Janice Preston - Scandal And Miss Markham

‘M-Mama says my visits agitate Papa; she d-discourages me from attending him.’ For the flash of a second, a bewildered child stared out of those huge hazel orbs. Then it seemed as though a shutter closed and the brisk, efficient Dorothea Markham returned. ‘Daniel took over the running of the business when Papa...when it happened. I help as much as I can, but now Daniel is missing and, somehow, your cousin is involved, and I—Mannington!’

Her voice suddenly rang with excitement and she captured Vernon’s gaze, her eyes sparkling, sending a jolt of heat sizzling through his veins. He could barely concentrate on her words, so taken aback was he by his unexpected physical response.

‘I recall... I am sure I have seen...’

She ran past Vernon to the desk, leaving a trail of floral scent wafting in her wake.

Roses. A summer garden. Quintessentially feminine.

She snatched up a handful of papers from the pile he had noticed before and began to leaf through them. After a few minutes she exclaimed in triumph, extracted a sheet of notepaper, and waved it in the air. ‘It did not resonate with me at first, but then... I remembered.’

‘May I see?’ Vernon reached for the sheet of paper.

Her gaze flicked to his outstretched hand, but she made no move to hand it to him. ‘I thought it was the name of a place,’ she continued. ‘It never occurred to me that Mannington was a person. At last, I have a definite clue.’

Vernon did not retract his outstretched hand, merely waited until she capitulated and handed him the paper.

‘Thank you.’ He scanned the sheet. It took no time at all, for there were only two words, separated by a pair of initials.

Mannington—R.H.—Willingdale?

Vernon frowned. ‘What...or where...is Willingdale? And who, do you suppose, is R.H?’

‘I have no idea.’

Silence reigned. A glance revealed Dorothea seemingly deep in thought as she leaned back against the edge of the desk, her arms folded as she gazed unseeingly past Vernon, a vertical groove between her brows.

Vernon reread the words written on the paper.

Willingdale... A village? An estate? The name of a person?

He was torn from his thoughts by a muffled whimper.

Chapter Three

Thea tried so hard to hold back her tears, but she simply could not. She dropped her chin into her chest, hand pressed against her lips as her sight blurred. To her horror a single tear plopped on to her bodice, leaving a damp splodge as the fabric absorbed it. Then another tear fell, and another. A large handkerchief was pressed into her hands. She dabbed at her eyes and forced herself to look up. The sympathy in Vernon’s green eyes almost set her off again, but she gritted her teeth and cleared her throat.

‘I am sorry. I was just thinking...if only I had paid more attention...’

‘You must not blame yourself.’

Thea swallowed her bitter laugh. Blame herself? She had done nothing but blame herself for the past six years.

‘Where is he?’ The words burst from her. ‘Why has he not even wr-written?’ Her voice choked in her throat, and she buried her head in her hands. ‘I fear the worst...’ A sob broke free. Then another. ‘B-but I must know. I c-cannot bear this...this ignorance. I f-feel so...so alone.’

Two arms wrapped around her and her head was pressed to a strong chest, the thud of his heart steady and reassuring in her ear. He held her, and stroked her hair, and she gave way to the storm of tears she had dammed up ever since the morning she had discovered that Daniel had failed to come home.

Finally the tears slowed, leaving empty shame at having succumbed to such womanly weakness. What must he think of her? Her breath hitched as she battled for control.

‘Do not despair, Miss Markham.’ Vernon’s deep voice rumbled into the ear pressed against his chest, reverberating through her entire body. Words he had spoken before but somehow, this time, of even more comfort. ‘You no longer carry this burden alone.’

Thankfulness and hope floated into her heart. Her need to confide, to have somebody on her side, was so strong it almost overwhelmed her innate caution. She felt torn: she wanted so much to believe him...to follow the instincts that told her she could trust him, but...he was a stranger. She could not be certain of what was in his heart.

As she grew calm again a single thought clarified in her mind. She cared not how she managed it but—if Vernon was going to search for Daniel—she was going, too.

‘I am sorry,’ she said, mopping her eyes again with his handkerchief, as she wriggled free of his arms. She blew her nose. ‘I am not normally given to such displays.’

She crossed to the table near the window to finish off her glass of Madeira, then squared her shoulders and turned to face Vernon. It was time to stop moping and take action.

‘Shall we discuss strategy?’

‘Strategy, Miss Markham?’

The laughter lines at the corner of his eyes deepened although his lips remained perfectly straight. Thea scowled at this spoilt lord who clearly found her an object of fun.

‘I have no need of strategy. With this information...’ he picked up the discarded note from the desk, folded it and tucked it inside his jacket ‘...and a quick chat with your grooms, I have everything I need.’

He swung around and strode for the study door and panic swamped Thea.

What have I done?

‘Wait!’

She had handed this stranger information that might help him trace Daniel, but could she trust him? What if he meant Daniel harm? This was happening too quickly. He might have decided he needed no strategy, but she needed time to think. To plan.

Above all, she needed reassurance that this man was precisely what he appeared to be: a charming, cultured gentleman. She recalled her fanciful notion that she had glimpsed a wolf beneath his surface: a wolf that watched and waited. What if he had a hidden agenda? What if he was like Jasper Connor who, for months on end, had duped Thea and her entire family into thinking he was something he was not?

Vernon had halted at her command and he slowly rotated to face her. He raised a brow, the epitome of aristocratic arrogance. An idea started to form in Thea’s brain. If she could but delay his departure a short while...

‘You will stay and have luncheon before you set out?’

‘I thought time was of the essence?’

‘It is. But a few hours will not make much difference. You must eat.’

Doubt—and masculinity—radiated from the man: his booted feet planted a yard apart, his arms folded tight across his chest, his lips compressed.

Inspiration struck. ‘You cannot go to the Nag’s Head dressed as you are.’

He glowered. ‘What is wrong with the way I am dressed?’ He unfolded his arms and took a pace towards her. ‘I’ll have you know this coat is by Weston. It is—’

‘It proclaims you for what you are,’ Thea said. She stepped closer, and held his gaze. ‘A wealthy gentleman. Places such as the Nag’s Head are not patronised by members of the aristocracy, but by ordinary men: businessmen, tradesmen, farmers. They will not speak openly to a man of your ilk. A stranger.

‘Why don’t you go to the stables and speak to the grooms,’ she went on, ‘and by the time you return to the house there will be food ready for you to eat and, after that, I shall find you something appropriate of Daniel’s to wear.’ She looked him up and down. ‘You are of a similar height and build to him. His clothes will help you to blend in.’

That should buy her time to put her plans into place.

‘Very well.’ Vernon paused as he was about to leave the study. ‘I just wish I could be certain Daniel’s disappearance is connected to Henry Manning. If the two things are coincidental, I might end up on a wild goose chase.’