‘My lady?’
‘There are times, Faith, when I think that the entire male sex has been put on this earth to infuriate women.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ It did not help at all that her mouth twitched in a hastily-suppressed smile.
‘I apologise,’ Guin said in York at the last change before they arrived at Allerton Grange. ‘I hope you were not too uncomfortable outside.’
‘Not at all and I do not require an apology.’ They might have been discussing a spilled cup of coffee. Jared was his usual perfectly calm, unreadable, self. He was managing to scan the inn yard for hazards as well as pay her attention and his competence was beginning to provoke Guin to the point of recklessness.
She wanted to poke at him, like a foolish child prodding a stick through the bars of the bear’s cage in the menagerie at the Exeter Exchange to see the beast’s fangs. Instead she inclined her head graciously and surprised a flicker of reaction in the depths of those amber hawk’s eyes. Was he trying to provoke her? Were they both playing some kind of game, one where she had no idea of the rules, or the prize?
She was still pondering on the conundrum when the carriage turned through the high stone gateposts of Allerton Grange in the mid-afternoon. The sun was shining, the small park looked picturesque and tranquil and the house when it came into view sat secure and welcoming on a slight rise.
‘It is difficult to believe that we fled from here in such alarm and confusion,’ she said as Jared dropped the window to lean out and survey the building.
‘It looks a fine small property.’
‘That is not why Augustus bought it – he knew nothing about it, really – it was an act of charity which fortunately turned out to be good business. His Quenten cousins had something of a financial crisis, I believe, and had to move from here. When Augustus attended his cousin Charles’s funeral he took the place off the heir’s hands, unseen, to help out. He visited on his way home to see what kind of pig in a poke he had acquired and encountered me at the Red Griffin in the village. I was in the throes of a distressing discussion with the local magistrate, Francis was laid out in the cellar, the landlady wanted both me and the body out of there…’ She gave a little shiver at the recollection. ‘It was all horrible and Augustus descended like a good angel and rescued me.’
‘An interesting choice of word,’ Jared said, turning back from the view to study her face. ‘Why did you need rescue? Assistance, I could understand.’
‘Because they suspected I had killed my husband, of course.’
‘And of course you had not, but circumstances made it seem that way.’
Was that a statement or a question? Guin knew she had lost colour: a guilty conscience was a damnable thing. ‘If you are asking me if I pushed him out of the window, then the answer is, no, I did not.’
Did I wish him with the Devil? Yes. Did I do nothing to stop himself drinking until he was incapable? Yes. Was I relieved that he was dead? Yes, Heaven forgive me.
As though she had spoken out loud Jared sent a sharp look at Faith who was tactfully gathering up books and Guin’s parasol and shawl. He said nothing, but Guin was certain that this was something they were going to have a discussion about as soon as they were alone, although why he thought it relevant to the present problem she had no idea.
Jared left Guinevere reacquainting herself with Porrett the butler and Mrs Mountjoy the housekeeper and assuring them that not only was her own maid with her but that one of the footmen from London had accompanied them to help ease the burden of her arrival with a guest and virtually no notice. ‘In fact it is Thomas, who you’ll remember, of course. It should make things easier as he knows the house and everyone so well,’ Jared heard her explaining as he walked off round the house.
He was looking for the terrace where the adder was placed in the sewing basket and found it soon enough. Three sets of long windows, with very low cills that could be stepped over, gave access to various rooms in the house from the rectangular area of flagstones. There was a small flowerbed and fountain in the centre of the terrace and paths approached it around the house from both sides. The shrubbery was only twenty or so yards away across the lawn. There was nothing here to give a clue about who might have interfered with the basket, but someone from inside the house seemed most likely, despite the cover given by the plantings.
Jared kept walking until he reached a fanciful corner turret added by someone with more romance on their mind than architectural good taste. The door at the base was unlocked and he went in and found a staircase with a carpet runner over stone steps and an elegant curving handrail rising to his right and another door, presumably into the house.
He took the stairs, counting to the point where Northam said Guinevere had fallen, then looked back. A healthy young woman would have to be very unlucky indeed to be seriously hurt from such a tumble. Bruises, perhaps a broken wrist or ankle, but that was all. He climbed higher until he reached a door. From that point a fall would be far more serious, potentially lethal.
The door opened onto a semi-circular room furnished as a lady’s retreat. There was a chaise, a bookcase with full shelves and a little writing desk. Both the shelves with their informal rows of books, some stacked up, one lying open, and the desk with several piles of paper, looked well-used. There were light, charming draperies and a tea table with two chairs. It was all very feminine without being frilly and he could picture Guinevere there.
As he was thinking it the door opened and she came in, closing it behind her with a click. ‘I thought you might have found your way here.’
Jared looked at the chaise, then back at her, cursing his imagination. Fuelled by last night’s encounter it was painting a vivid image of Guinevere on that chaise, only this time without any clothes and her hair unbound. It was so real that he could taste her, feel her, visualise exactly how it would be to lie between those pale, curved, soft-skinned thighs and –
‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked, inflaming things further by sitting on the chaise.
‘Last night.’ Then, when she blushed, rosy and delicious, he added, ‘But we are not going to talk about that.’ Not now. ‘Tell me about your first husband.’
That drove the blush away. ‘He married me believing I had money, quite a lot of money. I did not and my father, who had, made certain that I – and my husband – would get none of it. I thought Francis was genuinely interested in me for myself. I had no idea that Papa was generally thought to be a rich man locally because he was always careful with his money, never went for show or luxuries.’ Guinevere broke off, bit her lower lip. ‘Any affection Francis might have felt vanished like mist in the sunshine when he found there was no dowry. It all became my fault.’
‘And how was he paying his way in the world?’
Again she punished her lower lip. ‘Gaming, betting on horses. Doing favours for friends, although what those consisted of, I have no idea and I am not certain I wish to know.’
‘Living on his wits, in other words.’
‘Yes – on his wits and on moneylenders. My brother Henry thought he was the good friend of a most reputable acquaintance, the acquaintance believed he was a friend of Henry’s, he insinuated his way into house parties and soon he was a familiar face in local Society. My father, who was by nature more suspicious than Henry, made some enquiries, but it was too late by then. I had… he…’ She squared her shoulders and met his gaze, eyes dark with remembered pain and the effort of honesty. ‘I was foolish enough to be seduced. When Papa forbade the match I was even more foolish and admitted as much. Francis was certain that if we eloped Papa would relent, but he did not.’