Buch lesen: «The Rake's Enticing Proposal»

Chapter One

‘I have one last, but very important, quest for you, Chase...’

Chase drew Brutus to a halt at the foot of Huxley’s Folly.

The last time he’d seen his cousin, he’d stood precisely there in the arched doorway of the stone tower, his wispy grey hair weaving in the breeze like an underwater plant.

The last time he’d seen him and the first and last time Huxley had ever expressed any sentiment regarding Chase’s chosen occupation.

‘I do hope what you do for Oswald doesn’t place you in too much peril, Chase. Tessa would be very upset if you joined her too soon.’

Huxley always referred to Chase’s mother as if her death was merely a temporary absence. It was one of the reasons Chase found visiting Huxley a strain, but that was no excuse for neglecting him these past couple of years, no matter how busy Oswald kept him.

‘It’s my fault, Brutus.’ He stroked the horse’s thick black neck. ‘I should have visited more often. Too late now.’

Brutus huffed, twin bursts of steam foaming into the chilly air.

Chase sighed and swung out of the saddle. Coming to Huxley Manor always stretched his patience, but without Huxley himself his stay would be purgatorial. Nothing wrong with postponing it a little longer with a visit to the ramshackle Folly tower. Every time he came it looked a little more stunted, but as children he and Lucas and Sam fantasised that it was populated with ogres, magical beasts and escaped princesses.

He approached the wall where Huxley kept a key behind a loose brick, when he noticed the door was slightly open. He frowned and slipped inside, a decade of working as emissary for his uncle at the Foreign Office coming into play even though he knew there was probably no need. Being sent to smooth out some of the less mentionable kinks in relations with Britain’s allies meant one collected as many enemies as friends. Wariness had the advantage of increasing longevity, but it also flared up at inappropriate moments, and this was probably just such a case.

No doubt whoever was in the tower was merely his cousin, Henry, the new Baron Huxley, or Huxley’s trusted secretary, Mallory, Chase told himself as he climbed the stairs silently.

It was neither.

For a moment as he stood in the doorway of the first floor of the tower he wondered if he’d conjured one of their old tales into being—the Princess locked away and pining for her Prince.

His mouth quirked in amusement at his descent into fancy as he took in the details of her attire. Definitely not a princess.

She was seated at Huxley’s desk, which was positioned to provide a view from the arched window, so she was facing away and all he could see was the curve of her cheek and tawny-brown hair gathered into a tightly coiled bun exposing the fragile line of her nape and a very drab-coloured pelisse with no visible ornamentation.

She was leaning over some papers on the desk with evident concentration and the opening words in Huxley’s cryptic letter forced their way back into his mind.

There is something I have but recently uncovered that I must discuss with you. I think it will be best you not share this revelation with anyone, except perhaps with Lucas, as it can do more harm than good to those I care about most...

Huxley’s letter, dated almost a month ago, awaited him on his return from St Petersburg two days ago, as well as a message from his man of business with news of Huxley’s demise and his last will and testament.

Chase hadn’t the slightest idea what Huxley was referring to, but he had every intention of finding out. Through the centuries the Sinclair name became synonymous with scandal, but now Lucas was married and Sam widowed Chase had every intention of keeping his family name out of the muck and mire it so loved wallowing in. If Huxley had uncovered something damaging and had it here at the Manor, Chase intended to destroy it as swiftly and quietly as possible.

Therefore, the sight of a strange woman seated at Huxley’s desk and looking through his papers was not the most welcome vision at the moment.

As if sensing his tension, she straightened, like a rabbit pricking its ears, then turned and rose in one motion, sending the chair scraping backwards. For the briefest moment her eyes reflected fear, but then she did something quite different from most women he knew. Like a storm moving backwards she gathered all expression inwards and went utterly flat. It was like watching liquid drain out of a crack in a clay vessel, leaving it empty and dull.

They inspected each other in silence. With all trace of emotion gone from her face she was as unremarkable as her clothes—her height was perhaps a little on the tall side of middling, but what figure he could distinguish beneath her shapeless pelisse was too slim to fit society’s vision of proper proportions and the pelisse’s hue, a worn dun colour that hovered between grey and brown and was an offence to both, gave a sallow cast to her pale skin. Only her eyes were in any way remarkable—large and a deep honey-brown. Even devoid of expression they held a jewel-like glitter which made him think of a tigress watching its prey from the shadows.

‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ she demanded, her voice surprisingly deep and husky for someone so slight. That, too, was unusual. Similar demands were fired at him by friend and foe since he’d joined the army and not nearly as imperiously. Predictably he felt his hackles rise along with his suspicions.

‘I could ask the same question. Are you another of Lady Ermintrude’s nieces? I thought I had met the lot.’

She moved along the desk as he approached, putting it between them, but he concentrated on what lay on top. Piled high with papers and books, it was much more chaotic than he remembered and he wondered if his cousin or the young woman were the cause.

He glanced at the slip of paper she’d inspected with such concentration. It was a caricature of a camel inspecting a pot of tea through a quizzing glass, grey hair swept back in an impressive cockade over a patrician brow. The resemblance to his cousin’s antiquarian friend Phillip ‘Poppy’ Carmichael was impressive and a fraction of Chase’s tension eased, but only a fraction. This particular scrap of paper might have nothing to do with Huxley’s message, but any of the other papers here might hold the key to understanding it.

He returned his attention to the woman. She was younger than his first impression of her—perhaps in her mid-twenties. Her hand rested on a stack of books at the edge of the desk and she looked like a countrified statue of learning, or a schoolmistress waiting for her class to settle. She did have rather the look of a schoolmistress—proper, erect, a little impatient, as if he was not merely a slow pupil, but purposely recalcitrant. With her chin raised, her eyes had a faintly exotic slant, something an artist would attempt if he wanted to depict a goddess to be wary of.

And he was. If there was one thing he’d learned was that appearances could be and often were deceptive. So he leaned his hip on the desk, crossed his arms and gave her his best smile.

‘It is impolite to read another person’s correspondence. Even if he is dead.’

‘I didn’t mean...’ The blank façade cracked a little, but the flash of contrition was gone as quickly as it appeared and she raised her chin, her mouth flattening into a stubborn line that compressed the appealing fullness of her lower lip. ‘As I am betrothed to Lord Huxley I have every right to be here. Can you say the same?’

‘Unfortunately not. He wouldn’t have me.’

She gave a little gasp of laughter and it transformed her face as much as that brief flash of contrition—her eyes slanting further, her cheeks rounding and her mouth relaxing from its prim horizontal line. Then something else followed her amusement—recognition.

‘I should have guessed immediately. You must be one of the Sinclairs, yes? Henry said one of you would likely come to Huxley Manor because of Lord Huxley’s will.’

‘One of us. You make us sound like a travelling troupe of theatrical performers.’

‘Much more entertaining according to Miss Fenella.’

‘My cousin Fen was always prone to gossip. You can stop edging towards the door; I have no intention of pouncing on Henry’s freshly minted betrothed, whatever the requirements of my reputation. I am surprised, though. I had not heard he was engaged.’

‘We...we are keeping it secret at the moment because of the bereavement. Only Lady Ermintrude and the Misses Ames know. I should not have told you, either, but I assume Henry will have to tell you if you are staying at the Manor. Please do not mention it to anyone, though. It would be improper...while he is in mourning...’

Unlike her previous decisive tones, her voice faded into a breathy ramble and the defiance in her honey-warm eyes into bruised confusion. Perhaps she was hurt by Henry’s refusal to acknowledge her position?

‘Of course the proprieties must be observed,’ he soothed. ‘But that still does not explain why you are here alone at the Folly, reading Cousin Huxley’s papers. Shouldn’t you be at the Manor flirting with Henry or paying court to Lady Ermintrude along with everyone else?’

‘Henry is fully occupied with his land steward and Lady Ermintrude and Miss Ames and Miss Fenella are busy with preparations for the annual meeting of the Women’s Society, which apparently trumps all mourning proprieties. Since my embroidery skills are on the wrong side of atrocious, I am persona non grata and had to find some other way of passing the time.’

‘I imagine your embroidery skills are the least cause of your lack of popularity among the womenfolk of the manor. However, that, too, doesn’t explain why you are here.’

‘Henry showed me the hidden key when we explored yesterday. I merely wanted some place quiet to read.’

‘To read other people’s letters,’ he said softly. She flushed, but didn’t answer, and he felt a twinge of contrition himself. He was becoming too much like Oswald—ready to suspect everyone of everything. She was no doubt bored of being slighted and indulging in a sulk—in which case he was being unfairly harsh.

‘Is Lady Ermintrude making your life difficult? I am not surprised. She always intended that my cousin would marry one of her nieces.’

‘Yes, she made that only too clear. I thought Henry was exaggerating, but...’ She stopped and cleared her throat, throwing him a suspicious look, as if realising she was being far too frank with a stranger. He smiled and tried another tack.

‘You still should not come to the Folly unaccompanied. The tower itself is solid enough, but all these boxes and stacks could prove hazardous. It always looked as though a whirlwind has passed through, but it appears to have reached new levels of chaos since I was last here. Is his study in the east wing as bad?’

‘Henry did not take me there. He said the will specified all the contents of the east wing went to you and your siblings so he did not wish to meddle. He only showed me the Folly because it is such a peculiarity and I was curious to see inside. Perhaps I should not have insisted.’

Chase wondered at his growing sense of discomfort. There was something about this young woman that was...off. It put him at a disadvantage, which was precisely where he did not like being put.

‘He was always a biddable fellow.’

‘Henry is polite and considerate. That is very different from being biddable.’

‘You are quite right, it is. I apologise for maligning him.’

She snorted, her opinion of his apology all too clear. The hesitation and vulnerability were gone once more and the watchful glitter was back. She looked too soft to be so hard, another discordant note. Chase considered moving so she could access the stairway, but remained where he was.

‘Excuse me, Mr Sinclair.’ She looked up and he saw the schoolmistress again—in the light from the window the honey in her eyes was sparked with tiny shards of green just around the iris, like jade slivers dipped in gold.

‘For what?’ he asked, not budging.

‘I was not begging your pardon,’ she replied, spacing out the words as if to someone hard of hearing. ‘I was asking you to stand aside so I may pass.’

‘In a moment. Congratulations on your betrothal, by the way. Where did you meet Henry?’

She eyed the space between him and the doorway, clearly calculating her odds of slipping by.

‘We are neighbours in Nettleton.’

‘How charming. I didn’t know Nettleton harboured such hidden gems. How are you enjoying Huxley?’

‘We only arrived two days ago.’

‘A diplomatic but revealing answer. Not at all, then.’

She laughed and the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes hinted she smiled easily, which surprised him.

‘Judging by Lady Ermintrude’s comments about the Sinclairs, my welcome may be warmer than yours.’

‘You shouldn’t say that with such relish.’

‘True. It is very uncharitable of me. I hope Lady Ermintrude welcomes you with open arms, Mr Sinclair.’

‘That sounds a far worse prospect. May I ask how you would benefit from that unlikely scenario?’

‘Anything that puts a smile on her face would be welcome.’

‘Having never seen her smile, I cannot judge if it would be an improvement, but when that unlikely event occurs I doubt I will have been its cause.’

‘Was she always like that? Or is her stony façade a concession to mourning her brother-in-law?’

‘Façade implies something hidden, but after years of observation I can safely say her interior is completely consistent with her exterior. There is no inner sanctum, complete with crackling fireplace and a good book, so do not waste your time searching for it. Ermy is as devoid of emotion as she is of humour.’

‘That is what Henry says, but one cannot help wondering... Everyone has redeeming features. She appears devoted to her nieces.’

‘Yes, poor Dru and Fen. They would have fared better without it. Though devotion isn’t quite the word.’

‘What is, then?’

He opened his mouth to answer and paused, surprised by his willingness to satisfy her curiosity. He was not usually so revealing to a complete stranger.

‘You do know that in Aunt Ermy’s small universe, Henry marrying one of her nieces was as obvious as the sun rising in the east or two plus two equals four.’

‘My brother would point out that while the latter is indeed a given, there is nothing to say the sun must always rise in the east.’

‘Good God, I hope you didn’t make that Humean point to Aunt Ermy. Is that why you have banished yourself to the Folly?’

Her smile flashed again and was tucked away.

‘I had best return now. Good day, sir.’

She took a step forward, but stopped once more as he did not move out of the way. It was childish to be toying with her, but he was curious about Henry’s bride-to-be. His memories of his awkward but good-natured cousin did not tally well with this intelligent and curious specimen of femininity.

‘I must return to the Manor, sir.’

‘In a moment. Since there is no one here to help us follow convention, shall we break with it and introduce ourselves? I am Charles Sinclair, though my friends and quite a few of my enemies call me Chase. May I know the name of my cousin-to-be?’

‘Then will you stand aside and allow me to leave?’

He bowed. ‘My word on it.’

She huffed a little, as if considering a snort of disdain.

‘Miss Walsh.’

‘Walsh. Walsh of Nettleton.’ He shouldn’t have spoken aloud. Her eyes widened at his tone and their coolness turned to frost.

She didn’t look anything like the Fergus Walsh he’d once met in London. That man had been a red-haired Celt with charm and a temperament to match. He’d also been a charming wastrel and inveterate gambler who’d frequented all the clubs and gaming hells until bad debts drove him to ever more dissolute establishments. He’d brought his family to the brink of ruin and then compounded his shame by drowning in a ditch outside a gambling hell off the Fleet while inebriated.

Chase had also heard of him from Huxley who’d been bemused by his younger brother’s friendship with the man. Arthur Whelford, father to new Lord Huxley, was a vicar and possessed all the virtues of his calling. But despite these differences the Whelfords and Walshes had been the best of friends. And now the wastrel’s daughter was engaged to the vicar’s son and new Lord Huxley.

‘I shan’t keep you from your betrothed any longer, Miss Walsh. You may run along.’

‘How kind of you, Mr Sinclair.’ Resentment seethed in her deep voice, but as she moved towards the doorway something else caught his attention—a folded slip of paper held in her hand. The world shifted, both his pity and the last remnant of his enjoyment of the absurd little scene draining away in an instant, and he tweaked the letter from her hand.

‘I believe my cousin’s will stipulated that the contents of the Folly are mine and my siblings’, so I suggest you leave this here.’

‘How dare you! Return that to me this instant!’

She reached for the letter and in his surprise he raised it above his head, just as he would when he and Sam squabbled over something as children. And just like Sam, Fergus Walsh’s daughter lunged for it. Her move was so unexpected she almost made it, but just as her fingers grazed the letter he raised it further and she grabbed the lapel of his coat, staggering against him and shoving him back on to the stack of boxes that stood by the stairway.

He should have steadied himself on the wall, but instead he found his other arm around her waist as he toppled backwards. The top boxes tumbled down the stairway in a series of deafening crashes and he abandoned the letter to brace himself against the doorjamb before he followed them into the void. He saw the moment the anger in her eyes transformed to shock and fear as they sank towards the stairs, her hand fisting hard in his coat as if she could still prevent him from falling. The impact against the tumbled boxes and the top step was painful, but nowhere near as painful as their precipitous descent down them might have been.

‘My God, I am so sorry. Are you hurt?’ She was still on him, one hand fisted on his greatcoat, the other splayed against his chest. Her eyes were wide with concern and he could see all the shades of gold and amber and jade that meshed together around the dilated pupils and he had the peculiar sensation he was still sinking, as if the fall hadn’t stopped, just slowed.

‘Are you hurt?’ she demanded again, giving his coat a little tug. Out of the peculiar numbness he noticed her elbow was digging painfully into his abdomen and he forced himself to shake his head. At last the strange sensation ebbed, but now his body woke and instead of reconnoitring and reporting back on the damage, it focused on something completely different. She was sprawled on top of him, astride his thigh, her legs spread and her own thigh tucked so snugly between his if he shifted the slightest bit he...

‘You are hurt,’ she stated, her fist tightening further in his coat, her gaze running over him as if trying to locate his wounds and, though he hadn’t felt a blow, he wondered if perhaps he had after all struck his head on the wall and that accounted for this strange floating feeling.

‘Not hurt. Just winded,’ he croaked and managed a smile and thankfully her brows drew together into a frown.

‘Serves you right! That is my letter. Not Lord Huxley’s.’

She struggled to rise, her thigh dragging against his groin with startling effectiveness and his normally obedient body shocked him by leaping into readiness. Instinctively his arm tightened around her and with a cry she slipped and fell back against him, leaving him doubly winded, her hair a silky cushion under his chin. Perhaps if he had not been so surprised and not a little embarrassed by his body’s perfidy, he might have kept quiet. But instead of helping her as a gentleman should, he kept his arm where it was and succumbed to the urge to turn his head to test the softness of her hair with his lips.

‘Don’t go yet...we’ve just got comfortable,’ he murmured against her hair, absorbing the scent of lilies and something else, sweet and tempting... Vanilla? Her elbow sank even more painfully into the soft flesh under his ribs, but he felt the pain less than he noticed the rest of her anatomy as she wriggled off him and shoved to her feet.

‘Henry is utterly right about you!’

He levered himself into a sitting position and watched as she picked up the letter with a gesture that was a perfect reflection of her scold. She didn’t even glance at him as she stepped over him and stalked down the stairs.

‘And you may tidy up that mess you made.’ Her scold echoed up the stairwell the moment before the slamming of the wooden door sent a whoosh of cold air up towards him. He heard Brutus’s shrill whinny and hauled himself to his feet with a spurt of fear only to hear her voice, faint but all too clear as she admonished his sixteen-hand fiend of a horse.

‘Out of my way, you great lug. You’re as ill mannered as your master!’

Chase inspected the tear in the seat of his buckskins where the shattered box had ripped through the sturdy material. It stung and throbbed and he began laughing.

His brother Lucas would love that he found himself flat on his backside with his head handed to him within minutes of arriving. What a fitting beginning to what was likely to prove a dismal week.