Lysander's Lady Page 7

  Miss Honeywell was quite reassured on that last point when she met Toby, a small wrinkled nut of a man, as scant of hair as of conversation. He handled the docile roan that drew the stanhope with practised confidence, and even permitted her to drive the vehicle on occasion when they were well away from Brighton, allowing in his grudging way that for a lady, she was a very fair whip.

  On the third day of her visit she had taken the reins on the way back from Worthing when a notice saying ‘Mount Trennick House’ caught her eye. Having ascertained by previous discreet enquiries that the house was open to the public on that particular day, she at once directed the roan in the way to which the notice pointed.

  Toby sucked his teeth. ‘It’s a mite late, miss.’

  ‘We shall see—is it far?’

  ‘ ’Bout three mile,’ disclosed her taciturn groom, and lapsed into silence.

  They met several carriages coming in the opposite direction, which did not augur well for their reception, but were fortunate enough to arrive hard upon the heels of another party who were engaged in a heated argument with a harassed-looking gentleman. The appearance of the stanhope clinched the argument, and Miss Honeywell was bidden attach herself to the others. Their guide promised them no more than a hasty tour of the house.

  ‘It is near six o’clock, you understand,’ he said severely, though his glance perceptibly softened when it rested upon the most recent addition to his flock, ‘and the Family will be wishing for their house to be private again.’

  ‘But he ain’t proof against a pretty face any more than the next ‘un!’ chuckled a very down-the-road looking man, giving Miss Honeywell a sly wink.

  ‘I am sure he is not. Is that your daughter over there? What a charming young lady, to be sure! So like you as she is!’

  As the lady in question was a bracket-faced female of much his own age, that depressed his pretensions, and the party proceeded on its way, being whisked through the fine galleried marble hall and into the vast saloon, their guide talking away as if he had a wager on how many words he could utter to the minute.

  The saloon was close and airless, its windows tight closed, so all possibility of draught could be discounted. Yet Miss Honeywell, looking about her, had a curious conviction that, nearby, a curtain had moved. From the chapel which led off the saloon snatches of the guide’s peroration floated back to her.

  ‘The Trennick rose window ... justly famed for the purity and colour of its blue glass which comprises the greater part of it ... best time of day to see it...’

  The curtain moved again as if someone was trying to peep from behind it. Miss Honeywell’s curiosity struggled with a wish not to appear foolish before her companions. Should she investigate? And perhaps find some member of the Trennick family trapped by the unexpectedly late arrival of these visitors?

  Dismissing the occurrence as being none of her affair, she stepped forward briskly to join the group in the chapel. Immediately there was a stealthy movement behind her, and quickly she spun round to see the back of a young woman, who had obviously emerged from behind the curtains, disappear through the doorway and down the stairs.

  It had happened so swiftly that Miss Honeywell had scarce had time to take in the visual impression of a slight figure in a blue frock and a head of very pale gold hair before she found herself darting to the door in pursuit. At the foot of the short flight of stairs she stopped to listen. Somewhere in the shadows a door closed softly. But there was no door out of this inner lobby except the one through which she had just come and that leading back into the hall, all of which she could see from where she stood.

  Steadying herself by the heavily-carved newel-post of the stair, she scanned the gloom around her in case she should have missed something.

  ‘Try for a little sense!’ she muttered aloud. ‘A female runs out from behind some drapes and vanishes as if the ground has swallowed her up—what of it? This could well be her house, her drapes and her ground!’ Mount Trennick was an early Elizabethan mansion and doubtless contained more than one secret door or cupboard. If the girl was a member of the family, she would know them all.

  But why should she run away like a thief? Perhaps she was a thief! She could have come in with an earlier party of visitors and hoped to get out with this one. When Miss Honeywell considered the ease with which she had attached herself to her party, she could quite conceive of such an occurrence. Perhaps the girl had hoped to join them in this room and she, by lagging behind, had thwarted that aim. What would she do now? And where had she gone?

  This, she told herself severely, was mere fancy, and she would be wise to forget all about it, rejoin the others and concentrate on what the guide was saying. He, after a reproachful look at her, requested the party to stay together and follow him into the next suite of rooms. Obediently they trailed after him, one or two curious glances being directed at Miss Honeywell as she followed them. When the last one had passed through the door, she doubled back quickly to the window embrasure in the saloon from whence the woman had emerged. At first glance there was nothing to claim her interest. Then, as she dropped the drapes back into place, a crumpled piece of paper that had lain on the floor hidden by their folds came into view.

  Smothering any twinges of conscience with the thought that people who left their letters lying about must not expect their privacy to be respected, she smoothed it out and read the few words written upon it.

  ‘A message to The Two Pigeons near Henfield will find me.’ It was signed ‘TB’

  She emitted a sharp gasp. Then, hardly conscious of her actions, hid the note away in her reticule and hurried after the others, pausing to admire the prismatic effect of the setting sun shining through the magnificent rose window in case anyone should comment on her absence. No one did, however, and they proceeded to the farther wing of the house and the completion of their brief tour.

  ‘If you leave by this door,’ the guide explained, ‘you will arrive in the herb garden. At the end of this is the Yew Walk which will lead you to where you left your carriages. Thank you, I hope you have enjoyed your visit.’

  Miss Honeywell found herself once more in the rear of the party as they entered the cool darkness of the Yew Walk, which pleased her well, for she had much to turn over in her mind. Her decision to visit Mount Trennick had been a spontaneous one, although from the moment the Dowager had mentioned it as being not far from Brighton, she had unconsciously formed a resolution to see the house. From remarks let fall by Lord Glendower during her visit to Mansell, she had gathered that a situation of some delicacy had arisen between Lady Sophia’s elder brother and Mr. Derwent. His lordship had been enlarging upon this when Lady Glendower had joined them and had cut short her spouse’s revelations, giving him a very sharp look indeed.

  Miss Honeywell’s ready understanding, however, had absorbed enough to enable her to put together the missing pieces of the puzzle. The Dowager clearly knew nothing of the matter, but when her goddaughter had tentatively let drop Lord Wayleigh’s name, she had thrown up her hands in horror and declared that he was a detestable man, no lady of virtue could be seen with him, and the possibility that she might have to receive him should his sister become her daughter-in-law quite put her out of spirits.

  There were recesses cut at intervals in the sombre greenness through which Miss Honeywell was walking, in which were placed white-painted seats. Sitting down upon one of these, she took the note from her reticule and spread it out upon her knee. There was no doubt in her mind that it was Timothy Bredon’s hand; she had seen it many times in letters written to her parents since his visit to the Cape, and latterly in a letter to herself, commiserating upon the loss of her father. But why was he in England? And for whom had this message been intended?

  The sound of a footfall nearby caused her to look up quickly, to discover herself to be under the scrutiny of a young gentleman who stood, hand on hip, regarding her with a faintly amused expression.

  ‘May I be of assistance, ma’am? The gates
are about to close.’

  ‘I—oh, la, you will think me foolish beyond permission, sir! Had I stayed with the rest of the party as our good guide instructed—but I was over-curious to see the gardens, which, coming so late, I had not the opportunity to do.’ Miss Honeywell, enacting the part of the addle-pated visitor, was talking away as if her life depended upon it.

  ‘Why, that omission may be simply remedied,’ said he, his cool appraisal taking in every detail of her person in a way that made her fingers itch to box his ears. ‘If you do not object to walking a further step we can climb up to the Mount here, where there is an excellent view of the gardens.’

  Miss Honeywell felt not the least inclination to view the gardens in the gentleman’s company, but she was obliged to accept his arm and, still babbling volubly, allow him to lead her through a narrow cutting in the yew hedge, up a steep path, on to a pleasant eminence. This commanded a most extensive prospect, not only of the immediate grounds but of the surrounding countryside, with numerous hamlets and cottages dotted about it, the whole affording a surpassing display of rural elegance.

  She duly fell into transports at the vista spread before her, protesting she had never seen anything to equal it since she had set foot in England.

  ‘My parents owned a small house at the back of Table Mountain to which we often stole away, and the view from here puts me in mind of it though so very different,’ said she, marvelling at her own inventiveness. ‘There were silver-trees instead of chestnuts—but chestnuts we did have, and the largest you ever saw by many degrees!’ She stopped to draw breath and he intervened.

  ‘No doubt it was a letter from your home that so absorbed your attention when first I came upon you.’

  Idle though his words might sound, yet they alerted her to possible danger. If the note had been intended for him, could he not have recognised it? Instinctively she felt that it had not, and the less he knew about it the better.

  ‘Oh, indeed no!’ she cried. ‘That was a message from a friend of mine that I had quite forgot to read before I started out today, suggesting that I call in to see her on my way home.’

  ‘Does “home” lie nearby, then, ma’am?’

  ‘Just now it is in Brighton, sir, where I am staying for a few days with my godmother.’

  ‘And after that, ma’am? Shall you be going to London?’

  ‘Yes, for a time at least.’ Confound him, she thought, in a moment he will be asking permission to call! ‘I take it that you live here, sir,’ she went on desperately, hoping to divert his attention. ‘What felicity to spend one’s days amid such elegant surroundings!’

  She swung round as she spoke, throwing out an arm to embrace the house and the lake which lay behind them. Almost at their feet were the stables where two black horses were being paraded up and down the yard, and watching them, arms folded, legs planted well apart, was a gentleman in buckskins and riding-coat. His voice carried clearly through the still air as he spoke to the groom who had them in charge.

  ‘They’re mighty fresh. I’d best exercise them all tomorrow.’

  She felt her companion’s hand on her arm. ‘My brother,’ he was saying, ‘likes to be private with his horses. Shall we continue, ma’am?’

  As they moved away the Marquis’s head jerked up and he watched their progress until they passed from his sight, then, with a brief instruction to the groom, he walked swiftly out of the yard.

  Miss Honeywell had never expected to be so glad to see anyone as when they joined Toby, whose homely countenance expressed a rare concern.

  ‘Didn’t know what to do for the best, miss,’ he grumbled reprovingly. ‘Thought you was lost when I saw the others all drive off.’

  ‘And so I was, until this gentleman took pity on me,’ she said brightly. Toby, being a native of those parts, knew a Trennick when he saw one.

  ‘ ’Day, y’lordship,’ said he, touching his hat.

  ‘Oh!’ Kate hoped she looked suitably foolish.

  ‘Francis Trennick, at your service, ma’am. May I be privileged to know the name of my delightful visitor?’

  She was spared from having to make reply by reason of the same resonant voice she had heard in the stable yard interrupting their conversation.

  ‘Pray put me right if I am in error, Francis, but I understood that all visitors were to be on the other side of the gates by six o’clock.’

  ‘It is quite my fault!’ Miss Honeywell burst into explanation before Lord Francis had time to speak, ending up with, ‘I would not for anything have wished to be a nuisance. Please forgive me, my lord.’

  To her relief, the hard stare softened and an almost impish grin touched Wayleigh’s thin lips.

  ‘How could anyone withhold forgiveness from so lovely a lady?’ he drawled. ‘Allow me to hand you to your carriage, ma’am.’

  Effortlessly ousting his open-mouthed brother, he assisted her into the stanhope in which the wooden-faced Toby was already seated, and stood back to watch them as they drove away.

  ‘Who is your fair damsel in distress, Francis?’ he enquired mildly.

  ‘I was about to discover that when you intervened!’ Lord Francis made his resentment very plain.

  ‘That golden skin never bloomed under an English sun,’ mused the Marquis. ‘Strong meat for you, my bantam cock!’

  ‘She comes from the Cape!’ rapped out his brother, and strode away without another word.

  ‘The Cape, you say?’ murmured Wayleigh, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Now I wonder if she could possibly be—’

  No one was destined to hear the end of his lordship’s ruminations, and presently, still looking pensive, he went slowly back to the stable yard.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  The Two Pigeons Miss Honeywell discovered to be a small hostelry, little better than a hedge-tavern, lying some way off the main Brighton Road. Few carriages called there, for the folk who frequented it were more like to come in a farm wagon or on a rough cob. Toby plainly held the place in no great esteem, and was disinclined to stop there until Miss Honeywell informed him that she was excessively thirsty, which reminded him that a mug of home-brewed would not come amiss.

  In no time at all she was comfortably established in the little parlour of the inn while the landlord, a huge man with a markedly mild and civil manner, served her himself with some excellent tea. Still supporting her role of enthusiastic tourist, she engaged him in conversation, complimenting him upon the cleanliness of the place and asking all manner of questions about the locality, before delving into her reticule and laying the note she had picked up at Mount Trennick on the previous day in front of her on the table. At once it was as if a shutter had closed down over her host’s face.

  ‘May I speak to the gentleman who wrote this, if you please?’

  ‘You must be mistaken, ma’am. I have no guests lodging here at the moment.’

  ‘Very proper,’ she nodded. ‘I am his cousin and I only learned when I saw that message that he was in England. I am entirely of your opinion, he should go back to Italy at once.’

  A muscle twitched in the landlord’s cheek, but other than that he gave no sign of being impressed by her statement.

  ‘Indeed, ma’am?’

  ‘Indeed!’ she said firmly, rising. ‘I am now going to stroll fora short time in your garden. Just well—just say, if you are asked, that Kate is here.’

  With that she walked confidently out into the sunshine, leaving the landlord clearly in two minds as to what to do about her.

  When she returned the parlour was empty and the note gone from the table. Composedly she sat down and resigned herself to wait, but a moment later she heard an eager voice saying: ‘No, no, Bayliss, th-there’s nothing to fear. You have described her m-most exactly.’

  The door burst open to reveal a tall, loose-limbed figure, dressed in ill-fitting homespuns, with untidily cropped dark hair and a straggling moustache. Despite these apparent efforts at disguise, Miss Honeywell experienced no
difficulty in recognising this apparition, and ran with outstretched hands to greet him.

  ‘Timothy! Timothy! Oh, no, not that moustache! It is the outside of anything!’

  He grinned sheepishly. ‘I think so too, but Bayliss here would have it that I must cover up my face as much as possible. What in God’s name brings you here, Kate, and how did that note come into your possession?’

  ‘While you’re talking, m’lord, I’ll keep an eye outside.’ The landlord appeared more concerned for his guest’s safety than that gentleman himself. ‘Is your man to be trusted, miss?’

  ‘I don’t know that, he’s not my man, so the least he knows the better.’ Dismissing Toby from the conversation, she pulled her cousin down to the settle beside her and bombarded him with questions. ‘What madness is this, Timothy? Why are you in England? Who could have been so careless as to drop that message of yours? Think what might have happened if anyone other than I had picked it up!’

  While she told him of her experiences at Mount Trennick, he sat with hands clenched between his knees, and head bowed, staring at the floor.

  ‘That was Sophia you saw, no doubt of it,’ he told her. ‘She must be greatly alarmed to have mislaid it. She—she knows what danger I am in.’

  Miss Honeywell’s eyebrows shot up in mock disapproval. ‘An irregular correspondence, Timothy? And the lady about to be betrothed to another? Fie upon you!’ She was startled by the storm her words provoked.

  ‘Confound him for his presumption! Would I had the right to send him about his business with a sword or bullet!’ The mental vision of Mr. Derwent lying stretched upon the greensward, expiring from a mortal wound delivered by her cousin, did not commend itself in any way to Miss Honeywell.