The Runaway Heiress E-Book

Emma Orchard

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 413

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

'This beautifully observed Regency romance, with hints of Heyer, had me hooked.' - Jessica Bull, author of Miss Austen Investigates London, 1815. Cassandra Hazeldon is on the run. Under duress to marry a repellent friend of her uncle, Cassandra has made her escape, but now she is very much alone. With luck and quick thinking, she finds a refuge in a grand mansion in Mayfair, and a protector in Lord Irlam, or Hal to his friends. Posing as a friend of Hal's sister, Cassandra is swept up into the social whirl of a Brighton summer. But the attraction between her and Hal is starting to scorch, and when jealousy is added to the mix, things are set to reach boiling point. Dear Reader, this wonderfully romantic story has passionate and steamy scenes, enjoy .

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR EMMA ORCHARD

‘Hot Stuff. I loved it!’Fern Britton

‘An exciting and thoroughly enjoyable new talent has exploded onto the market. I absolutely loved it!’Katie Fforde

‘A delicious Regency romp’Alan Titchmarch

‘Heyer with spice! I adored it’Liz Fenwick

‘D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S … An absolutely glorious Regency romance. I love love loved it’Sophie Irwin

‘Sensual and exciting! I loved it!’Heidi Swain

‘Witty, heartfelt, deeply emotionally authentic and incredibly sexy, this is Regency romance at its finest’Katy Moran

‘Filled with wit and passion. Perfect for fans of Bridgerton and Georgette Heyer’Darcie Boleyn

‘Witty, spicy, seductive … a historical romance full of raunch and wit’Hannah Dolby

‘Sexy, seductive and swoon worthy’Sarah Bennett

THE RUNAWAY HEIRESS

EMMA ORCHARD

Dedicating this book to my lovely family, Luigi, Jamie and Annie, shouldn't be taken as any sort of suggestion that I want them to read it or, even worse, talk to me about its contents. Ever.

We are all fools in love

Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEDEDICATIONEPIGRAPHCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTCHAPTER TWENTY-NINECHAPTER THIRTYCHAPTER THIRTY-ONECHAPTER THIRTY-TWOCHAPTER THIRTY-THREECHAPTER THIRTY-FOURCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVECHAPTER THIRTY-SIXCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTCHAPTER THIRTY-NINECHAPTER FORTYCHAPTER FORTY-ONECHAPTER FORTY-TWOCHAPTER FORTY-THREECHAPTER FORTY-FOURCHAPTER FORTY-FIVECHAPTER FORTY-SIXCHAPTER FORTY-SEVENEPILOGUEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSABOUT THE AUTHORBY EMMA ORCHARDCOPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

Aragged cloud blotted out the sliver of moon. It was suddenly darker in the elegant square of fashionable houses, and Cassandra scurried down the shallow steps in front of her. Once at the bottom, she huddled in the shadows at the far end of the paved semi-basement area, panting. She was trespassing on some gentleman’s private property, but that was the least of her concerns in this moment. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she was dizzy with terror. It was good to stop running for a moment, to try to collect her thoughts. But she dared not relax, for there was no safety here – there was nothing at all to prevent her pursuers from finding her in this makeshift hiding place and dragging her away by force. There was not the least point screaming and hoping that passing strangers might come to her aid; the men who were chasing her had already demonstrated that they had a ready answer prepared for any passer-by who should question their actions. She had thought that the gentleman she had stumbled into a few hundred yards back might assist her, but her pursuers had caught up with her and told him some plausible tale, and he had shrugged, and gone on his careless way. She had barely escaped them then; only her desperation, her youthful speed and their drunken state allowed her to evade their grasp.

The streets of London in the dead of night were a perilous place for a woman alone, and she was well aware that in running out of her uncle’s house at this hour she had forfeited any claim to respectability in the eyes of the world. There was no help to be found, only more danger. She was entirely alone. She must think.

There was a faint light inside the mansion, spilling out from a small, barred window and coming, she presumed, from the servants’ quarters in the basement. What little she had seen of the house in her headlong flight did not suggest that it was currently occupied by its aristocratic owners, which was why she had made the snap decision to seek refuge here. Cassandra had noticed in a single desperate glance that the doorknocker had been taken down and the tall windows at street level and above were all securely shuttered. She supposed that the noble family who owned such a large and imposing building in the most exclusive part of Town were away. The Season was coming to an end, so it was reasonable to think that they had joined the rest of the polite world in some fashionable seaside resort, leaving a skeleton staff of servants to ensure the safety of their home. She was in danger from the servants too, of course – perhaps they would not molest her, but if one of them should have occasion to come out here, and saw her lurking where she had absolutely no business to be, they would undoubtedly raise a hue and cry that would attract the attention of her pursuers. And if a commotion should instead alert the patrolling Watch, she would be in no better position. She could surely expect no aid or sympathy from them. They might – she was ignorant of these matters, and hoped to remain so – apprehend her for vagrancy and lock her in some dreadful gaol, and if they should ascertain her identity they would merely return her to the care, for want of a worse word, of her uncle and guardian. And then she would be back where she’d started.

Cassandra stiffened as she heard voices, angry male voices, in the square above her. Her uncle, and … him. Clearly they had not given up seeking for her yet. Of course not: too much depended on finding her.

The best thing would be to gain entry to the mansion somehow, and hide there till daylight. The streets would be less dangerous then. It was not much of a plan, but it was all she had. If she could somehow attract the attention of the people in the house, so that they came out, she might perhaps slip inside while their backs were turned – how, though? – and be safe from her pursuers for a while. She could not think beyond that. She felt hot panic rising inside her, and pushed it down. Losing her head would not help. She must plan, and then she must act.

She crept towards the stairs that led up to the street – she had been huddling like a frightened animal in the darkest corner of the area – and strained to hear her uncle’s voice. It was close, but if there was any chance of her desperate plan working it would need to be much closer.

The wait seemed interminable, but at last she could hear him cursing not far away. She judged that he was probably directly in front of the neighbouring house. She slipped back towards the basement door and picked up a wooden pail that had been left there; she had almost fallen over it a moment before, and that had given her the germ of an idea.

No time to hesitate. She flung the pail with all her strength against the lighted window and shrank back into the shadow of her former hiding place, close to the basement door but – she hoped – invisible. The wooden bucket clattered against the iron bars – a loud, shocking noise in the relative quiet of the deserted square – and she heard a shout of angry surprise from inside and, a moment later, the screeching of bolts as the door was unfastened. Meanwhile, a triumphant cry of ‘Got her!’ came from the pavement above, and heavy, urgent footsteps pounded towards her, then slowed a little as they descended the steps in the darkness. She had been counting on that: that they would follow the sound, confident that they had run her to earth at last.

The basement door was wrenched open, and a man emerged into the area. He was so close to her that she could have reached out and touched him. A servant, she supposed. He was an African man. Silhouetted against the light inside, he made an impressive figure; he was tall and powerfully built, and his posture was belligerent, his fists raised in front of him in what Cassandra imagined to be a boxer’s stance. There was a woman close behind him, almost as tall and broad. A formidable pair, and their attention was not focused on her, but on the men who had just reached the bottom of the steps. ‘Oi!’ bellowed the manservant, moving nearer to the intruders, his fists still held ready for action. His companion, as bold as he was, followed him. ‘What d’you mean by trespassing on a gentleman’s property and making this racket?! If you’ve come to mill the ken, you’ll have me to deal with, and you’ll soon regret the day, my bully boys!’

‘My good fellow …’ began her uncle in the unctuous tones she so hated.

She did not stay to see how their altercation resolved itself; she edged closer and closer to the open door, still hidden in shadow and blessing her soft slippers for their silence, and then slid inside, entirely unobserved by any of the participants in the scene playing out behind her. It was dangerous – there could be others present in the basement rooms, and if anyone saw her now she was lost – but she was wagering everything on the chance that, if there had been anyone else there, they too would likely have been drawn outside by the commotion and the impulse to protect their master’s property. It was a risk she was prepared to take. She had no choice.

Her gamble paid off: the stone-flagged corridor was deserted, and the room opening off it – a kitchen – appeared to be empty too. She did not stay to make sure, but penetrated deeper into the house, resolved to seek the upstairs quarters where she thought she might be safer from discovery.

The layout of a gentleman’s town mansion generally followed a set pattern, and Cassandra had no difficulty finding the servants’ staircase. She crept up it to the green baize door that must lead to the ground floor of the house, opening it a crack and poking her head cautiously around it. A grand entrance hall, paved in squares of black and white marble. A little chilly moonlight crept in from the large fanlight above the door, enough to see her surroundings. She thought for one awful moment that she saw a tall, motionless human figure, standing there in the alcove, watching her, and let out an exclamation of surprise that she muffled hastily with one ungloved hand. But she realised in the next second that it was a classical statue: a fine marble copy of the Apollo Belvedere, some part of her brain noted irrelevantly. She felt hysterical laughter bubbling inside her. Apollo could do her no harm, and just at this moment the prospect of being transformed into a tree as the nymph Daphne had been while he chased her was not at all unattractive. No, it was living, breathing men she had to fear, not ancient gods.

She opened the door fully and slipped through it, closing it with agonising but necessary slowness behind her. She could hear no sounds of pursuit coming from below, and it did not seem to her, from what she had seen of him, that the burly servant who had accosted her uncle so confidently was the kind of man who would meekly allow two complete strangers to enter and search the building that was under his care. But still, it would be the highest degree of folly to stay here. She must find a more secluded place to hide. And do it very, very quietly. She crept forward. She was a criminal now, she supposed. A house-breaker. But she was committed to this course of action, and could not turn back. Which door should she choose …?

CHAPTER TWO

Hal cursed as he struggled to insert the key in the lock. He could hardly blame the darkness for the difficulty he was having, for the midsummer dawn was just breaking over the square behind him, and he could see perfectly well. And yet he was damned if he could get the blasted key – which was large enough, in all conscience – into the confounded lock. He was, of course, drunk. Very, very drunk. Drunk, he reflected hazily, as a lord. Which, of course, he was. So that was perfectly in order.

At length he managed what should have been a simple task, and the door swung open in front of him. He entered. With exaggerated caution he closed the heavy front door quietly behind him and stood in the marble-tiled hall, swaying slightly on his feet and considering what he should do next. Apollo Belvedere – evidence that his grandfather, like most of his generation, had in the previous century undertaken the Grand Tour and spent at least some of his money in the approved fashion – studiously ignored him, gazing off towards the library door with sightless eyes and outstretched marble arm, almost as if pointing the way. Perhaps the god of … all the things that he was god of, things that Hal couldn’t quite recall at that precise moment, was disapproving of his owner’s sadly inebriated condition, although, from what Hal recalled from his schooldays, all those Greek deities were what his friend Tom Wainfleet would call devilish smoky fellows.

‘Not at all the thing!’ said Hal with a crack of slightly wild laughter. The sound echoed in the hall, and all at once the big house seemed very empty. As it was, of course. He was not supposed to be coming home, but had returned on a whim, and most of the indoor servants had been given holiday. Some of them were still here, naturally; a house like this could never be left entirely unprotected. Hal’s head groom, Jem Oldcastle, was somewhere in his private fastness, and presumably his wife, Kitty, too, but they were not expecting Hal’s return tonight – this morning. Nobody was. Georgiana was in Brighton, Bastian was on a reading tour with some friends from Oxford, and the younger children were in Lyme Regis with Aunt Sophia, heaven help her.

After the trials of the Season, Hal had been looking forward to some peace and quiet with a fierce intensity, but now that he had finally obtained his wish he found the idea unaccountably depressing as he followed the direction of the statue’s stony gaze and made his rather erratic way into his private sanctum and favourite room. The rest of the house, apart from his bedroom, would be done up in Holland covers, but he insisted that the library always be left ready for his use, and he was glad of it now. No doubt his sudden gloom would lift when he was in less chilly surroundings. Altogether too much marble in the hall: floor, wall panels and statues. Enough to make anyone blue-devilled.

He sighed with relief as he entered his library. That was better; much cosier. With the ease of long familiarity, he threaded his way between the furniture in the darkness and found the tinderbox that was always left ready in its accustomed place on the mantel. He fumbled a little as he attempted to light a candle by touch alone, but by the exercise of a prodigious concentration he achieved the feat in the end, and turned, momentarily dazzled, to pick up a candelabrum and light yet more.

He stopped. Something was wrong. He was not alone in the room.

There was a girl.

In his foxed state, Hal was not perhaps as surprised as he should be to find a perfectly strange young female in his library. Perfectly strange young females had, if truth be told, occasionally been a feature of his life in the years since he had left Eton. He certainly had no objection to them on principle. Especially not if they were pretty, which this one appeared to be, from what little he could see of her.

Vague thoughts that she might be some friend of his sister’s flitted through his mind, but he retained enough sense somewhere in a dim recess of his brain to realise that that was nonsense; his sister Georgie was not here and, even if she had been, there was no earthly reason why one of her innumerable bosom bows should be huddled on his library sofa at – he squinted at the gold mantel clock, but it had stopped – some unconscionable hour of the morning.

Asleep. She was fast asleep, entirely unaware of his presence.

He moved a step or two nearer, and raised the candle to have a closer look at her as she slumbered. Yes, very pretty. The fair unknown was curled up on the big high-backed sofa, with one hand pillowing her cheek. She was wrapped in a voluminous black cloak, and against its darkness her vivid colouring stood out dramatically, even in the flickering candlelight. She had cropped hair of flaming red, and her short nose was scattered with the freckles that often accompanied such locks. Long lashes brushed her cheeks, and her skin was very pale. She had a heart-shaped face, and her pale pink mouth, which was slightly open as she slept, was rather appealing. ‘Kissable’ was the word that popped into Hal’s fuddled brain. Yes, kissable. She looked to be about Georgie’s age, it was true – perhaps eighteen or so. He could see a glimpse of very crumpled white muslin under the voluminous cloak, and small feet in dusty silk evening slippers peeped out from under the hem.

But what the devil was she doing in his library?

He must have made some sound, for suddenly her eyes sprang open – they were green, he noticed – and she looked at him blankly. And then screamed.

He swore, and dropped the candle, and the room was plunged into darkness.

CHAPTER THREE

Cassandra had not meant to fall asleep. The trouble was, there had been nothing else to do. She had opened the door and felt her way cautiously into the room. She had no means of making a light, and she would not in any case have dared to do so, afraid that it might show under the door, should the servants make a tour of the house to ensure that all was secure.

She did not need a candle to know that she was in a library. The scent of old paper and crumbling leather binding told her that, and there were few places in the world where Cassandra felt more comfortable than in a library. She felt better already, her spirits rising, though she was well aware that there could be no rational basis for her altered mood. She could not be sure that she had evaded capture, and even if she had indeed done so, she was now trapped in a strange house with nothing but the clothes she stood up in, a disturbingly light purse and the few possessions she had been able to cram into her reticule before she fled. These included her mother’s pearls, and she supposed that she could pawn them, if she had the slightest idea how to go about such a thing. But she had come this far. She could at least sit down and contemplate her next move in comfort.

Edging forward gingerly, afraid of stumbling over pieces of furniture she could not see, she bumped her toes painfully on some hard object. Her hands found the back of a high-backed sofa, and she groped around it until she found the seat, and sank gratefully into the cushions. That was better.

Her mind remained stubbornly blank, inspiration refusing to make an appearance, and after a while she realised that she was lightheaded with thirst. There might very well be something to drink in a gentleman’s library, she supposed. Alcohol, presumably, to which she was not in the least accustomed, but it would be better than nothing, and she had heard that it gave one courage. It certainly seemed to give her uncle courage, and as for him … She shuddered involuntarily, and pushed the thought resolutely from her mind.

She rose wearily, and resumed her careful progress around the room. Before long she found a desk, and upon it a heavy cut-crystal decanter. Her seeking hands found a glass beside it. This was good. But now she faced the problem of how to pour out liquid, in total darkness. She was bound to spill it, and it seemed grossly unfair to her unwitting host to make a disorder in his library. After a little thought, she set both decanter and glass down on the floor, and after some experimentation and some rather regrettable accidents, found that she was able, if she was very careful, to pour a dribble of the liquid into the glass; fortunately it was not a delicate stemmed wineglass but some sort of heavy bumper. She raised it to her lips, and took a doubtful sip. It tasted every whit as unpleasant as she had feared, and made her cough and splutter, but she felt a sort of warmth creeping down her throat, and after a few moments she decided that she did feel slightly better. She poured herself some more of whatever it was, and made her way back to the sofa, where she made herself comfortable again, and in a surprisingly short time she had drained the glass.

A substantial quantity of fine old smuggled French brandy was perhaps bound to have a powerful effect on a slight young lady of barely more than five feet, who had spent a most trying evening that had culminated in a headlong flight through the streets of London, and one, moreover, who had never had occasion to drink strong liquor before. It was not long before the glass slipped from her hand, and rolled unharmed and unseen across the Persian carpet. She did not feel it go; she was already asleep.

Cassandra woke with a start to find a tall figure looming over her with a candle, and saw no more. She let out a scream in her shock, and the flame was extinguished. She heard a deep masculine voice utter some quite outrageous curses, and then before she could collect her scattered wits there was a scrape as the stranger employed a tinderbox, more curses, and a candle flared into life, and then another, until a candelabrum was fully lit. He held it up and stared down at her.

They looked at each other in tense silence for a few seconds. Cassandra saw a tall young man in dishevelled evening clothes, which looked as though they were the very height of fashion, but had undergone some ungentle treatment in the last few hours. His hair was dark and disordered, his eyes were a shockingly bright blue, and he was uncommonly handsome and very, very angry.

‘What the devil,’ he enunciated carefully, ‘are you doing in my library?’

Her wits entirely deserted her. She could not think of a single word to say in response, but simply gazed at him in mute horror.

He looked down at her, frowning, and then his azure gaze seemed to find the glass, and the decanter. His face became even more thunderous, and he said, ‘Have you been drinking my best brandy?’

‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice.

He sniffed. ‘Have you been spilling my best brandy?’

‘Just a little. I am most terribly sorry, sir. I could not see what I was about. I dared not look for a light.’

‘I don’t suppose you did. Are you a burglar? You don’t look at all like a burglar, I must say. But perhaps that is your … your …’ He waved a graceful hand when it seemed that he was unable to retrieve the word he was seeking.

Cassandra was beginning to suspect that the handsome young man was, in fact, somewhat drunk. This was alarming news. Her recent experiences had given her no reason to trust men who were drunk, but then she had also learnt, to her cost, that they could be near as bad sober. The young man did not appear to have any immediate intention of molesting her in any way, and she was forced to acknowledge that his anger was quite justifiable, as she was undeniably trespassing in his house.

She said, ‘I’m not a burglar. But truly I can see why my presence here can only appear rather odd to you.’

‘Odd, you say? I’ll wager it does!’ He laughed, and dropped into the sofa beside her. She stiffened, but he did not move any closer to her, merely stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankle. Leaning back against the side of the sofa, he looked her up and down with his penetrating, disconcerting sky-blue stare, folded his arms and said, ‘Go ahead.’

She knew that she owed him some sort of explanation. ‘I was being chased. I hid near your basement door, and when your servants came out I slipped inside the house and came into this room to hide. And I drank your brandy. I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I know that it was an outrageous thing to do.’

‘I expect you had your reasons,’ he said vaguely. ‘When was this?’

‘About midnight, I think.’

‘And why did my servants come out? Seems an odd thing for them to do, at midnight.’

‘I threw a pail against the window.’

‘Well, that explains it, then,’ he said, apparently quite satisfied. But after a moment obviously spent in deep cogitation, he said, frowning again, ‘Why were you out at midnight, heaving pails about, and who was chasing you? You’re not a … a … are you?’ He waved his hand again.

‘No, I am not!’ she said indignantly. ‘Though,’ she added with a small, woebegone sniff, ‘I can see why you might think I am. I know that I should not have been roaming the streets at night, and believe me, sir, I would not have done so save for the direst necessity.’

‘Oh well, dire necessity, obviously,’ he said with a yawn. ‘Didn’t think you were. So if you’re not a burglar and you’re not a … can’t think of a word appropriate for your ears, but anyway, you’re not, why were you out and about at midnight, and who was chasing you? Doesn’t seem at all the thing. Not that I mean to pry, of course.’

Cassandra sat huddled in her corner of the sofa, silently twisting the stuff of her cloak between her hands. The young man said suddenly, ‘Do you have a name? Well, obviously you have a name, I’m not so drunk that I don’t know that, but what is it?’

‘I don’t think I should say.’

‘Have to call you something.’

‘I don’t see why.’

He puzzled over the logic of this for a while. ‘I’m sure there must be a reason. I can’t think of it just at this moment, granted.’

‘Well, I won’t tell you.’

His blue gaze swept over her again, and he grinned suddenly. ‘Then I’ll have to think of a name for you myself, mysterious and beautiful stranger. What kind of name would fit someone who creeps into houses at night and drinks people’s old brandy and sleeps on their sofas?’

She said, ‘I don’t creep into houses. I don’t make a habit of this sort of thing, you know.’

‘So you say. Whether I am to believe you … Incognita, I could call you.’

She huffed. ‘How ridiculous!’

‘You think so? Not original, perhaps. Let me see, then …’ he mused. ‘I have it! I shall call you Biancaneve! That’s perfect. Didn’t she break into the cottage and steal people’s food and fall asleep? Not brandy, but I dare say she would have nabbled theirs if they’d happened to have any to hand. I remember reading it to the children when they were small. Terrible example to set, of course, but as I recall they seemed to like it. I expect that’s where you got the idea for your housebreaking from. Biancaneve, that’s the ticket. Or Snow White, if you prefer.’

He scarcely looked old enough to have children, and certainly not children who were no longer small. He must have married extraordinarily young. She thought he was not yet thirty – perhaps seven or eight and twenty. She found herself asking curiously, ‘Do you have many children?’

‘Dozens,’ he said gloomily. ‘Well, not dozens, but five. Just seems like dozens sometimes. Especially the younger ones. They hunt in packs, you know.’

‘I cannot believe you can possibly have five children. Your poor wife!’

‘Oh, I don’t have a wife, Snow White. Never have had.’

She gasped, and he looked at her in surprise, then grinned at her engagingly once more. ‘What? Oh, you think … No, no, nothing of the kind. My life is quite complicated enough without that sort of nonsense. I’m their brother, and their guardian, for my sins. Bastian is twenty, Georgie - Georgiana - is eighteen, and the rest of them … fourteen and then twelve. Twins,’ he explained in answer to her lifted brow.

‘Goodness,’ she said weakly.

‘Yes,’ he agreed with feeling. ‘Although goodness has little to do with it, I assure you. They’re terrors, apart from Bastian.’

It was absurd, but somehow she felt more comfortable with him now that she knew he had so many younger brothers and sisters; she did not know why it should be so. Perhaps, she thought suddenly, the fact that he had a sister of much her own age might make him more sympathetic to her plight.

‘Are they here now? It seemed to me that the house was closed up.’

‘They are not. It is. Just Jem Oldcastle and his wife, a couple of housemaids and coachmen somewhere, and me. And you, of course, Snow White.’

She shivered, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was, for all practical purposes alone with him in his house like this, and all the evils of her situation came flooding back to her.

He was observant, for all his inebriation and the sleepy way he sprawled across the sofa. He said abruptly, ‘I’m not in the habit of molesting young women, you know. Dash it all, not old women, either. Women. Girls. Anybody. Drunk or sober. Still not at all sure what you’re doing here, but you’re in no danger from me, I give you my word.’

‘I only wish every man who calls himself a gentleman could say the same!’ she blurted, unable to repress her bitterness.

His eyes darkened perceptibly, and he looked angry again, though not at her, and oddly formidable for a moment. Enunciating carefully, he said, ‘I really think you should tell me, you know. I might be able to help.’

She buried her face in her hands, a sudden wave of weariness sweeping over her. ‘I don’t think anybody can help me.’

His voice was warm and reassuring as he said, ‘Try me. My sister’s forever getting into scrapes. Or she was – she’s going to be engaged to be married. I expect she’ll still get into scrapes, mind you, but they won’t be my problem any more. Shouldn’t wonder if I’ll miss it, if truth be told. So …’

Cassandra burst into tears.

CHAPTER FOUR

He did not appear in the least disconcerted. Perhaps he was used to weeping ladies. He found a large handkerchief, and handed it to her, and she sobbed convulsively into it for a while, as he sat at her side in silence. He did not attempt to touch her – she would not have welcomed it, however kindly it might have been meant – and he seemed to know instinctively that she needed the relief of tears.

Presently Cassandra blew her nose, and wiped her face, and felt some relief. She considered offering him his handkerchief back, but then looked at it, and thought better of the idea. She scrunched it into a ball, and clasped it tightly in her hands. He still said nothing, and after a while she said, ‘I’ll tell you.’

‘Good. More brandy?’

She chuckled in a slightly watery fashion. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Probably just as well. I shan’t either. Best to keep a clear head.’ He seemed to be sobering up rapidly. It could be, she thought with a faint and fragile spark of hope, that with all his responsibilities he had experience of what was required in a crisis.

She took a deep breath. ‘I am an orphan. My mother died when I was small, and my father early last year.’ He appeared to be on the verge of speech, but she forestalled him. ‘I do not say this to seek sympathy, but only so you should understand my situation. After my father’s death, I had to go and live with my uncle. He is my father’s half-brother and my trustee.’

‘You have a fortune?’

‘I do, and I cannot tell you how much I wish I did not!’

‘That uncle of yours has designs on it?’

‘Yes! I should have made my come-out last year, but my uncle put it off, saying it was too close to my father’s death, which was true, of course. But this spring he produced a friend of his. A man his own age. I suspect they have agreed to divide my inheritance between them once I have been forced into marriage. He told me that I could make my come-out only if I agreed to be betrothed to his friend.’

‘He didn’t want you meeting any other men?’

‘Exactly! I refused. He was very angry, and has grown angrier as I have maintained my resolve. He is bad enough, but the friend he intends me to marry is much worse!’

‘That’s despicable. What a devilish ramshackle sort of fellow he must be. I take it your uncle is not a wealthy man?’

‘I do not know, but I think not. I think he is supporting himself from my fortune. Of course, if I should marry anyone of my own choosing, he risks losing control of my money. And so he has hatched this scheme with his revolting friend.’

He looked at her, considering. ‘Why now?’ He saw that she did not understand him, and elaborated. ‘Why did you flee tonight? What happened to make you take such … such sudden and frantic action?’

She said shakily, ‘I have been locked in my room for several weeks, given my meals on a tray. I think he thought I would weaken. When I did not, he tried another tactic. He sent one of the maids up with a new gown for me – this gown – and said that he would whip me if I did not wear it and come down for dinner. I believed him. So I did.’

‘Go on.’ His voice was grim.

‘The other man was there. They were both drunk, and grew drunker, and the way he looked at me made my skin crawl. At the end of the meal, my uncle simply walked out of the room and left us alone together.’

‘My poor child,’ he said, and he sounded perfectly sober now. ‘I am so sorry. You need not tell me any more, if you do not wish to. I think I have heard enough.’

‘I want to tell you. I have come too far to stop now. He tried to kiss me, up against the wall by the fireplace.’ Tears were streaming unheeded down her face as she spoke. ‘I struggled. I would not let him … I hit him.’

He made a noise of approval, and, emboldened somehow, she went on a little more strongly, ‘I reached out my hand, I scarcely knew for what, and picked up a bronze figure from the mantel. I hit him with it. I do not suppose it can have been a hard blow, but it shocked him. He fell back; his head was bleeding …’

‘And you ran.’

‘I did. I had my reticule, with a few coins in it and my mother’s pearls; I had been locked in my room so long, when I heard I was to be let out for a time I thought this might at last be my one chance to escape. There was a cloak in the hall – his, perhaps, I do not know. I seized it, and ran, and hid from them.’

‘Did they follow you to this house?’

‘They followed me into the square. I ran down and hid in the basement area, and when they heard the noise of the pail against the window bars they started down the stairs; they thought they had cornered me at last, I suppose. But your servant came out and argued with them.’

There was a smile in his voice. ‘Yes, he would do that. I am sure they stood no chance of getting past him. He would knock them down and enjoy doing it. He used to be a prize fighter, you will not be surprised to hear. His life at present does not involve hitting nearly as many people as he would like.’ His tone grew more serious as he said, ‘That was clever of you, to realise that Jem would think that they had caused the disturbance, and upbraid them, and that would give you the chance to slip inside.’

‘I was desperate.’

‘I perfectly understand why you should have been. Did he plant a facer on either of them, do you know?’ he asked hopefully.

Despite her distress, she could not help but laugh at this. ‘I did not stay to see!’

‘Pity. Well, we can hope. I am sure they both deserve a taste of his home-brewed, and I expect it would have done you good to see it.’

‘I wish he might have beaten them both to a pulp!’ she said fiercely.

‘Well, if he did not, perhaps he will find another occasion to do so. I would not mind helping him in the least.’

‘But what is to become of me?’ she said. ‘I cannot go back. And they might have me arrested for assault. He was bleeding, I told you!’

‘They won’t do that,’ said her companion confidently. It occurred to her that he still did not know her name, nor she his; how absurd. ‘There’s not a man alive who would care to explain to a constable – or anyone else – that a slip of a girl like you got the better of him. Least of all if you were to say why you did it. Set your mind at rest on that count.’

She could see the sense in his words, and she was a little relieved. ‘But where shall I go? I have almost no money, and I know no one in London.’

‘You’re safe here. Let me think of something.’

She could not imagine what scheme he could possibly devise that could help her in any way, but she did not have time to tell him so, for he said now, ‘We can discuss all that in the morning. Well, later in the morning, for I daresay it is all of five by now. You need to go to bed. I’ll show you to my room.’

CHAPTER FIVE

She recoiled from him, huddling as deep as she could in her corner of the sofa. She should have known it was wrong to trust him, to trust anyone, but she had no leisure to dwell on her disappointment that he was just like all the rest. ‘No!’ she croaked.

He frowned and said, ‘Oh. No, I’m sorry, you misunderstand me. I told you I’m not that kind of fellow, I’m almost sure, but I can quite see that you have no reason to believe me. My bed is the only one that will be made up, because it always is. You can make yourself comfortable in there, and I’ll get some sleep on the couch in my sitting room. I’d stay down here, but I thought you might not quite like being all alone upstairs. One of the servants might try to come in, and it would be damn-dashed awkward for you to explain.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ she said dubiously.

‘You may lock the door, if you wish; there are two doors, and keys in both locks. In fact, it might be better if you did, then you can be secure that none of the maids will enter the room to clean it, or anything of that nature.’

‘Do you normally lock your bedroom door?’ she asked, and then blushed that she had had the temerity to ask such an intimate question. She imagined that a man might have all manner of reasons for doing so that he would not wish to disclose to a lady, least of all one to whom he had not even been formally introduced.

‘I should say I do, when the twins are at home, and if you had met them you would understand why,’ he said, not appearing to think that there was anything at all odd in the question. ‘Not so much here, but in the country, there is simply no knowing what they might do. They put a live frog in my bed once.’ He shuddered at the memory. ‘And as for the things they’ve done to their governesses over the years …’

‘Governesses in the plural?’ she asked, very ready to be distracted from her troubles by this talk of a family life very different from her own.

‘Governesses in multitudes. They never stayed long. They have a man now, a tutor, which seems to answer better – he’s young, and has several brothers himself, so he is alive upon all suits and they don’t play out their tricks on him as much. But we are wandering far from the point. You need to sleep.’

She did not demur, for as they had talked a wave of weariness had assailed her, and she could scarcely prevent herself from yawning in his face. They left the library, lighted by the candelabrum that he carried, and she followed him up the broad, sweeping stairs to the door he indicated. He plainly and rather reassuringly did not want to enter the room with her, and there was a moment of slight awkwardness as she waited for him to fetch another candle from somewhere and light it, then he handed the candelabrum to her, leaving it for her use.

‘That’s the necessary,’ he said, indicating a door on the other side of the room, ‘and I’ll be in the sitting room through that other door. Lock this door to the hall and that one between us, and you will be entirely private. But I’ll be close by, and if you call out I shall hear you. Goodnight, Snow White!’ And with a punctilious, courtly bow, such as he might have made to her after they had danced together at Almack’s, not that she’d ever been to Almack’s, and which was quite ridiculous in the circumstances, he left her, closing the door firmly behind him.

She did as he said; she had little fear of him now, but it seemed sensible to be cautious, and he was quite correct when he said that it would be better not to run the risk of one of the servants stumbling upon her unawares. That would be a scene she was anxious to avoid, for how could she possibly explain her presence in their master’s house?

It occurred to her suddenly that she was surely ruined: if anyone should learn that she had spent the night quite alone in the residence of a young, single, handsome and presumably extremely eligible man, she would have not a shred of reputation left. No doubt she should go into strong hysterics at the thought, but she really did not have the energy for the vapours at this particular moment. The problem of what in heaven’s name she should do next to avoid destitution seemed far more pressing, and still no solution presented itself. Perhaps it would in the morning; she really was so very tired.

She was also in urgent need of a water closet, so she went through the door he had indicated, and found herself in a beautiful room chiefly equipped in marble and much more modern than any other she had ever seen. She made full use of it, much to her relief, and then returned to the bedroom and looked about her.

Despite her exhaustion, she must still be aware that it felt odd and somehow disturbing to find herself in a strange young man’s – any man’s – bedchamber. The room was decorated principally in very dark blue: wallpaper, curtains and bed-hangings all the same deep, rich colour, with touches of red, green and gold here and there in the Persian carpet and the paintings that hung close together on the walls. She was somehow surprised at what she saw; she had not, she realised, imagined her host to be someone who cared much for art, but clearly she had been mistaken, for the paintings and other fine objects had been chosen with a nice eye, and a congruity of taste that somehow spoke of an individual preference at work. And yet it remained a distinctly masculine room, despite the beautiful portrait – she thought it by the celebrated and newly knighted painter Sir Thomas Lawrence – that hung above the mantel. She raised her candelabrum in order to study it more closely. It featured a young woman in the simple Grecian fashions of some twenty years since, her luxuriant dark hair dressed very informally. She had a strong, beautiful face with a certain classic symmetry and high, sharp cheekbones that were very familiar, but it scarcely needed that detail to tell Cassandra that this was her host’s mother. The man she had met tonight was quite recognisable in the small boy with the lustrous dark locks who stood at his mother’s side in nankeen breeches and a frilled shirt, leaning against the lady’s shoulder and clasping the outstretched hand of the chubby baby she held, presumably his brother Bastian.

She took off her cloak and slippers, and set down her shabby reticule on the table beside the bed. It seemed an intimate act to sleep in the stranger’s bed, surrounded by his possessions, but it would be in the highest degree foolish to refuse to do so. She needed rest. She did not undress, for she could not well do so unaided, and she was certainly not going to call on Mr Whoever-He-Was to help her unfasten her gown and unlace her stays; the very idea put her to the blush. His big hands on her skin, his body so close to hers that she would feel his breath on her neck, the act of disrobing: what a shocking thought. There were limits to the help that she could ask of him, however obliging he had been so far.

Cassandra sighed in the quiet room. She turned back the fresh linen sheets and clambered with a little difficulty into the high bed – it had plainly been designed for someone very much taller than she – and lay down in her stained and crumpled gown to sleep as best she could. Her weary mind was churning with all kinds of thoughts, and her pulse was racing, no doubt in reaction to all that she had endured this evening. Perhaps things would seem clearer and less confusing when she woke.

CHAPTER SIX

Hal used the second water closet that stood at the other end of the hall, and then took his candle into his sitting room, a chamber that he rarely entered these days but which had been his mother’s special domain; he remembered coming home from school and spending time with her there when the twins were mere babies, and later. It had been a room full of cheerful chaos and children’s laughter, not the barren, unused chamber it had become.