Nicola Cornick: The Blanchland Secret

Aware that she was speculating in a most ill-bred manner, Sarah smiled a little. She was certain that Churchward had been shocked by her lack of sensibility when acquainted with the news! Engrossed in her thoughts, she stepped off the pavement and someone bumped into her, knocking all the breath out of her body. The roses went flying across the cobblestones. Sarah lost her balance and would have fallen were it not for an arm that went hard around her waist, steadying her.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am!’ a masculine voice exclaimed. ‘Devilish clumsy of me!’

The gentleman set Sarah gently on her feet and removed his arm from about her with what she considered to be unnecessary slowness. He turned to gather up the scattered flowers, but he was too late. A carriage, bowling along at a smart pace, neatly severed the heads of half of them.

‘Oh, no!’ Sarah went down on her knees again to try to rescue those that were left, but even they were bruised, their petals drooping. Amelia would be furious. The red roses were the centrepiece of her decoration the following night and the florist had grown them especially for the event. With all her heart Sarah wished she had left the roses to be brought round later on the cart with the other flowers, but she had been looking forward to walking through the winter streets with such a splash of colour. She sat back on her heels, holding the sad bouquet in her hand.

‘Pray have some sense, madam! You are likely to be squashed flat if you remain in the road!’

The gentleman took Sarah firmly by the elbow and hauled her to her feet again. There was considerably less courtesy in his voice this time.

Sarah stepped back and glared at him furiously. ‘I thank you for your concern, sir! A pity you did not think of the danger before you consigned my roses to precisely that fate!’

The gentleman did not answer at once, merely raising one dark eyebrow in a somewhat quizzical fashion. His thoughtful gaze, very dark and direct, considered Sarah from her skewed bonnet to her sensible shoes, pausing on her flushed face and lingering on the curves of her figure beneath the practical pelisse. Sarah raised her chin angrily. Her experience of gentlemen was indisputably small, but she had no trouble in recognising this one as a rake—nor in reading the expression in his eyes.

His was a tall and athletic figure, set off to perfection by an elegance of tailoring seldom found in conservative Bath society. London polish, Sarah thought immediately, remembering Amelia’s description of her years in the capital and the intimidatingly handsome gentlemen who had flocked to her balls and soirées. This gentleman had thick fair hair ruffled by the winter breeze, its lightness a striking contrast to the dark brown eyes that were appraising her so thoroughly. A slight smile was starting to curl his firm mouth as he took in the angry sparkle in Sarah’s eyes, the outraged blush rising to her cheeks.

‘I can only apologise again, madam,’ the gentleman said smoothly. ‘I was so taken in admiring the beauties of this city—’ the amusement in his eyes deepened ‘—that I was utterly engrossed!’

Sarah felt an answering smile starting and repressed it ruthlessly. There was something here that was surprisingly hard to resist; some indefinable charm, perhaps, or, more dangerously, an affinity that was as disturbing as it was unexpected. The gentleman exuded a careless confidence and a vitality that seemed to set him apart. Bath was full of invalids, Sarah realised, and it was almost shocking to meet someone who seemed so very alive.

The strangest thing of all was that he seemed vaguely familiar. The combination of fair hair and dark eyes was very unusual and definitely stirred her memory. She paused, unaware that she was staring and that the quizzical twinkle in the gentleman’s eyes had changed to thoughtful speculation.

‘I beg your pardon, but have we met before, sir?’ Sarah frowned slightly. ‘There is something familiar—’

Too late, she realised just how he might misinterpret her question. She had been thinking aloud and bit her lip, vexed with herself.

The gentleman’s dark eyebrows rose fractionally and there was a certain cynicism in his drawl as he said, ‘You flatter me, ma’am! I should say that we could be very good friends if you so choose.’

The colour flooded into Sarah’s cheeks. She stopped dead, regardless of curious glances from the other shoppers in Milsom Street.

‘That was hardly my intention, sir! I would scarcely attempt to scrape an acquaintance in so ramshackle a manner, particularly with a gentleman who is an undoubted rake! Your assumptions do you no credit! Good day to you, sir!’

He was already before her as she turned on her heel to leave him standing there.

‘Wait!’ He put out a hand to detain her. ‘Forgive me, ma’am! It was not my intention to offend you!’

Sarah looked pointedly down at his hand on her arm, and he removed it at once. ‘I should have thought that that was precisely what you intended, sir!’

‘No, indeed!’ He would have seemed genuinely contrite were it not for the glint of amused admiration she could see lurking in his eyes. ‘I intended quite otherwise—’ He broke off at the furious light in Sarah’s eyes. ‘You must allow me to apologise for my deplorable manners, ma’am! And for the roses…’ He gave a wry smile to see the drooping posy in Sarah’s hand. ‘I hope it is a simple matter to procure some more?’

It was said in the tones of someone who had never had any difficulty in finding—or paying for—two dozen red roses for his latest inamorata. Sarah, who was finding it extraordinarily difficult to remain angry with him, managed a severity she was proud of.

‘I fear that these were the last roses to be had, sir,’ she said frostily. ‘They were grown especially. And even if they were not, I can scarce afford to go around Bath buying up flowers in an abandoned fashion! Now, you will excuse me, I am sure!’

The gentleman appeared not to have heard his dismissal, although Sarah suspected that he had, in fact, chosen to ignore it. He fell into step beside her as though by mutual consent.

‘I trust that you were not injured at all in the accident, ma’am?’ The undertone of amusement was still in his voice. ‘It was remiss of me not to enquire before. Perhaps I should escort you home to reassure myself that you are quite well?’

Sarah raised her eyebrows at such flagrant presumption. She wondered just how blunt she was going to have to be to dismiss him. It was difficult when a part of her was drawn to him in such a contrary fashion, but she was not accustomed to striking up a conversation with strange gentlemen in the street. Besides, no matter what her errant senses were telling her, such behaviour was dangerous. This man was definitely a rake and had already shown that he would take advantage.

‘It is quite unnecessary for you to accompany me, sir. I am indeed well and will be home directly!’

‘But it is not at all the done thing for a lady to wander around unattended, you know,’ the gentleman said conversationally. ‘I am sure that Bath cannot be so fast as London; even so, the worthy matrons would not approve of such behaviour!’

Once again, Sarah was almost betrayed into a smile. He was outrageous, but surprisingly difficult to resist.

‘I am sure that you are aware, sir, that it causes less speculation to walk around unchaperoned than to be seen in company with a complete stranger! That being the case, I shall continue alone and wish you a pleasant stay in our city!’

So saying, she gave him a cool nod and walked away, every line of her body defying him to follow her.

Guy, Viscount Renshaw, watched the slender figure walk purposefully away from him. A faint, rueful smile curved his lips. He saw the lady reach the corner of the street, saw her pause to exchange greetings with a gentleman coming the other way and noted with quickened interest that the gentleman was his good friend, Greville Baynham. Reflecting that it was fortunate that Bath society was proving to be so close-knit, Guy strolled across the street just as Greville took his leave of the lady.