Annabelle slipped to the ground and loosely tethered Apollo beside The dilapidated bridge. She crossed it carefully, holding her breath until she was safely on the far bank. The swimmer was still cutting through the water, so she made her way to the boathouse. It had to be Lucas, she told herself. No one else would dare to be here.
She was at the foot of the boathouse steps just as he reached the bank. He looked up then and saw her.
‘What in hell’s name are you doing here?’
She put up her chin, hoping she would sound braver than she felt. ‘I came to see you.’
He raised his brows, then he put his hands on the bank and hauled himself out of the water. ‘Well, now you can see me.’
Belle gasped. It had not occurred to her that he would be naked. He stood before her, black hair plastered to his head and his body glistening in the sunlight.
Poseidon
, she thought wildly.
Poseidon rising from the ocean
.
She swallowed, her eyes taking in every inch of that muscled body, the powerful shoulders, the shadow of dark hair across his chest that tapered down to—
She forced herself to look away. ‘Th-that is not what I meant.’ Despite her efforts to sound calm her voice shook.
‘No, I thought not.’
He began to walk up the stone stairs. Belle followed him, keeping her eyes on the steps, where his bare feet left a wet imprint.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she said.
‘Did your father send you to plead with me?’
‘No!’
He disappeared through the door at the top of the stairs. Belle hesitated, but when she saw him pick up a towel and wrap it around his waist she summoned up her courage and stepped into the room. It looked different to the way she remembered. Cleaner. As if someone had taken a broom to it.
‘No,’ she said again. ‘I came because I wanted to understand.’
‘I thought I had explained myself perfectly clearly.’
‘You blame my father for the fire at Morwood.’
‘I blame him for the death of my parents.’
‘He did not do it.’
‘How do you know? You were not even born then!’
‘Papa told me, and he would not lie.’
He glared at her, then picked up another towel
and began to rub his head. ‘Go away, Miss Havenham. You will only compromise yourself by being here.’
‘I thought…’ She clasped her hands, squeezing until her knuckles gleamed white, forcing out the words. ‘I thought we were friends.’
‘How could we ever be that?’
‘No. Of course not.’ There was a constriction in her throat and she swallowed to remove it so she could continue. ‘Was it all a trick, then? A ruse to get closer to my father?’
‘Yes. No! Console yourself with the fact that I would have spared you this if I could. It is your father I want to punish, not you.’
Her hands crept up to her cheeks. She closed her eyes. ‘If you foreclose, then you may well kill him.’
‘An eye for an eye, madam. Your father is a good church man. He will understand that.’
‘How can you be so cold about ruining a man’s life?’
He cursed beneath his breath and turned, slamming one fist upon the small table beside him.
‘I have had years to think about it, madam. Five-and-twenty years, in fact. This gives me no pleasure, but I will have justice done!’
She met his eyes and saw so much anger and pain in them it frightened her more than his
physical presence. She began to back away. His lip curled.
‘Aye, you’d be wise to remove yourself from here, Miss Havenham. Being alone with a naked man will do your reputation no good at all.’
‘I will go.’ She bit her lip. ‘But first, I want you to tell me—did you…did you deliberately set out to trap Papa at Harrogate? Did you trick him into playing cards?’
His brows drew together. ‘No, of course not.’ When she did not move or speak he continued, ‘I lived very modestly while I was in the army. The little that was left from the sale of Morwood was invested for me, and added to that was a small inheritance from the elderly relatives who had taken me in, so when I sold out I set people on to find out all I could about Samuel Havenham and I instructed my lawyers to buy up his debts. The mortgage was a piece of good fortune, since the amount outstanding far exceeds the value of the property. Then I learned Samuel had lost a great deal of money at the gaming tables, so I bought up his notes of hand. There, now you have it. You may hate me for what I am doing, Miss Havenham, but I am no scoundrel. I used no stratagems to trap your father, he did that himself. Now, will you go and leave me in peace?’ His hands moved to the towel at
his waist. ‘Or perhaps you would like to finish what we started at the assembly?’
His barb hit home. Belle felt hot tears cramming her throat and she turned and fled, his savage laughter following her down the stairs.
‘I am leaving Stanton tomorrow and shall not be back until September.’
Lucas was at Morwood with Elias Greenwood. He did not doubt the man would be glad to see the back of him for a while. He had been spending far too much time at the manor over the past few days, working like a demon to rid himself of the image of Annabelle’s horror-stricken face during that last meeting at Oakenroyd. Then, when he thought he had at last buried the memory she had turned up at the lake, her sweet innocence pricking, nay, stabbing at his conscience. Now he shrugged himself into his coat as he issued final instructions to Elias.
‘I think we have covered everything, but if you have any problems you can write to me at Mr Powell’s office in London. You have his address?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Very well.’ He mounted Sultan and took a last look at the house encased in its cage of scaffolding. ‘I hope to see a great deal of progress upon my return.’
‘Aye, that you will, sir,’ said Elias, grinning up at him. ‘As long as the weather don’t slow us up too much.’
Lucas rode back to the Red Lion. George would have everything packed up in readiness for an early start in the morning. One more dinner in Stanton and he would be off. He had business with his lawyers in London and invitations from friends that could not be ignored. He would spend the summer in Brighton, there was always plenty to occupy him there, and of course there was a visit to a discreet little house in Downing Street that must be paid. he turned his thoughts to the ripe young beauty waiting for him there.
He had met Nancy soon after he left the army. Arriving in London in the aftermath of Waterloo, he learned from Mr Powell that the small sum he had left with him fifteen years ago when he had first joined up had grown into a considerable fortune. Nancy had been only too willing to help him spend it and he had set her up as his mistress with her own apartment and a generous allowance. But he had no illusions about her fidelity. Nancy was fond of him, but only as long as he had money to spend on her and he was well aware that during his long absence she would have been taking presents from other men in return for her favours. Even when he had been in
town on leave she had been unwilling or unable to remain faithful.
Lucas was surprised how little he cared. It was time he paid her off. After all he would not be spending much time in London in the future. A diamond bracelet should be sufficient. And he would tell Powell to pay her rent until the end of the summer. That should give her time to find another protector.
Unbidden, the image of Annabelle rose in his mind. Would she, too, have found a man to protect her by the time he returned? He had done his best to put a spoke in that wheel, by making it known that she had no fortune. It had certainly discouraged Keighley, and surely no man would be tempted to take her to wife without a dowry, would they?
He remembered how she had felt in his arms, soft, pliant, eagerly returning his kisses. A man might well forgo a dowry for such a partner. Angrily he thrust away the thought and dug his heels into Sultan’s flanks. The horse bucked a little, indignant at being so roughly treated, but soon settled into his long stride and Lucas forced himself to concentrate on keeping Sultan steady and looking out for rabbit holes as he rode back to the inn, where he found George Stebbing waiting for him.
‘Dinner is ready for you, Major, when you are.
And this arrived.’ He handed Lucas a sealed letter. ‘Came just after you left this morning, sir.’
Lucas turned it over. He did not recognise the handwriting or the seal. Quickly he broke it open. It was from Oakenroyd. His eyes travelled over the first few lines but no further. His mouth twisted as he refolded the letter and threw it into his writing box, which stood open on a side table.
‘It can wait,’ he said shortly. ‘It is not important.’
A
nnabelle waited each morning for the post, hoping there would be a letter from Mr Telford with some good news. Summer dragged on and the lawyer’s infrequent correspondence brought only disappointment. She ventured into Stanton only when it was necessary. As soon as Mr Telford had started making local enquiries, trying to find someone to loan them the money they needed, the word had spread that Mr Havenham was indeed in dire financial straits and was selling Oakenroyd. Annabelle saw to it that every outstanding bill was paid and refused to take any further credit, even where it was offered, but she found the sympathy very hard to bear. Most was genuine, like the Rishworths, the Scanlons and old Mrs Hall. Even the dressmaker, Mrs Ford, offered to help her in any way possible. One or
two, like Mrs Kensley, smiled and uttered sympathetic noises, but there was no mistaking the cruel gleam of satisfaction in their eyes at her father’s misfortune.
Belle rode Apollo over the estate, taking a keen interest in the harvest this year, but in her heart she knew that even if it was the best ever it would still not be enough to pay the debts they owed. Samuel’s letter to Lucas had received no reply. She wondered if he had even read it and concluded sadly that he had not.
Worst of all was the fact that despite all Lucas had done she missed him. She kept busy, tried not to think of him, but in unguarded moments the memory would return of those precious moments at the assembly, of being cradled in his arms and being kissed by him. Every detail was etched into her mind, the butterfly touch of that kiss, the gentle caresses that had aroused in her such desire that just the thought of it made her shiver.
She had been in a fair way to losing her heart to him and still found it hard to relate that loving man to the cruel monster who was determined to ruin her father. Even now she remembered his words as he held her hand.
‘Do not think too badly of me.’
And the truth was, she did not think badly of him. Even that painful meeting at the boathouse,
when he had taunted her so cruelly, had not left her totally despondent. He had told her that he had merely bought up her father’s debts; he had had no hand in creating them. She could understand his quest for vengeance, even if it was unjust, and deep in her heart burned a little flame of hope that he would change his mind, that he would prove himself to be the honest, honourable man she believed him to be.
At the end of August Annabelle received two pieces of news. The first was that the wheat harvest had been a good one, the second that Lucas Blackstone was back.
Her steward told her about the harvest, but it was Celia Rishworth who brought Annabelle the news of Lucas’s return. She had come to Oakenroyd to take tea and celebrate Annabelle’s birthday and was happy to regale her friend with all the latest gossip from Stanton.
‘Mama and I were in Mrs Ford’s yesterday, collecting our gowns ready for Lizzie’s wedding to Mr Keighley and we saw Mr Blackstone’s curricle outside the Red Lion.’ Celia took another small bite of the rich fruit cake Cook had made for the occasion. ‘His groom was following on with that big black hunter of his and he had a baggage waggon, too. Such a to-do as there was, with servants running here, there and everywhere.
He had any number of corded trunks carried into the Lion.’
‘So it would appear he is staying for a while.’
‘Oh, yes, Papa spoke to him only this morning and he declared he is going to remain in Stanton now until Morwood is finished. Strange, though, I cannot think that he will want to remain at an
inn
for all those months, can you?’
Annabelle gave an evasive answer and distracted her friend by asking about the arrangements for Lizzie’s wedding.
‘Oh, everything is quite ready now,’ exclaimed Celia. ‘Lizzie is very excited by the idea of being Mrs Keighley and they are off to Italy for their honeymoon…’
Annabelle knew much of this already, but she nodded and allowed Celia to chatter on, preferring it to any further talk of Lucas Blackstone.
When Celia had gone Annabelle joined her father for a quiet dinner together and when he bemoaned the fact that it was only the two of them she was quick to reassure him. He shook his head, looking very sad.
‘To have this business of my debts hanging over us, I am afraid I am not very good company for you on your birthday, my love.’
‘Nonsense, you are all the company I want,’ she told him. ‘Look, I am wearing the pearl
eardrops you gave me. Do they not look well? Now, let Gibson help you to some of the chicken, Papa, for it is very good, and afterwards you shall hear everything Celia Rishworth told me about the improvements her father is making to the lodge…’
She was at pains to keep him entertained throughout the meal, but she knew he was fretting over the loss of Oakenroyd, and when it was time for her to retire he took her hand and held it tightly.
‘Bless you, Belle. I do not know what I would do without you.’
‘Nor I you, Papa.’ She leaned over his chair to drop a kiss upon his forehead. ‘Tomorrow I plan to take some flowers to Mama’s grave before breakfast. Shall you come with me?’
He shook his head. ‘I think not, my love.’
‘I was going to walk into Stanton, but we could take the gig, if You prefer.’
‘It is not that.’ He raised his hand as if warding off some dark thought. ‘You go, my love. I shall visit her grave another day.’
She had hoped that by the morning he would have changed his mind, but it was not the case, so she put on her chip-straw bonnet, gathered some of the brightest blooms from the garden and set off for Stanton church.
It was a beautiful morning, only a few high clouds dotted about the blue sky as she walked into the town. The church was in the centre of Stanton, an ancient stone building with a square tower surrounded by a large graveyard. She had deliberately set out early in the hope that she would not meet anyone. Everything was quiet and peaceful, bathed in the morning sunshine and the grass still wet with dew. Annabelle slipped into the churchyard and made her way between the graves, thankful for the solitude. A movement to her right startled her and she looked across to see Lucas only yards away. Her heart was thumping wildly. She was certain the graveyard had been empty and could only suppose that he had been hidden by the ornate pedestal tomb that stood between them.
Annabelle hesitated. She wanted to turn and run, but that would be cowardly. Surely he would not dare to accost her in this holy place? Squaring her shoulders, she walked on towards her mother’s grave and pretended not to notice him. He touched his hat.
‘Good day to you, Miss Havenham.’
She could not ignore him now, but she refused to be intimidated, despite the rapid tattoo beating against her ribs. ‘I did not think you a God-fearing man, Mr Blackstone.’
‘Then that shows how little you know me.’
He made no move to follow her, but to her consternation he watched her as she bent to place her flowers at the base of the simple headstone that marked her mother’s grave. She knelt down, pulling away the weeds that threatened to creep over the headstone, tracing her fingers over the carved lettering as she uttered up a silent prayer for her mother. Then she offered up a second prayer for her father and herself.
Lucas was still watching her from the side of the path when she returned. ‘Your mother’s grave?’ He began to walk alongside her.
‘Yes. She died when I was a baby. I never knew her.’
‘My mother died when I was ten.’
‘Yes, of course—I am so sorry, that must have been very hard for you.’
‘Spare me your sympathy, madam. I have no need of it.’
‘It seems you are very much in need of it, since you are so eaten up by hatred.’
‘I want justice, nothing more.’
‘Did you read my father’s letter to you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Not yet? It has been months!’
‘I have no need to read it, I know the truth.’
‘You were a little boy—’
He turned on her with a snarl. ‘Are you saying
I should not believe the evidence of my own eyes?’
‘I think you are mistaken,’ she replied, holding her ground. ‘There were others at Morwood that night in knee breeches and white stockings, were there not? Well?’ she challenged him.
‘Only my father and my cousin Hugh. I have discounted them.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘And you think my gentle father could be guilty of such a crime?’
‘Damn you, I do not
think
, I know!’ He turned on his heel and strode away.
Annabelle remained rooted to the spot, shocked by the violence she had seen in his face. She was saddened, too, by the pain she had seen there and by the thought of that little boy losing both his parents in such a terrifying ordeal.
She watched him march out through the lychgate and on an impulse she turned and went back to the monument where she had first seen him. As she suspected, it was the tomb of the Blackstone family, with the names of Maria and Jonas Blackstone carved into the stone beneath a long line of ancestors.
Annabelle told no one of her meeting with Lucas, but it stayed with her through the evening and long into the night. For five-and-twenty
years he had believed her father responsible for the fire that killed his parents. Even if he read her father’s letter, it was unlikely that he would change his mind now. But she was her father’s daughter and Samuel Havenham was a great believer in the goodness of human nature, so she, too, believed it might happen. She had to hope. But even if Lucas could be brought to believe Samuel was innocent, she knew now he was not the Lucas Monserrat who had captured her heart, the one who had brought her alive with his kisses. That man was an impostor, a charade conjured up to beguile her.
That Lucas was gone for ever.
‘Mr Blackstone to see you.’
Annabelle was in the morning room, setting stitches in her embroidery when Gibson made his announcement and it caused her to prick her finger.
‘Surely he wants to see my father.’
‘He asked for you, Miss Havenham.’
‘Oh. Then you had better show him in, Gibson.’
She set aside her embroidery and rose, absently putting the punctured finger to her lips as she waited for her visitor.
The first thing Lucas saw as he entered the room was Belle with one finger pushed against
her full, cherry-red lips. He did not for a moment think she was trying to entice him, but it was a damned alluring image, and it shook him to realise just how much he had missed her during the months he had been away. He put his hat and riding crop down carefully upon a chair and stood, stripping off his gloves while he pulled himself together.
She watched him for some moments before saying with a touch of haughty impatience, ‘How can I help you, Mr Blackstone?’
‘You can tell me if your father has any hope of paying me off at the end of the month.’
Her brows rose. ‘Surely that is a question you should put to him.’
‘Let us not play games, Miss Havenham, I am well aware that you are in your father’s confidence.’
Her eyes slid away from his. ‘No.’ She uttered the word quietly, no longer aloof. ‘I fear we will lose Oakenroyd.’
That was the answer he was expecting. He had worked hard these past two years to make sure of it. He moved across to the empty hearth and turned to face her. ‘Then I have a solution for you.’
Her eyes flew to his face again and he had to steel himself not to weaken when he saw
the naked hope there. He cleared his throat. ‘Marry me.’
Silence.
‘I—I beg your pardon?’ The words came out in a husky whisper.
‘I said marry me. As my wife you can continue to live at Oakenroyd, at least until Morwood is completed, when we would make that our home. And your father could spend the rest of his days here. You have my word on that. There will be no need for anyone to know the financial details of our arrangement. As far as our neighbours are concerned they may think it a marriage of convenience, but nothing out of the ordinary.’
She sank down on to a chair. Her face was as white as the muslin fichu about her neck.
‘I—I do not understand.’
‘At Michaelmas Oakenroyd will be mine. That is four weeks’ time. There is time for us to marry before that, then you and your father can carry on here, as before.’
‘But you will be master.’
‘Yes.’
‘And this is part of your plan for revenge?’
It was his turn to look away. He found he could not meet those clear grey eyes.
She continued quietly, ‘Your plan is to take from Papa the things he loves most.’
That had indeed been his original plan, but not any more. He would not be taking anything from the old man, save the knowledge that he had got away with murder. She should be grateful for that.
‘Your father would lose nothing. He would continue to live here, as would you.’
‘But I would be your wife.’
By God, she was scorning him! He heard the contempt in her voice, saw the disdainful curl of her lip. He might as well have offered her a
carte blanche
.
‘You will not find me ungenerous,’ he said coldly. ‘You will still be mistress here. And there is Morwood Manor to be furnished and decorated. You may have a free hand to do with it as you wish.’
The colour returned to her cheek, matched by an angry sparkle in her eyes. She rose, drawing herself up to her full if diminutive height.
‘You think I care for such things when you have ruined my father? Goodbye, Mr Blackstone.’
As she walked past him he caught her wrist.
‘Be careful, madam. I think rather I am saving your father. His life will not change a jot.’
She tried to pull herself free, but he held on, drawing her close. Beneath his fingers her pulse
was racing, but she regarded him fearlessly, a haughty curl to her lip.
‘What, you expect him to share a house with you, knowing you think him a murderer? And his daughter is to sacrifice herself for this privilege?’
He frowned. ‘I am offering you a solution to your problems, madam,’ he snapped. ‘If you do not accept, then at Michaelmas you and your father will have to find somewhere new to live, and on a fraction of the income you now enjoy. I do not see you have a choice.’