The Runaway Heiress

At first it appeared to be empty, but then he saw that the lady awaiting him was seated at his desk in the window embrasure. Her back was to the light, the sun creating a golden halo round her dark hair. It made a pleasing picture surrounded as she was by polished wood, richly tooled leather volumes filling the shelves, heavy velvet curtains and Turkey carpets in deep reds and blues covering the floors. The furniture was old, acquired by earlier generations of Laffords, heavily carved oak chairs and sidetables with no pretence to elegance or fashion. A fire crackled and spat in the vast fireplace to give an air of warmth and welcome. It was his preferred room at the Priory and he rarely shared it with anyone. But now he was faced with an uncomfortable interview with a lady who had somehow involved him in a scandalous escapade that was none of his making. The lady’s face was in shadow, but he could see that she had borrowed a pen and was concentrating on a sheet of paper before her. As he watched, the lady, still unaware of his presence, and completely oblivious to the magnificence of her surroundings, threw the pen down with a despairing sigh and buried her face in her hands.

He closed the door quietly behind him and walked forward towards her. Hastily she raised her head and, with a guilty start, rose to her feet to stand slim and straight before him. Against his better judgement, he bowed slightly, and instantly regretted it.

‘Good morning, ma’am. I trust you slept well.’

‘Yes, my lord. Forgive me …’ she indicated the pen and paper ‘… I was only—’

Aldeborough shook his head and drew in his breath sharply. ‘My housekeeper has looked after you?’

‘She has been very kind.’

‘You have breakfasted, I trust?’

‘Thank you, yes.’

Aldeborough abandoned the banal in exasperation and some self-disgust. ‘Damnation, ma’am! This is a most unfortunate situation!’ He swung round to pace over to the windows, which opened onto the stone-flagged terrace, and stared out over the park with a heavy frown between his eyes. The silence stretched between them, but he could think of no constructive comment. He turned his head to see that she was still standing in the same place, very pale with faint shadows beneath her eyes and tension in every line of her body. And on her cheekbone flared the vivid discoloration of a bruise.

‘You are not Molly Bates,’ he accused her, the frown still in place. ‘My valet informed me that I had escorted a lady here last night and I see that he was quite correct. It is unfortunate that I did not come to the same conclusion before I allowed you to foist yourself on me! I confess that I remember little of what occurred last night with any clarity.’

‘Indeed, you warned me of that, sir.’

‘But … of course, I know who you are …’ his gaze focusing on the ugly wound marring her fair skin ‘… you are the wretched girl who showered glass and inferior port over everyone within ten feet of you!’

She made no reply, simply waited with downcast eyes for his next reaction.

‘So, if you are not Molly Bates, whoever she might be, who are you?’ He failed to hide his impatience at her lack of response to a potentially explosive situation.

‘I am Viscount Torrington’s niece, my lord.’

‘His niece? The heiress? I find that very difficult to believe.’ His eyes surveyed her slowly from head to foot, taking in every imperfection in her appearance. They were, Frances decided, as cold and predatory as those of the hunting falcon on his coat of arms.

‘It is true!’ Frances clenched her teeth, lifting her chin against the arrogant scrutiny. ‘Viscount Torrington is indeed my uncle. The fact that you thought I was one of the servants has nothing to do with it.’

‘You clearly have an excellent memory, ma’am.’

‘The entire episode is etched on my memory for ever, sir. I need hardly say I did not enjoy it.’ Her flat tones did nothing to hide the barely controlled emotion as the horror of the previous night reasserted itself. The memories flooded back.

As they did for the Marquis, in terrible clarity.

It must have been very late. Certainly after midnight. The fire had long since disintegrated into remnants of charred wood and ash and no one had thought to resurrect it from the pile of logs on the hearth. Candles flickered in the draughts, casting the far corners of the dining room at Torrington Hall into deep shadow, but failing to hide threadbare carpets and curtains and a general air of neglect. That is, if any of those present had been interested in his surroundings. Half a dozen men in various stages of inebriation and dishevelment were seated round the central table where the covers had been removed some time ago and empty bottles littered the surface, testimony to a hard drinking session.

They had spent a bone-chilling but successful day, hunting across Torrington’s acres, and had accepted an invitation from their host to eat at the Hall. They had dined meagrely—Torrington kept a poor table—but drunk deep so the company was past the stage of complaint. Lord Hay was asleep, his head slumped forward onto his folded arms. Sir John Masters studied his empty wine glass with the fixed intensity of a cat contemplating a tasty mouse. Sir Ambrose Dutton exchanged reminiscences of good runs over hard country with Torrington and his son, Charles Hanwell. The Marquis of Aldeborough, somewhat introspective, lounged completely at his ease in his chair, legs stretched out before him, booted ankles crossed. One hand was thrust deep into the pocket of his immaculate buckskin breeches, the other negligently twirled the stem of his wine glass, half-full of liquid that glinted ruby red in the guttering flames.

Burdened with a heavy tray of decanter and bottles, Frances entered the room in Akrill’s wake. She had no interest in the proceedings, in the affairs of the men who completely ignored her presence. Exhaustion from her long hours in the kitchen imprinted her delicate skin with a grey wash and she was still frozen into her own world of hopeless misery, resulting from the shattering plans for her future.

Torrington, eyes glittering, the candlelight etching deep lines of thwarted ambition on his ageing face, raised his hand to indicate a refill of the empty glass at his elbow. Akrill nodded. Frances lifted the decanter to carry it from sideboard to table where her uncle waited, arm still outstretched in demand. She reached his chair and leaned to pour liquid into his glass. To her horror, without warning, the heavy decanter slipped from her tired fingers to explode in a shower of crystal shards and vintage port at her feet, splashing herself and Torrington indiscriminately with blood-red drops.

He turned on her with the venom of a snake. ‘You clumsy fool, girl. Look what you’ve done. You’ll pay for this!’

He lashed out in frustrated anger, the back of his hand making contact with her cheek in a sharp slap that brought the room to silence. Frances flinched, silently, swallowing the sudden flash of pain, and would have retreated, but caught her heel in the worn carpet and fell amidst the sparkling ruin at Aldeborough’s feet. For a long moment, no one reacted, gripped by the exhibition of very public and casual cruelty, as Frances slowly pushed herself to her knees, hoping that the encroaching shadows would hide the worst of her embarrassment and humiliation. If she could only reach the door before her uncle drew any further attention to her …

A cool hand took hold of her arm and pulled her gently but firmly to her feet. ‘Are you hurt?’

She shivered at his touch. ‘No. I am quite unharmed, my lord.’

Aldeborough surveyed the girl before him with a faint stirring of pity as she tried ineffectually to brush the stains and slivers of glass from her skirts. Not a kitchen wench, he presumed from the gown she wore, despite its lack of style and elegance, but a poor relation, destined to a life of charitable poverty and dependence in the Torrington household. An unenviable destiny. His fleeting impression was of dark lashes, which veiled her eyes and cast shadows on her pale cheeks, and dark hair carelessly, hopelessly confined with a simple ribbon, falling lankly around her neck. Her fingers, he noted as he raised her to her feet, were ice cold and, although her voice was calm, carefully governed, her hand trembled in his and her cheek already bore the shadow of a bruise from Torrington’s ill temper. Aldeborough became aware that he had been staring fixedly at the girl for some seconds when she pulled her hand free of his grasp to step backwards away from him. He continued to watch her, sufficiently sober to register that she appeared quite composed. Perhaps she was unaware that her fingers, now clasped so tightly together, gleamed white as ivory in the gloom.

‘There is blood on your wrist and hand.’ His eyes might be hard, grey as quartz, but his voice was gentle with a compassion that she had never experienced in her life and the firm touch of his fingers steadied her. ‘I believe that you may have cut yourself on the glass. Akrill—’ he gestured to the hovering butler ‘—perhaps you could help the girl. She appears to have injured herself.’

He thinks I am one of the servants! Frances fought back the hysterical laughter that rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. That is what I will be for the rest of my life. How can I escape it? For the first time she raised her eyes to Aldeborough’s, desperately, in a silent plea, for what she did not know, but he merely released her into Akrill’s care before resuming his seat at the table and refilling his glass from a bottle of claret.

‘Well, Aldeborough. What did you think of my grey hunter? A better animal than any in your stables, I wager.’

Torrington’s words caught Frances’s attention as she stood patiently for Akrill to wind and secure a napkin as a temporary bandage around her bleeding wrist. Aldeborough! Oh, yes! She had heard of him in spite of her seclusion in Torrington Hall away from fashionable society. Titled. Wealthy. Owner of magnificent Aldeborough Priory. A reputation for hard drinking and gambling and, with his title and fortune, one of the most eligible bachelors on the Matrimonial Mart. But a man at whom mothers of unmarried daughters looked askance, for he was not above breaking hearts with cruel carelessness.

‘Most impressive, my lord. Excellent conformation. Good hocks. He took the hedges in style. I do not suppose you would be prepared to sell him?’

‘At a price I might!’ Torrington slumped back in his chair, fast sinking into morose despair as he faced his own private disaster. ‘I am near ruin, cleaned out, everything gone except the entailed property. We shall have the local tradesmen knocking at the door, demanding payment before long.’

‘Father!’ Charles intervened, grasped Torrington’s arm with a little shake as if to bring him to his senses and awareness of their guests. ‘This is neither the time nor place to discuss such matters.’ His attractive features carried lines of strain around eyes and mouth. His embarrassment was evident in his clipped tones.

‘Everyone knows!’ Torrington shook off the grasp impatiently. His clenched fist hammered on the table. ‘Not a secret any longer. The horses are my only hope.’ Then a sly smile curved his lips. ‘But I shall come about. You’ll see.’ His words slurred as he slopped more wine into his glass and drank deeply.

‘What’s this, Torrington?’ Sir Ambrose raised his eyebrows. ‘Hopes of a fortune to rescue you from dun territory? Or is it the wine talking?’ The mockery was evident in his smile.

‘That’s it. A fortune.’ The Viscount rubbed his hands together in greedy anticipation. ‘I have a niece—an heiress. She will restore our fortunes and then we shall come about. She will marry Charles—this very week. No one will look down on the Hanwell family then!’

‘I congratulate you.’ The sneer on Aldeborough’s face was unmistakable. ‘It must be a great comfort to you to see your restitution.’

‘You would not understand—with your fortune!’ Torrington’s lips curled into an unpleasant snarl.

‘Very true.’

‘You were very fortunate in your inheritance, my lord.’

‘Indeed.’

Tension vibrated in the room, raw emotion shimmering between the Marquis and his host. It could be tasted, like the bitter metallic tang of blood. Aldeborough appeared to be unaware of it. He searched in his pockets and drew out a pretty enamelled snuff box with gold filigree hinges and clasp, which he proceeded to open with elegant left-handed precision, apparently concentrating on the quality of the King’s Martinique rather than Torrington’s barbed words.

‘Of course, we were devastated by your brother’s death,’ the Viscount continued in silky tones.

‘Of course.’ Aldeborough replaced the snuff box and picked up his wine glass. Sir Ambrose, watching the developing confrontation, found himself clenching his fists as he contemplated the possibility of the Marquis dashing the contents in Torrington’s face and the ensuing scandal.

Instead the Marquis calmly raised the glass to his lips and turned his head, suddenly aware of the girl standing so still and silent by the door, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on him. He noted her extreme pallor, catching her gaze with his own, to be instantly struck and taken aback by the blaze of anger in her night-dark eyes. Was it directed at him? Unlikely—yet the tension between them was clear enough. Why should a dowdy servant or poor relation display such hostility, such bitter disdain, especially when he had been sufficiently concerned for her welfare to pick her up off the floor? But her hands had been so cold, her eyes filled with such intense emotion … Even now he caught a faint sparkle on her cheek. He shrugged. Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps he had drunk more than he thought—his imagination and the guttering candles were playing tricks. He had had enough of Torrington’s company, his shabby hospitality and his scarcely veiled innuendo for one night. It would be wise to leave now, before he so far forgot himself as to insult his host beyond redemption. Although the temptation to do so was almost overpowering.

He abruptly pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet.

‘Much as I have enjoyed your company, gentlemen, I believe that it is time I took my leave.’ He moved with elegant grace, giving no hint of the alcohol he had consumed, unless it was the slight flush on his lean cheeks and his carefully controlled breathing.