A Worthy Gentleman

‘The same goes for me,’ Daniel agreed. ‘I am certain we can sort this out between us, John. I shall make inquiries myself, because there is more to this than we yet know—but you must speak to Tobbold. Your enemy is a dangerous man and may not be satisfied with your ruin.’

John was feeling better for having confided in his friends. Both had declared him perfectly sound of mind, which meant that he might be dealing with more than one enemy. And at least one of them was able to come and go in his own house!

John found it difficult to understand how that could be. Many of his servants had worked for him for years, and some for his parents before him. He would have sworn that every one of them was loyal. Why had this person turned against him? What had he done that deserved this?

John had puzzled over it, but could find no answer. Perhaps his enemy had bribed one of the maids to place Andrea’s things amongst his, hoping to unnerve him? It had certainly given him a nasty shock the first time, but afterwards he had begun to suspect what was going on. When he returned home he would ask his housekeeper if any new maids had been taken on in the past few months.

And why was his enemy trying to ruin him? Was it because Andrea had taken her own life? He had wondered if Sir Andrew had written his own letter in order to threaten him, and yet he could not truly think it. His father-in-law had known that her child was not John’s—how could he blame John for the fit of despair that had driven her to take her own life?

Who else would want revenge for her death? John could think of no one. She did not have any brothers or sisters, and her mother had died when she was but a child.

So perhaps it was nothing to do with Andrea. Perhaps she was merely the tool being used against him. John frowned as he slowed his horses to a steadier pace. He had no idea where to start looking for clues. He could tell Tobbold what had happened so far, but he could give him no help in solving the mystery.

It was possible that this nonsense might be something to do with Sir Courtney Welch—or even Sir Montague Forsythe. John had been involved in both those affairs. He had helped when Charles had been desperate to discover his sister’s whereabouts after Forsythe had had her abducted, and John had also played a big part in scuppering Sir Courtney’s attempt to force Arabella into marrying him. It was also possible that he had trodden on someone’s toes for quite another reason, though he did not know of anyone who had a right to hate him. He had not insulted anyone, nor had he ruined another gentleman at the card tables.

It was a warm spring day, but John felt the chill of winter enter his heart. The future looked bleak indeed. It was hopeless. How could he ever discover who his enemy was, let alone prove his innocence to the world? He had no answers to the questions others would ask of him. All he did know for certain was that he could not ask any woman to marry him while this shadow hung over him. Only a selfish man would think of his own happiness when it might bring harm to the woman he admired more than any other.

Yet had he the right to ignore Sarah? He had once given her to understand that he was in love with her. In the rose arbour she had seemed to invite him to speak, and a part of him had longed to oblige her—but he did not wish to bring her down. If he were to be disgraced—or, worse, accused of murder—it could ruin her life.

John knew that he must conquer the guilt he felt concerning his wife. It was true that he had not been able to give her the love she needed. Kindness and concern were all very well in their way—but was it his neglect in making their marriage a true one that had driven Andrea to take her life? Or was there some reason of which he had no knowledge?

Only when he had settled his own mind would he be able to think of making plans for the future.

Chapter Three

‘I am sorry you are not coming with us,’ Sarah said as she kissed Arabella’s cheek that morning. ‘I shall miss you, but I understand why you would rather remain here.’ She glanced at her mother, who was ordering the servants about unnecessarily and hovering in a flustered manner as their baggage was stowed on the coach. ‘I dare say you will be glad to have your home to yourself again, Belle.’

‘No, not at all,’ Arabella assured her with a smile. ‘Mama does fuss a little, I admit, but she means well, Sarah. I know she is anxious for you to marry, but it is because she wants you to be happy—truly happy. And I think you are not.’

‘I am happy enough,’ Sarah told her, avoiding her sympathetic gaze. ‘But I shall not be happy if Mama pushes me into marriage with a man I do not love.’

‘Charles will not allow that, I promise you,’ Arabella said and kissed her cheek. ‘If your mama is difficult, tell us, Sarah. Charles will stand by you, though it is his dearest wish to see you happily settled—but only with the gentleman of your choice.’

‘Thank you, you have been so kind,’ Sarah said. ‘If it were not for you and Nana, I might have died when I was so ill. You took me in when I did not know my own name and made me want to live again.’

‘We are as sisters,’ Arabella said and smiled at her. ‘I know your heart as well as you do, Sarah. I shall not embarrass you, but you must not give up hope, dearest. John is in some kind of trouble at the moment but I am sure that he still cares for you.’

‘Oh, Belle…’ Sarah’s throat was tight with tears. She embraced her sister-in-law once more and then turned as her mother called to her impatiently. ‘I am coming, Mama.’

Their farewells over, Sarah climbed into the carriage after her mother and waved to Arabella from the window. Charles was standing by her side, his arm about her waist. He lifted his hand in salute, then looked down at his wife, bending his head to kiss her briefly on her forehead. They were smiling at each other, lost in their own private world. Sarah sat back against the squabs, a little sigh issuing from her lips.

‘Charles might have come up with us,’ Mrs Hunter said. ‘I am sure Arabella would not have minded.’

‘He will come in a few days,’ Sarah said. ‘We do not need him, Mama. We managed well enough in Italy, if you recall.’

‘In Italy we had the Conte to look after us,’ Mrs Hunter said with a touch of asperity. ‘Such a perfect gentleman, such exquisite manners—’

Sarah played with the strings of her velvet reticule. Her mother had not stopped talking about the Conte di Ceasares, and the chance Sarah had wasted, since his letter had arrived.

‘He was very kind,’ Sarah admitted. ‘But I did not love him, Mama. Surely you wish me to be happy?’

‘It is because I wish you to be happy that I am reminding you of what you have lost. You are such a stubborn girl,’ Mrs Hunter said. ‘Well, I am giving you your chance. If you do not take it, you will have only yourself to blame if you sink into a lonely old age, reduced to caring for your nephews and nieces. I shall not always be here for you.’

‘Oh, Mama,’ Sarah said with a smile. ‘You will live for many years yet, I hope.’

‘That is as may be,’ her mother said. ‘Think about your situation if you do not marry, Sarah. Do you always wish to be a guest in other people’s homes? Surely you wish for a home and children?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Sarah said. ‘But please allow me time to make up my mind, Mama. I do not wish to make a mistake about something as important as marriage.’

Mrs Hunter gave her a meaningful look. ‘Time is shorter than you think, Sarah. You will be one and twenty in a few months; if you are not careful, you may find yourself left on the shelf.’

Sarah did not answer. She turned to glance out of the window. They had left the estate now and were travelling through open countryside. The moors at this point were wide and slightly undulating with only a few scrubby bushes and stunted trees on the horizon. She glanced back at her mother, who had closed her eyes and, being an indifferent traveller, was possibly already wishing that they were at the end of their journey.

In her heart Sarah knew that her mama was right. Her life would be as empty as the bleak moors if she did not marry. It was perhaps her duty to keep an open mind on the subject of marriage.

‘It is so good to see you again,’ Lady Tate said, giving Sarah a kiss on her cheek. ‘Both Tilda and I have been looking forward to your visit.’

‘Is Tilda here?’ Sarah asked as the housekeeper helped her off with her travelling cloak. ‘It seems ages since you left Italy to come home, Aunt Hester. Arabella sends her love, as does Charles. He is coming up for a few days soon, but Arabella does not wish to travel at the moment.’

‘I had a letter from her,’ Lady Tate said and smiled. Although Sarah was not actually her niece, she had always loved her and they were very close. ‘I shall go down to the country in two months’ time and stay for her confinement.’

‘Sarah, my dearest…’ Tilda came out into the hall then, and Sarah went to greet her as Lady Tate turned to Mrs Hunter. ‘You are here at last. It seems an age since we were together in Italy.’

They embraced and then Tilda accompanied Sarah up to her room, chattering about various invitations that had already come in. Lady Tate had let it be known that her great friend Selina Hunter and her daughter Sarah were to visit her, and, as the Season was just beginning, the cards had begun to pile up.

‘It is good to see you,’ Sarah said. ‘I am glad to see that the scars have healed considerably, Tilda.’

Tilda put a hand to her face and smiled wryly. ‘I was never a great beauty, my dear. The smallpox has not ruined my chances of a great marriage, for I never had any. I am just so grateful to be alive—and I owe that to you, Sarah. Had you not cared for me so devotedly, I am sure I should have died.’

‘I dare say one of the maids would have done all I did,’ Sarah replied modestly. ‘But I did not wish to leave you to a stranger’s care, Tilda.’

‘It was fortunate for me,’ Tilda said. ‘A servant might have cared for me, but not as lovingly, my dear. I shall never forget your kindness and, if ever I may be of service to you…’

‘Thank you,’ Sarah said and shook her head. She did not wish Tilda to feel obliged to her. ‘But I do not think there is anything I need—except a suitable husband. Mama is still cross with me because I refused the Conte in Italy—but though I liked him very well, I did not love him.’

‘There was someone else,’ Tilda said and frowned. ‘Mr Elworthy married, did he not? I think he is a widower of some months now.’

‘Yes, I have seen John,’ Sarah said and her eyes clouded with disappointment. ‘I believe he is still grieving for his wife.’

‘I do not think it was a love match between them,’ Tilda said and looked thoughtful. She had heard some disturbing rumours concerning Mr Elworthy quite recently, but did not know whether to believe them. She would certainly say nothing to Sarah for the moment. ‘It may be that he thinks you still prefer not to marry, my dear.’

‘Perhaps…’ Sarah wrinkled her smooth brow. ‘Yet I do not believe he can have thought that…Perhaps it is just too soon.’ Perhaps she had misunderstood him and he had never cared for her as more than a friend.

‘Too soon for propriety? Yes, he may think that, because he has always been a perfect gentleman and behaves just as he ought,’ Tilda said. She could not think that the man who had done so much to help Arabella and Sarah could possibly have done anything to harm his wife, and decided to dismiss the rumour from her mind. ‘Perhaps you will meet him again soon.’

‘He did say he would come up for Lady Cavendish’s ball,’ Sarah said. ‘I have promised to save two dances for him.’

‘There you are, then,’ Tilda said and smiled at her affectionately. ‘When he sees you looking ravishing and dancing with other gentlemen, he will realise that he cares, and then I am sure he will ask you to marry him. Besides, you will meet a lot of gentlemen in the next few weeks and you may meet someone who sweeps you off your feet and makes you fall madly in love with him.’