Sarah Mallory - Pursued For The Viscount's Vengeance

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Harris asked now. ‘If this Kirkster should get wind of who you are he could be dangerous.’

‘My dear John, the fellow doesn’t know me from Adam and will not learn my identity until I am ready.’ He could not resist adding, ‘Unless your gabbing gives our game away.’

‘Well I don’t like it and so I tell you. Why you can’t just call the man out and put a bullet through him I don’t know.’

The neckcloth was tied to Gil’s satisfaction, but he continued to stare into the mirror.

‘That would be too easy a death for him. I want him to know what it is to have someone close to you suffering and not be able to help them.’

‘Well, it ain’t like you, sir, that’s all I’m saying. You’ve always been one for plain dealing, but this, well, I don’t like it.’ Even without looking around Gil knew Harris was shaking his head as he spoke. ‘Plain simple justice I could understand, but not this havey-cavey business.’

‘If you don’t like it, John, then you are free to go back to Gilmorton and wait for me there.’

‘And have your mother worrying even more because you was on your own? No, my lord, that I won’t do. I’m your man and I’ll be here to the end. Whatever that may be.’

His loud sigh and gloomy words banished Gil’s scowl. He turned, grinning, and put a hand on the valet’s shoulder.

‘And I am glad to have you with me, John, truly. Now, you stay here and see what gossip you can pick up about Kirkster and his sister in the taproom, while I sally forth to sample the pleasures of Fallbridge on market day!’

It was a sunny morning and the walk from the inn to the market a short one. Gil had chosen his clothes with care, a plain coat of russet-coloured wool over buckskins and boots, eminently suitable for a country gentleman, although a knowledgeable eye would know at a glance that the coat had been made by one of the finest tailors in London, the glossy top boots purchased from a certain establishment on the corner of Piccadilly and St James’s Street, while his curly brimmed hat, impeccable cream waistcoat and snowy linen were clearly the mark of a fashionable man.

Gil had been in Fallbridge for two weeks, making himself familiar with the area, but he was in no hurry to approach Lord Kirkster or his sister. He had seen Kirkster a couple of times in local taverns and at last night’s assembly at the Red Lion, but Deborah Meltham was regularly out and about in the town. She appeared to be well respected in Fallbridge and spent most of her time on charitable errands or visiting neighbours. Occasionally he would see her purchasing a few household necessities before walking back to Kirkster House, the substantial family mansion just outside the town on the Ormskirk Road. She rarely visited the milliner or the haberdasher and Gil concluded she had little interest in frivolities such as hats or ribbons.

She always walked alone, without even a maid, and there was something very contained about her, reserved, as if she had made a conscious decision to keep the world at bay. Gil wondered if she was lonely and was obliged to push aside a stab of sympathy. If that was the case, she would be all the more receptive to his overtures, when he made his move.

A sudden chill ran through him. He ascribed it to the gusty wind, which made him grab at his tall hat to prevent it flying away. He kept his head down and quickened his pace, heading for the town centre, where the tall buildings would offer some shelter from the wind. As he turned the corner into the high street he almost collided with someone coming the other way. A woman, he realised as he took in the neat little boots and plain skirts made of serviceable dimity. They both stopped, but he heard a soft ‘Oh’ and saw a brown-paper package drop to the floor.

‘I beg your pardon.’ Instinctively he bent to pick it up, only raising his eyes as he handed over the parcel, and it was at that moment he found himself looking into the face of Miss Deborah Meltham.

* * *

Deb had been lost in her own thoughts, hurrying to return the shawl her kind friend Lady Gomersham had loaned her and get back to Randolph, but the near collision brought her to a sudden halt. She was murmuring her apology even as the gentleman scooped up her parcel. It was then, as he straightened and looked at her, that she recognised him.

Manners were forgotten. Deborah stared at the man as he handed back her package. He had been a shadowy figure for some weeks, but fate had given her this opportunity to study him and she took it. She observed every detail: the near-black hair, the slate-grey eyes set beneath curving dark brows, the unsmiling mouth and strong cleft chin. The lines of his lean face were too angular to be called handsome, but they were further disfigured by a thin scar that ran down the left side, from temple to chin.

All her suspicions were confirmed when he met her eyes. His was not the look of a man who had just bumped into a stranger. The intensity of his gaze made her tremble inside and set her pulse racing, but the next instant he had stepped back and was smiling politely as he tipped his hat to her and strode on. Deb clutched her parcel and remained frozen to the spot, trying to quieten her pounding heart. She must not turn back. She must not stare after him. Summoning all her willpower, she forced herself to walk on around the corner and out of sight, but for the rest of the day she carried his stern, unsmiling image in her head. The Man with the Scar.

* * *

Well, that was unfortunate. Gil walked swiftly away, cursing his bad luck. It had not been his plan to become acquainted with Deborah Meltham until he had learned a little more about her. He needed to be sure of his ground if he was to woo her successfully. He had never set out to do such a thing before and had intended to plan his every move as he would a military operation, to ensure he achieved the required result.

Gil frowned, thinking of her reaction to their unexpected meeting. At first there had been the shock and embarrassment natural to such an encounter, but when she raised her eyes to his face there had been something more. Recognition. Damnation. He had been careful to keep his distance, to remain in the background while he had been observing her, but it was clear that he had not been careful enough. After this chance encounter he could no longer put off his plan, so he had best get on with it. His eyes searched the town square and, spotting his quarry, he moved in.

‘Sir Geoffrey, good day to you.’ Gil touched his hat, smiling pleasantly, and when the man looked blankly at him he added, ‘James Victor. You may recall we met in the card room last night.’

‘Ah, yes, Mr Victor. Good day, sir, good day.’ The older man beamed at him. ‘I remember you now! Here on business, if I recall.’

‘No, no, not business exactly. I am minded to buy a property in the area.’

‘And there’s nowhere better, sir, as I can vouch for!’ Sir Geoffrey turned to accompany him on his way. ‘So, what have you seen so far?’

Gil mentioned a couple of houses, asked a few questions and it was not long before this had the required effect.

‘Well if you are serious, young sir, then perhaps you should meet some more of your prospective neighbours. My wife is holding a little party tomorrow night. Nothing fancy, you understand, just a few card tables, perhaps a little dancing. Gomersham Lodge, at the end of Mill Lane.’

‘I’d be delighted to come, only... Lady Gomersham will not object to a stranger turning up at her drawing room?’

‘Not a bit of it, always pleased to have another gentleman in attendance...’ Sir Geoffrey’s pale eyes twinkled merrily ‘...and if you can be persuaded to stand up for a dance or two she will be even more delighted!’