The Silver Squire

‘Miss Worthington?’

She stopped dead, her complexion paling in terror as she slowly turned.

Richard Du Quesne walked the path towards her and, as she instinctively stepped back, he gestured appealingly.

‘Please, don’t run away again…’ he said, with a flash of a rueful white smile. ‘It’s taken me hours to find you as it is.’

Emma swallowed, still slowly retreating, even though her eyes had swept past him, taken in the plush phaeton visible beyond the railings that bordered the small park and digested the fact that it was, of course, his.

‘I’ve no intention of running, Mr Du Quesne,’ she lied quietly, while silently vowing that should the opportunity arise she would flee him with her last breath. ‘How are you? Well, I trust? I’m sorry but I have no time to chat today, sir,’ she fluently apologised, without waiting to discover how he did. ‘I have to be going now. I have an appointment and am a little late.’ She sketched a curtsey then spoiled all her confident ease by dithering over whether to walk back past him or turn and make for the opposite end of the empty park and thus enter yet more unknown territory. She settled for the unknown, whirled about and walked away.

A firm hand on her arm halted her and gently turned her about. ‘Aren’t you going to now allow me the courtesy of enquiring how you do?’

‘Why? You know I don’t associate you with civilised behaviour. I’m sure you’re little interested in how I do…as, truthfully, I’m little interested in how you do.’ She swallowed, bit her unsteady lower lip, ashamed of her unnecessary rudeness. All she had needed to say was that she did tolerably well, thank you.

She watched his light eyes darken behind lengthy, dusky lashes, then he laughed. ‘For a while, I just couldn’t conceive it to be you, Miss Worthington. Now I’m convinced it is. In three years you’ve not changed a bit.’

‘Oh, but I have, Mr Du Quesne,’ she said heartbreakingly huskily yet with a bright, courageous smile. ‘I really have changed so much.’ She felt a horrible, hot stinging behind her eyes. Please don’t let him reminisce, she silently entreated; don’t let him talk of their dear mutual friends, David and Victoria Hardinge; don’t let him mention her darling goddaughter, Lucy, or any of those things that always brought a poignant mingling of gladness and envy to torture her.

Distraction came in the shape of a raucous cry that minutes before would have drawn her towards it. Her soulful amber eyes followed the progress of a woman hawking Sally Lunn’s tea-cakes, a sweetish aroma strengthening tormentingly in the stirring evening air.

‘Are you hungry?’ Richard asked quietly, noting her exquisite eyes were fixed on the pedlar.

Emma shook her head and looked away immediately. ‘The light’s fading. I want to be home. I will be missed,’ she lied again. She almost laughed. Who on earth was there here to miss her?

‘I take it your mother is with you in Bath. Where are you staying? Why are you seeking employment?’ His staccato questions were fired at her.

She avoided his eye. ‘I…I’m not seeking work, sir,’ she said slowly, while her mind raced ahead for plausible explanations. ‘I must beg you to convey my apologies to your…friend. It was just a wager…a joke in very bad taste. Some acquaintances laid a bet that I should never have the audacity to seek a position or attend an interview. It was a stupid, inconsiderate thing to do. I bitterly regret getting involved at all.’ She gained little solace from that small truth after such fluent lies and felt her face flame betrayingly.

When he remained silent, and all she was conscious of was his muscular height and the moonlight sheen of his hair in the enclosing dusk, she began backing away again. ‘Good evening to you, sir,’ she tossed back at him as she twisted around and hurried on.

He didn’t touch her this time, merely strolled unconcernedly behind her. It was as good as any physical restraint. Emma swirled about, continued backwards for a few paces then halted. ‘Go away!’ she snapped furiously yet with a hint of pleading.

‘No,’ he said easily. He passed her, circled her, examining her minutely then hovered close, like a patient predator awaiting the right moment to close in for the kill. ‘Tell me where you’re staying. What you’re doing here in Bath.’

‘It’s none of your concern! Leave me be!’ she raged in a hoarse whisper, yet with a lowered face as she sensed her exhaustion, her hunger, her fear of not getting back to her lodgings before it was really dark undermining her composure.

‘Of course it’s my concern,’ he drily contradicted her. ‘You know how upset Victoria will be if she hears I’ve neglected your welfare whilst you were with me. And when Victoria’s upset David’s unbearable…which upsets me.’

‘I am not with you!’ Emma flung at him desperately. ‘Besides, they won’t ever know. No one must ever know.’ She looked up slowly, realising she had just, stupidly, given him all the information he needed.

‘You’re here alone…and in trouble.’ The words emerged quietly, as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself.

As the hawker retraced her noisy way along the street, still loudly advertising her wares, Emma’s frantic tiger eyes flicked to Richard. If she could just get him to go away for a moment…all she needed was an unguarded moment. ‘I am hungry,’ she stated breathily. ‘And feeling a little faint.’

He held an arm out to her. ‘Come…’ he urged gently. ‘We’ll find somewhere to dine, on the one condition,’ he mock-threatened, ‘that you tell me what problems bring you here, so they can be dealt with.’

‘That’s very good of you, sir,’ she meekly thanked him. ‘But I’m a little giddy and nauseated. Perhaps a quick bite of something now and a short rest on this bench…’ Emma approached the seat and sank gratefully, gracefully onto it, her elfin features drooping into supporting hands.

Richard glanced at the vendor almost opposite them now on the other side of black iron railings. Then he arrowed a shrewd look at Emma. Either she was a consummate actress or she really was famished. The vision of a thin, pale young woman sitting in the hallway of his town house haunted him. He certainly didn’t want her passing out on him.

A large hand rested solicitiously on one of her shoulders, an instinctively cautious caress skimming over fragile shoulder bones beneath the enveloping cloak. Resisting the urge to simply swing her up in his arms and carry her to his phaeton, which he knew with a wry inner smile would no doubt earn him a slap for his pains, he said, ‘I’ll be but a moment. I’ll fetch you a bun and a flask of brandy from my carriage.’

From beneath the brim of her bonnet, Emma slanted feline eyes at his powerful, retreating figure. He wasn’t fooled at all, she realised. He turned, vigilantly, several times, walked backwards, giving himself the chance to return to her in a second. Her heart squeezed, lead settling in the empty pit of her stomach as she noted his crisp, athletic step. Should she not time it exactly right, she knew he’d catch her before she’d managed a few yards.

Apparently satisfied, finally, with her air of slumped-shouldered debility, Richard swung away towards the gate. As soon as the railing was between them and he was heading in the direction of his phaeton, she rose stealthily and, with never a backward glance, sped off into shadowy trees bordering the lawns.

‘Ah, Frederick, so you are up and about today. How very nice to see you at last. How long has it been now?’ Jarrett Dashwood mimed concerned thoughtfulness. ‘A sennight, perhaps, since last we had dealings together?’ The darkly suave man sauntered further into the drawing room of Rosemary House. Without waiting for an invitation, he flicked back his coat-tails and seated himself on a gilt-framed chair.

Margaret Worthington looked at her husband, looked at their tormentor and closed her eyes. ‘Do have some tea, Mr Dash-wood,’ she urged in a thin, trembling voice, while thin, trembling fingers fumbled at the silver pot on the tray. ‘It is freshly made in readiness for your arrival.’

‘More tea, Mrs Worthington? I believe I am awash with your tea, dear lady.’ His wide, sensual mouth smiled at her, his olive eyes did not. ‘Now were you today to offer me, say, two thousand pounds, or a private interview with that intriguing daughter of yours, I would certainly be tempted to partake. As it is, I am heartily tired of trailing here each afternoon to meet with her only to be fobbed off with tea and excuses.’ Leaning back into the chair, he stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. ‘Where is your daughter? The longer we are apart, the more desperate I am for some time alone with her. It is said, is it not, that absence makes the heart grow fonder?’

Margaret and Frederick Worthington exchanged nervous glances.

‘She is visiting her aunt…’

‘She is ailing in her room…’

The couple glared, horrified, at each other at these conflicting versions of Emma’s lengthy absence, each sure that they had voiced the correct one for today. Both shifted uneasily back into their chairs and, apeing their sinister guest’s lead, examined their manicures.

Jarrett Dashwood used a fleshy thumb to shine a perfectly trimmed set of fingernails. ‘Well, what’s it to be? Is she visiting? Lying abed with her smelling salts or Miss Austen’s romances? Shall I go above stairs and discover for myself how my poor, ailing fiancée fares?’

‘Please, sir, do not term her so,’ Margaret forced out in a high, wheedling tone. ‘She refuses you; you know that. You have our sincerest apologies.’ Margaret looked at Frederick, hoping for a modicum of assistance in dealing with this frightening man. Her perspiring husband simply gazed glassily into space. ‘There is nothing to be done, Mr Dashwood.’ Margaret emphasised her despair by crushing her handkerchief to her mouth. ‘We cannot force her to wed against her inclination. Everything in our power…my power,’ she gritted through the muffling linen, stabbing a glance at her florid husband, ‘has been done to make the selfish ingrate see sense. But she is a woman grown and so stubborn she will take no heed of her fond parents’ good advice.’

‘Perhaps she will then take heed of me, madam,’ Jarrett Dash-wood smoothly said. ‘Perhaps you both will do likewise. For this whole matter has now the stench of premeditated fraud about it. I have been fleeced, I believe, of my two thousand pounds, not only by you, good sir,’ he mocked Frederick with a bow of his raven head, ‘but also by you, madam, and your daughter. How many fiancés have you accepted for the chit in return for a little aid with pressing debts, only to find that she’s turned coy afore the altar?’

Margaret’s handkerchief dropped to her lap, her chalky complexion adopted a greyish-green tinge and her mouth worked like that of a beached fish. ‘I beg of you, Mr Dashwood, never think it!’ finally exploded from her. ‘My daughter has received no other firm offers at all. She is accomplished at deflecting any gentleman’s attention far sooner than that. It would be heaven indeed should she encourage just the one to come a-courting.’

‘But I’m not convinced,’ Jarrett Dashwood said easily, with a final lingering look at his flexing fingers. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged…’ He laughed lightly. ‘There…you see how the dear girl has affected me. I find I can continually bring to mind passages from her favourite books…Now, where was I? Ah, yes, with odd truths. Indeed, it is strange that the more one is denied something, the further it seems from one’s grasp, the sweeter finally possessing it becomes. I believe I am developing a tendresse for your daughter which makes the money quite irrelevant. Even were you in a position to repay it, I would not accept. I want that spirited hussy as my wife. The documents pertaining to the marriage contract are signed and sealed. The marriage must go ahead.’

Finally bored with this polite charade, he said in a guttural voice, ‘Find out to wherever it is she has absconded and furnish me with the news; I’m sure I can make her see sense. If you do not….’ He smiled grimly at Margaret ‘…I understand that the Fleet is able to accommodate families…’

Chapter Four

‘This is a respectable house, is it not, Mrs Keene?’

‘Indeed it is, Miss Worthington. Oh, yes, indeed it is.’

‘And no gentleman is allowed within it after nine of the clock, you said, did you not? So you will insist this gentleman immediately removes himself,’ Emma prompted in a low, trembling rush.

Mrs Keene asserted nothing, simply gawked at the man to whom her lodger referred as though he were an apparition. Recovering her senses, she rolled her eyes at Emma, mouthing something completely unintelligible, before bobbing her mob cap and herself up and down as though in the throes of some palsy.

Emma watched her landlady’s ridiculously obsequious display for no more than a second. Her furious glare turned on the blond man, lounging by the mantel in Mrs Keene’s small parlour.

He looked right back. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Sir Richard Du Quesne’s jaw clenched…ached as he fought to keep his eyes from slowly stripping that virginal white nightgown from her slender body. Silver eyes returned sharply to her face and his angry attention had her valiantly, proudly tilting her chin. If it hadn’t been for small, pearly teeth sinking steadyingly into her full lower lip he might have been fooled into thinking she was perfectly composed. He read her next move as it occurred to her and artlessly showed in those lucid golden eyes. Shifting away from the fire, he made for the parlour door.