and tuition. And now she would have to return it…and Lucy. For she had nowhere to board her or teach her. She didn’t know whether to laugh or wail at the irony that she had been uncertain whether to send Lucy home. The decision had now been made for her and she was desolate.

‘I only came here to find John…to repair the roof before the rain comes,’ she mentioned in a low, flat tone as though merely talking to herself. ‘I no longer have a roof to repair…’

He pushed her back away from him to look at her. She met his gaze quite candidly, aquamarine eyes wide and sheeny. Small white teeth clenched on her unsteady bottom lip, making him aware how poignantly hard she strove for control.

‘Come back inside…I want to talk to you,’ he stated softly, yet in the tone of voice that brooked no refusal. She swallowed as though about to speak, then gazed past him.

‘Here’s Gregory,’ she announced quietly as the elderly man slowly rounded the corner of the manor on his bowing legs. ‘Gregory and his wife Martha have helped me at the Summer House for five years,’ she tremulously informed him, while persistently plucking his restraining hands from her arms. At her third attempt he slipped his hands deftly about so that they gripped hers rather than the reverse. But she pulled backwards, twisting her fingers to free them until he finally relinquished her.

Rebecca walked slowly towards Gregory and took the man’s arm, partly in affection and partly to aid his progress.

Luke leaned back against the warm mellow brickwork of the Manor and watched her slowly pass him without another glance. He didn’t move from the wall until the trap was screened from view by poplars at the end of his drive.

Driving rain streamed in endless rivulets down the wide window pane, capturing Luke’s mesmerised attention.

‘Brandy?’ he offered Victor Willoughby, holding his half-full glass of amber liquid out indicatively, although his dark eyes were still with the wet afternoon. He swivelled the leather chair about, his long fingers purposefully rifling through papers on the leather-topped desk, as he gave Robin Ramsden’s man of business a cursory glance.

‘Thank you…no,’ the fair-haired forty-year-old man declined, but licked his lips a little ruefully, as though reluctantly denying himself. ‘We should plough on, I’m afraid, my lord. There are several other matters yet, besides those we have covered.’

Luke nodded and decided not to mention yet again that he had no wish to be addressed so formally. He gave Willoughby his full attention as he replaced his crystal tumbler on the desk and then pushed it away. ‘Tea?’ he suggested, feeling inhospitable drinking alone.

‘Why, yes, thank you,’ Willoughby accepted with a smile.

Luke glanced over at his brother, ensconced close to the bookshelves in a comfortable brocade armchair with an open newspaper across him. ‘Ross, find Judith and arrange for some tea to be brought to the study. Three cups…’ he advised his brother meaningfully. Ross delivered a pained look at the prospect of light refreshment but got up good-naturedly and strolled from the room to find the housekeeper.

Luke knew he could have rung for service but a response was erratic. Not that the servants were hostile now; far from it. They were more likely to be beavering away in some odd corner of this Gothic pile.

In the three days since he had been in residence at Ramsden Manor, having found the household provisions sadly lacking, he had immediately replenished all stock cupboards. The lack of alcohol had been his and Ross’s first consideration. Old Edward Miles hadn’t been lying when he had denied any knowledge of brandy about the place. And the wine store Ross had found was down to its last dozen dusty bottles. So he had made good in buying in both alcohol and foodstuffs and taken care of various other shortcomings at the Manor. That, together with the promise that back wages and severance bonuses would be paid when the estate was sold, had combined to make him increasingly popular.

‘Due to the rather dilapidated state of the property, I wouldn’t like to estimate how long it might take to achieve a sale,’ Victor Willoughby mentioned, drawing Luke’s thoughts back to business, as he leafed through documents in front of him. ‘Perhaps if I were to arrange for minor work to be carried out…neaten the gardens, a little redecorating, for example…’

Luke cut in quietly. ‘I haven’t the time or inclination to tarry here. I would be willing to accept offers for the freehold which reflect its state of disrepair. Renovation is necessary, I agree. But the building is solid and free from any rot as far as I can detect.’

‘Indeed, my lord, I’m sure. I only meant…’

Luke interrupted him mildly. ‘I know what you meant and I thank you for your concern. The highest price possible isn’t my main consideration. Returning to Cornwall is, at the earliest opportunity.’ He gave the slightly disconcerted man a brief, conciliatory smile. ‘Shall I leave it to you to arrange for the sale of the freehold? And to deal with staff remuneration?’

‘Indeed, my lord,’ Victor Willoughby assured the preoccupied man who was again gazing through the rain-spattered glass into the drizzly-grey distance. ‘It may mean that several of my clerks will be working on your behalf, my lord.’ He coughed delicately. ‘Will payment for my firm’s services be taken from the proceeds of the estate sale, or will an earlier…?’

A small, cynical smile escaped Luke but he didn’t turn away from surveying the sodden landscape as he informed Willoughby levelly, ‘You will receive interim payments. I want the estate dealt with as a matter of urgency and will pay for that service accordingly. Your fees will not be dependent upon the actual sale. Should the matter be closed in record time, however, a bonus might…’ He allowed the enticement to hang between them for a moment. ‘I shall be travelling back to Cornwall next week and would like to leave in the sure knowledge that everything possible is being done to expedite matters. And that it is all in capable hands.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Victor Willoughby assured him, but sensing that somehow he had just received a subtle reprimand.

A light tapping at the door heralded the arrival of Judith with a laden tea tray. She smiled at Luke, informing him pleasantly, ‘I’ve brought you some treacle biscuits, my lord. You remember, those you liked yesterday.’

‘Thank you, Judith,’ Luke said graciously, with a small smile for her. She blushed happily, pouring tea into wafer-thin china cups. Once this was accomplished and tea distributed she loitered, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

Luke raised querying brows at her, wordlessly inviting her to speak if something was troubling her.

‘It’s nothing really, my lord…’

‘Mr Trelawney, Judith…I thought we had agreed you would use that,’ he reminded mildly, hoping that Victor Willoughby was also taking due note.

‘Yes, sir, I mean, Mr Trelawney. Well, sir, it’s nothing really, as I said, it’s just your brother…’ Judith tailed off and shuffled uncomfortably again.

Luke sighed out, ‘Yes, what now? Is he sliding down the banisters? Rolling drunk in the drawing room?’

‘No, sir. He’s…er…rolling dice with Joan and Sally…in the hallway. If you want dinner tonight, Mr Trelawney, he had best leave the girls be so I can get them to the vegetables.’ She rubbed appreciative hands together as she expounded, ‘It’s to be smoked trout and roast guinea fowl with roast potatoes and fruit tarts with cream and…’

‘And as you pass him in the hallway, Judith, tell him I want him, would you?’ Luke cut into her menu, a slow hand spanning his forehead, soothing his temples.

Judith bobbed a quick curtsy before bustling busily from the study.

Poking professionally about in his cavernous document case, Mr Willoughby seemed deaf to the unusual discourse. But he ruined his nonchalance by admitting with doleful sympathy, ‘I have a younger brother…’

Luke nodded acceptance of the man’s tacit condolences before getting back to business. ‘The Summer House Lodge…where is the lease for that building? I haven’t found it among any of the documents in this study. Do you hold it?’

‘The Summer House?’ Mr Willoughby repeated, a trifle surprised. ‘Oh, you won’t find any lease for that; there is none.’

Luke frowned enquiry across the desk at him. ‘Are you sure? The building is presently used as a small school, by Miss Rebecca Nash. She rents the premises on a lease, I would have thought.’

As Ross sauntered back into the room, Luke glanced up idly, scowling a little at his brother’s impenitent smile. Picking up the newspaper he had previously been reading, Ross strolled across to the window by Luke’s desk, as though enjoying better light there to study it.

‘Well, yes, she does reside there. But there is no lease,’ Willoughby confirmed as his pale eyes darted from one brother to the other.

‘Why not?’ Luke asked a little too quietly.

Willoughby noisily cleared his throat and slid nervous fingers between his stiff collar and his warming neck as he sensed an atmosphere fomenting. ‘There was never any need of one,’ he quickly advised Luke. ‘Robin Ramsden and Miss Nash appeared to have…an agreement. She just resides and works there and he—’ He broke off, desperately seeking the right words, aware of two sets of brown eyes watching him now. The silence strained interminably.

‘And he…?’ Luke finally prompted him, in a voice that was silky with danger, while his eyes relentlessly pinned down the weak blue ones seeking to evade him.

‘And he allowed her to,’ Mr Willoughby concluded quickly, pleased with his innocuous phrasing. It didn’t have the desired effect of diverting Luke Trelawney’s piercing gaze.

‘Possibly he took pity on her…because of the tragedy which occurred some five years ago,’ Willoughby suggested hastily. ‘It would have been about the same time she took up residence at the Summer House. Yes, that must have been it.’ He nodded, sure he had now satisfactorily managed a delicate situation.

‘Tragedy…?’

Just one soft word coupled with a penetrating, fierce stare and Victor Willoughby readily explained. ‘Miss Nash lost both her parents in a carriage accident in the winter snows. Within the same week she learned of the death of her fiancé in the Peninsula…er…he was a captain in the Hussars, I believe. Then her brother disappeared, too. That I believe was, financially, the crux of the matter. For her brother held the purse strings on her father’s death. He was charged with administering her small inheritance for her but no one could find him. I believe they still can’t.’ He licked dry lips and glanced warily at Luke Trelawney, noting his narrow-eyed thoughtfulness.

‘And Robin Ramsden‥?’ Luke interrogated him calmly.

‘And Robin Ramsden appeared to take her under his protection…er…I mean to say, he looked after her, so to speak,’ Mr Willoughby flustered, unwilling to imply too much of what he had never been certain. He had his own theories but he was not going to voice them. Definitely not to this man who had become rather daunting in the past few minutes.

Miss Nash was a lovely woman…he had seen her once or twice and had drawn the only logical conclusion he could for his late client’s continuing aid and protection. This new lord of the manor seemed also to have taken an immediate personal interest in her. It was no concern of his…but she was very beautiful…

Luke shoved back in his chair and stood up. He walked to the window and stared out, appearing oblivious to his brother barely a yard away, even though Ross’s anxious hazel eyes followed his movements. But Luke was peripherally aware of Willoughby behind him, gathering together his papers and stuffing them abruptly into his case in readiness to depart.

A hard, humourless smile curved Luke’s mouth as he finally allowed himself to concentrate fully on Rebecca. It was all beginning to fall into place. What a gullible fool he’d been and that rankled. Everyone knew him for a cynic. No wonder she had been prepared to speak to Robin Ramsden on his behalf when believing he’d been discovered trespassing. Using charm and influence on the lord of this Manor was, by all accounts, nothing new for her. Well, that would suit him damn fine. There was no need for that to change.

Whatever Robin Ramsden had provided for her over the years, he knew he could improve on…a thousandfold. And he’d believed her to be some chaste provincial maid he would need to proposition with utmost care. She’d cried on learning of Robin Ramsden’s death. Was it the man or the meal ticket she mourned? he wondered. Perhaps it was the prospect of losing her home…the schoolbuilding. What was she teaching there, in any case? If provocative Miss Mayhew, the young temptress he recalled from the woodland pond, was an untried schoolgirl, then…Ross was teetotal.

What did it matter? Rebecca had obviously fallen on hard times five years ago and had survived in any way she could. It was a commonplace tale.

He had already decided to take her with him and this changed nothing. Logically it made things easier, he acknowledged with a callous smile. He could now proposition her without risking having her outraged or hysterical. Even enthusiastic virgins were damn hard to tutor and sometimes barely worth the trouble. By the time they were adaptable and accomplished he was usually bored and looking elsewhere.

He thought of Wenna, something he hadn’t done for a week or more. He was bored and looking elsewhere, he acknowledged sourly, yet she had always been the perfect mistress. Passionate, obliging, skilful, discreet, faithful…the list was endless. One of his large, dark hands curled into a fist. She’d suited him fine until he’d come here.




Chapter Four


‘Lucy!’ Rebecca’s low disciplined voice carried easily in the quiet room and brought the girl’s brunette head directly around. Rebecca pointed indicatively at the book in front of her on the pine desk and mouthed, ‘Read!’

Once Lucy’s attention was once more with her work, Rebecca glared at John. The young carpenter shifted from the open doorway where he had been loitering under the pretext of examining its battered wooden framework.

Rebecca quietly left her own desk and, passing the few younger day girls who were chalking on small blackboards, entered the kitchen. John was kneeling on the floor, replacing tools in a canvas holdall.

‘The work must be finished now, John, surely?’ she asked the fair-haired youth. He scrambled up then, reddening, and she realised that he hadn’t heard her approach. He tugged at a lock of sun-bleached hair hanging low over one eye.

‘Yes, m’m…’ he mumbled. ‘Just a few more rafters to look at under them slates…once rain eases off a bit.’

He had turned up, totally unexpectedly, within hours of Rebecca learning of Robin Ramsden’s death. The new master had sent him, John had shyly explained and he had set to work. Rebecca was grateful he had arrived so speedily too, for by dusk the first fat drops of rain were staining the dusty ground around the Summer House.

John had been back each of the three days since, awaiting a break in the showers to carry out repairs. That was the problem. While he innocently surveyed the internal structure of the Summer House for chores to occupy him until he could get back on the roof, Lucy was purposefully surveying him. He was now watching her back, Rebecca realised with alarm. Her small parlour-cum-schoolroom often now found him lurking in its vicinity.

‘You still here, young man?’ Martha greeted John jovially as she entered the kitchen with a basket of washing beneath one capable arm. ‘Just about got this lot dry between showers,’ she informed Rebecca in the next breath. ‘Waiting for them biscuits to get out the oven, I suppose,’ she again addressed the blond youth.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say no, Martha.’ He dodged her playful swipe at him.

‘You’d best get yourself up on that roof then and earn some. Rain’s eased off a bit now.’

He sauntered from the kitchen, cradling his prized tools beneath one arm.

‘Never going to rid ourselves of him now, are we?’ Martha mentioned with a shrewd meaningful look towards the parlour door.

Rebecca sighed, approached the open kitchen door, and surveyed the dripping landscape. ‘I’ll have to speak to Lucy again. She distracts him…’

‘Distracts him?’ Martha echoed with a derisive snort. ‘That young miss is a bundle of trouble, if you ask me. Why, even my old Gregory has had eyes made at him. Not that I’m worried…or he’s capable,’ she added with a good-natured smile. ‘But that young John…now there’s a different matter,’ she warned with a sage wagging of her grey head.

‘I know she tends to flirt,’ Rebecca admitted, biting anxiously at her bottom lip.

‘You’re looking a bit brighter today, if I may say so, Miss Becky,’ Martha changed the subject abruptly.

‘I do feel a little less anxious, Martha,’ she said quietly. ‘The shock of hearing of Robin’s death made me a little illogical. But since then I have been thinking…perhaps things aren’t quite so black. Now I have had time to consider…’ She sighed, reflecting that ‘consider’ hardly began to do justice to the sleepless, fretful nights she had endured since first learning of this tragedy. ‘I certainly can’t honestly blame Mr Trelawney for wanting to return to Cornwall or to the home and estates he has there. Nor could I have complained had he wanted to take up residence at Ramsden Manor and charge me rent for using this building. It is his property, after all, to do with as he wishes. Because Robin was so good to me I tend to forget that I am just here on sufferance. But Mr Trelawney has sent John to repair the roof, so with all things considered, he has been quite kind…quite nice…’

‘Gregory says he thinks the young master be quite taken with you too,’ Martha mentioned with an astute narrowed look at Rebecca, as she deftly folded laundry. ‘He says last time he laid eyes on his lordship, he were watching you walk away from him as though…’

‘He feels sorry for me,’ Rebecca cut in quietly. ‘He realises that I shall be dispossessed and is good enough to sympathise. But I shall manage. I believe it will be some months yet before the matter of the estate is settled. I must use that time to again search for Simon. And I must now succeed,’ she announced vehemently, concentrating on memories of her twenty-four-year-old brother and her inheritance, held within his grasp.

It wasn’t a great fortune. But her five thousand pounds was the dividing line between poverty and self-respect. It would have been her dowry on her marriage to David. It was hers by right and she now needed to invest it for her future; to keep her free of soul-destroying drudgery as a provincial governess or companion. For she was aware that very little else awaited her once her rent-free tenancy of the Summer House was terminated. She was a spinster of almost twenty-six now and meeting someone to love and marry was increasingly remote.

She rarely socialised. Even when in London with Elizabeth they had visited the theatre on only one occasion due to Elizabeth’s recent confinement.

There was always the chance that a widower with children might take her on and provide her with a reasonable life. She sighed wistfully, for the notion of a loveless, convenience marriage for respectability and shelter was dispiriting. Since David no one had attracted or excited her…Her meandering thoughts circled back to Luke Trelawney. Her heart rate increased and a spontaneous rush of blood stained her cheeks at what would have been her next thought. She abandoned it immediately.

Her fingers sought automatic comfort from her silver locket, and she thought of dear David. She concentrated on his fine straw-coloured hair, his rounded face and the light freckling that dusted his nose and cheeks. It was so unfair. He had loved her dearly, although his parents had been keen for him to make a match with a young woman of better family. A middle-class merchant’s youngest daughter was certainly not what they had in mind. The fact that all the Nash children had been well educated and had good connections mattered little.

David’s father, Sir Paul Barton, was a baronet with a certain social standing and he had hoped his eldest son would improve the family’s status and finances on marriage. There had been no celebration and only a small announcement in the paper, which David had insisted upon. Her sapphire betrothal ring was safely wrapped in tissue in her bedroom. She hoped she would never be forced to sell it to survive.

But David had been strong and loyal and had firmly declared his intention to marry her as soon as his commission terminated. It would have been three years ago, Rebecca realised. She would have been a happily married woman for three years, perhaps with children of her own. And a neat villa in Brighton. It was what she and David had discussed during their nine-month courtship. He had always treated her with such respect…such affection…

Her poignant memories were interrupted by a gravelly voice. ‘You be best off forgetting about that brother of yours, Miss Becky,’ Gregory sternly noted as he laid pungent, freshly dug leeks on the scrubbed pine table. Martha shot him a warning frown. ‘She be best to know,’ Gregory insisted. ‘It was just a shame your poor late pa didn’t know what his son was getting into. If he hada known, he woulda left you your money in safer hands, I reckon.’

‘Gregory!’ Rebecca admonished him, shocked by his temerity. He always had tended to speak his mind, but as he aged he was becoming a little too blunt.

‘You know I speak truth, Miss Becky,’ he placated her softly, seeing the distress in her lovely face. ‘But I’m sorry fer upsetting you. Just know this. Jake Blacker’s been seen in Brighton again recently, so I heard. And that means only one thing. Contraband is coming ashore again.’

‘My brother was never involved in smuggling, Gregory,’ Rebecca stated stiffly as she occupied her nervous hands by folding laundry with Martha. She noted the anxious look that passed between the couple. ‘I know Simon had dealings with that ruffian,’ she admitted, trying to ease the atmosphere. ‘I challenged him about Jake Blacker disturbing Mama at home once when Simon and I were in town. He swore Blacker was only looking for him because he lost to him at cards. You know how he was always gambling in taverns. But Simon swore to Papa that he had repaid him and that he would avoid mixing with any of those reprobates in the future.’

‘Where’s he been all this time, then, Miss Becky?’ Martha asked quietly. ‘Why hasn’t he been by to see how you are coping alone? It’s a terrible thing for a brother to leave his sister so alone to fend for herself.’

‘He obviously knows very well that Robin assists me….’ She broke off, realising then just what worried this dear couple. Robin Ramsden was no longer able to do so. ‘Besides,’ she hurriedly said, ‘he knows that I see Elizabeth also. My sister may be married and in London, but we keep in touch.’

A derisive snort met this information and Rebecca knew the reason for it. In all the six years Elizabeth had been married to James Bartholomew, a London lawyer, Rebecca had never once received an offer of help, financial or otherwise. She gave the Turners a conciliatory smile. They were only concerned for her welfare, she knew that. She also knew that without them she would never have been able to cope with running this small establishment.

She had always known that once Robin Ramsden and his patronage were gone she would be alone and vulnerable. She now felt foolish for not having prepared better for that day.

But she had always believed Simon to be alive. She knew sometimes with quite frightening certainty that her hell-raising brother was ridiculously close to her. Just as she was sure that he had used her inheritance as his own and was striving to replace it before he returned with a plausible tale for his absence. Finding Simon and extracting her money from him was now crucial.

Gazing, preoccupied, through the doorway into the damp afternoon, it was a moment before Rebecca noticed the couple strolling down the pathway towards the Summer House. As her eyes alighted on them, her soft mouth immediately curved into a delighted smile. ‘Oh, Kay and Adam are visiting us,’ she advised the Turners with a backward flick of a glance.

‘Best check them biscuits,’ Martha noted briskly. ‘Be baking another batch, more’n like, what with the girls, young John and vicar ’n wife on the way.’

As Rebecca greeted the new arrivals, ushering them into the kitchen with cordial complaints about the abrupt change in the weather, Gregory mentioned casually, ‘You’d best add his lordship to that list, Martha. I heard from Judith that he’s pertickler to a biscuit.’

As Kay and Adam Abbott crowded into the small kitchen, accepting the invitation to be seated and partake of a little light refreshment, the bustle prevented Rebecca clearly understanding Gregory’s cryptic remark. Noting his weatherbeaten countenance still turned to the window, she doubtfully approached the doorway.

Ross was standing, hands on hips, chestnut head thrown back, staring assessingly up at her roof. He shouted something up at John and pointed. Rebecca walked immediately out into the humid afternoon to greet him. She had an odd liking for this good-looking man she barely knew.

‘He considers himself a bit of a carpenter,’ explained a sardonic well-remembered voice that had her twisting immediately about.

Luke Trelawney was behind her and just to one side of the building as though he had walked around it. He held the reins of a magnificent pitch-black stallion in one hand. Rebecca’s eyes were drawn immediately to the fine animal, such a contrast to the farm hack she had seen him with by the pond.

‘Handsome brute, don’t you think?’ Luke stated ironically, noting her interest.

Rebecca raised thick-lashed luminous eyes to search his, noting the glitter in their dark depths. The description was as fitting for the rider as the horse and he was well aware of it.

She gave him a small smile, trying to calm that sudden increased pulse that his imposing presence always seemed to raise. She turned quickly on her heel, attempting to hide the colour she could feel staining her cheeks.

‘Thank you for sending John so quickly,’ she said distractedly, gazing up at the roof where the young carpenter was still receiving advice from Ross below. ‘I was right about the rain, you see. Or rather, Gregory was. We’ve only had a little leaking. I’m very grateful.’ Confident she had regained her composure, she faced him again, biting her lip a little at the expression in his eyes. They were narrowed and intent, as always. But the amused assessment had a harder edge that disturbed her. She realised he probably no longer found her rustic gaucheness quite so entertaining.

‘You knew I’d send him, didn’t you?’ he remarked mildly, as his eyes followed John’s careful descent from the roof’s summit. ‘It’s what the lord of the Manor does for you, isn’t it? Looks after you?’

Rebecca moistened her lips, feeling her agitation increasing as dark eyes swooped back to pitilessly pounce on her.

‘I want to talk to you. I told you that last time I saw you,’ he said a touch irascibly. ‘You disappeared before I had a chance to discuss future arrangements…’

Rebecca managed a smile, a coiling and fluttering in the pit of her stomach at the memory of how he had comforted her that day. His arms had felt so welcome…so strong and protective. She sensed another wave of colour about to suffuse her skin and steeled herself desperately against it.

‘Well, come in…please. And Ross,’ she pleasantly offered. ‘Reverend Abbott and his wife are here, too. We are just having tea. Please do come in,’ she urged sincerely, a hand extending towards the Summer House. ‘I’m sure they would both like to meet you before you return to Cornwall. Have you any idea how long you intend to remain in Sussex, Mr Trelawney?’ she asked conversationally.

‘I shall be leaving next week,’ he brusquely informed her.

This information had Rebecca’s golden head angling immediately up to him. ‘Next week?’ she breathed, her face whitening now, enhancing aquamarine eyes to jewel richness. ‘Have you found a purchaser so soon?’ she demanded a little boldly in her agitation. She recalled her brave words with Martha barely fifteen minutes ago…how she would cope with arranging her future and her search for Simon in the time it would take to find a new landlord.

‘The matter will be left to a man of business…’ he tersely supplied, while inwardly cursing that he had managed to turn up to proposition her at the very same time the damned vicar arrived to take tea. He gazed about impatiently and Rebecca falteringly invited, ‘Well…would you like to come in and—?’

‘Not really, Rebecca.’ He bluntly cut across her words, aware how boorish he must sound. But seeing her again, trying to reconcile the role of paramour to Robin Ramsden with this fawn-like beautiful young woman who hesitated nervously before him, was excrutiating. Robin Ramsden had been fifty-two and a renowned lecher. Luke had since learned Robin had suffered with a heart complaint for some years. Instead of expiring atop some harlot in a Bath brothel it could just as easily have been here at this Summer House. God, he wished he’d never seen her. He could have come and gone from this place within a week, attended to business, spent a pleasant few nights roistering with Ross in Brighton, then returned to his life of luxurious contentment in Cornwall.

As his granite-jawed silence became protracted, comprehension dawned on Rebecca. He had come to tell her to leave. He was returning to Cornwall next week and wanted to evict her before he went. He was irritated because he was unsure how to broach the matter now she had company. She had sensed he had something to say. Her pale face lifted to his, her chin tilting in pride. She wasn’t about to beg for time or anything else. She had little in the way of possessions. She could probably be packed and out in less than a week.

‘When would you like me to leave, Mr Trelawney?’ she asked coolly. ‘I should have liked a little more notice, but I realise I have no rights in the matter. I would appreciate it if you would at least allow me to get a message to Miss Mayhew’s family, so they can arrange to collect her. Thankfully, she is the only boarder at present…’ Feeling a lump thickening in her throat and tears spearing her eyes, she swiftly turned and walked away.

She hastened blindly through the crowded kitchen, noting Ross leaning nonchalantly against a wall, a mug of tea in one hand and a large aromatic biscuit in the other. She managed a quiet cordial response to his greeting, and even to swap a few bright words with Kay as she made her way to the parlour and her pupils. She felt guilty now at having abandoned them for so long.

Lucy and John were standing close, chatting quietly by the girl’s desk; as they saw Rebecca, they sprang apart. The three younger girls had abandoned their alphabets to chalk pictures on their blackboards.

‘That’s all for today. You’re a little later leaving than usual so hurry home,’ Rebecca emphasised as she dismissed them. ‘Martha has made some refreshment. Perhaps you’d care for something before you leave, John,’ she offered the loitering youth.

‘Thank you, m’m,’ John gruffly mumbled as he and Lucy quit the room.

Alone in the parlour, Rebecca momentarily bowed her head in despair before abruptly raising it. She would not be cowed by this. She had survived the loss of her beloved parents and her fiancé five years ago—she would surely survive the loss of this building. She glanced about the small parlour, at the whitewashed walls hung with a few pictures from her late parents’ home, at the polished pianoforte from their parlour. She sighed. It was an enchanting building, filled with fine memories, and she would miss it dreadfully.

With head held high she walked back to the kitchen and forced a smile as she entered. There was little need; apart from Martha the hot room, redolent of cinnamon, was empty.

‘All gone out to look at the horseflesh,’ Martha advised, on taking in Rebecca’s bewilderment. ‘Gregory never did say just how handsome a man he is. Nor did you for that matter,’ she added with a sideways look. ‘Charming as can be, too. Came in and introduced hisself and his brother…such a pair of good lookers as I never did see.’

Rebecca was aware that Adam Abbott was a keen horseman who owned a particularly fine grey gelding himself. The beautiful black stallion she had seen was sure to interest him. And Kay took an interest in whatever pleased her husband.

As Rebecca peeked discreetly through the kitchen window, she noticed Adam mount the magnificent ebony horse and enthusiastically trot it around in a large circle in front of the Summer House. He called something out to Luke who nodded, while casually surveying the scene. Kay and Ross were chatting idly; Kay petting the neck of a chestnut mare that Rebecca had not seen before, obviously Ross’s. Gregory leaned against the house, smilingly watching the pastoral scene, while Lucy and John seemed content to observe each other.





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