The Earl's Captive Page 9

“A fine way of punishing her!” Rachel's tone was acid. Lucy felt a stirring of sympathy. She knew exactly how she must be feeling.

  “My dearest sweet, this was an unfortunate, isolated incident.”

  Philip's voice was wheedling and persuasive and Lucy hated him for his attempts to extricate himself from his dilemma. She almost felt like stumbling out in her ragged, bruised state and showing the girl how her precious sweetheart had abused a total stranger, thus making her loathe him even more.

  But Rachel's next words sent her mind and sympathies spinning in quite the opposite direction.

  “Like father, like son,” she sneered. “Your father was fool enough to lose your family money and your fine house to my father, on the turn of a card. And now his equally foolish son, you, Philip Darwell –” Lucy, from her hiding place in the stable, could imagine Rachel pointing an elegant finger at him, – “has thrown away his only chance to get some part of his inheritance back. I realize now that you never loved me, although I once stupidly imagined that you did.”

  “But Rachel …”

  “No, no excuses. Do you really think that I, Rachel Hardcastle, wish to be married to a penniless ne'er-do-well with a meaningless title, who courts sluts every moment my back is turned? Why, I'd be a laughing stock in my own house! I don't wish to hear your lying explanation.

  “There will be no forgiveness, either from myself or from my father. I'm totally disgusted with what I've just been forced to witness. I don't want your title, I don't want you. I hope never to set eyes on you again. As soon as your father passes away, Darwell Manor becomes mine, as my father has made me a present of the deeds.

  “As for what happens to you, well, doubtless you can find some little serving maid with an accommodating body who will be only too pleased to take you in. Goodbye, Philip.”

  Lucy heard the sound of a horse's hooves and risked a glance out of the stable doorway. She saw a stiff back clad in blue velvet, and a long skein of pale hair tied back with a brown ribbon, vanishing down the drive atop a roan gelding, with Philip rushing after her, calling her name.

  This, at last, was the perfect opportunity to make her escape.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was her own fault. She could have run round the stable block and found some route to lead her away from the manor, but she dithered. What stopped her was the knowledge that she was in terrible danger, not only from Philip but from Pat and Smithy, too.

  Maybe, right at this moment, they were discovering the theft of the mare and the disappearance of both herself and Rory. They would jump to the wrong conclusion, of course; they would assume that she and Rory had stolen the mare and run off together.

  Darwell Manor would be the first place they would think to look, but if they came here, they would be walking straight into a trap. Yet there was no way she could warn them, and no way of explaining her actions to them. Philip expected her to lead him straight to the remaining members of the party.

  If they had noticed anything the previous day – that look which Philip had given her, for instance – or if Rory had informed them of his jealous suspicions, they might think, quite naturally, that she was siding with Philip against them. Yet, if she refused to obey Philip, the situation was just as bad for her. Whichever way she looked at it, the outlook was equally bleak.

  Now it really was too late, for she saw Philip silhouetted in the doorway, scanning the shadows for her.

  “I know you're in there. Must I take a lantern and find you, or will you be a good girl and show yourself?”

  Was she imagining things, or was his voice not quite as stern as it had been earlier, before his encounter with Rachel? The tone of icy accusation seemed to have gone.

  A quick glance round assured Lucy that there was no other way out of the stable building. She was at a dead end, with nothing but a row of loose boxes between herself and Philip. Taking a step forward, she said softly, “I'm here.”

  He made no move to approach her, so Lucy walked up to him, still clutching her cloak tightly around her torn dress. Once again, she had an intuitive feeling that she should be reasonable with him, in spite of the way he had abused her.

  “I couldn't help hearing what just took place between you and your betrothed. I'm sorry. But if you'll let a woman you don't even know give her opinion, I'd say it was for the best. She doesn't sound like the sort of girl who'd make a man very happy.”

  There! She'd tried her best to be consoling. Now, would he soften his feelings towards her?

  To her amazement, Philip raised one fist and brought it smashing down against the doorframe. Beads of blood sprang out along his grazed knuckles but he made no attempt to rub or suck them, simply left his damaged hand dangling at his side. There seemed to be some kind of inner conflict going on inside him.

  Patiently, Lucy waited for a response or an order.

  “What's your name?” His voice seemed to come from far away, as if he were speaking in a trance.

  “Lucy, er, Swift.” She had been about to say 'McDonnell', but the thought of being known by that name made her stomach churn. She wanted no more to do with the name, or the man who bore it.

  He made no comment about her hesitation, just looked down at the straw-littered stable floor and mumbled, “It's a disaster. If I've lost her, I've lost everything.”

  Lucy wanted to point out that it was his fault – that if only he had let her explain, none of this would have happened – but somehow she managed to hold her tongue and say, as soothingly as she could, “I gather there was more than simply love at stake.”

  Philip raised his head and looked at her, as if seeing her clearly for the first time.

  “Look, I … that is …” he faltered, “… I want to say I'm sorry for what I did to you.”

  His words started coming out in a rush, tumbling over one another. A faint flush rose to his pale cheeks. “I was very angry. It was true that I had set out to put a stop to the horse-thievery and crooked trading that has been going on, but I shouldn't have treated you like that. I saw you only as a thief, not as a woman. A lady,” he corrected himself.

  “I suppose if I had been a man, you would have given me a good hiding?”

  “Yes, of course, although I don't know what chance I would have stood against that giant of yours.”

  “And would you really have turned us over to the authorities, seen that we all hanged?”

  He fell silent, biting his lower lip thoughtfully. Then he raised his chin defiantly and said, “I can't lie about it. Yes, that was my intention.”

  Feeling that the perfect moment had arrived, Lucy spoke up boldly. “I'd like you to know that I didn't fall in with the bunch of thieves, tricksters, horse traders, or whatever you like to call them, entirely of my own free will.

  “I was riding alone at night and I was set upon in an isolated spot and captured. For various reasons, I could not get away from them. I was as much their victim as, now, I am yours.”

  She faced him as defiantly as he faced her. She tried hard not to blink or let her gaze waver as his grey, inscrutable eyes held hers.

  Finally, he broke off the contest, looked away and said, thoughtfully, “I think I believe you.”

  Lucy felt weak with relief. So there was some hope for her. Maybe, if he would let her tell the full story, then perhaps there was some way in which he could help her.

  All at once he seemed to notice it was raining, and stepped into the shelter of the stable, next to Lucy. He stayed a little apart from her, as if trying to retain some shreds of dignity. Taking his silence as encouragement to carry on, Lucy found herself explaining the events that had led up to her capture on the moor.

  She deliberately withheld the information about the so-called wedding she had been forced to undergo. An inner voice was urging her not to reveal to Philip that she was soiled goods. Instead, she gave him the impression that she had remained virtuous despite Rory's constant pestering, and that it was relief, not jealousy, that she had felt that morning on
discovering him with the girl in the inn.

  When she told him of her plan to steal his fifty guineas and use it for lodgings and a horse, he let out a peal of laughter.

  “You silly girl. Do you really think I would have given it to you? Did I really seem that much of an ass to you yesterday?”

  Lucy didn't dare say “Yes,” so she contented herself with the tactful, yet enigmatic, “I had my doubts.”

  Philip frowned. “I can see that you are in considerable distress and trouble, girl. Still, although your plight touches me, I feel I cannot go back on the solemn promise I made to myself to put an end to all this crooked horse dealing.

  “It is still within my power to end not just the livelihood, but the lives of you and your cronies. However, I do believe, after what you have just said, that you are an innocent victim of circumstance.”

  Lucy felt enormous relief, yet instinctively she knew that there would be a price to pay. Philip Darwell was obviously no spineless, effete upper-class wastrel, whatever Rachel may have said. She had an idea that he was about to strike some kind of bargain with her. Would it mean giving her body to him? Would she be forced to betray Pat, Smithy and Rory? What was she going to have to do in return for his sparing her life?

  But Lucy's curiosity was not to be assuaged. Philip Darwell seemed unwilling to reveal what was going on in his mind. Instead, he smiled grimly.

  “Come with me,” he said, propelling her out of the stables and across the courtyard. “You're going to stay a while at Darwell Manor.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The ground floor room was almost bare. The carpet must have been at least a hundred years old, Lucy thought, and the scuffed floorboards beneath it could be glimpsed through the moth holes. The bed and the giant oak cabinet in one corner were ornately carved with a matching leaf pattern and the same family crest Lucy had noticed above the front doorway of the Manor. The whole house spoke not of austerity, but of grandeur faded to a genteel poverty.

  A housemaid had brought in some logs and lit a fire and Lucy felt her convulsive shivering starting to ease. The window was set into two feet of solid grey stone and opened onto a balcony overlooking a stretch of parkland. Once, it must have been beautiful, for the trees outside were set in straight rows flanking a wide avenue, now a wilderness of fallen branches and tangled undergrowth. Through the driving rain, Lucy spied a glitter of water beyond the trees and some remnants of ancient statuary – or were they just tree stumps covered in ivy?

  Once, she thought, fine lords and ladies must have strolled arm in arm down that avenue, to dawdle by the fountains while musicians played on the flat lawn outside the orangery. In her mind, she cleared the tangled weeds and dead branches, plucked the fallen leaves and coarse grasses from the lawn and restored the fallen masonry at the foot of the walls.

  Then, having tidied the garden, she set about revitalizing the heart of the crumbling mansion in her imagination, covering the naked walls with paintings and tapestries, placing an ornamental table here, a vase there, adding carpets, cushions and brocades in rich, glowing colours. Then she peopled it, imagining the conversations, the intrigues and romances, the fine clothes, sweet music and rich, delicious food, food fit for their monarch George 1V himself.

  So lost was she in her fantasies that she did not hear the maid re-enter the room and jumped when she felt the light touch on her elbow.

  “Sorry, miss. The young master said I was to bring you dry clothes. I'm afraid it's not very fashionable, but then, you see, it's one of my own. Made it myself, miss.”

  Lucy stared at her, and at the simple grey dress lying over her arm, a cotton chemise draped beneath it. The woman was about sixty, with a lined face and thin, greying hair scraped into a bun. She looked as if she had seen hungry days, but there was an air of contented resignation about her and her seamed mouth was smiling with pride as she proffered the dress.

  Lucy took the garment and examined it closely. Although the material was simple homespun wool, the stitching was so fine as to be almost invisible, the sleeves perfectly set into the armholes and the waist gathered into soft pleats that fell the full length of the skirt.

  “It's beautiful.”

  A smile lit the woman's face, making her brown eyes dance. It was just like turning on a lamp. She must have been pretty once, thought Lucy.

  “I shall be proud to wear it.”

  “The young master said that, after you were dressed, you should join him for luncheon in the banqueting hall. I will show you the way.”

  Lucy could not resist asking a question. “You said 'the young master'. Does this mean the old Earl is still alive?”

  “Yes, miss, although he's failing. These days he never leaves his bed. Matthew – that's my husband – sees to him. He won't have a woman near him since the mistress passed away. My advice to you is stay on the ground floor of this house and never venture upstairs where he and the young master sleep.”

  “Why?”

  “The Earl is frail. The shock of seeing a stranger would be bad for him. He was once such a fine man, but the death of his wife changed all that.”

  The maid's eyes darkened as though she were reliving a sad memory, then she resumed her composure and began assisting Lucy to remove her wet garments. When Lucy took off her cloak, revealing the ragged tears in the dress, the woman tutted and asked Lucy's permission to mend the damage, which Lucy gladly gave.

  “Will you be staying long, miss?” she asked. “I'll try and finish the sewing tonight, but if Matthew insists we cannot spare the candle, I'll have to carry on tomorrow. I'll rise before dawn and –”

  Lucy cut through her breathless promises. “I think I shall be here for a while, a few days at least. You will have plenty of time to finish the work. I'm very grateful.”

  The dress was a little large but at least it was warm, for which Lucy was grateful. She remembered that she was still wearing the trinket that Rory had bought her at the fair. She knew she should have hurled it across the field to follow the earring, but it was the only piece of jewellery she possessed, so she was loath to part with it. Not only that, but every time she touched it, she thought wistfully of how much she had loved Rory then. There were some memories that not even the cruellest treatment could destroy.

  She was about to lift it from inside the dress and let it rest against the grey wool, to give her neckline a touch of decoration, when something stopped her. She was in an Earl's house. Even if he and his son were now living in reduced circumstances, there must have been a time when they had known real gold and real jewels. She didn't want to stand before them wearing the kind of bauble a scullery maid might have sported. Although she couldn't match the Darwells in lineage, her father was wealthier than they, and Lucy had a well-developed sense of good taste. So the necklace stayed hidden inside her bodice.

  Now the maid was brushing her hair, trying to smooth out the wet tangles. Lucy bore the pain patiently as the woman tackled each knot in turn, knowing full well that she could do it much quicker herself. But the maid was a good woman and Lucy had no desire to hurt her or rob her of her pride in her handiwork.

  As her chestnut ringlets were tugged this way and that, Lucy asked curiously, “What happened to the young Earl's mother?”

  “It was when the baby was born, miss. She lost too much blood and wasted away. The master never got over it.”

  There was an odd restraint in her voice. Lucy wondered at it, but dismissed it as imagination.

  “If he was motherless, who brought him up?” she asked.

  “At first there was the Countess of Harringford, the Earl's sister. The Earl was overseas on a long campaign and she hired a wet nurse and took Philip to her own home for two whole years, until the Earl came back and she found herself with child.

  “Then the young master was brought back here and Matthew and I did our best for him. He thought of me as his mother, until the Earl overheard him calling me Mama one day and forbade it. He had a governess and a nurse then, until th
e Earl started to lose his money and they had to leave. But I'm talking too much.”

  She looked at Lucy as if begging her forgiveness, then confessed, “I was a terrible chatterbox when I was young. Matthew could never get me to stop talking. And now, apart from Cook, it's so rare that I get the chance to talk to another woman.”

  She stopped, her hand flying to her mouth. “I do beg your pardon, miss. For all I know, you might be a lady yourself. The young master didn't tell me.”

  “Don't worry, er …” Lucy raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  The grey-haired maid quickly provided the information: “It's Martha, miss. I'm the housekeeper, the maid and just about everything else, miss.”

  “Oh really, Martha. Call me 'miss' if you must, but I would prefer to be addressed as Lucy.” She had warmed to this woman, who could possibly become both friend and ally to her. “Regrettably, I'm not a lady, a countess or even a duchess – I'm just plain Lucy Swift.” Not McDonnell. Definitely not that.

  The fire had dried her hair. Martha brought her a looking glass and Lucy was pleased to see the flush that the heat of the fire had brought to her cheeks and the gleam on her clean hair. The shade of the dress was maybe a little drab, but her own natural, vivid colouring overcame it. She now felt ready to face Philip and she asked Martha to lead the way.

  The corridor was uncarpeted and Lucy's footsteps echoed until, in her heavy boots, she fancied she sounded like a whole army on the march. She told Martha and they both giggled, until the maid put a finger to her lips and intimated that they were drawing near the banqueting hall.

  Martha went ahead and opened a door. Lucy walked past her and found herself standing at the top of a flight of wooden steps leading down to the scantily carpeted floor of a huge rectangular room. Tattered remnants of flags, along with the mounted heads of magnificently antlered deer, adorned the dark-panelled walls and at one end of the room was a long stained-glass window bearing the now familiar family crest. Below it, a collection of ancient lances were crisscrossed in an orderly pattern.