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  The carriage jerked into motion once more and proceeded unevenly along the drivepath, which seemed to wind for miles through a wilderness area that at length became a spacious park.

  Lady Naomi peered about, curious to see if she recollected anything of this great estate of which she had for so many years expected to become mistress. Lined by dripping yews, the drive swung in a wide easterly curve. A grey mist hovered, limiting the view, but at last the gables of the three-storeyed Elizabethan house loomed up. It looked only vaguely familiar to Naomi, although she did remember the gardens in what had once been the moat, which surrounded the original pile. Noting the impressive entrance front, its forecourt sheltered by projecting wings, the countless latticed casements, the tall works of art that were the chimneys, she thought it a truly beautiful old place, so much more inviting than Collington Manor. The ancient mill and the now shallow millstream near the west side of the house evoked the shadowy image of a youth with brown curls and laughing grey eyes, playing with a liver and white spaniel …

  The coach rumbled over the narrow wooden bridge spanning the sunken gardens, and creaked to a stop. No stableboy or groom came running. No footman appeared at the deeply recessed front door. The house slumbered quietly under the steady beat of the rain.

  The guard swung down from the box and opened the carriage door. Naomi gave him her card and sent him off to request assistance.

  “There bean’t no one at home,” said Maggie, watching him nervously. “We’ll have to send Roger Coachman for help and goodness only knows when—”

  “No, but somebody is there,” Naomi interrupted. The front door had swung wide, and after a hurried colloquy the footman ran back to the coach, followed by a manservant with a far from pleased expression, and a large umbrella.

  “An my lady’s coachman ’e will drive to ze stables,” said this fussy little individual, his French accent pronounced, “zere should be ze wheel you can ’ave. Meantimes, you will be kind to come in ze ’ouse.”

  Naomi was more than willing to avail herself of this offer. She and Maggie were handed from the vehicle and ushered into a great hall with a fine, though coldly empty, fireplace at one end. The only furnishings were several bishop’s chairs and some ancient-looking chests. The air was chill and there were no maids bustling to greet them, no candles or lamps sending out a welcoming glow. The withdrawing room, however, was a wainscoted delight, richly furnished, and lit by the flames of a dying fire. The manservant left them, muttering something about tea, and after a few minutes an elegant gentleman hurried into the room.

  “’Tis my very great pleasure to welcome you, Lady Lutonville,” he said with a sweeping and magnificent bow.

  She had believed that Gideon Rossiter was safely in Europe with his regiment, and that she might suddenly come face-to-face with him had not occurred to her. For a panicked moment she was speechless, staring blankly at the tall young man who advanced to bow over her hand, and taking in the meticulously curled and tied wig, the lean, proud face with its finely cut features, the splendid physique, the peerlessly tailored riding coat of dull gold, the moleskin breeches and gleaming top-boots. She drew a breath of relief when she realized that the eyes watching her with such patent admiration were hazel. ‘Newby!’ she thought, and said, “Your pardon. La, but I must seem a proper wool gatherer! I had not expected to—”

  “To find anyone here?” He smiled faintly. “To say truth, we were on the point of leaving. Is my good fortune that I am tardy as ever, and thus win the privilege of being of some service to so lovely a lady.”

  ‘Hmm,’ thought Naomi, and gently detached the hand he still held. “I am truly grateful for your hospitality, Mr. Rossiter. Especially in—in view of the circumstances. I would not have dreamed of intruding, save that one of the wheels of my carriage split, and I recollected that your—that Promontory Point was nearby.”

  Although his eyes laughed at her, he said solemnly, “Thank heaven for your excellent memory, my lady. But your hand is like ice. Allow me to draw a chair closer to the fire. There. Your woman will want to go to the kitchens, I fancy.”

  Maggie gave a gasp and turned shocked eyes on her ladyship.

  Before Naomi could dispute this naughty suggestion, however, Mr. Rossiter went on apologetically, “I fear most of our servants have already gone to the Town house, and my man will appreciate her assistance.”

  He turned a winning smile on Maggie, and led her to the door. “’Tis this way, m’dear. All the way to the end there, then turn to the right and you’ll find it.”

  Maggie darted another scandalised glance at her mistress, but Naomi jerked her head and the girl went out.

  Rossiter sauntered back to the hearth. “I think you did not at first recognize me, my lady. I protest, I am desolate. I should know you anywhere.”

  The glint in the eyes, the provocative half-smile, were all too familiar. A handsome rascal, and very sure of his charm was Newby Rossiter, thought Naomi. Still, he was a gentleman and would doubtless behave himself did she show no inclination to flirt with him.

  She said with cool hauteur, “Faith, but you have a most excellent memory, sir. It must be at least seven years since last we met.”

  “Ah, but I travel also, Lady Naomi. You were pointed out to me in Rome four years ago, and the year before that I saw you in Vienna. What a tragedy that your sire’s duties for so long denied London the very fairest of her flowers.”

  He stepped closer, smiling down at her with a glow in his eyes she did not at all care for. Her manner became frigid. “Fie, sir! Such blatant flattery! I vow the Ambassador could benefit from your services. There are doubtless occasions when a silver tongue is an asset.”

  Refusing to accept the set-down, he put one hand on the arm of her chair and bent to her, saying lightly, “Ah, but then ’twould be a case of being obliged to flatter the vast spouse of some foreign dignitary, or waste my talents on elderly harridans and dowagers. Whereas, in this case, I have no need to flatter—only to speak purest truth.”

  He expected his words to evoke a blush, or shyly downcast eyes. Naomi gave him a cold stare, and asked, “Did you travel in Europe so as to visit Captain Rossiter, sir?”

  “No, I did not.” Amused, he said, “So we turn the conversation to my graceless twin, at last.” He noted her slight frown and laughed. “But of course, for that is why you are here! That is why you looked so startled when first I came into the room! You hoped to find Gideon come home! Why, you little minx!” He touched her cheek gently. “But such a very lovely minx.”

  Naomi came to her feet. “You forget yourself, sir! My maid accompanied me to the cathedral and—”

  “And you just chanced to break down upon my doorstep? Come now, fairest. Be honest and admit you came to discover is my brother as black as he’s painted. I’ll wager you believed all the rumours, poor child. Do you not yet know that you can trust to very little of what you hear? Only look at what is said of—you, m’dear … Were Gideon to believe all the tales—”

  “Your brother is at liberty to believe whatsoever he wishes, sir!” She started for the door, but Rossiter moved very fast to block her way.

  “Do you beat a hasty retreat because you dare not face the facts, dear lady?”

  Allowing rage to overcome her reluctance to bandy words with this man, she said, “To what facts do you refer, Mr. Rossiter? The fact that I committed some silly indiscretions which have been exaggerated out of all proportion to the actual events? Or—”

  “But my poor brother might well say the same, sweet soul. Likely, people exaggerate his—er, liaison with the beautiful lady of the gardens. Only think how discreetly he conducted this affaire de coeur, for even now nobody knows who she was, nor where they met—save that it was very frequently…” Watching her slyly, he went on: “And as for the little Belgian lovely he took for his mistress, that is not so dreadful, surely? I’ll admit ’twas unfortunate there was a by-blow, but you may be sure he’s left ’em by this time. Troth, but when a
man is at war, one cannot expect him to be a saint.”

  Her chin very high, her eyelids drooping with disdain, she said icily, “Nor would I expect any gentleman to discuss such things with an unwed lady. But since you have been so crude as to put the matter into words, Mr. Rossiter, I will tell you that I believe any gentleman who gives a lady a child and then leaves both to starve is ’neath contempt! Indeed, I wonder he was not asked to resign his commission! Good day to you.”

  With a swift pounce he had caught her by the arms. “Little prudery,” he said, amused.

  His hands were bruisingly hard, and knowing she could not escape she stood very still, looking up into his laughing face, seething with rage. “I see you have forgot what few manners you possessed. I’ve a mind to be released, sir. At once!”

  “But ’tis not my mind to release you, Lady Lovely. ’Twould be perfectly horrid. Now, if you will only be at ease, I shall dismiss Gideon from your thoughts, and we can be—”

  “Your twin occupies none of my thoughts,” she declared hotly, now struggling to free herself. “Which is as well, an he has grown to be anything like you.”

  He chuckled and pulled her closer. “But he has neither my looks nor my address, poor fellow. As you should recollect if—” The words were cut off by a pained yowl as Naomi ground her heel into his toe, then ran back several paces.

  Newby sank into the nearest chair and clutched his foot. “You damnable little shrew!”

  “For shame, Mr. Rossiter! I am a guest in your house. Your behaviour is insupportable. When my father learns—”

  “You’d best not tell him, my lady Prim! He’d likely spank you for setting foot on this estate. And if he feels obliged to call me out—well, I would really dislike to take advantage of an old man!”

  “The earl is far from old, and an excellent shot. Furthermore, sir, do not judge yourself safe because I have no brothers. I have cousins a’plenty, and good friends to whom I may turn for protection.”

  Knowing this to be true, he suffered a momentary qualm, then laughed sneeringly. “Such as your good friend the Mandarin?”

  With her hand on the door Naomi checked and said with regal hauteur, “There are far more despicable things than to have mixed blood, Mr. Rossiter. I give you joy of your tea. Good day.”

  She slammed the door before she was obliged to listen to his rageful response, and hurried down the chilly hall. In the kitchens she found Maggie, flushed and angry, and tea still not made. Naomi issued commands. In short order they were in the stables, where Roger Coachman and the guard had replaced the damaged wheel and were preparing to adjourn to the house for the promised refreshments. They looked disappointed when Naomi said curtly that there would be no further delays.

  “Anything wrong, ma’am?” asked the sturdy coachman, eyeing his beautiful charge narrowly.

  “Only that you were perfectly right,” said Naomi, the slightest tremor in her voice. “We should never have come here.”

  His rugged features even more formidable, he scowled at the house. “I thought as you were flying your colours! Do but say the word, milady, and—”

  Grateful for his loyalty, she put a hand on his sleeve and said fondly, “No, Roger, you dare not touch the wretch! Let us leave at once, and pray do not mention this episode to my father, for ’twould certainly lead to trouble!”

  In the coach, she leaned back, still flushed with wrath. She had not cared for Newby as a boy, but what a despicable creature he had become! Her hands were so cold. She gripped them tightly, furious with herself because she had been so stupid as to come here, and unable to shut out the silly thought that would not seem to leave her mind: ‘So there was a child…’

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was raining again by the time the coach rolled up the Collington drivepath. Gideon had never admired the long sprawl of the two-storeyed mansion, which could boast of neither bays, conservatory, nor the shallowest of projecting wings to alleviate its plain front. The unrelieved grey of stone and trim, he found depressing, and the balustrades above the cornices too heavy, adding to an overall impression of frowning gloom. The chilly veil of the rain did nothing to improve his memory of this birthplace of his betrothed, and as the postboys drew the horses to a halt, he was beginning to regret the impulse that had led him to travel west towards Tonbridge, instead of north to Promontory Point.

  Collington offered no porte-cochère or porch to shelter its visitors, but the large front door was flung open as the carriage approached, and a lackey under an open umbrella came to usher the caller inside.

  The entrance hall was vastly ostentatious with its painted ceilings, thick carpets, and a great quantity of red velvet and gilt furniture. Rossiter presented his card to the tall and stately butler and desired that it be conveyed to the earl.

  The butler’s gaze lingered on the calling card, then lifted to scan the gaunt-faced young officer. “His lordship,” he said, in a voice as dreary as the persistent rain, “is not at home.”

  “In which case,” said Rossiter, “you may tell the Lady Naomi that I am here.”

  “Lady Lutonville is not at home either, sir. Nor,” added the butler loftily, “is she expected.”

  There came a burst of laughter from somewhere in the house.

  The butler exchanged a sly grin with the footman who waited nearby. “In point of fact,” said the butler, “there is—ah, no one at home. At all. Sir.”

  Rossiter smiled and moved a step closer. “Do you know,” he said, “I really believe you have made a mistake. Take my card to Lady Lutonville. Without delay.”

  The captain had not raised his voice, but for an instant the butler had the distinct impression that he had been transfixed by a steel lance. Shocked, he looked away from the icy glare in what he was later to describe as the nastiest pair of eyes he ever had beheld. In a far more respectful tone, he bowed, desired the captain to wait, and trod with rare speed across the hall.

  He returned in a few minutes, rather pale, and followed by a sturdy lackey. “My regrets, Captain Rossiter,” he said uneasily. “But—’tis as I told you. There is—er, no one—er, at home.”

  Rossiter heard soft footsteps behind him. ‘The reserves,’ he thought, ‘have been called in.’ Rage blazed through him, but there was nothing to be gained by losing his temper. The servants were merely obeying orders. And however incomprehensible this treatment of a prospective family member, Collington had a perfect right to refuse to see anyone.

  He nodded, said a brusque “I see,” and turned on his heel.

  Two footmen and the lackey with the umbrella moved hurriedly from his path as he strode to the door.

  Someone murmured, “You reckon as he really does?”

  “Does—what?”

  “See.”

  A smothered laugh.

  Rossiter checked and turned about.

  The servants looked wooden but wary.

  “You!” snapped Rossiter, jabbing his finger at the sturdiest of them.

  The lackey jumped. “Not me, sir! Straight, Captain sir. ’Tweren’t me!”

  “The umbrella,” said Rossiter. “If you’re man enough to pick it up instead of giggling like a girl.”

  The lackey flushed scarlet and fairly flew to snatch the umbrella and whip the door open.

  Not a drop of rain fell upon the unwanted caller as he was escorted to his carriage.

  * * *

  The rosy cheeks of the proprietor of the Red Pheasant Inn glowed, and his shrewd brown eyes beamed with gratification as he ushered his fair charges out of the rain. Bowing as deeply as his well-padded middle would allow, he led the way across a parlour that made up in warmth and fragrance what it lacked in elegance. Little more than a hedge tavern, the old inn was too isolated to do a brisk trade and usually had to rely on the custom of occasional travellers unable to find accommodation at the fashionable posting houses, or who perhaps found such establishments beyond their means. In bad weather, however, when the condition of the roads took heavy toll of s
uch vital necessities as horseshoes, wheels, and (with luck) axles, the Red Pheasant did a roaring trade.

  It was roaring today. The yard was crammed with vehicles, some of whose owners had stopped here only for a tankard of ale, but a few coaches being in need of repairs, which would necessitate a longer stay. Such was the case with the vehicle owned by this lovely young female. Her wine velvet cloak, the rich laces that embellished her pink silken gown, and the prideful tilt to her pretty head, all spoke of the Quality. She paused on the threshold of the crowded dining room with a tiny frown in her eyes. Used to having the place to herself, guessed mine host, and didn’t much like having to mingle with the common herd. He stifled a sigh. She looked as if she’d have paid for her privacy, and it was a great pity he couldn’t lighten her purse, but his last bedchamber had been hired an hour since, and there was no—

  “Naomi!”

  The beauty’s green eyes widened, her face lit up, and she reached out to embrace the young lady who hurried with a shushing of silks to greet her. Heads turned, and for a moment the noisy room quieted as people watched the pair. That they should attract admiration was inevitable. The Lady Naomi was a fair beauty, and her friend was dark but just as lovely. She stood a little above the average height but she was fine boned and her creamy beige travelling gown clung to a tiny waist. Her ivory-hued skin was clear, her mouth sweetly bowed, her cheekbones rather broad but beautifully molded. Her black brows arched over a pair of velvety eyes of so dark a blue that at first sight they appeared to be black also. Despite their size and rich colour, however, it was her eyes alone which prevented her beauty from being termed perfection. Gentlemen found their slightly almond shape fascinating, but that her grandmama had been born to a lady of the Orient was well known. Her eyes were a reminder of that fact, and her mixed blood provided many less well favoured ladies with an opportunity to sneer.