At this hour! What kind of person arrives at past ten in the evening?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure, but Sir Francis wants you dressed and downstairs immediately.’ She opened a closet door as she spoke and considered the array of garments within.
‘Shall I lay out the cream silk, miss? That complements your skin beautifully. And we can do your hair à la Meduse—little ringlets, like so.’ And she made a few passing feints in the air. ‘I’ve been practising these past weeks and it shouldn’t take long.’
Lucinda glared at her, shaking herself free of the depression which had begun to lap insidiously at her spirits.
‘Lay out the drabbest gown you can find, Molly,’ she commanded imperiously, ‘and search for that dreadful shawl the vicar’s wife gave me. I wish to look a complete dowdy! That should send him beetling back to London in a hurry, for he will want his money and title to buy something a great deal better.’
When she saw who stood in the flagged hallway below, Lucinda almost turned tail for the sanctuary of her room. She faltered on the final two stairs and, but for her uncle’s intervention, might have fallen. A state of frozen horror engulfed her. At this very moment she stood facing the man she had attempted to rob! She was incredulous, dumbfounded.
‘Allow me to present my niece to you, Lord Frensham—Miss Lucinda Lacey.’ Francis Devereux danced fussily around them. ‘Lucinda, this is the Earl of Frensham.’
‘Jack Beaufort,’ he said, bowing low over her hand.
‘My lord.’
Her tone was coldly formal and the curtsy she bobbed perfunctory. She was forcing herself to present an indifferent face, but it was a titanic struggle. To maintain composure when her mind was besieged by terrors! Had he recognised her? Was it possible that he saw, in the badly dressed girl before him, the highwayman of a few hours ago? Please, no, she prayed. She had recognised him immediately.
Slowly she emerged from the first sickening sense of shock and, under cover of her uncle’s monologue, snatched a covert glance. He wasn’t what she’d expected. Nor, she was sure, what her uncle had expected. The man appeared completely at his ease, his air of confidence pervading the vast hall and metaphorically rattling the suits of armour which punctuated its panelled walls in dreary sequence. His dress was elegance incarnate, down to the last burnished tassel swinging from his gleaming Hessians, and, if not precisely handsome, he made a striking figure. A small scar punctured his left cheek and the way that a lock of dark hair fell across his brow almost meeting it, gave him the look of a pirate. He needed only the eye patch and he would be complete. She could see why he had overpowered her so easily for, though tall, he was solidly built. His form told of many hours of punishing sport and she thought he would revel in it. Even his name—Jack Beaufort—had a piratical tang.
‘We are delighted that you were able to visit, your lordship,’ Francis Devereux oozed, his plump cheeks puffed with pride.
‘I am delighted to be at Verney Towers and to make your acquaintance.’ The words were right, but the man’s expression suggested otherwise. His was a smile of false pleasure, Lucinda decided.
‘It is a great honour to welcome you to our house, Lord Frensham, no matter what the hour.’
Sir Francis, she noted, was unable to resist a rebuke even to his prize guest, but the earl seemed not to notice. ‘I regret the necessity of arriving so late,’ he said smoothly, ‘but I was forced to hire a conveyance from the Four Feathers, an inn a few miles from here.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Devereux said eagerly. ‘We know the Feathers well. But why did you not continue the journey in your own carriage? I would have been more than glad to house your cattle.’
‘That is most kind, Sir Francis, but unhappily it was not possible.’ She saw a small smile appear at the corners of the earl’s mouth and knew that he was enjoying himself. ‘You see, I was set upon by a robber, a gentleman of the road as I believe they call themselves. He cut the traces and made it impossible for me to continue. I was forced to ride to the inn to secure help.’
‘But that is dreadful.’ Francis Devereux’s face was stricken. ‘Quite dreadful. A highwayman, you say. But we have not had highwaymen in Sussex for many a year.’
‘You have now,’ the earl remarked laconically.
‘But where did this dreadful event occur? Were you or your company hurt? What valuables were you forced to hand over?’
The questions rained down and she could see their guest exercising severe restraint to stop himself from laughing aloud. The ambush had disturbed her uncle acutely and he had forgotten his society manners in the clamour to know every last detail.
‘Please do not concern yourself. Nothing was taken and neither of us was hurt.’
‘Neither?’ Sir Francis looked puzzled.
‘I was travelling alone except for my coachman.’
‘Only a coachman!’ This seemed to exercise Sir Francis even more than the attempted robbery. ‘But my dear sir how could you be so imprudent?’
‘Lynton, my valet, will follow in a few days.’
Francis appeared to be working himself into a small paroxysm. ‘This robbery …’ he began for the third or fourth time.
‘Nothing was taken,’ the earl reminded him.
‘But it could have ended in disaster. We cannot have such a thing happening again, not in our quiet Sussex lanes.’
‘In fact, a quiet Sussex forest,’ Jack interjected, evidently hoping to annoy.
Sir Francis began to wring his hands. ‘But to have this threat on our very doorstep …’
She could almost see Jack Beaufort sigh inwardly. His host was not going to forget. She was sure that he had mentioned his adventure to see its effect, no doubt a small amusement in a vale of tedium. And now he had seen it and amusement was not the first word that sprang to mind.
In an attempt to deflect his host, he said, ‘I could always call in the Runners if you are seriously concerned. I have some small influence at Bow Street.’
The older man leapt upon the suggestion. ‘Yes, Bow Street. That’s the thing. I should be most grateful if you would do so, my lord.’
At these words, Lucinda felt her body stiffen. It was involuntary, the smallest of movements, and she prayed that her adversary had not noticed her recoil. She turned her head very slightly and met a pair of the deepest brown eyes. They wore a mere whisper of curiosity, but they were fixed intently on her. He had noticed, she thought, with misgiving, but what would he make of it?
It was clear that the girl had not liked the suggestion of a Runner. He could not imagine why that might be, but he hoped it might provoke her into speech. She had hardly said a word, standing mute and expressionless, beside her uncle. He was unused to such cavalier treatment, especially from a nondescript provincial. She was small and drab, but what else had he expected. She appeared to be dressed in a brown sack for that was all he could call it: a shapeless, mud-coloured garment that looked as though it had been worn to clean the scullery. Beneath his fascinated gaze, she had pulled a shawl of the vilest magenta stripes more closely around her shoulders.
She appeared nervous, too, or so he had at first thought. That was hardly surprising, ill dressed as she was and no doubt unused to company. She had almost tripped as she came down the stairs towards him. But straightening up from his bow, he’d been met by a pair of mutinous blue eyes. In the sparse candlelight of the bleak hall, they were pure sapphire. This was no shy ingénue, made uneasy by their meeting. Intrigued, he’d looked more intently at her. In response she’d averted her glance and quite deliberately looked through him. He was taken aback. He had no intention of making her or anyone else an offer of marriage, but she could not know that. She would imagine that he had come with courtship in mind and she was behaving as though he were the