One Night with a Regency Lord

Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady

Isabelle Goddard

The Return of Lord Conistone

Lucy Ashford

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady

Excerpt

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

The Return of Lord Conistone

Praise

Excerpt

Dedication

About the Author

AUTHOR NOTE

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Copyright

Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady

Isabelle Goddard

‘A maidservant who speaks French as well as having a French name! It becomes more and more intriguing.’ Gareth looked searchingly at Amelie.

‘I’d hardly say that I spoke French,’ she said, desperately seeking a way of moving the conversation onto less dangerous ground.

‘Still, it’s an unusual maid who knows any French. And you are an unusual maid, aren’t you? You’re proud and independent, you speak genteelly and hold yourself like a lady. If it weren’t for your clothes I would take you for a lady.’

About the Author

ISABELLE GODDARD was born into an army family and spent her childhood moving around the UK and abroad. Unsurprisingly it gave her itchy feet, and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world.

The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university. Isabelle loves the nineteenth century and grew up reading Georgette Heyer, so when she plucked up the courage to begin writing herself the novels had to be Regency romances.

REPROBATE LORD, RUNAWAY LADY is Isabelle Goddard’s debut novel for Mills & Boon® Historical.

To the friends who listened.

Chapter One

London, 1817

‘Amelie, you will do this for me, for the family.’ It was a command rather than a question.

The young woman held her head high and blinked back the tears. Despite her resolution, there was a stricken look in the soft brown eyes.

‘Papa, I cannot. Ask anything else of me, but I cannot marry that man.’

Her father, pacing agitatedly back and forth across the worn library carpet, stopped suddenly opposite her and raked her with a piercing glare. ‘Sir Rufus Glyde is a respected nobleman, one who will give you an elegant home and a secure future. And one who will save this family from disaster.’

She looked past her father to the open window, but hardly saw the mass of roses filling the garden with a riot of colour in the late afternoon sun.

‘Surely, Papa,’ she pleaded, ‘the situation cannot be that desperate.’

Lord Silverdale was silent. His face, though still handsome, appeared haggard and drawn. He carefully brushed the snuff from a velvet sleeve and spoke quietly but insistently.

‘The family is virtually ruined. Over the past few months I have had to sell my entire stable of horses and rent out Nethercott Place to a wealthy cit. Generations of Silverdales dishonoured by the taint of city money! And now Robert’s addiction to gambling is likely to lose us our last piece of security—our house here in Grosvenor Square.’

‘In that case,’ she responded sharply, ‘why doesn’t Robert find a way of repaying what he owes?’ Her brother’s decadent lifestyle was something she could not forgive. ‘Why doesn’t he marry for money?’

Lord Silverdale looked at his daughter, breathtakingly lovely even in simple sprig muslin, and said gently, ‘Amelie, you know that it isn’t possible. What does he have to offer except debt and unsteadiness? Certainly nothing the matchmaking mamas at Almack’s want. You, on the other hand, have youth, beauty and a steadfast character. Rufus Glyde admires you and wants to make you his wife.’

‘But he is nearly twice my age.’

‘He is no more than fourteen years older than you. That is no great age. It is well for a husband to be more experienced than his wife. Then he may teach her how to go on in society.’

An image of Rufus Glyde’s dissolute eyes and thin, sneering lips swam into her vision and made her shudder. She would not wish to be taught anything by such a man. In her revulsion she twisted the cambric handkerchief she held into a vicious knot.

‘I can never care for him,’ she declared hotly.

‘But do you care for anyone else? You have had an entire Season to find someone to your taste, a Season I could ill afford. And look what has happened. You have been distant and unapproachable to the young men you’ve met. Only one was willing to brave your coldness and actually offer for you, and you dismissed his proposal out of hand. So what do you want?’

‘I want to remain single, Papa. I’m grateful for my introduction to society, but the men I’ve met have been either shallow or profligate. I shall never marry unless I find a man I truly love and respect—and that seems unlikely.’

‘You will be lucky to find any man in the future. There will be no more Seasons—and no home, either, if Sir Rufus forecloses on our mortgage,’ her father added bitterly.

She caught her breath. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I had not meant to tell you, but you should know the truth of the situation. Your brother has lost this house to Rufus Glyde. In a fit of madness he used it as a stake for his gambling. Either you marry Sir Rufus or we are homeless.’

‘How can you allow him to threaten us like this?’

‘Come, come, child, the man is willing to make a generous settlement on you, apart from returning the mortgage. He will, I am sure, always treat you with respect and you will have ample money and time to pursue your own interests. Such marriages of convenience are common among our class. You know that.’ Lord Silverdale paused, thinking of his own love marriage, its first intoxicating passion barely surviving a year. ‘They can often work far better than marrying for love.’

Amelie turned away, unwilling to show the disgust she felt.

‘I have no choice,’ her father said heavily. ‘This is a debt of honour and must be paid, one way or another.’

‘And I am to pay the debt,’ she cried, her anger bursting forth. ‘I am to be the family sacrifice, am I?’ She strode furiously up and down the room between the dusty book-filled shelves, chestnut curls tumbling free and framing her lovely face.

With an exasperated mutter, Lord Silverdale walked swiftly towards her and grasped her hands. ‘Enough. You forget yourself. You are beautiful and clever, my dear, but you are far too independent. It puts men off and those it doesn’t, you will not have. Think yourself lucky that Sir Rufus values high spirits as well as being a connoisseur of beauty. He has very properly asked me for permission to pay his addresses to you, and I have agreed.’

‘No, no, I cannot do it,’ she uttered a strangled cry.‘Anything but that! I’ll go out and earn my own bread rather.’

‘Earn your own bread? What is this? Your taste for the dramatic is regrettable and too reminiscent of your French relations,’ he said disdainfully, walking away from her towards the tall windows.

When he turned again, his face wore an implacable expression and he spoke in a voice that brooked no further disagreement.

‘You have been made a highly advantageous offer, Amelie, which will secure this family’s future and your own. You will go to your room immediately and stay there. In the morning you will make yourself presentable. Sir Rufus will be with us at noon and you will accept his offer. Do I make myself clear?’

The interview was at an end. Lord Silverdale sank wearily down at his desk, and began listlessly to leaf through his scattered papers. His daughter, overcome with angry tears, turned on her heel and noisily banged the oak-panelled door behind her.

Once in her room, she cast herself down on to the damask bedspread and wept. Her grief was intense and though her tears soon subsided, her fury remained. To be forced into a repugnant marriage because of her brother’s stupidity! And by her own father! She knew him to be autocratic, but never so unfeeling that he would contemplate selling her to the highest bidder. He might try to wrap it up in clean linen, but that’s what it came down to. When she was a child he’d been an indulgent parent, reading with her, schooling her on her first pony, bringing surprises each birthday. Yet, if crossed, he could be unrelenting.

Until now she’d been spared this side of his character, but she knew the suffering it had caused his wife. Her heart ached for her dead mother. Louise St Clair’s life had not been a happy one: an émigrée from France, an unhappy marriage to an English aristocrat and then an early death.

Lord Miles Silverdale must have seemed like a white knight when Louise first met him, just months after her dangerous journey from the outskirts of Paris to exile in England. The Bastille would not be stormed for another year, but revolution was already in the air. Signs of dissent and rebellion were everywhere and when the St Clair family home was ransacked without any attempt by the servants to prevent it, Brielle St Clair had decided it was no longer safe for the family to stay. She and her eighteen-year-old daughter, disguised as servants themselves, were forced to steal away under cover of darkness and embark on a slow and tortuous journey to the Channel coast. They had travelled by night, resting beneath hedges in the daytime, and ever fearful of discovery.

To a refugee in a foreign land, Lord Silverdale’s offer of marriage must have seemed like a miracle. He promised happiness and security, a new future for the young, homeless girl. Happiness, though, had lasted only a year until the birth of Robert. Louise was sickly for months afterwards, needing constant nursing, and unable to share in the social flurry of her husband’s life. Miles Silverdale, having fallen violently in love with a youthful form and a beautiful face, found himself without either as a companion.

The constant miscarriages that followed year after year pushed them yet further apart. Amelie’s birth and her unexpected survival had brought a brief reconciliation only. Even as a child she’d understood the pain written on her mother’s face, as her husband left for yet another lengthy stay at a friend’s country house, knowing that most of his time would be spent enjoying the company of other women.

But that was not going to happen to her! She had her mother’s beauty, certainly, but also her grandmother’s spirit. Louise might have been scared half out of her wits by that flight across France, but Brielle St Clair had exalted in it. Her tales of their adventures had enthralled Amelie as a child. Brielle’s subsequent life would always be a shadow of the excitement she’d known. Understanding this, it seemed, she had deliberately made her new home amid the dull gentility of Bath. Amelie smiled wryly as she imagined her mettlesome grandmother exchanging vapid gossip at the Pump Room every day. She’d visited Bath as a young child, but the last time she’d seen Brielle was five years ago at her mother’s funeral, a sombre and painful affair.

She stiffened. That was it. She would go to her grandmother. Brielle would be her refuge and would be sure to defend her from the man she blamed for her own daughter’s decline and early death. She had warned Louise not to marry Lord Silverdale, but, desperate for stability, her daughter had not listened.

Amelie got to her feet and straightened the green satin ribbons that encircled her waist. Her grandmother would be her champion, she was certain. But how to get to her, how to get to Bath? Deep in thought, she didn’t hear the bedroom door open until a tentative voice disturbed her meditations. Her maidservant, pale and concerned, white cap slightly askew, hovered in the doorway.

‘Oh, miss, is it true? Are you really going to marry Sir Rufus Glyde?’

‘No, Fanny, it’s not true.’ Her voice was sharp but adamant. ‘I’ve no intention of marrying. And I detest Rufus Glyde. He’s twice my age and not a fit husband.’

‘But, miss, he’s very wealthy, or so Cook says, and moves in the best circles.’

Amelie shook her head in frustration. ‘He may be invited everywhere, but there are whispers that he is a vicious and degenerate man. He repels me.’

Fanny shut the door carefully behind her and said in a conspiratorial voice, ‘Mr Simmonds told Cook that Sir Rufus was coming here tomorrow to make you an offer of marriage.’

‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip,’ Amelie chided her. ‘He may be coming to the house, but I shan’t be meeting him.’

‘But, Miss Amelie, how can this be?’ In her abstraction the maid picked up a stray hairbrush and began to rearrange her mistress’s locks.

‘I’m going to escape—I’m going to Bath to my grandmother. But mind, not a word to anyone.’

Her maid, brushing Amelie’s chestnut curls in long, rhythmic strokes, gaped at her open-mouthed. ‘However will you get there?’

‘I’m not sure at the moment. How would you get there, Fanny?’

‘On the stage, I suppose, miss, though I wouldn’t want to travel all that way on my own. It’s sure to take a whole day. Master’s old valet used to visit his daughter in Bath sometimes and there was always a fuss about how long he was away.’

‘Do you know where he caught the stagecoach?’

‘It was an inn in Fetter Lane. The White Horse, I believe. He used to leave first thing in the morning.’

‘Then that’s what I shall do. You’ll need to call me early.’

‘You’re never thinking of taking the common stage, Miss Amelie?’

‘Why ever not, it’s a public conveyance. What harm can I come to?’

‘But it’s not right. All sorts of vulgar people take the stage—you’ll be squashed in with the likes of clerks and pedlars and I don’t know what. And I’ve heard it’s dangerous. There are highwaymen on Hounslow Heath and they’ll slit your throat for a necklace. And if they don’t get you, then the coachman will get drunk and land you in a ditch.’ Fanny shook her head ominously.

‘Nonsense. If other people travel on the stage, I can, too.’

‘But, miss, you’re Quality,’ Fanny maintained stubbornly. ‘Quality don’t travel on the stage. And you mustn’t go alone.’

‘I have to, and no one must know where I’ve gone. I need time to reach Lady St Clair and explain the situation to her before my father realises where I am.’

‘But you can’t have thought.’ Fanny’s voice sank low. ‘You’ll be unchaperoned, you’ll receive Unwanted Attentions,’ she whispered in a horrified voice, emphasising the last two words.

‘Well then, I must do something to blend into my surroundings,’ her mistress said practically.

She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Who wouldn’t be noticed on a stagecoach, I wonder? A maidservant such as yourself? I’ll go as a maidservant and you can lend me the clothes.’

‘No, miss, that I won’t.’

‘Fanny, you’re the only friend I have in this house. You must help me. No one will know and once I’m established at my grandmother’s, I’ll send for you. Now, we must plan. First we need a ticket.’

She went to the bottom drawer of the walnut chest that had been her mother’s and brought out a small tin box. How lucky it was she still had most of her quarterly allowance. She pulled out a roll of bills and thrust them into Fanny’s reluctant hand.

‘Here, use this to buy a ticket for the stage tomorrow.’

‘But, miss, even if I can buy a ticket, how will you find your way to Fetter Lane?’

‘I’m sure I’ll manage. I’ll walk until I find a hackney carriage. That can take me to the inn, and once there I’ll take care to stay concealed until the coach is ready to leave. There’s bound to be crowds of people and a lot of activity—I imagine the Bath stage isn’t the only one leaving the White Horse in the morning. It should be easy to find a hiding place.’

Her maid still looked unconvinced and Amelie put her arms around her and sought to soothe her worries. ‘Don’t fret, it’s going to work. When you return, get some suitable clothes ready for me, but keep them in your own room. And then stay away from me for the rest of the day so that no one will suspect anything.’

Fanny seemed rooted to the spot. ‘Go on,’ her mistress urged, ‘do it quickly before supper and then you won’t be missed. Bring me the clothes and ticket at dawn tomorrow. I wouldn’t ask you to do this for me, Fanny, if I were not truly desperate. But I must escape this nightmare.’

In the City some miles from Grosvenor Square, Gareth Denville was also contemplating escape. He sat uncomfortably in the shabby offices which housed Messrs Harben, Wrigley and Spence, solicitors, and wished himself elsewhere. But his demeanour betrayed nothing of his emotions. His straight black brows and hard blue eyes kept the world at bay. He could be accounted a handsome man, thought Mr Spence, who sat opposite him, but for the harshness of that gaze. And the decided lack of fashion he exhibited. He was a well-built man slightly above average height with good shoulders and an excellent form for the prevailing fashion of skin-tight pantaloons. But instead he wore buckskins, his coat fitted far too easily across his broad shoulders to be modish and his necktie was negligently arranged. Rather than the gleaming Hessians of tonnish fashion, he wore topboots, still dusty from his long journey.

Mr Spence gathered together the papers scattered across the huge oak desk and sighed inwardly. The new Lord Denville was likely to find it difficult to adjust to life in the capital. He looked up and encountered Gareth’s austere gaze and quickly began the task at hand. Over the next quarter of an hour, Mr Spence carefully enumerated the full extent of Gareth Denville’s inheritance while the beneficiary remained unnervingly silent.

The news of his grandfather’s death several weeks ago had been accompanied by a polite request from the solicitors for his immediate return to England. His first reaction to their letter had been to shrug indifferently and carry on with his life, but his grandfather’s man of business was nothing if not persistent, and after several summons of increasing urgency, he had bowed to the inevitable. He had been travelling a night and a day now without pause, but his powerful frame appeared not greatly fatigued and his air of cool detachment never left him.

The situation was not without its humour, of course, but that did not prevent a slow burning anger eating him from within. He’d known as he travelled to England after seven years’ absence that he was now the Earl of Denville whether he wished it or not. But as Mr Spence drily read the pages of his grandfather’s will, the size of his inheritance astounded him. Infuriated him, too, when he recalled the shifts he’d been forced to adopt simply to maintain the appearance of a gentleman. Charles Denville had husbanded his estate well. How ironic that such care and duty should ultimately benefit him, the black sheep, the grandson who could never be spoken of again. His grandfather could not deny him the title, but he must have tried and failed to leave his estate elsewhere. Gareth could imagine the old man’s fury that such an unworthy successor was about to be crowned.

‘Are you sure, Mr Spence, that there are no other legitimate heirs to the estate?’ he asked crisply.

‘None whatsoever, Lord Denville. We have done our searches very carefully, particularly …’ and here he coughed delicately ‘.in the light of the peculiar circumstances surrounding your lordship’s inheritance.’

The solicitor was far too circumspect to mention details, but Gareth knew well that Mr Spence referred to his banishment as a young man for the gravest of sins in ton circles. He had cheated at cards, or so it was alleged, a transgression that had brought instant shame to him and to his family. His grandfather had bundled him out of the country overnight, refusing to listen to his version of events.

‘Like father, like son,’ Lord Denville had said grimly. ‘I was stupid enough to let your father stay in the hope that he would reform his way of life, but he died in the gutter where he belonged. I’ll make sure that you at least cannot disgrace the family name further.’ And what, thought Gareth, had the family name come to after all?

It had all once been so different. He’d been everything to his grandfather, an unexpected light after the black years of his own father’s ruin. He remembered his childhood at Wendover Hall, his grandfather teaching him to ride and to shoot, watching over his progress to manhood with pleasure and anticipation. And then disaster, just three months on the town and accused of marking his cards.

That night was etched on his brain. The heat of the room, the guttering candles, the disarray of empty glasses. And the four other men who sat round the table: his dearest friend, Lucas Avery, General Tilney, an old ally of his grandfather’s, the languid form of Lord Petersham, whose customary lethargy belied a sharp intelligence, and Rufus Glyde, playing recklessly that night, his spiteful tongue unusually stilled. It was the General who had first seen the mark on the card and raised the alarm. He remembered the incredulous stares of his companions as it became obvious to all who had cheated.

But he hadn’t cheated. Someone there had done so, but why and how remained impenetrable. The men he played with were wealthy and had no need to cheat. But he was on a tight allowance and awaiting the next quarter’s in some desperation. It was common knowledge that he was short of money. He had vehemently protested his innocence, but his grandfather had been deaf to him and to Lucas’s staunch pleas that his friend was an honourable man; Lord Denville had listened in stiff silence and remained unmoved. General Tilney’s embarrassed account of the evening was the only one his grandfather was willing to countenance. Gareth’s disgrace was instant and so was banishment.

‘My lord, if you would be so kind, we will need to go through a number of documents for which I need signatures.’

The solicitor was trying to regain his attention. His mind left that shadowed room in Watier’s, and returned to the attorney’s untidy office. He felt he was suffocating, yet the window was wide open.

‘I need to take a walk,’ he said. ‘I need to clear my head.’

‘Of course, your lordship.’ The solicitor rose and bowed politely. ‘I will await your lordship’s pleasure.’

‘I’m staying at Crillon’s. I’ll send from there when I’m ready to go through the papers.’

‘Certainly, my lord.’

He walked quickly out of the room and down the stairs. The fresh air hit him with welcome relief. Waving away the proffered services of a jarvey, he began to make his way towards the West End of the city. He walked swiftly, street after street, hardly heeding where he went. Inside, he was seething with anger. His fortunes had changed, but his sense of betrayal remained acute. He had no wish to inherit anything that had belonged to his grandfather. Pride made it impossible that he would ever accustom himself to being the Earl of Denville or ever seek to become part of a society he deemed rotten to the core.

Without a glance, he passed the turning for St James’s, a thoroughfare housing some of the most famous gentlemen’s clubs in London, and continued as if by instinct towards Piccadilly. He came to a halt outside No. 81, Watier’s, the Great-Go as it was fondly known to its members. Somehow he’d returned to the scene of his disgrace. He walked slowly up the stairs and prepared to confront his demons.

The doorman, resplendent in black grosgrain and scarlet silk sash, bowed low.

‘Good evening, Lord Denville,’ he intoned, ‘on behalf of Watier’s, may I offer you sincere condolences on your grandfather’s death, and say how very glad we are to see you again.’

Gareth made no reply, reflecting cynically that commerce knew no moral shades. The doorman handed him on to a footman hovering by the doorway of the salon. He remembered the room immediately. The Aubusson carpet, the straw-coloured silk hangings and the endless line of chandeliers blazing light had not changed.

A group of men nearest the door looked up. They were engaged in a companionable game of faro, but at the sight of him the game stopped and for an instant their conversation withered. A man he did not know, and who was evidently in charge of the day’s bank, said something in an undervoice which caused a ripple of amusement around the table. Lord Petersham, looking a little thinner and older now, hushed the man and play continued. The incident was over in a moment, but to Gareth it was as though time had stood still. His newly acquired title and wealth might open the doors of society to him, but he would never be allowed to forget the scandal. His grim reluctance to return to England, even for a few weeks, had been prescient. He had no place here and wanted none.

He blundered down the steps and headed towards the river. The grey waters flowed bleakly by the embankment, an echo of his harsh mood. Defiantly, he decided to drink to the day he would shake the soil of England from his feet for ever and sought out a boozing-ken in a poor area of Vauxhall, known to him from his days of youthful indiscretion. He ordered a brandy and the drink was rough but fiery. He ordered another and tossed it back quickly. He wanted to sink into oblivion. Over the next hours he drank steadily, as though each drink took him one step further from a hated homeland. It was just short of dawn when he finally lurched to his feet and sought his hotel room. His brain, befuddled by brandy, was treacherous and led him in the wrong direction. Very soon he was lost in a labyrinth of unknown streets.

Fanny woke her mistress at four in the morning. She carried in her arms a set of her own clothes and clutched the stagecoach ticket tightly. She appeared nervous, her hands trembling as she gently shook her mistress awake. Her agitation was soon explained.

‘Miss Amelie, I don’t think you can go. Mr Simmonds is in the hall and he’s been sitting there all night. I was so worried I’d oversleep that I woke really early and crept downstairs to see the time. And there he was. You’ll have to stay, miss, you’ll have to meet Sir Rufus. But maybe it won’t be too bad. You’ll be rich and have your own house to manage and plenty of fine clothes and carriages and—’

‘Do you mean my father has actually set the butler to spy on me?’ Amelie was now sitting bolt upright.

‘Not exactly spy, miss. But he’s there in the hall as right as ninepence and there’s no way you’re going to get past him unseen.’

‘I have to get that coach, Fanny. I must find another way out—the back door?’

‘The scullery maids are already up and working in the kitchen. They would be bound to report it to Cook and she’ll carry it to Mr Simmonds. You’d have to get over the garden wall into the alley behind and they would know of your escape before you’d even got halfway.’

‘Then I must go out of the front—maybe you can distract Simmonds?’

Fanny looked doubtful.

‘I have it, I’ll go out of the window—we’re only on the first floor and we should be able to fashion a ladder from the sheets, long enough for me to reach the ground.’

‘You’ll never climb out of the window on sheets, Miss Amelie. It’s too dangerous. They could give way at any moment.’

‘Not if we knot them very carefully. In any case, it’s far more dangerous for me to stay. Quick, let’s hurry.’

With that she hastily dressed herself in the clothes Fanny had brought. Then, sweeping the sheets from the bed, she began to knot them urgently, calling on the maid to help. More sheets were pulled from the large linen chest, which lined the bedroom wall, and very soon they had put together an impressive rope.

‘We must make sure we’ve knotted the sheets as tightly as possible. I don’t weigh much, but it’s quite a way down.’

‘It’s as safe as I can make it.’ Fanny paused in her labours and looked anxiously at her mistress ‘ … safer than for you to be travelling alone all the way to Bath.’

‘I don’t have a choice. I have to get to my grandmother’s. I promise I’ll take care. Don’t forget,’ Amelie tried to reassure her, ‘I’ll be travelling in disguise and nobody will think of looking twice at a maidservant.’

‘But you’ll still be a very beautiful maidservant, miss, and people are bound to look at you. You must wear my cloak and make sure you pull the hood over your head whenever you’re in public.’

Her mistress fingered the black velvet robe. ‘This is your best cloak, Fanny, I can’t take it.’

‘You must, it will make people think you’re a very superior lady’s maid and they won’t bother you! And it will keep you warm. You’ve never travelled in a stagecoach before, Miss Amelie, but I’m told they’re the draughtiest vehicles out and you’ll be travelling for hours.’

‘Fanny, you’re the best friend anyone ever had.’ The maid blushed with pleasure. ‘As soon as I get to Lady St Clair’s, I’ll make sure she sends for you. Then we’ll both be safe. My father will never dare to follow us there.’

She quickly slipped the cloak over the borrowed dress, pulling the hood well down over her tangled curls. A small cloak bag lay ready with just a few of her most treasured possessions. She could take hardly anything with her, but she had no regrets. Once this room had been a beloved haven, but now it was a prison, a prison leading only to betrothal with a detested man. Sir Rufus Glyde would arrive at noon, but by then she would be miles away and her family confounded. She knew that Fanny would keep her secret, even on pain of dismissal.

She turned quickly to her. ‘I must be gone. Give me the ticket for the stage.’

‘When you get to the inn, miss, be sure to hide yourself away until it’s time for the coach to leave.’

‘I will. Once I’ve gone, you must go back to your room immediately and don’t discover my absence until the last possible moment. Please God they won’t find out that it was you who helped me.’

‘You’re not to worry, Miss Amelie. I’ll make sure they won’t know from me where you’ve gone.’ Fanny was suffused with tears, her voice cracking. ‘Now go, quickly, miss.’

She deftly tied one end of the sheet ladder to the bedpost and opened the window wide. The sash cord groaned ominously and they both held their breath. But the house was silent except for the distant sounds from the kitchen. They breathed again. Fanny played out the sheets over the window sill and helped her mistress on to the ledge. The dawn was spreading a grey light over the quiet streets. A fresh breeze fanned Amelie’s cheeks as she climbed nimbly over the ledge and began lowering herself down the improvised ladder. The descent wasn’t easy. She had to lower herself one movement at a time and the cloak bag, though light, impeded her progress. She wondered if she dared to throw it down into the cellar area below the railings. But Simmonds might well hear the noise and come to see what had caused it. So she continued to edge her way carefully downwards, the bag slung over one arm.

Fanny’s pale face was at the open window, whispering encouragement. ‘You’re doing fine, miss. Don’t look down, not far to go now.’

But her estimation proved to be optimistic. The sheets, which had seemed so prolific in the bedroom, suddenly appeared scanty and far too short. They had both forgotten the deep well below the front door steps and had calculated only to the pavement. Amelie was now at the bottom of the ladder, but still at least fifteen feet above solid ground.

She looked up at the imposing Georgian facade and then down to the terrifying black-and-gold railings that marched along the pavement. What a horrible fate that would be. She suddenly felt very sick. How on earth was she going to reach the ground? She could jump into the well, but she was more than likely to break a leg or worse. Then all chance of escape would be gone. She would have to endure her father’s fierce recriminations. She could see him now, his brow creased in red furrows and his prominent eyes glowering.

As she hung there, her light form bracing itself against the cream stucco of the house, the noise of whistling broke the stillness. Tuneless and somewhat melancholy, the whistling was coming nearer. A late reveller, perhaps, on his way home? He was almost sure to see her. Fanny had heard the noise too and began desperately to try to haul in the sheets.

‘It’s no good,’ Amelie whispered hoarsely, ‘you’ll never have the strength to get me back.’

She could only hope that the unknown figure meandering towards her would be too inebriated to notice a young female hanging from a window. That was wishful thinking. The reveller drew near and stood gazing at her for some time, seemingly trying to work out just what he was viewing.

Amelie looked down and pulled her cloak tighter. She didn’t recognise him and he didn’t look like any of the fashionable bloods who often ended a riotous evening by staggering home at dawn. But he had an indefinable air of authority about him and she worried that by chance he might remember seeing her at one of the many gatherings of the ton this Season. She must avoid discovery at all costs.

Despite having drunk far too much, he seemed alert. His face slowly broke into a derisive smile.

‘What have we here then? A mystery indeed. Plainly an escape, but what are you escaping from? What do maidservants escape from before the household is awake? Have you been stealing and now you’re trying to make off with your ill-gotten gains? Should I knock and instantly let your employers know of your wickedness?’

‘No, sir, indeed I am no thief.’

‘Well, if you’re not a thief, what are you doing climbing out of the window? The house has a door, you know.’

She answered with as much dignity as she could muster, ‘There are circumstances that make it vital for me to escape in this manner. I must not be seen.’

She hoped that he would ask no more questions and be on his way. But the brandy fumes still wreathed around Gareth Denville’s brain. He was indifferent to the fact that he was miles from his hotel and had no idea in which direction it lay. He felt reckless and pleasurably detached from a world he hated. He had no intention of walking away—he was in the mood to enjoy this ridiculous imbroglio.

‘But why must you leave unseen? It seems unnecessarily dramatic,’ he offered provocatively.

‘I have my reasons,’ she replied stiffly. ‘Please leave me.’

‘By all means, but is that wise? It might be more sensible to ask for a little help. Of course I would need to know just who I’m aiding and why.’

‘My name is Amelie and I’m maid to the young mistress of this house. I’m escaping to avoid the attentions of her brother.’

Gareth caught sight of a chestnut curl and looked intently at the heart-shaped face trying to cower deeper into the enveloping cloak. ‘He has good taste,’ he admitted. ‘But then so do I.’

He swayed slightly on his heels and finally pronounced, ‘We’ll make a bargain, shall we? I’ll rescue you on one condition.’

‘Anything, sir,’ she said recklessly. Her arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets and she knew she would not be able to hold on much longer. The sharp sword points of the railings seemed already to be coming nearer.

‘A rather rash promise, but one I shall keep you to. I’ll help you to the ground, but in exchange you’ll come with me—as entertainment, shall we say.’

‘Dear sir, I cannot. I have a journey to make. I’m on my way to—Bristol,’ she amended, thinking it best not to reveal her plans in their entirety. ‘I have to get to the White Horse Inn in Fetter Lane to catch the stage.’

‘Excellent. Bristol, why not? There are boats aplenty there,’ he added obscurely. ‘We’ll go together.’

He needed to get away and he was intrigued by the glimpse of the beautiful face beneath the cloak. Mr Spence would have to wait for his papers to be signed. Perhaps he would never sign them, never avail himself of his newfound wealth. If so, he would manage—he had for the last seven years.

‘A perfect solution, then,’ he said swiftly. ‘I extricate you from your difficulties and we travel to Bristol together.’

He saw her dismayed face. ‘You won’t have to know me very long—a few hours only. You might even get to like me,’ he added harshly. ‘I’ll bespeak a private parlour when we get to the inn. You can have a good breakfast and I can have—well, let’s say, I can have the pleasure of your company.’

Amelie heard her maid moan. Fanny had her head below the window sill, but could hear all that was being said. This was her worst fear come true, but she was powerless to intervene. If she made herself known, the man, whoever he was, would discover Amelie’s deception. He might spread rumours about her mistress and Amelie would be shunned by society. Then she would never find a husband, not even a degenerate twice her age. As Fanny fidgeted in despair, the decision was made for her.

Her arms breaking, Amelie gasped out, ‘Yes, I’ll come with you. Just get me down from here, please, immediately!’

‘At your service, madam.’ Her knight errant leapt over the railings and down the stairs to the cellar area. Amelie, her hands now nerveless, fell into his arms. He held her to his chest, enjoying for a moment the softness of her young body.

‘Let me introduce myself,’ he said, putting her down abruptly, and quickly casting around in his mind for a name. ‘I am Gareth Wendover.’

Chapter Two

She allowed herself to be led up the area steps and away from the house. Instead of letting her go once they reached the pavement, her rescuer kept a tight grip on her arm as if to prevent any flight. She noticed that his hands were strong and shapely, but tanned as though they were used to outdoor work. He appeared an enigma, a gentleman, presumably, but one acquainted with manual labour. His earlier nonchalance had disappeared and with it his good humour. Glancing up at him from beneath her eyelashes, she saw that his expression had grown forbidding. A black mood seemed to have descended on him as he strode rapidly along the street, pulling her along in his wake. His chin jutted aggressively and his black hair fell across his brow. When he finally turned to her, his eyes were blue steel.

‘Why are you dawdling?’ he demanded brusquely. ‘I thought you were desperate to escape.’

‘I am,’ she countered indignantly. ‘I’m walking as fast as I can and you’re hurting my arm. I’m not a sack to be dragged along the street.’

Ignoring her complaint, he continued to tow her along the road at breakneck speed. ‘Come on, Amelia—that was your name?—try harder. We need to move more quickly.’

He must be drunker than I supposed, she thought ruefully. His voice was cultured and his clothes, though shabby, were genteel. But his conduct was erratic. One minute he appeared to find her situation a source of laughter, the next he behaved in this surly fashion. He thought she was a maidservant and had doubtless helped her to escape because of her pretty face. But he’d hardly glanced at her since that unfortunate moment when she’d landed in his arms and now he was sweeping her away from the house as if his life depended on it, propelling her along the pavement until she was breathless.

Incensed by this treatment, she came to an abrupt halt, almost tripping him up. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear what I said. I cannot walk any faster than I’m doing already. And,’ she added coldly, ‘my name is Amelie, not Amelia.’

‘However fancy your name, you’re still a fugitive,’ he responded drily, ‘and a fugitive under my command. And my command is to make haste.’

‘I will certainly make haste, but at a more seemly rate.’

‘Seemly—that’s a strange word for a girl who escapes through windows.’

She looked mutinous, but was too tired to argue any further and submitted again to being led at a spanking pace through a maze of streets until they came across a hackney carriage waiting for business.

‘In you go,’ her persecutor said shortly and pushed her into the ill-smelling interior. He uttered a few words to the jarvey and they were off.

Keeping company with a drunken man, who looked as though he’d known better days, was not part of her plans, but she decided that she would not try to escape just yet. She would stay with this Mr Wendover while it suited her purpose. He’d been useful so far and if he could deliver her to the White Horse Inn, then she would be set for her journey to Bath. Once in the inn’s courtyard, it should be easy to give him the slip and hide away until the stage departed.

They sat opposite in the dingy cab, silently weighing each other up. It was the first time she’d been able fully to see her rescuer. He was a powerfully built man, carelessly dressed, but exuding strength. She was acutely conscious of his form as he lay back against the worn swabs. She had no idea who he was, other than the name he’d given, and he was evidently not going to volunteer further information. Instead, he sat silently, gazing at her, assessing her almost as though she were a piece of merchandise he’d just purchased, she thought wrathfully. But he would discover that she had other plans; she would leave him as soon as she was able. Doubtless he would start to drink again at the inn and, once fuddled, would not care what happened to her.

In this she was wrong. Despite his dazed state, Gareth had been watching her closely and had seen her recoil as she sat down on the stained seat of the cab. A trifle fastidious for a maidservant, he thought. The hood of her cloak obscured much of her face, but what he could see was very beautiful, from the glinting chestnut curls to the fine cheekbones and flawless complexion. A strange maidservant, indeed, and a strange situation.

As the brandy fumes began to dissolve, he was left with an aching head and a confused mind. What on earth was he doing miles from his hotel, his solicitor and legal papers all but forgotten? How had he embarked on this mad adventure with a woman he didn’t know and one who could well be a thief? Perhaps the hue and cry to apprehend her had already started. And he’d been the one to make sure she escaped pursuit, rushing her along the streets away from any possible danger. He must be very drunk. He would need to keep her close until he worked out what to do. In the meantime there must be a few hours before the Bristol stage left, and he would remind her of her promise. She’d provide a pleasant interlude.

The hackney bounced over the cobbles at considerable speed. There was little traffic at this time of the morning and they were soon at the White Horse. He helped her down with one hand while paying the jarvey with the other. No escape, she reflected. Never mind, her opportunity would come, she would just have to be a little cleverer.

‘I suggest we repair indoors and find some breakfast.A private parlour should give us some respite from this din.’

He had to bend down and speak directly into her ear, the noise coming from the inn courtyard was so great. She could hardly believe how many people were gathered into such a small space. There was luggage scattered everywhere: trunks, cloak bags, sacks of produce, bird cages heaped up pell-mell. Ostlers ran back and forth leading out teams of fresh horses, coachmen took final draughts of their beer before blowing the horn for departure. Everywhere people shouted instructions and were not heard. It was bedlam, and the relative quiet of the inn taproom seemed like sanctuary.

The landlord came bustling out, rubbing his hands with pleasure as there was normally little hope of trade at this time of the morning. All anyone usually bought was a quick cup of scalding coffee. But here was a gentleman and his companion, surely more substantial customers, even if the man did look a little the worse for wear and the woman kept her face shrouded.

‘A beautiful morning.’ The landlord beamed ingratiatingly. ‘And how can I help you, sir?’

Gareth frowned. ‘Prepare a private parlour for myself and the lady,’ he said curtly. ‘We leave on the Bristol coach, but wish to take some breakfast first.’

‘Of course, sir. Right away. If you would care to come with me.’

The room the landlord led them to was small and poky with a low window that looked out over the back garden, but it was mercifully quiet. The curtains were grimy and the furniture looked faded and uninviting. Amelie plumped one of the chair cushions and sent up a cloud of dust. Her rescuer glanced across at her, his expression mocking. ‘The housekeeping can wait.’

She glared at him. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Wendover, I would prefer to be outside.’

‘I’m sure you would, but here we’ll stay. I can keep an eye on you and we can eat breakfast together. Won’t that be companionable?’

His voice was light and his tone ironic, but somehow he made the phrase sound like a caress. Yet the look on his face was calculating. Weighing me up again, she thought, deciding whether or not he made a good bargain when he rescued me. She was beginning to feel unusually vulnerable, confined to this isolated room with an unknown and unpredictable man. But indignation at her imprisonment gave her courage.

‘I’m unsure what you mean by companionable, Mr Wendover. I certainly thank you for the service you’ve rendered me this morning, but I’ve no need of food and would prefer to wait for my coach in the courtyard. If you allow me to pass, you may enjoy your meal undisturbed.’

‘Not so fast. I have no wish to be left undisturbed. On the contrary, I very much desire to be disturbed.’

He smiled derisively as he spoke, but his eyes were hard and measuring. ‘You are mighty proud for a maidservant, are you not?’ he asked. ‘But then a challenge is always welcome.’

She made no reply, for the first time conscious of a shadowy fear. The ancient clock in the corner of the room ticked out the minutes loudly in the gulf of silence that stretched between them. She felt bruised by his scrutiny. Then, without warning, he began to walk slowly towards her, his dark blue eyes intent. He no longer seemed a harmless reveller. She was very aware of his close physical presence and the way he was looking at her was disquieting. His hard gaze seemed to drink her in. She was angry that he dared to stare at her so, but at the same time the pit of her stomach fluttered uncomfortably.

Desperately she strove to exert control over the situation. ‘I don’t understand what exactly you want of me.’ Even to her ears, she sounded faint and foolish.

‘Really? I’m surprised. Do they make maidservants that innocent these days? Perhaps I should remind you that we had a bargain. I helped you from your predicament and you promised to stay with me until your—sorry, our—coach left the inn.’

‘But why?’

‘Come, you can’t be that naive. Why would any man want a beautiful young woman to stay with him?’

She stepped back hurriedly and collided with the threadbare sofa. ‘You surely cannot pretend any feelings for me.’ Her voice was hoarse with alarm. ‘You know nothing of me.’

‘True, but do I have to? You’ll be a charming diversion just when I need one. Here, pull your hood back.’

Before she could stop him, Gareth had flung her cloak back to reveal her face fully. He looked at her wonderingly. A tangle of silken curls tumbled down around her shoulders. Her eyes, the colour of autumn, were wide and frightened and the soft cream of her cheeks delicately flushed. It seemed an age that he stood looking at her.

When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with desire. ‘You are beautiful,’ he said. She flinched and wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body.

‘There’s no need to be scared,’ he murmured smoothly. ‘I’m sure we’ll deal well together.’

‘Indeed, no, sir, we will not,’ she protested. ‘I’m an honest woman and you shall not touch me.’

‘Honest,’ he mused. ‘An interesting word. Honest women hardly choose to escape from their homes at four in the morning. Nor do they come away with men they don’t know. Don’t play your tricks off on me. Instead, let’s be truthful with each other. I’m in need of amusement and you, I imagine, are a little adventuress who will take whatever comes her way.’

He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him. In a moment his arms were round her waist, a gesture shocking in its intimacy. She shrank from him, but his nearness was making her senses falter. He pressed closer and she felt her body begin to tingle. For a moment they stayed body to body, then quickly she sprang away.

Her face was pink with vexation. ‘How dare you touch me!’

‘Very easily, I’ll think you’ll find. Women are made for pleasure and you’ll provide it amply.’

He made as if to recapture her in his arms, but was interrupted by the door opening. The landlord arrived bearing a ham, eggs, some devilled kidneys and toast. A servant followed with a large pot of steaming coffee.

‘There we are, sir,’ the innkeeper sang out, determinedly ignoring what he had seen as he came in the door. ‘Just the job for a chilly May morning. But good travelling weather, I’ll be bound.’ He continued to spill out words while Amelie retreated to a corner of the room, trying hard to quell her jumping heart.

When the landlord had left, Gareth sat down at the table and began calmly to carve slices of ham and place them carefully on the two plates.

‘Come to the table, Amelie, you must eat,’ he coaxed. ‘No point in starving yourself—you have a long road ahead.’

The glorious sense of irresponsibility that he’d known earlier had gone, but he was still enjoying himself. He had no idea who he was with or what would happen. But this beautiful girl had felt warm and tremulous when he pulled her close and he looked forward to repeating the sensation. It was escape that he needed right now and she had literally dropped into his arms, ready to furnish it.

Amelie resolutely refused even to look at the food.

‘Come to the table!’ His tone was now peremptory.

She remained sitting in the corner of the room. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said in a freezing voice.

‘Don’t be silly. Of course you’re hungry. Come, I wish to eat the ham, not you. Sit down—or I’ll make you.’

Alarmed at any further physical contact, she abandoned her station and went with as much dignity as she could muster towards the table. Perching at the corner, as far away as possible, she nibbled at the ham and a slice of bread. The coffee was mercifully strong and hot and she gratefully downed two cups. He ate more leisurely as though he had the entire morning to finish his breakfast. And when he’s eaten his fill, she thought, I’ll be next on the menu.

She was going to have to make her getaway fast if she were to avoid another dreadful scene. She couldn’t rely on the landlord to come in so opportunely again. Indeed, he’d had an unpleasantly knowing look in his eye as he’d laid the food down in front of his patron. He would do nothing to help her; she would have to save herself.

She cleared her throat. ‘Why do you wish to go to Bristol, Mr Wendover?’

‘Why should that concern you?’

‘If we are to be travelling companions today, it might be sensible to get to know each other a little.’ She wondered anxiously if he would take the bait and relax his guard.

‘A change of tune? When I tried to get to know you, you weren’t too keen,’ Gareth said caustically.

‘I’m sorry for that, but I find this room a little overheated and when you pulled me towards you …’ her voice wavered at the thought ‘.I felt faint.’

‘Ah, that’s how it was. Well, I certainly don’t want a fainting woman on my hands, so I’ll open this window a little and then we can be comfortable. Come here, Amelie, and let me look at my prize.’

Steeling herself, she walked slowly towards him. He stood up, facing her, and smiled. She realised with a jolt that when he smiled, his whole face was transformed from a threatening harshness to engaging warmth. His blue eyes had lost their steeliness and smiled, too, suggesting humour and good nature. His white teeth were even and his lips full. She stared at him, enjoying the picture he presented.

‘I’m not surprised you’ve had trouble from your employers,’ he broke into her rapt contemplation. ‘You’re far too lovely ever to be let near the average young man.’ He laughed softly. ‘But I’m hardly the average man, so we need have no fears on that score.’

She woke abruptly from her dreamlike state and realised the danger she was in. Picking up her reticule, she fanned herself energetically. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m still very warm in here. And I wonder if the ham was all it should be?’

‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’ he exploded. The moment was gone.

‘Just that the ham had a slight taint, I thought. But ham never really agrees with me, so perhaps it was fine.’

‘If it doesn’t agree with you, what the devil do you mean by eating it?’

‘You insisted, Mr Wendover. I was scared of you, so I ate it. But now I don’t feel at all well.’ She pressed her handkerchief artistically to her mouth and closed her eyes. ‘I think I might really faint this time.’

Gareth cursed under his breath and shouted for the landlord, who came suspiciously quickly. She was sure the salacious old man had been lurking outside the door, waiting to see what would occur.

‘My companion is unwell, landlord, your ham seems to be to blame,’ Gareth said tersely.

‘That can’t be right, sir, the ham was freshly cured. Mrs Fawley would be very upset to think that aspersions had been cast on her ham. It’s the best in the city. You won’t get better anywhere.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Gareth irascibly, ‘that’s as may be. My friend here is feeling ill and needs to lie down. Do you have a bedchamber where she can be accommodated?’

‘Yes, sir, of course, I’ll call my wife immediately.’

Mrs Fawley soon appeared on the doorstep with a martial look in her eyes. It was obvious she had overheard the conversation and was ready to defend her ham. But when she saw Amelie, small and white, and looking decidedly unwell, she took pity on her.

‘I’ve got my own opinion as to what’s made the young miss faint,’ she sniffed, and escorted Amelie to a small but clean bedchamber on the next floor, overlooking the courtyard.

Once on her own, she locked the door and laid herself on the bed. She was exhausted by the morning’s adventures. It seemed that she’d thwarted one persecutor only to fall into the hands of another; she’d only very narrowly eluded her would-be ravisher. It was second nature for her to mistrust any man and she wondered at her stupidity in imagining that Gareth Wendover would be no threat to her.

When she’d first seen him he’d appeared no more harmful than a lively reveller returning from a night of pleasure—untidy and unfashionable and probably a little the worse for drink—but for some reason she’d trusted him. Only after he’d used her so roughly, dragging her along the street, throwing her into the hackney and then—certainly best forgotten—pulling her into his arms, had she realised what a foolish mistake she’d made.

And yet even then, she admitted shamefacedly, there’d been temptation to remain in his embrace, to let those strong arms encircle her. Of course that was simply a reaction to the alarms of the last few days, but thank goodness the landlord had come in when he had. And now her pretence of illness had saved her again, although for a short while only. She was sure that Gareth would be knocking on the door very soon and demanding admittance. And a bedchamber was an even worse place to meet him than the parlour downstairs. She had to be gone by the time he arrived.

She quickly washed her hands and face and tidied her hair in the tarnished mirror, which hung lopsidedly on one wall. She’d noticed as the landlady escorted her up to this floor that there was a second stairway leading downwards. It was much smaller and far less grand, obviously the stair used by the servants. She was sure it would lead out to the garden; if she could reach that, she would easily be able to creep unnoticed to the front courtyard.

She glanced at the clock and could hardly believe the time. The coach for Bath left in just five minutes. Carefully, she unlocked the door and peered out. All was quiet and she tiptoed as swiftly as she could to the head of the small staircase and listened again. The only noise wafting up to her was the convivial banter from the taproom. No strong footsteps mounted towards her door. Gareth Wendover thought she was travelling to Bristol and would not know the Bath stage was about to leave. This was her chance.

Regretfully, she would have to leave her cloak bag behind in the parlour below, but at least she had her reticule and in it the precious ticket. In a minute she was down the stairs and lifting the latch on the door leading to the garden. A woman servant suddenly appeared from the kitchen quarters and stared at her uncomprehendingly. Amelie whisked through the door and quickly took the path to the front of the inn.

The scene was a little less chaotic than when she’d arrived in the hackney as many of the morning coaches had already departed. She was easily able to identify the coach to Bath, and once she’d shown her ticket to the guard, she was helped aboard. She chose one of the middle seats of the bank of four that lined either side. It was likely to be the most uncomfortable, but it would shield her from anyone looking in from outside. A large burly farmer sat to one side and a rotund country woman with an enormous basket on her lap on the other. There was very little room, but she could almost disappear between them.

It seemed a lifetime before the guard blew the signal to leave and the coach was pulling out of the yard. There was no sign of her tormentor. By now he was sure to have begun drinking again and would hardly miss her absence. Strangely, she didn’t feel as elated at her escape as she should. It was ridiculous, but she almost fancied that she’d let him down in some way. After all, he’d shown some care for her. If it weren’t for him, she would still be dangling on the rope of sheets or, even worse, impaled on the front railings. He’d helped her down, found a cab and escorted her to the inn. He’d offered her shelter and refreshment. He’d pulled her into his arms. He’d held her in a crushing embrace. Her mind stopped. That was an image she must be sure to leave behind.

They were already passing through Belgravia and turning out on to the highway that ran westwards. She hoped her family had no idea yet that she was gone. Fanny would be worrying frantically and the sooner she could let her maidservant know that all was well, the better. And all was well, she convinced herself. She’d had a gruelling experience, but she’d achieved her aim. She would not be there to greet Rufus Glyde this morning. Instead, she was on her way to her grandmother’s and to safety.

Gareth drained the last of the coffee pot and decided to go in search of his reluctant travelling companion.He’d been unsure whether she was telling the truth about the ham, but she’d certainly begun to look very white and he’d not wanted to risk any unpleasantness. Truth to tell, she’d looked so small and vulnerable he’d felt a wish to protect her rather than pursue her. He shook his head at his stupidity. She was as mercenary as the rest of the world, no doubt. Her story about escaping from an importuning son probably had a grain of truth in it, given her undeniable beauty, but he was quite sure there was another tale to tell. Perhaps she really was a thief. Perhaps she’d allowed the son too much licence and was now scared to tell her mistress of the inevitable result.

Thanks to the very strong coffee, he’d sobered up completely in the hour that she’d been gone. He still didn’t know what had possessed him to get involved with the girl. A sense of the ridiculous, perhaps? Or a whiff of intrigue—a maid with a French name, finicky manners and a keenness to hide her face. He felt too weary to puzzle any further. Two sleepless nights had begun to take their toll and he was now eager to wash his hands of her. He would simply put her on the Bristol coach and go back to his hotel. It had been stupid of him to think that he could flee his obligations. Tomorrow he would send a message to the solicitor and sign whatever papers that worthy presented.

He glanced at the cloak bag Amelie had left on the bench. He’d better restore it to its owner and assure her that she had nothing further to fear from him. He made his way upstairs to the front bedchamber, but it was empty. Thinking he’d got the wrong room, he looked into another and surprised the chambermaid who was making up the bed.

‘I’m looking for a young lady,’ he excused himself, ‘she was feeling unwell and came up to rest.’

The maid looked at him blankly. ‘She’s not ‘ere.’

‘I can see she’s not here,’ Gareth returned shortly, ‘but have you seen her?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ The maid continued smoothing out the bedspread with a bored expression on her face. ‘Not many people come up ‘ere.’ She paused and looked vacantly out of the window. ‘There wus a stranger on the stairs a while ago.’

‘A young woman?’

‘I couldn’t rightly say.’

‘Why ever not?’ he asked impatiently.

“Cos of the cloak.’

‘A black velvet cloak?’ The maid nodded absently.

‘That’s her. Where is she?’

‘How would I know? She went down the stairs and out the door.’

‘What door?’ Gareth was suddenly alert.

‘The back door, of course.’ The maid shook her head at his obtuseness. “Appen she’s in the garden taking the air,’ she said helpfully.

He swore softly to himself and ran down the stairs two at a time. The garden was empty as he knew it would be, but he saw the path that led around the inn and followed it into the courtyard. The yard was also nearly empty. The last coach of the morning had departed and the inn servants were clearing up the mess the passengers and drivers had left behind.

He accosted a thin, gangling youth who was mournfully sweeping the last of the straw from the cobbles.

‘The stage to Bristol?’ he enquired curtly.

‘There ain’t no stages to Bristol today,’ the boy confided happily, leaning on his broom and glad for an excuse to stop work. ‘Bath now, mebbe. And you can allus go on from Bath.’

‘Where’s the stage to Bath?’

‘Where? Somewhere near ‘Ounslow, I reckon.’ The boy grinned cheekily. ‘What d’you think, Jem?’

Jem staggered to a halt, bent double under the weight of the saddle he was carrying. ‘With ole Tranter driving, probably not yet clear of Kensington,’ he jeered.

The other men stopped their work and joined in a chorus of raucous laughter. An elderly ostler leaned lazily against the inn wall and chewed a straw. He smiled widely, enjoying Gareth’s discomfort.

‘Next one’s tomorrow, sir. That’s if you don’t mind a little wait,’ he sniggered.

‘Move yourself and get me a horse immediately,’ Gareth snapped in response and ran back into the inn. He threw money onto the table in payment and snatched up Amelie’s cloak bag. He’d been willing to let her go when he could play the benefactor. But how dare she play him false? A bargain was a bargain and he was going to make her pay.

He stormed back into the inn courtyard and tapped his foot impatiently.

It took nearly fifteen minutes to make the horse ready and by that time he was in a towering rage. He threw the cloak bag across the saddle, then leapt onto the horse’s back and wheeled her round to face the courtyard entrance.

“Appen you might catch ‘em up,’ opined the old ostler, still chewing his straw vigorously, ‘but I ain’t anyways too sure on it.’

Gareth’s reply was to spur his mount forwards and out of the courtyard in one bound.

Chapter Three

Wedged uncomfortably between her fellow passengers, Amelie endured the miles as they rolled wearily on. By now her escape must have been discovered. Her father would be spreading tempest through the house; he would find it impossible to explain her absence to Rufus Glyde when the latter came calling. For a moment the thought of Glyde’s likely retribution made her feel a little sick, but she resolutely pushed it from her mind. Lord Silverdale would have to find another way of saving the family.

She had no clear idea of the time, but it had to be around noon. Any moment now Sir Rufus would be stepping up to the front door of the house in Grosvenor Square, expecting to have acquired a bride before he left again. A wave of revulsion passed through her. Anything was better than that, even the harassment she’d suffered from Mr Gareth Wendover.

She was glad to be free of him, too, yet she couldn’t quite subdue a twinge of regret. He’d behaved abominably, but then her conduct had hardly been that of a delicately raised young woman. If he’d realised her true situation, he wouldn’t have attempted to make love to her. But that was a nonsense. It would have made no difference to him if she were maid or mistress. From the outset he’d shown a predilection for seizing her in as close an embrace as possible. Whether she was the daughter of Lord Silverdale or the daughter’s maid would be immaterial.

And shamefully, it hadn’t mattered to her either whether he was Mr Wendover, gentleman, or a choice spirit of dubious origins. She’d enjoyed the feeling of being held against his powerful frame. Eyes closed, she thought reminiscently of the strength that had encompassed her, the masculine warmth that promised as much excitement as security. But how foolish! She had no intention of being at the mercy of any man—ever. She’d just escaped from one threatened entanglement and she must preserve herself from any other, particularly with a man who by the look of him could bring her nothing but trouble.

She shifted her position, trying to get more comfortable, but in such a crowded carriage it was difficult. Her feet were already numb from inactivity and her left arm ached with the weight of the portly farmer bunched in beside her. A thin-faced clerk in the corner scowled at her attempts to move, but the country woman smiled in motherly sympathy.

‘There ain’t much room in these coaches, miss, and we large ‘uns don’t make it any easier.’

The farmer snorted at this and shifted his bulk again, trapping Amelie’s arm even more heavily than before. As well as aching from head to toe, she was beginning to feel very hungry. She’d hardly eaten a crumb at the inn, so intent had she been on eluding Gareth. The motherly lady, sensing her thoughts, reached down to the basket, which now nestled on the floor between her feet. She drew out some slices of pie and cheese and apples and smilingly offered to share her fare. Natural politeness would normally have made Amelie refuse, but her hunger was tormenting and the morning’s events had somehow dispensed with normality. She plunged her teeth into the succulent pie just as they left Hounslow Heath.

Her benefactor adjusted her white cotton cap and sighed with relief. ‘I’m certain glad we’ve left that Heath. Terrible things happen there. Just last week my neighbour told me her son was held up in broad daylight and robbed of everything, including his horse. He’d to walk all the way to the City and never a chance of catching the man who robbed him.’

Amelie, too, was relieved, for Fanny’s words still echoed in her mind; that at least was one danger she’d evaded. Once replete with food, it was easy to slip into a doze. She knew it must be another eight hours or so before she reached her destination and if she could catnap at least some of the time, the journey would not be so wearisome. She started to rehearse what she would say to her grandmother when she finally reached her and was in the middle of a masterly speech in which she painted a frightening picture of what her life would be like with Rufus Glyde, when her head began to droop and she drifted gently into a deep sleep. The red-faced farmer beside her also slept, his snores keeping time with the rhythm of the coach, but Amelie heard nothing. Even when the stage came to rest at its designated stops, she remained undisturbed.

She slept on, mile after mile, until suddenly just past the Chippenham turn-off the coach lurched to an abrupt halt. She was jolted awake and thought at first that they must have reached the small town of Wroxhall, which she’d noticed was just twenty miles short of Bath. Hopefully some of the passengers would alight there and leave those remaining a little more room. Craning her neck round the still-sleeping farmer to look out of the window, she received a shock that sent her senses spinning.

Gareth Wendover wrenched open the doorway of the coach. He was smiling grimly and in his hand was her forlorn cloak bag. ‘You seem to have forgotten something, Amelie.’

The coachman at that moment appeared at his shoulder. “Ere, ‘ere, you can’t stop a coach on the King’s ‘Ighway to give back a bag,’ he blustered.

‘Oh, but indeed I can,’ Gareth said smoothly. ‘You see, this isn’t any old cloak bag and I’m not giving it back. In fact, I have every intention of keeping it—it is evidence!’

Her fellow passengers were now all wide awake and taking interested note of the proceedings. She heard the word evidence being bandied around between them and turned to face her pursuer.

Gareth’s smile turned positively fiendish. ‘It contains some very expensive trinkets filched by this young woman from her employers. In her haste to escape justice, she left the bag behind. But I’ll make sure that she answers for her crime. I intend to deliver her immediately to the local magistrate. He is sure to have strong views on dishonest servants.’

There was a gasp from the stout woman who had befriended Amelie. ‘Surely not, sir. This young woman can’t be a thief.’

‘One would not think so, I confess, but appearances can be deceptive. Unfortunately, the young and supposedly innocent may harbour evil impulses.’

‘How dare you,’ spluttered Amelie. ‘You know you’re telling a pack of lies. That bag is certainly mine, but it contains only a few personal items.’

‘Is that so?’ Gareth was maddeningly calm. ‘Then I suggest, ladies and gentlemen,’ addressing the inhabitants of the coach who were now all craning forward, intent on the play being enacted before them, ‘that you decide whether or not a maid is likely to be carrying these particular personal items.’

And with a flourish he emptied the contents of the bag onto the ground. To her embarrassment a few of her garments spilled out, but her consternation was vastly increased when she spied along with them a diamond brooch, a jewelled tiepin and a battered but expensive gentleman’s timepiece.

‘Now what do you think of that?’ her tormentor goaded. ‘Do they look the sort of things a lady’s maid would own? I really don’t think so. They do, however, look the sort of items she might purloin from her employer’s bedroom.’

Amelie found her voice at last. ‘This is all lies. I’ve never seen these things before in my life,’ she cried indignantly.

‘And yet somehow they are in your bag. You did say it was your bag, didn’t you?’

Her fellow passengers were muttering to themselves, the motherly lady still swearing that she was sure there was some mistake, but the acidic clerk in the corner talked darkly about the falling morals of servants these days. Even the farmer had woken up and was giving his pointed opinion that they were wasting time, and if they didn’t get moving soon it would be dark before they could get anywhere near their homes. The rest of the coach nodded in agreement and seemed to lose interest in Amelie’s plight.

Gareth reached into the carriage and grasped her arm. ‘Now, my dear, I think you will come with me.’

He pulled her down from the coach as the driver started to put his horses into motion once more. Smiling, he waved the stage on its way. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure this young woman gets her just deserts.’

It was all over in seconds. One minute the coach was still there, the next she was standing in the middle of a deserted country road, Gareth Wendover at her arm and his horse placidly grazing by the roadside.

‘You are abominable!’ she exploded. ‘What have I ever done to you to serve me so ill?’

‘Desertion, perhaps,’ he queried. ‘Have you never been told it’s dishonourable to make a bargain and not keep it? I thought you needed a lesson.’

‘I need no lesson on how to conduct myself, particularly from you,’ she raged. ‘The last time I had the misfortune to be in your company, you behaved intolerably even for someone who was clearly not in their right senses.’

His smile faded. ‘I may have been a trifle disguised,’ he conceded, ‘but my senses were working fine. You’re a very beautiful young woman, Amelie, but too spirited by far. As a maidservant, you’re in need of some schooling.’

She ignored the implied threat. ‘How dare you make me out to be a thief? Every feeling is offended.’

‘Who’s to say you’re not a thief? You’ve behaved most suspiciously.’

She stood erect and looked him squarely in the eyes. ‘I have never stolen in my life and I have never seen those articles you tipped out of my cloak bag.’

‘No, of course you haven’t,’ he agreed amiably. ‘The watch and tiepin are mine and the brooch is one that belonged to my mother and that happened to be in my pocket.’

She gaped at him. ‘Then why did you make up such a wicked story?’

‘To get you off the coach, of course,’ he replied blandly. ‘What else? I could hardly hold the stage up and request you to dismount. You would have refused and your fellow passengers would have supported you, but thinking you might be a thief, they just wanted to get on their way.’

‘You are insufferable. You’ve stranded me in the middle of nowhere because I didn’t keep some shameful bargain. Rest assured that I still won’t be keeping it.’

‘Now that’s where we might disagree.’ His tone was unyielding. ‘After all, what else can you do? As you so rightly point out, you’re stranded in the middle of nowhere, and the only possible transport looks to be that horse over there, and that horse belongs to me. So I think perhaps you might be persuaded to keep your bargain after all.’

‘Then you think wrongly. I would rather walk for the rest of the day than be anywhere near you.’ With that, she stuffed her few belongings back into her bag and began marching rapidly along the road.

‘It’s at least six miles to the nearest village,’ he called after her.

‘Then I’ll walk six miles,’ she responded angrily.

He swung himself into the saddle and sidled his horse up to her. ‘I always get my way, you know. You might as well give in gracefully and enjoy our splendid isolation together. The shoes you’re wearing hardly seem to be made for rural walking.’ The steel had given way to wry mockery.

She looked down at the dainty pumps she still wore, annoyed that she’d not thought to change them for some of Fanny’s much stouter shoes. With compressed lips, she marched onwards, Gareth Wendover walking his horse just a pace behind. We must look like a carnival show, she reflected bitterly.

‘Come, Amelie, this is stupid. Get up on the horse and I’ll engage to take you to the nearest inn.’

‘Thank you, sir, but your offer is declined. I’m well aware of my likely fate there. I’ve had experience of what you consider fitting conduct for an inn.’

‘You’re an obstinate young woman, but I shall win. You might as well resign yourself to accompanying me and be saved a good deal of discomfort.’

His manner was relaxed and he seemed to have all the time in the world, confident that she would eventually capitulate. Her feet were already pinching badly and she knew that the soles of her shoes would hardly stand up to six miles of rough road, but her anger drove her on. The earlier vision of his smile and the remembered pleasure of his embrace had evaporated without trace. He was a persecutor, there was no doubt. He was as bad in his own way as Rufus Glyde and, just as she’d defeated Glyde, she would defeat him, too.

Still incensed, she trudged on and now both were silent. Gareth saved his breath. He could see it was pointless trying to persuade her otherwise. He’d been seized by fury when he discovered she’d disappeared without a word and had made a snap decision to go after her and wreak his revenge. It was a stupid thing to do, but he was unused to a female besting him. From the moment he’d met her, he’d behaved irrationally; she’d somehow got under his skin and it was a new sensation. Women were for dalliance, passing fancies to be enjoyed lightly before moving on. They were not to be taken seriously. Now he was landed with this ridiculous situation.

He was willing to concede that she had cause to be angry. He’d behaved badly, but her conduct was hardly blameless. She’d been lying to him ever since they met, he was certain. And she’d made use of him when it suited her. He would show her that no one, least of all a chit of a girl, treated him in that way and emerged unscathed. Let her walk off her temper and destroy her shoes. She would be all the more acquiescent when he made his next move.

Musing in this way, he was unaware of the sounds of an approaching coach. Amelie, far more alert, heard in the distance the clatter of wheels before a curricle and four swept round the corner at breakneck speed. She had a terrifying vision of four magnificent greys thundering down on her before she made a dive for cover. Lost in his thoughts, Gareth could only take avoiding action when it was too late. His startled mount reared into the air, and he was flung over the horse’s head, landing heavily in the ditch. The curricle swept by, its driver, clad in a caped overcoat, according them not a glance.

Cowering in the shelter of the grassy bank, Amelie thought she spied a crest on the side of the coach panel. Surely it could not be Rufus Glyde. But she knew that it was. She was all too familiar with that crest. Her flight must have been discovered earlier than she’d hoped and he’d been sent for, or most probably had taken it on himself to hunt her down. Fanny would never have given her away; her father must have guessed that she’d fled to Bath and her grandmother. Terrified that Glyde might turn the coach and come back to inspect his handiwork, she remained in hiding. There she stayed silent and unmoving for a long time before finding the courage to crawl up the bank to the roadside.

Gareth Wendover was nowhere to be seen. His mount was once more quietly cropping the grass, but there was no sign of the master. A perfect opportunity to escape. The horse was close by and looked biddable. If she led him to the nearest field gate she could manage to clamber into the saddle, then ride to Wroxall, and from there catch the next stagecoach westwards wherever it was going. The sooner she was out of this part of the country, the better. She knew Glyde was not travelling here for his own enjoyment. He was searching for her and he would be back.

A groan sounded from the ditch a few yards away. Tiptoeing to the grass edge, she peered downwards. Gareth was lying on his back, but his foot was at a sickening angle. He had his eyes closed and his face was ashen.

‘Are you all right?’ She knew it to be an ill-advised question even as she asked.

He opened his eyes and looked directly up into hers. ‘Does it look like it? No, I’m not all right, but it’s hardly your problem.’

‘What’s happened to your foot?’

‘It appears I may have broken my ankle—I’m not sure. In any case, I can’t move more than a few inches. There’s no way I’ll be able to walk on it.’

She remained silent and he rasped out, ‘Don’t mind me, rejoice all you wish. You’re free to go now. Take the horse and make your escape while you can.’

‘But what will you do?’

‘Do you really care? I can’t imagine so. I shall stay here—I don’t have much choice. Someone will come by sooner or later.’

‘Let me try to help you up.’ She half clambered down the ditch and put her hand under the shoulder that was nearest. At the same time he tried to raise himself to a standing position with his other hand, but the effort was too great. His face turned even whiter.

‘I can’t do it,’ he said, sinking back onto the damp bed of grass once more, ‘but thank you for trying. I probably don’t deserve your help.’

‘No, you don’t,’ she said shortly, ‘and this could be just punishment for your behaviour.’

‘Spare me the lecture on my morals and go.’

She hesitated, but then walked down the road and led the horse forwards to the nearby gate. Gareth’s last glimpse of her was a mass of chestnut curls flying in the breeze as she disappeared into the distance.

She was an accomplished rider and the few miles to the nearest inn took her only a short time to cover. She rode into the deserted courtyard of the George and called out for help. No one came. She had to dismount and walk into the taproom before she found anyone. An angular woman with a sharp-featured countenance confronted her. Her worn pinafore and rolled-up sleeves suggested that this was the landlord’s wife.

She barred Amelie’s passage, her arms folded pugnaciously, and her eyes snapping. ‘And what do you want, missy?’ she asked in an ill-tempered voice as she looked Amelie up and down with a thinly veiled disgust. ‘We ain’t that sort of place. Off with you. The Cross Keys is where you need to be.’

Amelie was startled. She’d never before been spoken to in that fashion. She supposed she must look a fright; she was certainly dishevelled from the long coach journey and her tumble down the bank. The hem of her dress was muddy and her shoes practically falling apart. She rather thought her face was smudged, too. It was true she looked an unlikely member of the ton, but to judge her a lightskirt!

However, she couldn’t afford to alienate the woman further and so pinned on her most appealing smile. ‘Dear, ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m afraid there’s been a riding accident and my present state is due to having been thrown from my horse.’

The landlady’s wife looked unimpressed. Her arms stayed folded and her expression was grim.

‘We, my brother and I, were on a pleasure ride, you see,’ Amelie extemporised wildly, ‘and my horse went lame, so we had to leave her behind at a farm we passed and we decided to continue home on Gareth’s horse. Only then a coach came along at a tremendous speed and the horse reared up and flung us both into the ditch.’

That, at least, was partly truthful. The woman began to look a little more interested, but her arms remained in their fixed position.

‘Gareth, my brother, has hurt his ankle—I fear he may have broken it—and I’ve had to leave him lying in the ditch. I said I would ride to seek help.’ She gave a nervous laugh and finished lamely, ‘And here I am. Yours was the first inn I came to.’

The landlady continued to maintain her unnerving silence and Amelie cast round for something that would penetrate the woman’s iron reserve. Her eye caught the garish design of what looked to be new curtains.

‘Oh, how wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘Such beautiful curtains. I know my mother has been looking everywhere for colours like these, but hasn’t been able to find just the right shades.’

She prayed fervently for her dead mother’s forgiveness. The praise seemed to be welcome and Mrs Skinner unbent slightly, but it was the thought that she had stolen a march on Amelie’s unknown mother that really sealed the matter.

‘Where d’you say your brother wus?’ she enquired roughly.

‘Just a few miles along the road going west,’ Amelie said hopefully. ‘If we could send an able-bodied man with a horse and cart, we could carry him back here.’

‘We,’ said the landlady with emphasis, ‘can’t do nuthin’. You’ll ‘ave to wait till Mr Skinner gets back from Wroxhall, then we’ll see.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Amelie said placatingly, wondering with anxiety just how long that would be.

In the event it was two very long hours before she heard the horse and cart pull up in the yard. Two hours of nervously keeping watch at the parlour window, ready to run should Rufus Glyde reappear. And two hours of thinking of Gareth, alone and cold, lying in that ditch. He might be spotted by a labourer returning home from work, but it was unlikely that a passer-by would search the gully without reason. And by now he probably lacked the strength to attract attention. Perhaps she shouldn’t have left him? What if he caught a fever or, even worse, died? It would be all her fault. No, that isn’t fair, she countered angrily—it would be his fault. If he hadn’t stopped the coach, told such appalling lies about her and forced her to go with him, the accident would never have happened. He wouldn’t be lying badly injured and she’d be safe with her grandmother instead of stranded in this dreary inn.

‘I heerd you had an accident.’ Mr Skinner was as stout as his wife was thin and by good fortune lacked her chronic ill temper. He smiled pleasantly at Amelie, ‘I’m sorry I weren’t home to help, but I’ve told Will to pack up the cart with blankets and brandy and then go arsk the doctor to come quickly. When the horse is fed, Will and me will be off sharp to look for your brother.’

‘Thank you truly, Mr Skinner. I’m very worried about him.’ And to her own astonishment, she shed genuine tears.

‘Don’t you fret, miss. It’ll be all right. It’s May and the weather ain’t too bad. Happen he’ll be a little cold and mebbe in pain, but he’ll come off fine.’

‘Can I come with you?’

‘No, m’dear—best stay here. It’s getting dark and we don’t want another accident.’

She had docilely to agree. But now that dusk had fallen, she thought it would prove difficult to locate the injured man by lantern light. If she’d been allowed to accompany the rescuers, she was sure she would have found the place easily. Instead she was forced to remain at her post by the window, scanning the darkness with such intensity that it seemed she might cut a path to Gareth through the gloom and herself bring help.

In the first hour after Amelie left, Gareth remained cheerful. She’d had the chance to break free and he’d expected her to desert him. He was surprised that she’d even hesitated. He thought of her attempts to help him. It had been excruciatingly painful, but he’d borne with it because she’d cared enough to try and because she was near. What was it about this girl that led him to behave so rashly? She seemed to exercise a malignant charm over him. By rights he should be at ease in his London hotel, sending a message to his lawyer and planning his escape to the Continent. He supposed wryly that this was a kind of escape although hardly one he would have chosen.

The minutes ticked slowly by and he grew colder as the sun waned and the chill of dusk settled around him. He began to fall into a troubled dream in which a card table and a chandelier swam around the periphery of his vision while a beautiful, chestnut-haired girl danced in front of him. Gradually, he lapsed into a feverish state, the dreams becoming more vivid and frightening. The girl had disappeared and the chandelier was burning his eyes. The cards rose from the table and smacked him hard around the face. Blearily he swam back into consciousness as a hand gently slapped his cheek and a homely country voice encouraged him. ‘Come on, sir, time to go. We’ll have you in the cart in a twinkling and get you back to a warm bed.’

Mr Skinner’s plump build belied a strength that was needed to raise Gareth from the depths of the gully. Only then could Will reach down to help them both up the steep bank. Gareth was now as weak as a kitten; though he tried manfully to aid their struggle, he had to allow himself to be pulled, pushed and finally lifted from his mossy bed onto the rough boards of the cart. A twinkling had been an exaggeration, he thought, in the throes of extreme pain. At some point he must have passed out. He came to, choking on the brandy that Mr Skinner trickled down his throat. The blankets wrapping him smelt slightly fetid and the jolting of the cart sent shock pains through his leg. At last when he felt he could bear it no longer, they turned into the yard of the George Inn.

The first face he saw was Amelie’s. He could hardly believe she was there. He’d been too dazed to think how his rescuers had found him, but now he saw he had her to thank.

‘You’ve found my brother,’ cried Amelie, running forwards and gratefully squeezing Mr Skinner by the hand. She hoped that Gareth was alert enough to grasp his supposed relationship. The innkeeper lifted him carefully down from the cart and, with Will’s help, carried him up to the spare room. Gareth was no lightweight and Will could only gasp between breaths that the doctor would be with them presently. Once in the room, Gareth sank, pallid-faced, onto the bed.

With difficulty, he turned to Mr Skinner, and murmured in a faint voice, ‘My sister and I are most grateful for your kindness in coming to our aid.’

She was thankful for his quick thinking. If he’d repudiated the relationship, she was sure that Mrs Skinner would have instantly ejected her from the inn, darkness or no darkness.

After the doctor had visited his new patient and made his examination, she crept quietly back into Gareth’s room.

‘What’s the verdict?’ she asked anxiously.

He looked up slowly and smiled. It was the warm smile she’d seen in the London inn. That seemed a million miles away now.

‘I haven’t broken the ankle, thank the lord, but I’ve sprained it badly and I’m likely to be laid up for a good few days. The doctor’s left me a draught for the pain and he’ll come back the day after tomorrow to change the bandages.’

She could only smile in response. She felt tongue tied, badly shaken by how intense her relief had been when Gareth was carried into the inn courtyard and how sharp her distress at seeing him in pain. Powerful feelings had surfaced despite her effort to control them. There was an awkward silence. The painkilling draught was already having its effects and Gareth lay dozing. She was about to tiptoe out of the room, when his voice stopped her in her tracks.

‘I should say thank-you.’

‘There’s no need,’ she said quickly.

‘You could have taken your revenge by leaving me to my fate.’

‘I am not dishonest,’ she said squarely, ‘and neither am I heartless. You’d suffered a misfortune and needed help. I would have done the same for anyone.’

‘You could have told them here of the accident and then gone on your way. You need not have stayed.’

His smile had vanished and his voice was almost brusque. It was as if he resented her help, resented being put in a situation where he was beholden.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be staying long,’ she said in a cool voice, ‘just tonight and then I’ll be gone.’

‘Where will you sleep? This seems to be the only spare room.’

‘I’m to share a chamber with Betsy—the kitchen maid.’

‘Good,’ he said mysteriously.

She couldn’t see anything good about it. She’d never shared a bedroom in her life and a kitchen maid would not have been her chosen companion. A more worldly-wise Gareth was satisfied. If she were indeed the innocent young woman she claimed to be, then Betsy’s chaperonage would be invaluable.

‘No doubt I’ll see you in the morning before you leave?’ His tone was indifferent; it was clear that he was dismissing her and preferred to be alone.

‘If you wish,’ she replied distantly.

He closed his eyes in weariness, looking so ill and worn that she instantly regretted her coldness. She would have to leave on the morrow as she’d promised, but a small inner voice was urging her to stay and make sure that he recovered fully. The thought was dismissed even as it occurred. It was impossible to remain at the inn; she’d spent the entire day evading his unwelcome attentions, so what on earth would he think if she continued by his bedside?

Chapter Four

She stirred restlessly as the bedroom door shut. There was a thin streak of daylight showing between the badly hung curtain and the window sill, but otherwise the attic room remained dark. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to read the battered clock face on the table beside her and saw that it was only five-thirty. She must have been woken by the maid, leaving for her unenviable duties downstairs. She supposed she ought to rise herself and be on the road to Wroxall as early as possible. There’d be no way of getting to the town at this time of day other than by walking and it would take many hours. She’d have to beg a strong pair of shoes from Betsy.

She tried to work out what time she would reach Wroxhall and if it would be possible to board a coach that afternoon for Bath. It might be that mail coaches also stopped in the town. They were much faster than the lumbering stage and would get her to Bath before nightfall. But the cost of a ticket was also much higher and her remaining funds were modest. She might even miss whatever coaches were passing through the town and be forced to spend a night there. That was something she dared not contemplate.

She’d embarked on this adventure nervous, but confident, that she would succeed in reaching her grandmother within hours. Complications such as Gareth Wendover had never entered her head. And he was a complication. By any measure he’d treated her callously and yet she felt a strong thread connecting them, a thread she was finding difficult to break. But there was no doubt he’d brought added danger into her life and she was well advised to be leaving him. Between them, the landlord and the doctor would do all that was necessary to guarantee his well-being; such a vigorous man would not be laid low for long. And if she left the inn this early in the morning, she could forgo a farewell visit. It would be unmannerly, but much easier to walk out of the door right now. If she saw him again, she might be tempted to stay. Her thoughts went round and round in circles until her tired brain gave up the struggle and she once more slept.

‘Miss Wendover, can you hear me?’ The landlord’s voice penetrated her slumbers. It had a note of urgency and she wondered for an instant who he was calling and why, when she realised it must be herself. She was the mysterious Miss Wendover!

‘Miss Wendover, can you come quickly, please?’

She hurried out of bed and hastily donned her travelling clothes from yesterday. At the door Mr Skinner looked apologetic, but very worried.

‘Sorry to wake you betimes, miss, but Mr Wendover do seem bad. He’s feverish for sure and don’t respond. Will and me have tried to give him the doctor’s medicine, but he won’t let us near.’

She forgot her resolution to leave the inn as soon as possible and ran down the stairs to Gareth’s bedroom. The scene before her struck her with dismay. A smoky candle still spluttered on the bedside table, but the curtains remained drawn. In the half-light she could see the bedcovers in disarray, half of them trailing on the floor and the other half heaped untidily on the bed. As for the patient, he was tossing and turning constantly, unable to get comfortable, first throwing off the sheets and then grabbing at them with hot dry hands while all the time muttering incoherently. She went forwards to the bed and laid her hand fleetingly on his forehead. It was burning to the touch and his eyes, glancing unrecognisingly at her, were blurred with fever.

‘Have you sent for the doctor?’ Amelie questioned, thoroughly alarmed.

‘Not yet, miss, we weren’t sure to do it, without your say so.’

‘Why ever didn’t you call me earlier?’

‘We did think to,’ Mr Skinner conceded, ‘but he weren’t too bad seemingly.’

‘He’s certainly bad now.’ Her voice was sharp with anxiety.

‘Ah, mortal bad.’ The landlord looked gloomily down at the threshing figure and shook his head.

She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. It looked as though she would need all the help she could get.

‘Please send Will for the doctor immediately and ask Mrs Skinner to bring a sponge and some lavender water.’

‘T’would be best if I get it for you, miss.’

‘I really don’t care who gets it, just bring it please,’ she snapped, her nerves frayed by this frightening turn of events.

There was no help for it—she would have to stay. The Skinners believed her to be Gareth’s sister and there was no way she could simply up and leave. And seeing him lying ill and alone, she knew that she wouldn’t abandon him. When Mr Skinner returned with the bowl of lavender water, she asked him to raise the patient up while she attempted to plump the lumpy pillows into a more comfortable resting place. Then she sat down by the bedside and gently sponged his face. This seemed to soothe the fretting man and for a while he became calmer. But when she rose to move away from the bed, his hand, which had been aimlessly brushing the sheet, shot out and grasped her wrist.

‘Don’t leave me,’ he muttered fiercely.

The doctor was not long in coming and did not seem overly surprised that his patient had developed a fever. He had, after all, been lying in a wet ditch for a number of hours and, by the look of him, Dr Fennimore thought, he’d probably already travelled a considerable distance and spent much of his strength. But his agitation appeared extreme.

The doctor rose from the bedside and looked thoughtfully at Amelie, his face shrewd and enquiring. ‘His fever is unusually severe. Apart from his physical ills, he seems unquiet in his mind. You wouldn’t know, I suppose, if there is something disturbing him?’

She avoided his question. She could not imagine that the events of the previous day had seriously bothered such a cool, audacious man. But Gareth Wendover was certainly a mystery and she sensed that there were dark shadows in his life which might complicate his recovery. She sat down by the rickety table, troubled and very pale.

The doctor clasped her hand warmly. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Wendover. I’m sure this fever is only temporary. Your brother looks a tough man, certainly not one that a few hours in a ditch will finish off.’

He continued bluffly, ‘I’ll leave you with a stronger remedy. Give it to him every three hours. If his condition worsens, send for me immediately. Hopefully, he should be back to his normal strength within a few days. His ankle is already showing signs of improvement.’

As Gareth’s supposed sister, Amelie had also to be his nurse. Pitchforked into intimacy with a man she hardly knew, she could not protest without drawing attention to their false relationship. Fanny’s horror would know no bounds, she reflected, but this was no time to be missish. Gareth needed her constant attention.

Throughout the next two days she bathed his forehead, administered medicine and kept his bedclothes as comfortable as possible. All the time his fevered ramblings punctuated the endless routine. He seemed greatly exercised about escaping from a room and needing to find a boat, but none of it made any sense to Amelie and she was too busy to worry over his words.

Mrs Skinner was invariably difficult, grumbling incessantly about the additional work Gareth occasioned. At times Amelie nearly came to blows with her. Fortunately, her husband was of a different disposition. He took Amelie’s place by the bedside at nuncheon and dinner to allow her to eat and to stretch her limbs; at night he insisted on taking over Gareth’s care and sent her to bed in the early hours of each morning. By then she was too tired to protest and retired gratefully to her little attic room, not caring that Betsy beside her was snoring heavily. She was so weary that she could have slept in Gareth’s ditch.

On the third morning Mr Skinner reported that the fever had broken around dawn and that the patient was at last sleeping peacefully. After a hasty breakfast, she tiptoed quietly into Gareth’s room with a bowl of chicken broth that the formidable Mrs Skinner had been persuaded to make. He lay supine, a still-powerful figure, but the days fighting fever had taken their toll. She felt a sudden surge of tenderness as she saw the leanness of his face and the pallor beneath the tanned skin.

At her approach, he opened his eyes and a puzzled look flitted across his face. He appeared to be in a bedroom, but it was certainly nowhere he recognised. He felt amazingly tired and cursed himself for his weakness. The events of recent days slowly began to filter through his brain—a nightmarish ride, exquisite pain and a pair of gentle, soothing hands in the midst of the threatened inferno. He recalled some kind of accident an age ago, or so it seemed; this ravishing girl had been there, she’d ridden away on his horse. So what was she doing in this room? For a while he considered the matter dispassionately but it remained inexplicable.

‘You’re still here,’ he murmured.

She bent over him, gently arranging the pillows to support his shoulders. He was sharply aware of her soft warmth so close to him and her fragrance drifting on the air.

‘Take some of this excellent broth Mrs Skinner has made for you. You haven’t eaten for days.’

He gave up the challenge of trying to make sense of the world and meekly sipped from the spoon she held out to him.

A few days later he was well enough to leave the stuffy bedchamber and make his way with Will’s help down the stairs to the inn garden. Amelie brought up the rear of the procession with a stool and blankets in case it was chilly. But the sun shone blithely from a cloudless blue sky and Gareth, his ankle supported by the stool, lay back in his chair and gratefully soaked up the warmth. Beside him Amelie savoured the perfume of apple blossom and the rich smell of new grass.

He looked disparagingly at the glass she handed him.

‘The doctor said you should drink as much milk as you can,’ she chided. ‘It will help you regain your strength.’

‘You need strength to drink the stuff,’ he protested. ‘I think I’ll settle for my present state of health.’

‘You’re a stubborn man.’

‘And you’re a stubborn woman. Why are you still here? I seem to remember sending you on your way.’

‘You did and more than once—but it would be strange behaviour for a sister to abandon her brother.’

‘Ah, yes, I’d forgotten that I’d acquired a new relative. Quite a surprise for me—though entirely beneficial.’

His blue eyes held the warm glow that she found so unsettling, but instinctively she returned his smile.

‘It can’t have been pleasant for you, forced to tend a sick man you barely knew and with no help from that bracket-faced termagant.’

She wanted to say that she knew him a great deal better now, but instead limited herself to murmuring neutrally, ‘Even less pleasant for you, I fear. But Mr Skinner has been so very helpful. He’s watched over you constantly and even persuaded his wife to cook for us.’

‘Has she been very tiresome?’

‘Shall we say she’s not best pleased to be entertaining two vagrants.’ Amelie grinned, remembering the skirmishes she’d endured while Gareth lay helpless above.

‘One thing does occur to me,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The Skinners must be wondering why no one has come from our supposed home to look for us.’

‘I told them that I’d sent the local carrier with a message when he passed here the day before yesterday.’

‘And they believed you?’

‘Mrs Skinner probably didn’t, but then she wouldn’t believe anything. She decided from the outset that we were impostors, and of course she’s right.’

For a moment he was startled, wondering how she could possibly have guessed that he was not the man he appeared.

‘I mean,’ she explained seeing the surprise on his face, ‘that we’re playing this charade of being brother and sister.’ She looked at him enquiringly. ‘Do you have a sister, in fact?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have any family—won’t they be wondering where you are?’

‘No and no,’ he said shortly, then added in a more conciliatory tone, ‘My only relation was my grandfather and he’s now dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The compassion in her voice touched him on the raw.

‘Don’t be,’ he said roughly, ‘it’s a matter of indifference to me.’

But she was not to be deterred. ‘If you have no family in Bristol, why do you want to go there?’

He shifted his position, but remained sitting in silence.

‘While you were suffering from the fever you mentioned taking a boat and escaping,’ she persevered. ‘What did you mean?’

‘I’ve no idea. When people are feverish, they talk a lot of nonsense,’ he retorted.

She had the distinct impression of an iron gate being swiftly clanged shut; she would learn no more. And in a trice he’d deftly turned the tables on her and begun to probe her own story.

‘And why were you determined on travelling to Bristol?’

He must know that she’d been less than honest with him, at the very least that she’d lied about her destination.

‘A family there are advertising for a lady’s maid and I intended to apply for the position.’

‘They must have advertised days ago. The situation might already be filled.’ He’d evidently decided to maintain the pretence.

‘I daresay you’re right,’ she replied airily. ‘They’re sure to have hired another girl by now.’

‘So when you get to Bristol, what will you do?’

‘I think,’ she said carefully, ‘I shall try my luck in Bath. There’s any number of retired dowagers living there and one of them is bound to need assistance.’

‘I wish you luck. Would you like a testimonial from me?’ he joked. Then his face took on a more serious air.‘Without a reference from your previous family, you’ll find it difficult to get work.’

‘I shall manage. I’ve no reason to feel ashamed. I shall tell the truth about why I had to leave.’

‘Will they believe you, though? As an employer I might find it difficult to accept your situation was so desperate that you had to climb out of the window on knotted sheets. Things like that only happen in novels. If you’d simply told your mistress what her son was up to, she would have intervened.’

‘No, she wouldn’t. He’s spoilt and pampered and no one gainsays him, least of all his adoring mother. She’d never have believed me. She’d have accused me of plotting to ensnare him and I’d have been turned off without notice.’

‘How has your situation improved? You’re still without a job and still without references.’

‘But I haven’t had to endure lies and false accusations.’

He looked a little conscious at this. ‘Until you met me, I suppose.’

‘Yes, until I met you.’

She was looking directly at him and he was caught by her gaze. How could a pair of eyes sparkle with such militancy and yet drown a man in their allure?

‘Was there nobody else in the family that you could turn to?’ he said quickly. ‘What about your young mistress?’

‘She was a good friend to me,’ Amelie admitted, happily weaving her fantasy, ‘but she’s to be married to a wealthy man against her wishes. She’s powerless to offer me protection.’

‘You could always marry. You’d receive ample protection then. You must have enjoyed plenty of attention from your fellows—beautiful and intelligent maidservants aren’t two a penny.’

‘I will never marry,’ she declared resolutely.

Gareth smiled indulgently. ‘You’re not much more than a child—far too young to know how you’ll feel in the future.’

Nettled by his mocking tone, her response was sharp. ‘On the contrary, I shall feel in the future just as I do now. I intend to stay a single woman if I can.’

‘Then you are vastly unlike the rest of your sex. Why so definite?’

‘I don’t wish to be subject to any man.’

‘The right man can be a powerful defender.’

‘Not those I’ve known—they’ve been either dissolute or vain and shallow.’

‘There are men who are none of those things.’

She raised her eyebrows sceptically. ‘You, for instance?’

Damn her, he thought, why was she forever putting him in the wrong? He’d behaved appallingly, he knew, and for no other reason than a desire to master her, to ruffle that beautiful surface. She was just too lovely.

Aloud he admitted to his offence. ‘I behaved stupidly when we first met, more than stupidly.’ He shook his head at his folly. ‘I made a bad situation worse by getting extremely drunk.’

She looked enquiringly at him, but it was evident he had no intention of disclosing the cause of his erratic behaviour. She wondered if it had anything to do with the grandfather for whom he’d just professed the utmost indifference.

Trying another tack, she said quietly, ‘You may not have relatives in England, but what about friends?’

‘None of those, either,’ he muttered roughly. ‘I’m a wanderer, Amelie, and friends and family play no part in my life.’

She sensed that beneath his grim detachment, there lurked a vulnerability he would not admit. Her eyes clouded with sympathy and without thinking she reached out towards him, gently stroking the tanned forearm that showed beneath his rolled-up sleeves.

His hand closed over hers and held it tightly. He looked directly into her concerned face, hard blue eyes meeting soft brown, his gaze intent, wondering. For a long moment they sat thus. Then he reached out and slowly caressed her cheek. Her pulse began an erratic dance as his touch warmed her face. He let his hand slide from her cheek to tangle itself in the glossy curls which tumbled to her shoulders. Turning his body towards her, he cupped her face in both his hands and tilted it upwards. She watched as his mouth came closer and without thinking offered up her lips. His kiss was hard and warm and lingered long.

How long they would have kissed she had no idea, if Mr Skinner had not suddenly appeared from the depths of the inn leading the doctor behind him. She jumped back, flushed. Gareth looked annoyed. If Mr Skinner had seen that embrace, they would be in trouble. How to explain now that they were brother and sister! Jumping up from her seat, she nodded briefly to Dr Fennimore and quickly ran up the stairs to her bedroom in the eaves. She poured water from the jug into the chipped white basin and bathed her heated cheeks. She must truly have run mad. What on earth was she doing kissing a man of whom she knew nothing or at least nothing creditable? She sat down on her bed and stayed there for a very long time, trying hard to still her racing heart and erase the feeling of Gareth’s hard, warm mouth on hers.

The doctor’s visit was brief. He was evidently well satisfied with his patient and needed to come no more. She heard him call out his farewells followed by the sound of Will helping Gareth up the stairs from the garden to his room. Until she could leave the inn, she must make sure that they were rarely alone together. He could not be trusted; she’d allowed herself to show sympathy and his response had been immediate—an assault, an assault that she’d made no attempt to escape. She could not trust herself either. His gaze had sent her heart racing, a simple touch had left her breathless. And that kiss. No, she would not think of that kiss.

As the sun slipped from the sky, Mr Skinner appeared at her door with a message. ‘Your brother would like to know if you will dine with him tonight. He’s feeling a good deal better and would like to celebrate his recovery.’ The landlord enunciated the phrases painstakingly, relieved that he’d remembered Gareth’s precise words.

I’m sure he would, she thought crossly, and I can imagine the kind of celebration he intends.

‘Tell my brother that I regret I have the headache and I will not be dining tonight,’ she said, adding diffidently, ‘It would be very kind of you, Mr Skinner, if you could bring a bowl of soup to my room.’

For the first time since she’d come to the George, she found it difficult to sleep that night, her mind endlessly roaming the day’s events, but finding no peace. She could not banish the attraction she felt for Gareth Wendover. Her heart was forever pulling her towards a man with whom it was madness to embroil herself. He was arrogant and capricious. He was reserved and unforthcoming and she strongly suspected that unfortunate secrets lay hidden in the depths of his past. Yet she, too, was equally guilty of dissembling. From the outset she’d told him a pack of lies and ever since had spent considerable effort in embroidering them.

What was certain was that she must leave for Bath as soon as she could. She must not become any further entangled; she must not fall in love with him. If ever she were forced to marry, Lord Silverdale’s daughter would be expected to look a great deal higher than a mere Mr Wendover of unknown and possibly disreputable lineage. And she wasn’t going to be forced to marry. She would not emulate her mother’s sad fate; her security and peace of mind lay in an unmarried life and that meant eschewing dalliance, no matter how attractive the man.

After breakfast she repaired to Gareth’s bedroom to tell him she was leaving. It was another beautiful May morning and the leaded windows were flung wide to welcome the sun. A warm breeze gently lifted the curtains. He was sitting by the window fully dressed and smiled mockingly as she came through the door.

‘I hope I find you recovered?’

She looked blank for a moment.

‘The headache? I understand it was so painful that you could manage only a bowl of soup for dinner.’ His tone was ironic.

‘I’m well, thank you,’ she replied, not meeting his eyes. ‘And you?’

‘I’m well, too—my old self, in fact. Does that strike terror into your heart?’

‘Indeed no, why should it? I’m well able to take care of myself.’

He shook his head in some irritation. ‘Let’s stop sparring, Amelie. Come and sit with me instead.’

She moved towards the window and the empty chair. For the first time she met his eyes directly and her body warmed instantly beneath his gaze. But she ignored the answering pull and disregarded his welcoming hand; she was still on dangerous territory and must step carefully.

‘When do you intend to leave for Bristol?’ she asked. ‘I presume you’re still going there.’

‘Maybe,’ he uttered shortly. ‘I haven’t yet made up my mind.’

‘If you don’t continue to Bristol, where else will you go? Back to London?’

‘Possibly.’

‘So you’re as free as a bird?’

‘It would appear so.’

Frustrated at his stonewalling, she went on the offensive. ‘Are you saying that nobody in the entire world will miss you, if you don’t soon put in an appearance?’

‘That about sums it up.’

She didn’t understand him. Her questions were innocent enough and his bald refusal to answer demonstrated clearly that he didn’t trust her. She was good enough to kiss but not to confide in. Sensing her anger, he smiled that warm, entrancing smile.

‘Why don’t we just enjoy this morning? I imagine you’ve come to tell me you’re leaving soon.’

‘Now that your ankle’s better, I must be on my way.’ She was annoyed with herself that she sounded almost apologetic.

‘Of course you must, and I can’t detain you. You’ve kept your bargain, after all.’

For a moment she looked uncomprehending; she’d completely forgotten their old quarrel. Then she gave a half smile. ‘Yes, I’ve kept it—but not quite as you planned.’

‘Better, in fact. You’ve seen me through some very trying days, so don’t let’s spend our last few hours arguing.’

She remained mute and stared fixedly through the window at the untended orchard beyond. When he spoke again his voice was tender and caught at her heart.

‘I have you to thank for the good shape I’m in. You must know that I’m deeply grateful.’

‘I don’t want your gratitude.’

‘What do you want?’ he asked quizzically and once again reached out for her hand.

Mindful of her overnight resolution, she jumped up quickly and said, ‘What I want is to leave tomorrow. But in the meantime I’m sure the George can supply us with some entertainment. I’ll go downstairs and see what they have to offer.’

And with that she disappeared rapidly from view. Gareth looked after her, a slight flush creeping into his lean cheek. Tendering his hand in friendship to a woman was a new experience for him and being rejected was equally novel.

She returned half an hour later, having searched high and low for dominoes or Chinese chequers. Will had helped her for a while until Mrs Skinner, catching sight of the two of them, had ordered him angrily to fetch water from the pump. Then she’d stood coldly over Amelie and demanded just what Miss Wendover might be wanting. Her attitude was one of unconcealed hostility. Amelie was sure now that the landlord had seen her spring back from Gareth’s kiss yesterday and had confided this unsettling news to his wife. She blushed deeply at the thought of their conversation.

‘I’m looking for dominoes or chequers,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘My brother is feeling a good deal better and it will be a way of passing the hours.’

Mrs Skinner snorted as though she knew well enough how they intended to pass the hours, but reluctantly led the way into an inner sanctum, opened a tall oak dresser in the corner of the room and shuffled around inside. The reek of mothballs floated out into the already malodorous room.

‘There’s some cards and a game of spillikins.’ The landlady thrust the items roughly at Amelie and stood glaring at her.

Understanding that she was dismissed, Amelie made to leave. She couldn’t picture Gareth playing the child’s game, but she could always leave the spillikins in her bedroom. With hurried thanks, she gathered up the games and ran up the stairs.

‘I’ve found something,’ she called out gaily. ‘A pack of cards! Or rather Mrs Skinner found them, tucked at the back of an enormous dresser, which I don’t think has been opened for at least thirty years. Unfortunately, they smell of mothballs, but then this room isn’t exactly fresh, even with the window wide open.’

As she was speaking, she cleared the small table between them of empty glasses and medicine bottles. ‘There, a perfect card table. What shall we play? I know very few games, but I imagine you can teach me.’

‘No.’ The brusque monosyllable startled her.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said no. I can’t teach you any card games, nor do I wish to play.’

She looked puzzled. ‘How difficult am I to understand?’ he said sharply. ‘I don’t wish to play.’

‘But it’s only a game of cards—an amusing diversion,’ she protested.

‘For the last time, I don’t wish to play.’

The familiar bleak expression had returned to Gareth’s face. His eyes were once more stony and the straight night-black brows threatening. He leaned back in his chair, detaching himself from the proceedings and refusing to meet her earnest look.

‘That’s all right,’ she said a little uncertainly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t. Just learn to take a refusal when it’s given.’

She bit back a retort. After tomorrow she would never see Gareth Wendover again. It was hardly worth quarrelling with him despite his extraordinary rudeness. But it was difficult to accept that he was the same man who had kissed her with such ardour only yesterday. He was transformed and she felt deeply wounded by the change.

‘I’ll find something else to play,’ she stammered a little shakily.

Minutes later she returned with the spillikins. The hard look on Gareth’s face had disappeared and when he saw the spillikins he laughed out loud.

‘I know you’ve been my nursemaid these past few days, but have I regressed that badly that you need to play a child’s game with me?’

‘That’s all they have downstairs, and we must make the best of it.’

She held upright the bunch of thin sticks and allowed them to fall at will. They scattered wildly across the table top.

‘The sticks coloured blue score most highly, red next, then yellow, and green are the most lowly,’ she explained.

‘I shall be lucky to pick up one stick cleanly, never mind its colour. I’ve suffered an accident, after all.’

‘You’ve sprained your ankle, not your wrist.’

‘But women are so much more dextrous, it’s hardly fair.’

‘Surely, Mr Wendover, you’re not saying that a woman can outdo you.’

‘Gareth, please. If we’re to be serious competitors, we must use first names. That way our insults, when they start flying, will be nicely personal.’

‘I’ve no intention of trading insults. It’s just a game, not a competition,’ she said carelessly.

Nevertheless, she tried very hard to win. When it came to her turn she took minutes to weigh up the arrangement of sticks before deciding which one she would try to extricate from its place without dislodging the others. Gareth had gone first and could begin with the easiest stick to lift, but once into the thick of the game, they were both forced to concentrate intently when their several turns came round. At one point, he appeared to disturb one of the sticks he was trying to avoid and she called foul.

‘I merely breathed on the stick and it moved of its own accord,’ he disputed, shaking his head in bewilderment.

She burst out laughing. ‘That’s certainly original. I’ll give you the excuse if only for sheer invention.’

He laughed back at her, his heart filled with a strange happiness. So the game went on until there was just a small pile of sticks left in the middle of the table, all thickly entangled. They were neck and neck in the number they’d managed to acquire and, faced now with the most difficult moves, they both studied the table keenly, trying to decide their best approach. In the event it was Gareth who managed to extricate his last spill without disturbing the one other that was left.

‘Voilà!’ he exclaimed.

‘Magnifique,’ she unconsciously rejoined, responding spontaneously to his skilful play.

‘A maidservant who speaks French as well as having a French name! It becomes more and more intriguing.’ He looked searchingly at her.

‘I’d hardly say that I spoke French,’ she said, desperately seeking a way of moving the conversation on to less dangerous ground.

‘Still, it’s an unusual maid who knows any French. And you are an unusual maid, aren’t you? You’re proud and independent, you speak genteelly and hold yourself like a lady. If it weren’t for your clothes, I would take you for a lady.’

From the bottom of her heart, she thanked the absent Fanny for donating her wardrobe, then set about allaying his suspicions.

‘My young mistress made a great friend of me and I learned from her how to go on.’

He considered this for a while. ‘You may have learned conduct from her but not, I think, your courage.’

‘What do you mean?’ She was disconcerted.

‘Didn’t you say that your mistress was being married off against her will?’

‘She is, but courage won’t help her. Her brother has gambled away the family’s fortune and marriage is the only way to restore it. She’s expected to make this sacrifice for her family.’

‘Quite a sacrifice! Would you make it, I wonder?’

‘I would not,’ she declared ringingly and with a vehemence that surprised him.

He looked at her as she sat across the table. Her creamy skin glowed translucent in the shadowed sunlight that filled the room and the velvet brown of her eyes blazed a fiery spirit. She had never looked more enchanting.

‘Nor should you,’ he said, his voice husky with feeling.

The atmosphere was suddenly charged with tension, their bantering mood dissipated. He should defuse the moment, he thought, make a joke, turn away. She’d already chosen to put distance between them and she was right. Instead, he rose quickly from his chair, taking no heed of the damaged ankle, and took both her hands in his. Slowly he raised her up and encircled her in his arms.

Crushed against his hard frame, she felt the same foolish impulse to melt into him; she began to tremble beneath his hands. He touched her face, her arms, and brushed across the warm silk of her breast. He gently kissed her hair, her ears, her cheek. In a moment his tongue had parted her lips and was slowly exploring the softness of her mouth. His body moved against her and she groaned softly with pleasure. She wanted to dissolve into this nameless delight, yet some voice of wisdom pulled her back to consciousness. This was a man who had come from nowhere and would go to nowhere. She would never see him again once they parted. He’d made her vulnerable, created a desire in her that she’d never before known. And desire meant weakness; she had only to think of her mother’s fate to know that. Impelled by a new urgency, she hastily pushed him away and began to tidy the scattered sticks, barely able to see them for the emotions churning within her.

‘That shouldn’t have happened.’

He was still standing close to her, his breathing ragged and his voice rough. He seemed furious with himself.

‘After yesterday I vowed I’d never again touch you.’

Distractedly, she smoothed her tumbled hair and then began to pack the last of the spillikins in their box.

‘Forgive me if I’ve distressed you.’ His harsh tones grated, breaking through her silence.

‘It’s of no importance. I don’t wish to talk of it,’ she managed. Her outward calm belied the turmoil within. ‘It must be time for nuncheon,’ she continued smoothly. ‘I’ll fetch some refreshment from the kitchen.’

She glanced fleetingly out of the window, as she turned to leave. A carriage had pulled up outside. In itself this was unusual but this was not any carriage. It was a lightly built curricle drawn by four high-stepping greys and the curricle door had a well-known crest on its panel. It had to be Rufus Glyde. He had traced her after all. He was here. She turned sheet-white and the box dropped from her suddenly lifeless hand.

‘Excuse me,’ she gasped, ‘I have to go.’

And with that she dashed from the room, leaving Gareth baffled and infuriated.

Chapter Five

Rufus Glyde was in no pleasant mood. He’d been driving almost continuously for days without once ever sighting his quarry. In addition he’d had to endure the sharp tongue of Brielle St Clair when he’d dared to enquire for her granddaughter at the Bath house. It had been a terse encounter on both sides, but he’d definitely come off worse, told in no uncertain terms that his intervention in family affairs was not welcome. It had been the first intimation for Brielle that all was not well with her granddaughter. She was furious that Lord Silverdale had not come himself to tell her of Amelie’s flight, but instead left it to this sneering and patronising stranger to break the news. Most of all she was desperately worried. She felt sick when she thought of what might have befallen the young girl. Her dread fuelled a naturally acerbic tongue and Glyde was still smarting from his dismissal.

As he entered the George the idea that he was on a wild goose chase became insistent. For a while he’d thought that he might be on Amelie’s trail. At Reading where he’d stopped for the night, he’d overheard a conversation between two travellers that gave him pause. One of them had told the strange story of a stage held up on the Bath road, not for jewellery or money, but for a young woman travelling in the coach. It had caused something of a sensation when the passengers had disembarked at Bath and begun to tell their tale.

He’d been sufficiently intrigued by the news to abandon his return to London and head once more in the direction of Bath. By dint of questioning everyone he met—and most of these he castigated as ignorant bumpkins—he’d managed to discover the district in which the hold-up had occurred and then begun to cast around at various inns for news of the errant Amelie. So far it had proved a fruitless task and the George looked no more promising.

Entering the taproom, he was greeted by drab, outmoded furnishings and the stale odour of old beer and tobacco. He turned round full circle. The afternoon sunlight in its attempt to pierce the dirty windows only served to emphasise the dilapidation within. Surely Amelie Silverdale would not be residing here. The inhabitants, if there were any, were either dead or asleep. Nothing stirred. Irritably, he rang the bell on the counter and when there was no response, rang it again more loudly. Mrs Skinner appeared from the top of the cellar steps and scowled at him.

‘Did you want somethin’?’

Her voice was not encouraging. Glyde looked the woman up and down. She was gaunt, badly dressed and with a face marked by ill temper.

‘It would appear so since I rang the bell,’ he countered acidly.

‘Well, what is it, then? I’m busy.’

He tried to keep the rising anger from his voice; he needed this woman’s help. He told the same story as he’d told at the other dozen inns he’d visited. He’d been travelling with a friend, but they’d become separated. He carefully avoided mentioning the sex of his companion. His friend had not appeared at the rendezvous they’d agreed on and he, Glyde, feared that his comrade had met with an accident. Did the good lady have anyone staying at the inn who might be his friend?

‘Nobody you’d know,’ she sniffed.

‘But you do have someone staying?’ he persisted.

Mrs Skinner grudgingly admitted the fact but added, “E ain’t your friend, ‘e ain’t a top-lofty gent like you.’

‘My friend is hardly top-lofty. May I ask who this person is?’

‘You can arsk, but mebbe I ain’t of a mind to tell you.’

Again he had visibly to control his anger. ‘I’m sure we can remedy your lack of memory.’

A sneer slashed his thin white face as he took out his bill folder and extracted a note of some considerable value. Mrs Skinner blinked at this unexpected largesse and thought of extending her prize curtains to the rooms above.

“Is name’s Wendover and I’ve told you ‘e ain’t a gent, not with ‘is scruffy clothes.’

Glyde’s hopes withered. For a moment he’d thought he might finally be close to success, but a male resident who wore scruffy clothes and wasn’t a ‘gent’ as Mrs Skinner put it, was not someone who could be of any interest.

‘And he is your only guest?’

‘You’re a nosy one, ain’t you?’ Mrs Skinner’s hand closed over the tantalising money bill. ‘As it ‘appens, ‘Is sister’s staying with him. They ‘ad an accident, too. Funny, the number of accidents round ‘ere these days.’

Glyde ignored the witticism, but his mind was working rapidly. A sister of Mr Wendover might mean a young woman, and this young woman could just be the prey he sought. It was a chance in a thousand, but he had to know. He cast around for a way of distracting Mrs Skinner, who appeared to have taken root in front of her benefactor. His luck suddenly took a turn for the better. Will, who had been working in the cellar alongside his mistress, appeared at that moment at the top of the stairs.

‘Mrs Skinner, ma’am, where d’you want the new barrels put?’

‘Where d’you think, you numbskull?’ was Mrs Skinner’s pleasant reply.

‘There’s not enough room behind the old barrels,’ Will bravely continued.

‘Dratted men,’ she muttered, ‘can’t be relied on to do anythin’.’ Giving Glyde a last withering glance, she disappeared back down the cellar steps.

Her head had hardly faded from view before he made his move. In a few seconds he’d reached the stairway leading to the top of the house and made ready to search out Mr Wendover and his mysterious sister for himself.

Gareth stared blankly through the window at the curricle as it disappeared towards the stables. From the rear it looked to be a nobleman’s carriage, but he had no idea who it belonged to or why it was at the George. Amelie had evidently gained a better view and she had recognised it. The thought came to him that this might be her previous employer, enraged by her dubious departure. He realised with a jolt that his initial suspicions had been completely lulled and now his mind could no longer consider the possibility that she was a deceiver. He dismissed the idea even as it came into his head. And common sense soon reasserted itself. If she were a dishonest maidservant, whatever she might have done and however furious her noble employer, the possibility of his seeking her out in a rundown country inn was extremely unlikely.

Annoyance at Amelie’s abrupt departure mingled with feelings of self-reproach. He’d spoiled the warm companionship of the morning. One minute they’d been laughing, joking, funning with each other. And then everything had changed. He’d touched her and he shouldn’t have. She was irresistible, but he should have resisted. God knew he’d had enough experience in escaping amorous situations, so why was this so different? He couldn’t account for it. Indignation at the notion of sacrificing herself to family duty had rendered her beauty overwhelming, her eyes a molten brown and the sheen of her skin glowing fire. But it was more than physical beauty that had shattered his restraint. In that moment it seemed her very soul had been laid bare and spoken unmistakably to his. He gave himself a mental shake: such fanciful nonsense! Whatever the reason, he’d not been able to stop himself. Even now he could feel her mouth, soft but eager, opening delicately to his.

When he heard the bedroom door open he turned, a contrite expression on his face, but instead of Amelie he was confronted by Rufus Glyde, a man he’d not seen for seven long years. Both men stared at each other in amazement. Glyde was the first to find his voice.

‘Surely,’ he jeered, ‘it cannot be Gareth Denville. Aren’t you supposed to be resting on the Continent? Surely you haven’t returned to claim the earldom? Even the blackest sheep might be expected to do the decent thing and stay away.’

Gareth stayed silent, his face impassive and his darkened eyes unreadable. For years unfounded suspicions had plagued his mind over Glyde’s role in that ill-fated card game.

‘Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down, Mr Wendover?’ Glyde tormented. ‘I’m presuming it is Mr Wendover? Why the false name, I wonder? A silly question no doubt. I imagine you would prefer to keep your identity hidden for all kinds of reasons. And staying in a place like this!’ The smirk became more pronounced.

Gareth remained standing. His voice was cold and curt. ‘State your business. Mine is none of yours,’ he rapped out.

‘Still hot-tempered, I see. Some things never change. Though you’ve aged—not quite as fresh faced as when I saw you last. Now, when was that? Ah, yes, the Great-Go. Quite a night, quite a sensation, I recall.’

‘Cut to the chase, Glyde, what do you want?’

‘Not you, for sure. Keeping company with the flotsam of society is not really my custom. But I am rather interested in the sister you appear to have acquired. If my memory serves me right—and, of course, I could be wrong, family genealogy was never my strong point—your father, another unfortunate I understand, had only one child and that child was you. So a sister?’

‘It’s none of your affair and I’ll thank you to leave.’

‘Now that’s where we could disagree, I fear.’

‘I’ve nothing further to say to you. Leave of your own free will or at the end of my boot, it’s your choice.’

‘Proud crowing from someone plainly unable to enforce their threat.’ He gestured at Gareth’s bandaged ankle. ‘Tell me what I want to know and I’ll leave as quickly as you could want. What about this sister?’

Gareth weighed up the odds of forcibly removing his antagonist from the room and decided it was probably not worth the pain he would inevitably suffer. He would give him the minimum of information and speed him on his way.

‘She is merely an acquaintance who happens to be staying at the inn.’

‘An acquaintance you call a sister. Come, Denville, that won’t wash. Who is she?’

‘She’s a maidservant, no one you know and no one of any interest.’

‘A maidservant? Pitching it rather low even for you, my dear Denville. A maidservant—and your doxy, I presume.’

Gareth’s knuckles tightened until they were white. ‘Get out!’

‘Dear, dear, that temper again. Yes, I see, your doxy, and to pacify that dreadful harpy downstairs, you pass her off as your sister. You’re right, of course, I have no interest in her. The woman I seek would not pass the time of day with you, and as for impersonating a maidservant and sharing this vile refuge, the idea is laughable.’

‘Now you’ve had your laugh, you’re at liberty to leave.’

‘Indeed, and I shall do so very shortly. But first tell me how the cardsharping business prospers in Europe. Did you make a living?’ Glyde glanced down at the elegant coat of superfine he was wearing and then at Gareth’s outfit, daily looking more frayed.

‘And I always thought such practised tricksters went on prosperously,’ he murmured, ‘but it would seem not.’

Ignoring the intense pain in his ankle, Gareth moved with unexpected swiftness towards his enemy and clasped him violently round the throat.

‘If ever you call me a cheat again, you will not live,’ he ground out.

The door had remained open throughout their acrimonious exchange and with his hands still wrapped around Glyde’s neck, Gareth thrust his adversary through the doorway and down the stairs.

At the moment Glyde had been dismounting from his carriage, Amelie had escaped through the back entrance of the inn. She ran wildly past the crumbling outbuildings and through the small wicket gate that led on to open pasture. Dismayed and frightened at the turn of events, she ran without thinking where she was going. Her mind was in chaos, refusing to accept that Sir Rufus had tracked her to this remote place. It was impossible. Nobody except Gareth Wendover knew her whereabouts and he was ignorant of her true identity.

Slowly through the confused toss and tumble of thoughts a chilling idea began to emerge. Was it possible that they were in alliance together, that Gareth knew who she was and had been Glyde’s accomplice all this time? Was it coincidence that Rufus Glyde had appeared out of nowhere, just after she’d been abducted from the stagecoach? The fact that his carriage had mown Gareth down and thrown him into a ditch was probably an accident in their plan. Gareth had resolutely refused to tell her anything about himself. Was that in case she would unmask him too soon, before Glyde could catch up with them? And to think that she had so nearly put herself into his power, so nearly succumbed to his seductive charm.

By now breathless, she was forced to come to a stop. It was pointless running any farther across the fields. She had no idea where she was going and if she turned back again to regain the road, Glyde could overtake her in his curricle at any moment. A nearby clump of trees would provide shelter and from this vantage point she could observe the inn from a distance. She settled herself beneath a sturdy oak, her back against its grainy trunk. The gentle summer sun filtered through the leaves above and birdsong filled the air. It was hard to imagine there was anything wrong with the world. Gradually her breathing returned to normal and her disordered thoughts began to settle. It was madness to imagine that Gareth was in league with the man who was hunting her. How could he have arranged to be outside her house at the precise moment she’d climbed from the bedroom window? It was ridiculous. Even more ridiculous to think him an accomplice. She knew, as well as she knew herself, that he would loathe and despise a creature such as Glyde.

The time passed tantalisingly slowly. She told herself that her pursuer wouldn’t be at the inn long. Even if he ran into Gareth, he would not know him and any description of Miss Wendover’s appearance was unlikely to match that of the aristocratic woman Glyde sought. He would be eager to leave an inn as insalubrious as the George and make once more for the pleasures of London. And once he’d driven away, she could take shelter for one more night. Early tomorrow morning she would get her lift to Wroxall and be on the stagecoach to Bath and safety.

She waited for what seemed an age, although in reality only half an hour had passed since she’d fled the inn so precipitately. In that time she’d neither glimpsed any activity nor heard a sound from the distant building. Maybe, after all, her hiding place was too far away to hear the noise of any departure? She debated what to do. At this rate she could be sitting under the oak tree until nightfall. Gathering her courage, she decided to chance a return. With some stealth she began slowly to approach the inn and, meeting nobody, crept through the back entrance to the passage that ran the length of the building to the open front door.

Almost immediately she became aware of Glyde’s carriage being led back into the courtyard and turned to flee again. But at the same time raised voices sounded above and she was sure one of them was Gareth’s. She strained to hear what was being said, but the voices were too indistinct. As she listened, there was a sudden noisy creak of bedroom floorboards overhead. In a trice she’d whisked herself into the shadows beneath the stairs. Just in time. Rufus Glyde clattered down the staircase, his face twisted in fury. He was so close that had she reached out her arm, she could have touched him. She remained frozen to the spot as he stormed past her and out into the sunlit yard, throwing himself onto the driving seat of the carriage and whipping up his horses in a frenzy.

She found she was shaking uncontrollably and her first thought was to seek the sanctuary of her bedchamber. But there were questions burning through her brain that needed answers. The angry scene she’d come upon in its dying moments made no sense. Her old suspicions began to return; she needed to know what connection existed between these two men.

Contempt was written large on Gareth’s face. His ankle throbbed angrily, but it had been worth the pain to knock the sneering smile from the face of his foe. Glyde would be for ever associated with the scene of his disgrace and his heart rejoiced that he’d routed the man so completely. But if he were honest, it was the image of Glyde and Amelie together that had spurred him to extreme action. That image was seared on his mind’s eye, even stronger for being intangible. He had no idea why Glyde had turned up at this remote inn or what connection he had to the girl, but speculation gnawed relentlessly at him. He doubted he would ever get the truth from her; he’d been a fool to believe that she was trustworthy.

He was still standing by the window, exactly where she’d left him. If she hadn’t just heard that furious altercation, she might have imagined she’d been away for only a few minutes and that the intervening time was simply a bad dream. But Gareth’s face told another story. She could see immediately that he was in a thunderous mood. He turned as he heard her footsteps, his eyes now blue flint and his mouth close-gripped. She started to speak, but was cut off abruptly.

‘Why did you leave like that?’ he flung at her. ‘What is that man to you?’

She steadied her racing heart and replied in an even voice, ‘He’s nothing to me. I ran away because I feared being discovered.’

‘Why should it matter that he saw you?’

‘I told you, I feared being seen—by anyone.’

‘Anyone? Do you take me for a fool? He came looking for a woman and I think that woman was you. You turned white when you saw his carriage in the yard. You fled. Can you really expect me to believe that it was because some stranger had suddenly arrived?’

‘Believe what you wish, I don’t know who he was seeking. I escaped from the inn because I didn’t want to be found here. I’m an unmarried woman and have been living under the same roof as you for the last week.’

‘You would have me accept that a girl who thinks nothing of throwing her lot in with a man she doesn’t know is worried that others will see her with him?’

‘I never threw my lot in with you. You forced me to accompany you.’

‘It doesn’t seem to have pained your sense of propriety too greatly.’

‘You can mock all you wish. You may not have a reputation to defend, but I do. I have a living to earn and I can’t afford to attract any gossip.’

She hoped that this was an inspired invention, but instead Gareth immediately pounced on her words and shredded them to pieces.

‘If you don’t know this man, then how could it affect your reputation one way or another?’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t know him,’ she conceded.

‘At last,’ he muttered grimly, ‘we’re getting near the truth or as near as we’re ever likely to with you.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Her anger sliced through the airless room.

‘Simply that you appear to have a rather slippery relationship with honesty.’

‘If we are to call each other liars, then you hardly fare better. What about the lies you told my fellow passengers on the stagecoach? That was blatant.’

‘And this isn’t?’

‘I was telling the truth when I said that I didn’t want to be discovered. But I am acquainted with this man. He’s an intimate of my young mistress’s brother and visits the house regularly. Although I was only a servant there and beneath his notice, I was worried he might recognise me.’

Gareth was silent, seeming to turn this over in his mind. She was unsure he believed her and, to deflect him further, renewed her attack.

‘I’ve told you how I know him, though I can’t understand why it’s any business of yours. Now perhaps you’ll tell me how you’re acquainted with him.’

He stared sightlessly through the window, once more in that overheated, overfurnished salon. The babble of rich men intent on their pleasure filled his ears, then the sudden silence, the incredulous stares, the shuffling of feet and finally the cool withdrawal of the well-bred from the social disaster in their midst.

Unrelenting, Amelie waited for his response, never taking her eyes from his face. Aware at last of her scrutiny, he raised his gaze to her, his expression bleak.

‘My acquaintance with him is very slight.’

His discomfort was palpable and she decided to press home her advantage.

‘You were quarrelling,’ she insisted. ‘You must know the man well enough to quarrel.’

‘He angered me. He invaded my room without permission and then wouldn’t leave.’

‘And that was enough for you to throw him down the stairs?’

‘A slight exaggeration? He’s a particularly obnoxious man and I didn’t care for his tone.’

‘If all that annoyed you was his attitude, you seem to have argued for a long time. Why didn’t you get rid of him earlier?’

‘You may not have noticed,’ he replied scathingly, ‘but I’ve sustained an injury. You fled on the instant and I was left alone to deal with him. In the end I got tired of his importuning and decided to risk the ankle. It hurt like hell, but I’m glad I assisted him on his way.’

He seemed to have regained something of his poise and his face no longer bore the icy expression that she’d come to dread. She was almost encouraged to tell him her true situation—almost, but not quite. To do so might jeopardise her plans entirely. If Gareth were the man she believed him to be, he would be impelled to pursue Glyde when he knew the full extent of his infamy. That would cause a scandal she would never live down. And if he were not that man, if he were untrustworthy, then she could be in real peril, in danger of kidnap or blackmail once he knew her true identity.

‘Does he know that you have a sister staying here?’ she ventured tentatively.

‘He knows,’ came the short reply.

‘You didn’t tell him my name?’

‘No,’ he said in a distant voice.

Her face wore such an expression of relief that his distrust once again blossomed.

‘Your fears are unfounded, my dear, your identity is safe.’ His tone was caustic. ‘I doubt that a man of Glyde’s position would consider it interesting or worthwhile to spread scandal about a maidservant, even if he knew her name.’

Euphoric at her escape, Amelie hardly noticed his tone and unwisely pushed onwards.

‘Thank you for not giving me away.’ And when he didn’t reply, she said again, ‘Thank you.’

‘Spare me the gratitude,’ he grated.

There was a pause as he looked her fully in the face, wondering how he’d allowed himself to be taken in by a girl so adept at lying. He’d begun to believe his judgement of womankind faulty, but it seemed that she shared generously in the attributes of her sisters—she was no different from any of the women who’d passed briefly through his life.

‘He thinks you’re my doxy,’ he said deliberately, then added with undisguised bitterness, ‘And who could blame him? You behaved like one—scuttling for cover instead of facing him honestly.’

The words came out of nowhere and fell like hammer blows on her ears. Scarlet with mortification, she ran from the room. How could he throw such a vile insult at her? Even if she were the simple maidservant she purported to be, she would be justified in protecting her good name. Yet by his reckoning she’d committed an unforgivable offence in running away; she was no better than Haymarket ware.

Once in her bedroom, she grabbed the faithful cloak bag and hurriedly packed the few items she still possessed. Then she ran down the stairs and out into the backyard. Will was busy washing the cobbles.

‘Will, come here,’ she called urgently to him. ‘Mr Wendover has taken a turn for the worst. He needs the medicine that the doctor prescribed in an emergency. I must get to Wroxhall immediately.’

Will rested from his labours, leaning on the broom with one hand and scratching his head with the other.

‘Mr Wendover were fine this morning. Happen he’ll come about again soon.’

‘No, Will, he won’t. He’s been feeling poorly for hours, but didn’t like to complain. Now his fever seems to have returned. We must get to Wroxall.’

‘I’d like to help, Miss Wendover,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but I’ll have to ask the missus. Mrs Skinner do like to know where I am. And she don’t like it if the horse is taken out without her permission.’

‘Mrs Skinner is out,’ Amelie lied recklessly, ‘and Mr Skinner, too. I saw them on their way to visit neighbours.’

Will shook his head slowly. The image of the Skinners visiting their neighbours was one he was having difficulty with.

‘Please help me,’ she pleaded urgently. ‘You don’t want Mr Wendover to become really ill again, do you?’

Will shook his head, but still looked unhappy.

‘It could be a matter of life or death, Will. I wouldn’t ask you otherwise.’

She felt guilty about deceiving him, but refused to think of his likely punishment for helping her. She had to get away. Unwillingly, Will put down his bucket and brush and went towards the trap, which stood backed into the corner of the rear yard. He carefully moved it into the centre and arranged the leather ties. The mare had then to be led from her stable and harnessed. For Amelie, desperate to leave the inn behind, every minute seemed an impossible age. One or the other of the Skinners could put in an appearance at any time and ruin her escape.

Will might be slow, but he was methodical. Finally the trap was ready and she jumped up on to the passenger seat.

‘Please make haste,’ she enjoined him as they turned out of the yard onto the highway.

Will, who had begun to enjoy his freedom from cobble washing and enter into the spirit of the adventure, whipped the placid bay into something approaching a trot. They were very soon out of sight of the inn and she sighed with relief. She never wanted to see Gareth Wendover again. His words flung at her so coldly and dismissively had finally cut whatever cord existed between them.

Chapter Six

She stood beneath the white portico of her grandmother’s house. The rain had been falling in torrents ever since she’d alighted at the White Lion Inn and she was now soaked to the skin from the brief walk to Laura Place. The weeping skies seemed an echo of her present mood. After all the obstacles and alarms she had encountered since leaving London, the final leg of her journey to Bath had been deceptively simple. Once in Wroxall she’d given Will the slip, with only a few pangs of conscience. There had been less than an hour to pass before her coach had departed and she’d found it easy to hide herself away and board the stage without anyone recognising her. Now with her escape plan almost complete, she should be flushed with excitement. Instead, she felt a dawning fear. What if her grandmother were out of town? What if Brielle were so outraged by her granddaughter’s conduct that she refused to receive her?

She stared at the ebony door with its brass lion head. In her disquiet it seemed to challenge her right to be there and she had to summon all her resolution to lift the knocker. The resulting clatter reverberated through the hall beyond. Tense minutes of silence followed. She was just lifting her hand to knock again when she heard footsteps coming towards the door and in a minute the butler’s familiar person stood before her. Horrocks was looking at her strangely, seemingly trying to puzzle out just what or who had arrived on the front steps.

‘You should go round to the back entrance,’ he said reprovingly as he took in the bedraggled figure in front of him.

‘Horrocks, it’s me, Amelie,’ she cried, pushing back the hood of her cloak to reveal her face fully.

‘Miss Amelie?’ Horrocks stared in disbelief. ‘Whatever are you doing here? Her ladyship said nothing of your coming. And where is your escort? You surely cannot be alone.’

He peered up and down the empty street in a vain search. Then, recalled to his duties, he ushered her quickly into the house. She slipped gratefully past him into the warmth of the hall. The house looked little different from the last time she’d seen it as a child, perhaps a little smaller, a little less grand.

‘Her ladyship is out this evening, Miss Amelie, but I can send a messenger to fetch her home immediately. She is only a few minutes away.’

‘No, don’t do that, Horrocks,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll wait until she gets back. I don’t imagine that she keeps very late hours.’

The butler looked grateful. ‘No, indeed. But you should get out of those wet clothes straight away. I’ll send Miss Repton to you.’

She’d never heard of Miss Repton, evidently a new addition to the household whom she supposed must be her grandmother’s dresser. Horrocks led the way upstairs to the small sitting room overlooking Laura Place. This was Brielle’s favourite retreat, even though she had a far more elegant drawing room at the back of the house with views over a surprisingly large and immaculate garden.

Miss Repton turned out to be a disapproving middle-aged woman, manicured to within an inch of her life. She looked Amelie up and down with disbelief.

‘You’ll need dry clothes, miss.’ She sniffed. ‘Where is your valise?’

‘My luggage was mislaid during my journey, Miss Repton. It will be coming on later.’

She hoped her lie would satisfy this haughty woman, but the dresser continued to gaze at her with barely concealed disdain.

‘I’ll try to find something of milady’s to fit you, but it won’t be easy.’

Amelie, unused to such disrespect from a servant, answered sharply, ‘It really doesn’t matter. If you will be so kind as to take my cloak, I will dry my dress by the fire.’

Miss Repton looked scandalised and even more so when the discarded cloak revealed Fanny’s plain, and by now, severely dilapidated dress. Amelie looked her in the eyes, challenging her to make a comment. The woman remained mute and made for the door, carefully holding the sodden cloak at arm’s length.

‘I’ll ask Horrocks to send up tea, miss,’ she said tonelessly.

Relieved by the dresser’s exit, she sank into a comfortable chair and closed her eyes. The fire burned brightly and warmed her chilled body. The peace of the room gradually soothed her and by the time Horrocks brought her tea and toast, she was in a fair way to thinking that all would be well once her grandmother returned. But as the minutes ticked by and there was no sign of Brielle, tormenting thoughts once more began to possess her. Her grandmother might have led an unconventional life, but she was a stickler for proper conduct. She would be greatly disturbed by her granddaughter’s flight from home. Brielle must be won over, made to understand the nightmare that was in store for her if she were forced into marriage with Rufus Glyde. Perhaps that would not be too difficult. But how to explain where she’d been since leaving London, how to gloss over all that had happened this last week without provoking unwanted questions?

She suddenly felt very alone and a little scared. With a start she realised that all the time she’d been at the George, she’d never felt this vulnerable. Her mind drifted to Gareth and she wondered what he was doing.Was he thinking of her, too? What nonsense, of course he wasn’t. He would never have spoken so shockingly if he’d had an ounce of feeling for her. From the start he’d made it clear that she was simply entertainment for him; when she’d refused that role, he’d pursued her out of pique. Any fleeting moments of tenderness they’d shared were just that, fleeting. He was a loner, happy to use any woman who crossed his path, but just as happy to dismiss them from his mind if they angered him or ceased to be of interest.

The noise of the front door opening and closing drifted up the stairs. She heard voices below and her stomach churned. Suddenly, her grandmother was there and she was swept up in a warm, perfumed embrace.

‘Amelie, dear child, what is this that Horrocks is telling me? Let me look at you, you poor little thing.’ Brielle held her granddaughter away from her, taking in the drab dress now dried in creases, the sadly bedraggled chestnut curls and the anxious pinched face before her.

‘You’re in a sad way, my dear, but I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you’re safe. I’ve been out of my mind with worry. This evening was the first invitation I’ve accepted since I knew that you’d left your home. And this is the evening that you arrive on my doorstep! But thank God for that.’

And once more Amelie found herself pulled into the jasmine-scented embrace she remembered so well from childhood. Whether her grandmother approved or not of what she’d done, it didn’t matter. Brielle loved her and would care for her. She bit back the treacherous tears.

‘I’m so sorry to have worried you needlessly, but I can explain,’ she pleaded.

Brielle took her granddaughter’s hands in hers and squeezed them lovingly. ‘I’m sure you can, but first we must make you comfortable. I really don’t understand why you’re wearing that dreadful dress, but you should have changed it immediately. I can’t think what my woman is about. Why didn’t she find you a dressing robe at the least and order your bedchamber to be made up?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I was comfortable here and Horrocks brought me tea.’

‘Tea! What are my servants thinking of? What you need is a proper meal and to get out of those clothes. The next thing we’ll know is that you’ll be running a fever.’

She rang the bell energetically and her butler appeared rather too quickly. Like the rest of the household, he had been greatly intrigued by Miss Silverdale’s dramatic and, unexpected arrival and hovering by the sitting-room door, had been hopeful of learning more.

‘Horrocks, ask the housekeeper to make up Miss Amelie’s bedchamber immediately, and get Cook to put together a tray of something nourishing, and I don’t mean just soup.’

‘Yes, milady, immediately,’ the butler murmured, suitably abashed by his mistress’s sharp tone.

Brielle was still fiery, Amelie observed, even though the years had begun to take their toll. Her grandmother, elegant in dove-grey Italian crepe, seemed smaller and frailer than when she’d last seen her.

‘Horrocks is getting old,’ Brielle said, excusing her butler’s oversights. ‘He doesn’t think so clearly now.’

‘He looked after me very well,’ Amelie declared loyally, making ready to accompany the housekeeper upstairs.

She instantly recognised the room. Eau-de-nil hangings and bedcovers created a tranquil aura of pale green shadow: her mother’s favourite colour. A portrait of Louise was displayed prominently above the dainty cherrywood writing desk. A deep tub was even now being filled with hot water by one of the housemaids. As soon as the servants had left, she quickly stripped off the despised dress and dropped it in a heap on the floor.

By the time her grandmother joined her once more, she was ensconced in one of the large easy chairs, wearing a robe of the finest chenille silk.

‘This robe is far too beautiful for me to wear, Grandmama. Miss Repton must be in anguish.’

‘Never mind about her. She has far too high an opinion of herself. Though she does have a way with my hair and makes her own complexion cream from crushed strawberries. Otherwise I would never keep the creature.’

Her grandmother put down the tray she was carrying. ‘I’ve brought your food myself so we can be quiet together. Make sure you dine well. You look as though you’ve barely eaten all day.’

It was true. A sparse breakfast had not been followed by lunch. She’d been too busy hiding from Rufus Glyde to think of eating, and then Gareth’s unexpected abuse had sent her flying from the inn to Wroxall and finally to Bath. She attacked the cold chicken with relish.

While she ate, Brielle kept her amused with anecdotes of Bath life. It was clear that she viewed English provincial society with some irony, but she had put down secure roots and now had many friends and acquaintances in the locality. The quintessential French woman had become almost English.

She let her granddaughter finish her meal in peace before saying, ‘Now what’s this nonsense I’ve been hearing?’

‘Nonsense, Grandmama?’ Amelie’s stomach clenched. The inevitable moment had arrived.

‘About a week ago I received a most unwelcome visitor. His name was Hyde or Glyde or some such. He told me some faradiddle about your being pledged to him in marriage.’

‘He was lying,’ Amelie said quietly. ‘I never agreed to marry him.’

‘Then why did he think you had?’

‘Papa decided I should marry him. I decided I would not.’

‘But why should your father wish you to marry a man you so clearly dislike?’

‘Sir Rufus Glyde is a very rich man, I believe. Papa thought to help the family by marrying me to him.’

‘The family, perhaps, but not you, it would seem. Your father is a selfish man and I won’t hide from you that I do not hold him in a great deal of affection. But I’ve always thought his love for you showed him at his best. Why would he try to enforce such a marriage, knowing how you felt?’

She had no idea how much her grandmother knew of the Silverdales’ financial difficulties and did not want to alarm her unnecessarily, so she said as nonchalantly as she could, ‘The family have a few money problems.’

Brielle looked at her straitly. ‘Your father has always lived high, that’s certain, but surely the income from the estates he holds must be sufficient to cover even his expenditure.’

‘There are other problems,’ Amelie began awkwardly. ‘Robert.’ And her voice trailed off.

‘Ah, Robert, an unfortunate boy by all accounts. Even in this backwater we’ve heard tales of his legendary gambling.’ Brielle fixed her granddaughter with a sharp eye. ‘Exactly how bad is the situation, Amelie? Tell me the truth.’

‘Sir Rufus holds the mortgage on the house in Grosvenor Square and that is all we have left.’

Brielle let out an audible gasp. ‘I knew your father and brother to be foolishly extravagant, but I had no idea that things had come to this pass.’

‘Grandmama, I cannot marry Rufus Glyde. Please help me.’

‘My darling, you shall not marry a man you hate. Your father will have to think again. And until he does, you will stay with me here in Bath.’

Amelie’s brown eyes sparkled through a mist of tears as she launched herself at her grandmother and hugged her so tightly that the older woman was almost crushed.

‘Hush, child, you’ve squeezed the breath out of me. You’re a loving and beautiful young woman. You deserve better. We may even find you a Bath beau to take the place of this Glyde person.’

Amelie’s smile faltered a little. ‘I’m not looking for any other man. I don’t wish to marry. Just let me stay here with you. I can be useful, I’m sure, even more as you get older.’

‘What nonsense is this? To waste your youth and beauty on running errands for an old woman. Certainly not! Why are you so opposed to the idea of matrimony? It is every woman’s destiny, after all.’

‘I don’t think it mine,’ she retorted. ‘In my experience men are either frivolous and foolish or they feel compelled to dominate me. I’ve no wish to be either the master or the mastered.’

‘You have been unlucky in those you’ve met. But that’s not to say that a strong man with the confidence to allow you independence does not exist, or that you won’t encounter him.’

‘Even if I were to meet such a paragon, how could I ever be sure that he would remain so?’ Amelie ventured.‘Mama …’ And she allowed the rest of her sentence to fade into the air.

Her grandmother gazed unseeingly into the fire, and it was a while before she spoke. ‘You must not allow your mother’s difficult life to determine your own choices,’ she said at last. ‘A woman’s duty is to marry. But we’ll say no more for now. I shall introduce you to Bath society while you’re with me and who knows, the right person might just appear on the threshold.’

Brielle’s thoughts were already ranging across the eligible males she knew and had begun to centre on one name that she thought might just alter Amelie’s mind. But for now she was content to change the subject.

‘You haven’t told me yet how you escaped from Grosvenor Square.’

Amelie recounted the tale of the sheets and the stagecoach, carefully omitting the entrance of Gareth Wendover into her life. Brielle enjoyed the story immensely, even more so because it was a rebuke to a son-in-law she did not trust and a suitor she had disliked on sight.

‘Grandmama, can we send for Fanny, please? I promised her I would do so as soon as I could.’

‘I’m not at all sure about that, my love. Fanny aided you in what was a foolish and dangerous escapade. I’ve been enjoying your tale, but that’s because you’re safe here with me. When I think what might have befallen you! And Fanny would have borne a grave responsibility for it.’

‘That’s unfair,’ her granddaughter cried hotly. ‘Fanny tried to persuade me not to escape, but I made her help me. And no doubt she’s suffered already for her loyalty. I cannot make her suffer doubly.’

Brielle blinked with surprise at this passionate outburst. ‘You’re far too hot at hand, my dear. I’m not surprised you’ve emerged from your first Season unwed. A fiery temper is not perhaps the best asset a young woman can possess.’

‘Forgive me, ma’am, I didn’t mean to be discourteous, but I owe Fanny so much.’

‘Including a dress by the look of it,’ her grandmother remarked drily, looking askance at the miserable heap of cloth lying abandoned in the corner. ‘I was about to send a message to your father to assure him of your safety—I will ask him to despatch Fanny to you. We must hope that he hasn’t already discovered her perfidy and sent her packing.’

Amelie smiled her pleasure and then gently stifled a yawn. She hoped Brielle would take the hint and leave her to sleep. So far she’d managed to evade all mention of her stay at the George. But as she’d foreseen, her grandmother was not so easily satisfied. The stagecoach had left the White Horse Inn in London over a week ago—so where had Amelie been in the interval?

‘The stage had an accident,’ she lied, ‘and we had to find accommodation at a local inn. One of the passengers was hurt and I stayed to look after them. As soon as they were better, I finished the journey to Bath.’ How glib that sounded and how very far from the truth!

‘And were you the only two passengers at this inn?’ Brielle questioned shrewdly.

‘There were only a few other people on the stage. And they lived a short distance away and were able to finish their journey on horseback.’ More lies, she thought guiltily.

‘Who was this passenger you were so devoted to? Wasn’t there anyone else who could have offered their services?’

‘I felt obliged. They’d been very kind to me.’

‘But who was this person?’

This was the question Amelie had been dreading. ‘An elderly gentleman.’ Age is relative, she told herself. ‘You wouldn’t know his name. He was actually on his way to Bristol, so he’s not local.’

‘A gentleman? You were looking after a gentleman? Surely that cannot be right.’

‘I had to help. There was no one else who could devote the time to nursing him. The doctor called a few times and the landlord assisted when he could.’

Her grandmother was silent for a moment. ‘Just how old was this gentleman?’

‘I’m not very good at ages,’ she prevaricated. ‘A good deal older than me.’

‘And who else was at the inn with you?’

‘The landlord and his wife, and some of their serving staff. I shared a bedchamber with the kitchen maid.’

Brielle looked relieved at this information and decided not to probe any further for the moment. Amelie was looking tired and distressed. She sensed her granddaughter was not being entirely truthful and was determined in the next few days to get to the bottom of whatever mystery there was.

‘You must sleep now. Tomorrow we’ll begin to make up the deficiencies in your wardrobe. I understand from Horrocks that you arrived with only a cloak bag.’

‘I’m afraid so. It will be wonderful to wear a dress other than Fanny’s.’

‘I should think so indeed,’ Brielle lightly scolded her. ‘After breakfast, we’ll start our campaign. In the meantime I’ll make sure that Repton looks out a dress from my younger years—not too old fashioned, I trust—and alters it to fit you.’

‘Thank you. You’re too kind—I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’

‘I’m sure I shall think of something,’ Brielle replied, her mind firmly fixed on the man she intended to present once the girl was looking her best.

Amelie stayed awake longer than she expected. Her body was exhausted, but her mind continued to plague her. How was she to avoid telling her grandmother the true nature of her stay at the inn, for she knew that Brielle would not be content to leave the matter to rest? She smiled at the description she’d given of Gareth—he was neither elderly nor a gentleman!—but somehow she must maintain this fiction. Her smile died as suddenly as it had come—she must not think of him ever again. It had been foolish of her to allow an early attraction to melt her usual reserve and flourish unchecked. She’d grown far, far too close to him. She had never before felt such longing, such desire, and was left now bruised and baffled.

The insults he’d flung at her should have crushed such troublesome emotions. But apparently that wasn’t so. As she drifted half in and half out of sleep, his powerful frame invaded the room. It was as though he were there with her. If she reached out, she could trace the outline of his smile with her finger. If she reached out, she could know the raw strength of his embrace. Shaken by her need for him, she buried her head in the pillow and tried to sleep.

Gareth was also finding it difficult to sleep. His anger still burned brightly, but he knew that he’d offended Amelie beyond pardon. His fury over her wild escape and his deep suspicions of her relationship with Glyde were justified, he was sure. But to call her a doxy had been inexcusable. She was no such thing, as he knew to his cost. He smiled mirthlessly as he considered the countless women of his acquaintance who perfectly satisfied that description. No, she was not a doxy, but she was just as cunning and manipulative as any other of her sex. He’d learned his lesson well; a woman was worth only the pleasure she gave. Amelie had given him pleasure, it was true, but not as he’d expected: it had been something altogether deeper, more exciting and more disturbing—a dangerous delight. It was as well that she’d left when she had. There was no place in his life for loyalty, tenderness, love, even if he could be sure of her. And he couldn’t.

He would leave her in peace to find a new situation and be on his way. Within the next day or so his ankle would be strong enough to begin travelling, but where he knew not. He was close to Bristol; a journey to the port would take half a day at most and once there he could book a passage to France. It would not be difficult to resume his old life at the tables of the slightly less respectable gaming houses or take whatever menial work was offered. That way he would never touch a penny of the inheritance so long denied him.

But why shouldn’t he enjoy his legacy? Would it not be sweet revenge to plunder the fortune his grandfather had so carefully conserved? Perhaps he would travel back to London after all, deal with Mr Spence and his formalities, and ensure a constant flow of funds to his pocket over the coming years as he wandered Europe. That would certainly spare him the discomfort of living off his wits. But what an existence! The one thing that had sustained him in seven long years of exile was the excitement and intrigue of a life on the edge. Take that away and what was left? A tedious round of places you didn’t know, people you would never see again, plans that held no interest.

One way or another, though, he would leave England and this time willingly and for good. There was nobody to mourn his departure—except perhaps Lucas Avery. He’d been his one true friend. He knew him to be living in Bath, a short distance away, with a wife and children that Gareth had never met. He wondered if he could risk a meeting or whether Lucas might have changed his mind about his old friend in the years since that fateful evening. The unknown wife, too, might not easily welcome a convicted card cheat. But he would have liked to have bid him a final goodbye.

And Amelie, he suspected, was also in Bath. If he chose to make the journey, he might even see her there. If he chose! In his heart he knew that the decision had already been made. Of course he would make the journey, of course he would see her. Be truthful with yourself, he thought savagely. She was dangerous to him; a threat to his plans and to his peace of mind, but somehow he couldn’t keep away. He might try to justify the trip to Bath in a dozen ways, but he was going there for one reason alone. He’d willed himself to forget this girl, but he could not: she was a constant refrain singing in his mind. London or France would both have to wait.

Amelie woke to the swish of heavy silk curtains being drawn and felt the warmth of the mid-morning sun streaming onto her bed. She hadn’t heard the entrance of the maid on the deep pile carpet, but turning her head she saw that a cup of steaming chocolate sat waiting and a large jug of hot water was already on the washstand. A refashioned dress of her grandmother’s was draped across the armchair, hardly the height of fashion, but acceptable enough for this one day. Miss Repton had been busy. She supposed she must thank her.

She lay back on the pillows and stretched luxuriously. Eventually she’d slept long and deep, cocooned in the comfort of the four-poster, a far cry from the straw mattress of recent days. At last she was at her grandmother’s. She’d succeeded in what she’d set out to do and the world felt good. Or at least a part of it did. Gareth’s figure once more crept unbidden into the corners of her mind. He would soon be preparing to leave the George and then where would he go? Whatever his decision, she scolded herself, it concerned her no longer.

This morning she was intent on pleasure for she knew it would be fleeting. She had no false expectations that Brielle would agree with her wish to remain single. For a woman of her grandmother’s generation, indeed for a woman of her own, marriage had to be the goal of life and anyone who rejected it was either unwanted or eccentric. How much better to live alone, she thought, than be chained to a man with whom she shared nothing but a roof. That was likely to remain a dream. There was one thing of which she was sure: her heart would stay her own. It would not be a difficult vow to keep; until now she’d felt nothing for any man she’d ever met. Until now. But Gareth Wendover was clearly ineligible and destined to travel through life alone. A misguided passion for him would ensure the very unhappiness she was trying to escape.

The bedroom door opened and her grandmother came into the room fully dressed and looking businesslike. ‘Good, you’re awake. Are you well rested?’

Amelie smiled her assent.

‘That’s as well—we’ve a lot to do today. I’ll see you in the breakfast room in thirty minutes.’

Brielle’s brisk commands were diverting. Her grandmother might be approaching old age, but she was as sprightly as ever and it was clear that she’d already been up some hours planning the day ahead. Amelie made haste to obey.

The carriage had been ordered to the door immediately after breakfast and very soon they were bowling along Bath’s main thoroughfare. Brielle’s destination was the small but elegant shop of a highly talented young modiste. She had heard on the grapevine that this new seamstress had the originality and skill of many a more expensive establishment. She had a very clear idea of what would suit her granddaughter, something in the French style, she thought, beautifully cut and simply adorned, to flatter the young woman’s budding figure.

It seemed to Amelie that the next few hours were spent in a fantasy of fashion. There were outfits for every occasion: braided, embroidered, some adorned with knots of ribbon, others with spangled rosettes and silver fringes. Walking dresses, riding costumes, day toilettes and ball gowns floated past on a wave of elegance.

She tried hard to keep her feet on the ground, worrying about the mounting cost and how she could ever repay her grandmother even a fraction of the staggering bill for this dazzling wardrobe. Frantically she tried to catch sight of the price tags as the dresses were brought forwards for her inspection. An evening gown in sea-green tulle made her gasp as she gazed in wonder at her reflection in the mirror. She could hardly recognise the modish and graceful young woman looking back at her.

‘How much did you say this gown was?’ she asked the seamstress tentatively.

‘That is one of our newest creations, mademoiselle, and made from the finest silk tulle. A very reasonable hundred guineas. It suits mademoiselle to perfection.’

Shocked by the price, Amelie began reluctantly to take off the charming creation when the modiste, catching a minatory look from Brielle, coughed apologetically and decided that she had made a mistake.

‘Of course, for such a beautiful young lady we can come to an agreeable arrangement, I’m sure. You will wear the dress with a distinction that will bring honour to our small salon and build our reputation.’

After that Amelie gave up trying to keep count of the ever-increasing total. It was all way beyond anything she could ever have afforded from her allowance. The colours and fabrics flew past her eyes like a moving kaleidoscope. To the pile of dresses were added furtrimmed pelisses, tiny pearl-stitched slippers, long white leather gloves and a Norwich silk shawl, all apparently necessities for a protracted stay in Bath. By the time they left the salon, the carriage was brimming with boxes and packages and had to be sent back to Laura Place while they made their way to Milsom Street to pay a call on Brielle’s favourite milliner.

Amelie, who owned precisely two hats, was amazed by the information that she would need no fewer than six if she were to grace the Bath social scene successfully. One extraordinary confection followed another as Madame Charcot laid before them the finest of her wares. Amelie’s London Season had been notable for its modesty. Lord Silverdale had neither the money nor the wish to expend large sums on his daughter’s coming-out and expected her natural beauty to be sufficient to win a husband. An old acquaintance of his youth had acted as chaperone and since she also had a daughter to launch, she’d shown little interest in her new protégée or her clothes. Amelie had chosen almost single-handedly the restricted wardrobe her father had permitted for the three months of her London Season. Now Brielle, with her highly developed fashion sense, was intent on giving as much enjoyment as possible to her granddaughter.

Seated amidst a tower of hat boxes, waiting for the carriage to return, she revealed that she’d been busy first thing that morning putting together a guest list for a small evening party the following day.

‘It will be more comfortable for you to meet a few people before going into society properly,’ her grandmother explained.

Amelie made haste to reassure her, ‘I won’t be uncomfortable, Grandmama, not with you by my side.’

‘That’s as may be. I’m an old woman now. You need to meet younger people. It will be just a small, informal party. Nothing too overwhelming. But when we go the Pump Room or the Assembly Rooms, you’ll already know a few faces.’

Amelie wasn’t so sure. She’d expected to live quietly in Bath, but it was evident from the morning’s shopping that this was not what Brielle had in mind. She was grateful for her grandmother’s unstinting kindness and she would try her best to conform. She had little desire to socialise, but that was something best left unsaid.

Like her granddaughter, Brielle decided on silence. It had been difficult to conjure up interesting guests at such short notice, but she’d felt it essential to introduce Amelie as swiftly as possible to many of those she would see in the coming weeks. She was intent on establishing the notion that her granddaughter’s stay had been planned for a considerable time and that Amelie would be paying a protracted visit. That way she would limit any damage that rumour might do.

This morning while her granddaughter slept, she’d cast her mind swiftly over the people she might invite who would not be offended by the very short notice. Celine Charpentier, of course, a fellow émigrée and friend since the time they’d both left France for exile. Celine would support her in whatever plan she was hatching, Brielle knew. Then Major Radcliffe was a genial soul, always ready to add his bonhomie to any party. Unfortunately she would have to invite Miss Scarsdale. Letitia Scarsdale was a permanent fixture at all her parties, a difficult neighbour who had constantly to be placated.

But one particular guest would more than earn his place. Brielle had high hopes of him. Sir Peregrine Latham was well known in Bath, a handsome man and delightful companion. Perry Latham was no country bumpkin, either. He preferred a quieter pace of life, dividing his time between the Bath mansion and his Somerset estate, but he visited London regularly and was not devoid of town bronze. He was well into his thirties now and, gossip had it, the victim of a sad history. The story went that he had lost his fiancée when he was a very young man and had never recovered from the blow. Nevertheless, Brielle reckoned he might be persuaded to think again by the sight of her enchanting granddaughter.

The following day brought with it another whirl of activity. The hairdresser called early to trim Amelie’s chestnut locks into submission. Her shining curls were artlessly twisted into a knot on the top of her head and then allowed to cascade down the sides of her face in loose ringlets. Before she had time to properly admire this transformation, it was the turn of the dressmaker. Hours the previous evening had been spent thumbing through the latest editions of La Belle Assemblée to decide on suitable styles. Now for several uncomfortable hours she was draped with muslin and stuck with pins. The dressmaker, she was told, would make her gowns for wearing at home when no one of any importance was expected. She began to wonder when she would ever have time to don even half of the wardrobe she’d so suddenly acquired.

Shortly before their guests arrived that evening, Brielle appeared with a pearl necklace and earrings that had belonged to Amelie’s mother. They were the perfect accompaniment to the simple pink crêpe-de-Chine gown she’d chosen for her first party.

‘Wear them for Louise,’ her grandmother said with a catch in her voice, the closest she would ever come to expressing the pain she still felt.

Now that the evening was here, Amelie determined to take pleasure in it, if only for Brielle’s sake. It was true that the guests assembled in the elegant drawing room were something of a motley crowd, but they were evidently all well-wishers. All except Lady Lampeter, who had two very plain daughters of Amelie’s age and who was furious to discover that her acceptance of such a late invitation had been pointless. Not even the fondest of mamas could expect the Lampeter girls to compete with Amelie’s beauty.

‘Claudia Lampeter will come at short notice,’ Brielle had confidently predicted to Celine. ‘She has a mountain to climb with those girls of hers. One has spots and the other a sad figure. She will take them anywhere in the hope of finding a marriageable man.’

Knowing nothing of her grandmother’s wiles, Amelie remained serene and unruffled as she made her way slowly around the mingling guests. Moving from one chattering group to another, she attracted admiring looks from around the room and Brielle was happy to see that in company her granddaughter was both modest and assured.

‘She does you credit,’ Celine remarked. ‘A beautiful and unaffected girl.’

The Major took a long pinch of snuff and gave his considered opinion. ‘With those looks and that charm she will take Bath by storm.’

As the evening proceeded, Amelie began to appreciate the gentle rhythm of Bath social life. The great society gatherings of her London Season had been a strain, but here she felt soothed. Even the man she imagined had been invited to partner her was unexceptional.

‘And how do you like Bath, Miss Silverdale?’ Perry Latham began as an opening gambit.

He had been stunned by the beauty of this young woman and was eager to see whether her intelligence matched her looks.

‘So far, Sir Peregrine, I’ve seen only the inside of dress shops, but I’m sure I shall enjoy it immensely.’

‘And Bath will enjoy you, too,’ he rejoined gallantly. ‘Can we hope to see you at the Pump Room shortly?’

‘Indeed, yes. I understand my grandmother is planning our first visit tomorrow.’

‘Excellent. I’ll make sure I attend. I’m afraid you may well find the town a little dull. You will see many of the same faces there as are here tonight.’

‘I shan’t mind that. I find familiarity comforting.’

‘I’m not sure you’ll continue to think so after you’ve met the same set of people a dozen times.’

Privately, Amelie thought that was more than likely, looking around at the less-than-stimulating collection of people gathered there. She couldn’t stop herself smiling at the thought of what Gareth would make of the company. ‘An assortment of gargoyles,’ she could hear him say. One of the older women, the scrawny Miss Scars-dale, bore an uncanny resemblance to Mrs Skinner.

‘You smile.’ Perry Latham had been watching her closely. ‘You see, Miss Silverdale, you’re already beginning to have doubts about Bath society.’

‘No, Sir Peregrine. I was smiling at how very pleasant it is to be among friends.’

Diplomatic as well as intelligent and beautiful, he thought, already half-smitten with this entrancing princess who had appeared so suddenly in his world.

‘Please call me Perry. I hope you will count me as one of those friends.’

The last guest departed well before eleven. She wasn’t sorry that Bath inhabitants seemed to keep early hours. The party had been convivial and undemanding, but it had still cost an effort to play the role expected of her.

‘I saw you talking to Perry Latham,’ her grandmother remarked casually. ‘He’s a good-looking fellow, don’t you think?’

‘Very presentable.’

‘A thorough gentleman, too.’

‘Indeed, yes.’

‘And not without town bronze,’ Brielle pursued.

Amelie smiled warmly back at her. ‘He’s a veritable pattern card of all the virtues,’ she replied laughingly, while her thoughts roved dangerously elsewhere.

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