The Bride Wore Scandal

Quite unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘As it was mine yesterday,’ he said quietly.

She flushed hotly on being reminded of the kiss they had shared. ‘Please forget what happened, sir, I beg you,’ she implored. ‘You made me lose my head …’

His laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun, as he stared at Christina with a gravity in which there was a challenging note. ‘Forget that I kissed you? Forget that I looked into your eyes and saw them change colour? Forget the sweet taste of your lips? That is asking too much of me.’

Torn between a desire to hear more and fear of the feelings he would invoke, with her thoughts in turmoil she left him, not wanting one more word from him or glimpse of his handsome face or his overwhelming male presence to complicate her already muddled feelings. She realised she was trembling. She must not forget that Lord Rockley was their enemy and all the more dangerous because he was handsome and charming and because she felt that it was going to be impossible to hate him as she had been able to before she had known who he was.

Chapter Two

Christina paused to speak to Sir John Cruckshank, a short, stout gentleman, always amiable and with a warm sense of humour. He was also the local magistrate.

‘I see you’ve met Lord Rockley, my dear,’ Sir John said, his face overly flushed beneath his elaborately curled black wig.

‘Yes,’ she replied flatly, having already met the man with the rapier gaze, who possessed the instincts of a magician, the intellect of a genius, and the persistence of a blood hound. She pinned a smile to her face, giving Sir John no indication that this illustrious gentleman he spoke of had not impressed her in the least. ‘He … is to be our guest for the night, his home being too far away for him to travel late at night. I understand he was a military man.’

Sir John nodded. ‘He has seen much service with Marlborough in the Netherlands. He is highly talented in his field and politically astute,’ he said, dabbing at the light perspiration on his forehead, the light powder of snuff stirring gently upon his person as he spoke.

And with arrogance by the bucket load, Christina thought unkindly, yet unable to quell the emotional detachment she felt for their unwelcome guest. ‘You know him well, Sir John?’

‘We are acquainted. Like his uncles and his grandfather, he made soldiering his career, but unlike your ordinary soldier he has plenty of money behind him. At thirty-one years old, he has an outstanding record and is highly thought of by Marlborough himself, who has expressed his regret at his leaving.’

‘I have heard that he’s acquired a fearful reputation—that there are those who liken him to the Devil himself.’

Sir John nodded. ‘That is true. But in battle it is no bad thing for his enemies to fear him. The man’s a legend.’

‘Why?’

‘A lot of reasons—his courage and exploits, some of which no one knows—to do with espionage and being able to flush out the enemy.’

‘That’s informative,’ Christina said with a smile.

‘You would have to be in the military to understand. Everybody expected he’d be made colonel in time, but that’s not going to happen.’

‘Why? What happened?’

‘Nothing. Six months ago he decided to retire and live a life of ease.’

‘I would hardly call taking on an assignment to track down a gang of highway robbers a life of ease, Sir John.’

‘Of course, you are right. Let us hope he can sort out this unsavoury business with these damned highwaymen—and then we might all travel in safety. Rockley isn’t noted for his sweet nature, and I can’t think of anybody who would understand the assignment better.’

Christina studied the little magistrate curiously. ‘What is your assessment of Lord Rockley as a man, Sir John?’

‘Well, he’s a formidable opponent, for one thing, with a high-functioning intellect. If Rockley decides a man’s guilty, he’ll lock on to him and he will stay with him and nothing his prey can do will shake him off or sidetrack him. He will get him—and bring him down. And that,’ he finished with a chuckle, ‘is why he was given the assignment. Although he does have his own reasons for tracking down these criminals.’

‘Oh?’

‘About a year ago, the coach his brother and his wife were travelling in was apprehended by Bucklow—they had been visiting friends in Newbury and the hour was late. Their young daughter was with them. That was probably one of the worst crimes the highwaymen have committed. His niece and his brother were shot—the girl died outright, his brother was badly wounded.’ He shook his head. ‘Dreadful business.’

Christina stared at him in disbelief. It was such a tragic story. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Lord Rockley must have been badly affected by it.’ She could imagine his grief, followed by the anger he must have felt at this direct attack on his family, and could well understand his determination to track down his niece’s murderer.

‘Absolutely, my dear.’ Sir John looked towards the doors as people began drifting outside. ‘Ah, I see the firework display is about to begin. Excuse me, my dear. I must find my lady wife. I promised to find her a prominent place where she can see them at their best.’

As Sir John bustled away, a beleaguered-looking William appeared by Christina’s side. He was trying to put on a brave face, but she knew he was as afraid inside himself as she was and trying hard not to let the presence of Lord Rockley get the better of him.

‘Go now, Christina. Go and see Mark. Tell him we have an unwelcome guest and to be careful. And don’t be long. Rockley’s eyes are all over the place. I doubt he will be enticed by the fireworks for long.’

Christina’s heart sank when she looked at William, for his flushed face and the brightness of his eyes were evidence that already he was showing signs of intoxication. It was as if he could forget his fears and repression when under the influence of liquor.

‘Does he suspect anything, do you think, William?’

‘I don’t know, so best be careful and keep our heads. Act guilty and we’ll all be caught. I saw you talking to him. Keep your wits about you and say nothing to incriminate any one of us,’ he warned. ‘Rockley’s a wily fellow—and clever. If he does suspect anything, he’ll be like a dog with a bone until he gets to the bottom of it and has us all arrested. Now go, and hurry back.’

‘I will try—and, William, please don’t drink so much. I hate it when you do.’

She missed the glower he threw her when she turned to acknowledge a close neighbour, a young man who came to speak to them. Smiling and excusing herself, with no time to lose and with gathering apprehension, she slipped away, unaware as she did so of the man in the shadows, watching.

Simon had observed Miss Atherton’s altercation with her brother in perplexed fascination. She looked agitated and her expression was, strangely, one of intense fear. She stopped speaking when a young blood on his way to the firework display approached to pay his respects. All signs of Miss Atherton’s distress had vanished behind a flawless smile. Why, she was a consummate actress, he thought. Either that or she was a desperately frightened young woman.

His instinct told him that she knew something, something she was desperately trying to keep hidden. There was a certain naivety about her that he couldn’t quite reconcile to her being a conspirator in all of this. He could be wrong, but, having learnt to be an excellent judge of character through his work, he didn’t think so.

Having heard of the magnificence of Oakbridge Hall and its fine estate, on his arrival he had been surprised by its run-down state. Either William Atherton had not been gifted with the same talent for management or astuteness as his father and his grandfather before him, or something had happened.

He frowned, unable to stem the feeling that there was something dangerous simmering in this house. It was tangible. He could feel it. While unable to say quite why he was troubled, the very quietness of the place now everyone had left to watch the firework display made him feel that an ill-defined something might happen.

Seeing Henry, his valet, hovering at the bottom of the stairs, Simon’s eyes locked on to his, before quickly flitting to Miss Atherton, who was walking in the direction of the domestic quarters. Expressionless, again he looked at his valet. It was as if a silent language passed between them, for seeming to understand fully what his master asked of him, Henry nodded his head slightly and followed in Miss Atherton’s wake.

Christina made her way to the domestic quarters where the entrance to the cellars was located. Servants hurrying about their duties found nothing unusual on seeing the mistress in the kitchens, although they might have raised a curious brow on seeing her don a shawl and slip through the door to the cellars. Here, casks and racks of wine were stored. Candles flared in lanterns fastened to the walls, should more wine be needed for the festivities. Lifting her skirts, she hurried on her way, wishing she didn’t have to face Mark.

Few people ventured beyond the wine cellars, where a small, narrow door was located in the roughly hewn wall, unnoticeable to the eye unless it was known to be there. With every nerve in her body vibrating, Christina raised the iron catch and it opened without a sound on its well-oiled hinges. The ancient tunnels, unused for many years, were narrow, dark and dank. They had a tomblike atmosphere and a deathly chill, as if a frigid breath of winter moved like an invisible spirit along the passageways. Having set a flame to the wick of a lantern, she held it high to light her way, the tiny flame dipping and dancing in its glass chamber against the draught that flowed towards her. She drew the shawl up close about her neck as her gaze tried to penetrate the total blackness beyond the meagre glow of the lantern.

Her nerves were stretched taut as she hurried along the twisting tunnel, stumbling frequently on the uneven ground. She hated being so confined, feeling as if the walls were closing in on her. She was relieved when she saw a vague, dim illumination some distance away and the muffled sound of men’s voices. The chill of a draught invaded her clothing, the airy rush touching her limbs beneath her skirts, but she was scarcely aware of it as the light ahead of her became bigger and brighter.

Shaking with cold and her own apprehensions, she eventually stepped into the light, then halted, holding her breath. The tunnel opened into a large room with a vaulted ceiling. It was accessed on a low hillside in a thickly wooded area away from the house. It was secluded, the trees providing cover for horses and men. The room was stacked with boxes and chests of every description, full of coins, jewels and household treasures—for Mark did not confine his thievery to robbing vulnerable travellers, and house-breaking was a lucrative occupation.

He ran an effective intelligence system, and the time spent watching and listening in parlours and wayside inns and employing reliable spies was the best way to acquire information about which travellers to target and which to leave alone. All the spoils were to be taken to London and sold.

The son of a lawyer, it was Mark who had found out about the tunnels in some old deeds of Oakbridge kept in his father’s office in Reading. Knowing they were the perfect place for him to expand his illegal operation and hide his ill-gotten gains, he had targeted the vulnerable and gullible young owner of Oakbridge, bringing about his downfall and honing in for the kill when he was ruined with an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Christina focused her eyes on the scene before her, barely conscious of the flickering light of the lanterns or the pervasive chill of the tunnel. The air was thick with the fug of tobacco smoke and the unpleasant stench of unwashed bodies. About a dozen of Mark’s loyal vassals were present, accomplished thieves each and every one. All except the leader were black-clad and each equipped with a brace of pistols. Some were seated on upturned barrels and boxes, while others squatted on the floor, idling the time away with a throw of dice.

Her sudden appearance surprised them and had them springing to their feet, their hands automatically going to their pistols. Their leader turned and looked directly at her and said with a note of mockery in his harsh, baritone voice, ‘Easy, men. Calm yourselves. ‘Tis Miss Atherton herself come to call. Although as to the reason … I can only surmise it is my own charming self she has come to see.’

Her look was one of intense dislike, but Mark Bucklow appeared not to notice. There was something about him that physically revolted her. She hated it every time she had to speak to him, to see the lust in his eyes and to hear the lechery in his sneer when he addressed her. As he threw off his cloak and swaggered towards where she stood with her legs trembling, she clamped her jaw, shrinking inside, realising it would gratify him too much if she showed her fear. Better to hold her ground, unpleasant as the next few minutes would be. He seemed to have the power to get right under her skin, and she hated herself for letting him.

A man who enjoyed the robust, earthy pleasures of life, he liked to cut a dash, did Mark Bucklow, and dressed in outrageously extroverted fashion. Tonight he was flamboyantly dressed in scarlet velvet and gold braid to draw attention to himself, a froth of lace at his throat and wrists. Two pistols were thrust into a gold sash about his thickening waist, and a dagger showed above the deep cuff of his boot. He was tall and stout with long and curling sandy hair. Some would call him quite handsome—not in a gentlemanly way, with fine chiselled features, but with broad, strong cheekbones and a wide mouth. Grinning his wolfish smile, he was the very picture of what her mother had taught her to fear.

Taking the lantern from her, he set it down, placing his hand on her elbow and drawing her away from the others, who had resumed their seats and once again began to throw the dice.