Isabelle Goddard - Unmasking Miss Lacey

Her brother seemed a continuing presence, though as yet there had been no sign of him. ‘Was he permitted any sport?’ he asked curiously.

‘He wanted to learn to fence, but our grandparents thought it dangerous. Do you?’

‘Do I fence? Yes, frequently—at Angelo’s. One never knows when skill with the sword will come in useful,’ he added wickedly, and then, seeing her reproving expression, hurried on, ‘I compete in curricle races, too, and that is one of the roughest of sports!’

‘Then flowers will make an agreeable change.’

The succession houses were everything that the mansion was not—freshly painted, brightly lit and warm. Inside swathes of pelargoniums, fuchsias and heliotrope filled the space with such exotic colour that he blinked, but it was their overwhelming perfume that caught him in its grasp and played on his senses. He was filled with a mad desire to press Lucinda to him and dance with her around the flower-filled space.

His companion was not so easily distracted. ‘We must pick quickly before Latimer discovers us. He is the head gardener and considers everything he grows to be his and his alone.’

He tried to do as she asked, but her nimble fingers had filled two trugs to the brim before he’d managed to gather even a puny handful of chrysanthemums. ‘Do we drive them to the church or does the coachman also have a proprietorial attitude?’

She looked at him, astonished. ‘I would not call out the coachman to take a few handfuls of flowers little more than a mile. You are spoilt, my lord.’

‘EvidentIy,’ he murmured, picking up the heaviest basket. ‘Show me the way, Miss Lacey.’

He was not addicted to walking and his town attire was hardly suitable for a rural hike; he could only hope that his Hessians would survive. They were already beginning to lose their champagne sparkle and a tramp along a dusty lane was unlikely to improve them. But he was enjoying himself far more than he’d thought possible.

Verney turned out to be very neat and very small: a cluster of whitewashed cottages around the village green, a solitary shop which sold everything from shepherds’ smocks to a side of ham, and a church. It was Norman in design, its square tower looking proudly over the Sussex countryside, and its flint walls cradling several vividly stained-glass windows. Once through its huge oak door, the contrast in light was stark and for a moment he was blinded by the gloom. But as they walked towards the altar, pools of coloured light lit their way and the scent of flowers filled the air. He slid into a pew and watched as she arranged the blooms.

‘Do all the flowers come from the house?’

‘The cottagers provide them when they can, but it is more important for them to grow vegetables that they can eat.’

‘And you do this regularly? The church flowers, I mean.’

She straightened up, having put the last vase to rights. ‘When you live in a village, Lord Frensham, there are obligations.’ Her tone was crisp and he knew that she considered him incurably selfish.

‘It is a very attractive village, a very attractive part of the country,’ he said placatingly.

‘There is a splendid view from the church tower. If you have a head for heights, that is. When the air is as clear as it is today, it’s possible to see to Climping and the coast.’

The last thing he wanted to do was to climb the tower’s steep stairs, but he responded gallantly to the invitation. ‘What an excellent suggestion. Will you accompany me?’

If he were sensible, he would cut their walk as short as possible. Her uncle had thrown them together but that did not mean he had to go along with it. It would be better by far if he did not. But the sight of her slender, young figure in the simple sprig muslin, concentrating so hard on her task, had filled him with an unknown pleasure. He found that he did not want to be separated from her so soon.

She led the way up the spiral stone staircase. It was a climb of at least two hundred steps and by the time they finally reached the square turret, her eyes were sparkling with the effort. He clambered up the last few stairs and joined her on the tower. Despite the steep climb, neither was out of breath and they looked at one another with respect.

‘You did well, Lord Frensham. Normally visitors to the church need reviving by the time they make the tower roof.’

‘I do my best. But after sharing such a punishing experience, do you not think you could call me Jack?’

‘Jack,’ she said experimentally. ‘Is your name not James?’

‘It is—James Mountford Gillespie Beaufort. But I answer to Jack.’

She looked at his slim but powerful form, the glint in his eyes, the scar which enhanced rather than marred his face. ‘I can see why,’ she decided.

They walked to one side of the tower and looked out over the crenellated wall towards a distant sea.

‘It’s a perfect day.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘perfect.’ And for that moment it was.

‘And you are right, you can see all the way to the coast. Every detail is clear—see that convoy of wagons to the right, making their way northwards. They are travelling very slowly. Weighed down with treasure, no doubt,’ he joked.

‘Do your sisters call you Jack?’

‘When I was small I believe they did, but I am always James to them now.’

‘You are the youngest of the family?’

‘I am the long-desired heir.’

‘And did they spoil you—your sisters?’

‘I can’t recall they ever did.’

‘But your parents must have, if they waited so long for an heir.’

‘I hardly knew my parents,’ he mused. ‘They died when I was ten and, before that, I rarely saw them. From an early age I had my own quarters, my own staff. They came to see me on occasions and I visited the main house, but it was hardly an intimate family life.’

He had never been loved, but he was not about to confide that. He had been born to a role and that was his value. As a child he was uninteresting to his parents; as a future earl, he was cherished. He understood that now, but as a small boy, he had longed for a kind word, an affectionate hug, a loving smile. They had not been entirely absent—a succession of nurses had done their best—but he had looked in vain for a similar reward from his parents.

She looked aghast. ‘It sounds horrible.’

‘Not so horrible. I had the best of everything—the best clothes, the best food, the best tutors. Every wish was granted.’

‘That cannot have been good for you.’

‘Alas, no. As you see…’

‘And when did you become the earl?’

‘That, too, was not good for me. My godfather held the reins until I reached eighteen and then it was all mine—the title, the houses, the estates. No wonder I am deplorable.’

‘No wonder.’ But she was smiling as she said it.

He touched her arm. ‘Let us go down, Lucinda. I may call you that? I have a mournful fear that my boots will begin to pinch if I do not soon start back to the house.’

She turned to go, but then without warning dashed to the far wall and almost threw herself over the small parapet, or so it seemed to him. She was leaning at an acute angle, hanging dizzyingly in the air. ‘It’s still there. Look, Jack! That is where Rupert and I climbed and placed a little red banner we had made—my goodness, we must have been mad for there are no sure footholds on the tower.’

He raced across to the wall and grabbed hold of the folds of her muslin dress. ‘You seem to have changed little,’ he panted, clinging hold of her while straining to keep his footing. ‘Move back, Lucinda. We are both in danger.’

Gradually he managed to shuffle his arms until he could clasp her firmly around the waist and return her to an upright position.