on your money through his niece. He probably put her up to it.’
Sardonic amusement flitted across Aldeborough’s face. ‘I am certain that Miss Hanwell is no fortune hunter, because so far she has refused my offer.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ Ambrose stared in amazement.
‘Oh, it is true. And, I might tell you, it has been quite a blow to my self-esteem to be turned down!’
The third stair from the bottom creaked loudly under her foot. Frances froze and held her breath, listening intently to the silent spaces around her. Nothing. Clutching her cloak about her with one hand and a bandbox containing her few borrowed possessions with the other, Frances continued her cautious descent. The splendidly panelled entrance hall, its polished oak floorboards stretching before her, was deserted—she had planned that it was late enough for all the servants to have retired. A branch of candles was still burning by the main door, presumably now locked and bolted, but it made little impression on the shadowy corners. If she could make her way through to the kitchens and servants’ quarters, surely she could find an easier method of escape—an unlocked door or even a window if no other means of escape presented itself.
After her rapid exit from the drawing room earlier in the day, she had remained in her room, pleading a headache, and submitting to the kindly ministrations of Mrs Scott. It had become clear to her through much heartsearching that she must not only make some decisions, but act on them before she was drawn any further into the present train of events over which she appeared to have less and less control. She had allowed herself a few pleasant moments of daydreaming, imagining herself accepting Aldeborough’s offer to allow her to live a life of luxury and comfort. She pictured herself taking the ton by storm, clad in a cloud of palest green gauze and silk. When she reached the point of waltzing round a glittering ballroom with diamond earrings and fashionably curled and ringletted hair, in the arms of a tall darkly handsome man, she rapidly pulled herself together and banished Aldeborough’s austere features and elegant figure from her mind.
He has no wish to marry you, she told herself sternly. He is only moved by honour and duty and pity. She had had enough of that. And since when was it possible to rely on any man when his own selfish interests were involved? It would be far more sensible to find somewhere to take refuge for a few short months until she reached her twenty-first birthday and the promise of her inheritance.
There was only one avenue of escape open to her. She would make her way to London and throw herself on the mercy of her maternal relatives. Even though they had turned their concerted backs on her mother following what they perceived as a mésalliance, surely they would not be so cold-hearted as to abandon her only daughter in her hour of need. Frances knew that it was a risk, but she would have to take it. London must be her first objective and here she saw the possibility of asking the help of the Rector of Torrington. If nothing else, he might, in Christian charity, be persuaded to lend her the money to buy a seat on the mailcoach.
So, having made her plan, determinedly closing her mind to all the possibilities for disaster, Frances continued to tread softly down the great staircase. She reached the foot, with its carved eagles on the newel posts, with a sigh of relief. All the doors were closed. There was an edge of light under the library door but there was no sound. Frances pulled up her hood, turned towards the door which led to the kitchens and sculleries and tiptoed silently across. Soon she would be free.
‘Good evening, Miss Hanwell.’
Frances dropped her bandbox with a clatter and whirled round, her breath caught in her throat. Aldeborough was framed in silhouette, the light behind him, in the doorway of the library. In spite of the hour he was still elegantly dressed, although stripped of his coat, and held a glass of brandy in one hand. Her eyes widened with shock and she was conscious only of the blood racing through her veins, her heart pounding in her chest. Aldeborough placed his glass on a side table with a sharp click that echoed in the silence, then strolled across the expanse between them. He bent and with infinite grace picked up her bandbox.
‘Perhaps I can be of assistance?’ he asked smoothly.
Frances found her voice. ‘You could let me go. You could forget you have seen me.’ Her voice caught in her throat, betraying her fear. She tried not to shrink back from him against the banister, from the controlled power of his body and the dark frown on his face. Memories forced their ugly path into her mind, resisting her attempts to blot them out.
‘I could, of course, but I think not.’ Aldeborough held out his hand imperatively. She felt compelled by the look in his eyes to obey him and found herself led to the library, where he released her and closed the door behind her.
‘You appear to be making a habit of running away. Might I ask where you were planning to go?’ he enquired. ‘Surely not back to Charles!’
‘I will never go back to that house!’ Frances replied with as much dignity as she could muster in the circumstances. ‘I had decided to go to the Rector of Torrington for help.’
‘And how were you intending to get there?’ He allowed his eyebrows to rise.
‘Walk.’
‘For ten miles? In the pitch black along country roads?’
‘If I have to.’ She raised her head in defiance of his heavy sarcasm.
‘I had not realised, Miss Hanwell, that marriage to me could be such a desperate option. Clearly I was wrong.’
Frances could think of no reply, intimidated by the ice in his voice.
He dropped her ill-used bandbox on to the floor and approached her, raising his hands to relieve her of her cloak. Her reaction was startling and immediate. She flinched from him, raising her arm to shield her face, retreating, stumbling against a small table so that a faceted glass vase fell to the floor with a crash, the debris spraying over the floor around her feet. She turned her head from him and buried her face in her hands, unable to stifle a cry of fear as the dark memories threatened to engulf her.
‘What is it? What did I do?’ Aldeborough’s brows snapped together. Frances shook her head, unable to answer as she fought to quell the rising hysteria and calm her shattered breathing.
‘Forgive me. I had no intention of frightening you.’ He grasped her shoulders in a firm hold to steady her, aware that she was trembling uncontrollably, when an unpleasant thought struck him.
‘You thought I was going to hit you, didn’t you? What have I ever done to suggest that I would use violence against you?’ There was anger as well as shock in his voice. ‘Tell me.’ He gave her shoulders a little squeeze in an effort to dislodge the blank fear in her eyes. It worked, for she swallowed convulsively and was able to focus on his concerned face.
‘It’s just that once I tried to run away,’ she managed to explain. ‘It was a silly childish dream that I might escape. But I was caught, you see … and …’
‘And?’
‘My uncle punished me—whipped me—for disobedience. He said I was ungrateful and I must be taught to appreciate what I had been given. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’ Her voice trailed away into silence, her expression one of utmost desolation.
Aldeborough gently removed her cloak from her now-unresisting body. He steered her away from the shards of glass, scattered like crystal tears on the polished wood, and pushed her into a chair before the dying embers of the fire. He poured a little brandy into a glass and handed it to her.
‘Here. Drink this. Don’t argue, it will make you feel better—it’s good for shock amongst other things. Although, from experience, I do not advise it as an aid to helping you forget.’ The touch of sardonic humour at his own expense allowed Frances to relax a little and do as she was told. ‘Now, tell me—what did you expect the Rector to be able to do for you that I couldn’t?’
She sipped the brandy again, which made her eyes water, but at least it stilled the shivering. ‘I thought that he would lend me some money to enable me to reach London where I could make contact