Buried Secrets (20 page)

But there had been that response to his kisses. His blood stirred at the memory of her pliant, willing body in his arms. Cord straightened in his saddle. He must ascertain where that spark of fear had come from. Then, perhaps he could deal with it—erase it.

Somewhere in his consciousness the thought stirred that his family—or rather, Aunt Binsted—would not endorse this program. Even if he was able to persuade Corisande that they would not suit, Cord was well aware that the daughter of an obscure country squire would not be seen by his aunt as a valid candidate for the position of Countess of Cordray.

That was unfortunate, but would not hinder him in his goal. He thanked God that he had not actually proposed to Corisande. She would be disappointed, of course, and he was sorry for that, but he was more than sure that her heart had not been touched. Corisande would just have to look elsewhere for her suitable parti.

Cord sighed. He could not think of returning to London at this point, but. ... He wondered grimly what steps had been taken so far by his redoubtable aunt to discover his whereabouts.

Chapter Fifteen

“It’s as if the ground opened and swallered ‘im whole, my lady,” pronounced Hamish McSorley in a dismal tone. The Bow Street Runner perched uneasily on one of the small, elegant occasional chairs in the morning room in Binsted House. Opposite him, the Marchioness of Binsted tapped an impatient foot.

“Surely, he must have left some trace on the way to wherever he went,” Lady Binsted protested. “One cannot leave London for a journey of any length without passing through toll gates and stopping at inns.”

“That’s true, my lady, but apparently that’s just wot your nevvy did. I’ve checked with every toll gate and innkeeper on every main road leading from London, and none of ‘em have seen anybody who looks like the description I gave of the Earl of Cordray.”

The marchioness clicked her tongue irritably. “So, what you are saying is that so far you have not earned a farthing of the sum I paid you last week.”

Mr. McSorley turned his misshapen hat in broad, stumpy fingers. “Well, I wouldn’t say that, ma’—my lady. “I traveled up to the estates you mentioned and made discreet inquiries. Ain’t anyone at Cordray Park, or either of the other two places seen hide nor hair of the earl. He ain’t been in contact with anyone there, neither. If ‘e’s out and about in the country, ‘e’s somewheres else altogether. Tell me, my lady”—he hunched forward a little in his chair, producing an ominous creaking as he did so—”does ‘e ‘have any p’ticular friends who live outside the city—but not too far?” He coughed delicately. “A lady friend, p’raps?”

The possible answer to the question of her nephew’s whereabouts had already occurred to Lady Binsted, but she stiffened in outrage. “Good God, are you suggesting, my good man, that my nephew—?” She sat back, abruptly abandoning her stance. “Of course, Cordray has many acquaintances in all parts of the country. And, yes,” she admitted grudgingly, “he does have his little connections—as do most gentlemen. However, nearly everyone with whom he might be, er, visiting is here in Town. We are approaching the height of the Season, you know,” she added for the benefit of one who she assumed would know no such thing.

Mr. McSorley merely grunted. “Wull, I’ll keep on with my inquiries. Are you sure it was ‘is lordship’s curricle that he took with ‘im?”

“Why, yes, or so said his head groom. Of course, his favorite hack is missing, too. One would expect him to take—Zeus, I think his name is—if he planned to stay at his destination for any length of time. He would not use the curricle for short jaunts about the countryside.”

The Runner rubbed his chin. “It occurs t’me, my lady, that mebbe ‘is lordship
rode
out o’town, instead o’ drivin’. That way, he could avoid the toll gates—and he may not have traveled far enough t’avail ‘isself of an inn.”

“But, the curricle—”

“Mebbe ‘e rode ‘is ‘orse and sent the curricle along with somebody else. His valet, I’d think, since that feller seems to ‘ave gone missing as well.”

Pulling out a grimy bundle of papers from a capacious pocket, Mr. McSorley commenced making notes in what he called his Occurrence Book. Lady Binsted, in response to his questions, furnished him with descriptions of Hopkins and Cord’s little tiger, of whose name she was unaware.

Thanking her ladyship, McSorley rose and made a courteous farewell, leaving the marchioness to stare unseeing before her. Had Cordray ridden out of London on horseback, like an escaped felon? Had he been so determined to avoid the efforts of his family in buckling him to Corisande Brant? Surely, he must see that his relatives—well, all right, it was she, herself, who was the most vocal in this project—sought only his best interests.

She thought of Cord as a child, an open, warmhearted boy. He had loved his parents, if rather distantly—much as any other youngster raised in an upper-class family. Again, like many such children, the greater part of his affection had been given to and returned by his nurse. He still visited old Mrs. Bender frequently and never forgot her at Christmastime or her birthday. As an adult, Cord was generally deferential to his older relatives— except in the case of his proposed marriage to Corisande.

The countess frowned. When had Cord, always so active and energetic as a child, changed into the bored, indolent specimen who fairly sulked at her when she so much as mentioned his responsibilities to his family.

Lady Binsted sighed. Why could her nephew not see that Corisande was the perfect mate for him? In recent years, she had convinced herself that Cord had come to the same conclusion and that his resistance was only the token objection expected from any bachelor of lively habits. Though he had disputed her intentions at every turn, Cord had always capitulated in the end to her various plans to throw them together.

Now, she was forced to ponder the question—had she wholly misread Cord? Had her refusal to listen to his objections forced him into headlong flight?

She shook herself. What nonsense! If she was the only member of this family willing to put forth the effort to bring Cord to his responsibility, so be it. It was up to her to find Cord and bring him to the point, and she would not shirk her duty.

Thank the Lord, Wilfred had taken up the slack occasioned by Cord’s absence. He had squired Corisande to Lady Forstead’s ball and to Mrs. Beaumont’s Venetian Breakfast. He planned to escort her to the Wilton’s rout this evening. For Cord’s all-but-betrothed to appear in his brother’s company was perfectly unexceptionable, and the girl was saved considerable embarrassment at Cord’s disappearance. How fortunate it was that the two seemed to enjoy each other’s company.

Lady Binsted rose and moved to the bellpull. A strong cup of tea, she felt, would assist her in marshaling the next move in her offensive.

At Rose Cottage, Gillian went about her routine in an oddly unsettled mood. She had presented her usual serene, loving visage to her aunt and uncle, assuring their comfort as she always did, and driving out with Aunt Louisa in the afternoon to pay the calls in which the old lady so delighted. Now she sat in the little room behind the stairs that she used as an office, going over the accounts for her little family. She had not seen Cord since his departure from Rose Cottage three days earlier. She knew he had been busy with Mr. Jilbert, and would most probably return to the bosom of the Folsome family when his duties permitted.

At least, that is what she told herself. His behavior when he had left her standing before the cottage had been most peculiar. After his apology for yet another stolen intimacy, he had then apologized for his subsequent loverlike speech. This was followed by a declaration of only the most platonic of future behavior. What was really odd, however, was the way his jaw had then fallen open as though someone had struck him a blow to the back of the head. He had all but careened off down the drive with barely a word of farewell. Had he regretted his words?

Her concerns were laid to rest late that afternoon when she was interrupted in her little office by the sounds of an arrival. Hurrying to the hall, she intercepted Widding’s welcome of the Earl of Cordray. Cord, handing him hat and gloves, raised his head at Gillian’s entrance. For a moment, his eyes lit like emeralds in sunlight. He lowered them almost immediately, and when he looked at her again, they were merely their usual deep green.

She was absurdly glad to see him. The reason being, she told herself, was that she had become used to seeing him almost every day, and thus missed his appearance at the cottage.

“I’m so glad to see you!” she exclaimed before she could stop herself. He turned abruptly from Widdings, lifting his head to gaze directly at her. That unsettling light sprang again into his green eyes and he started toward her.

“Gillian!” He grasped her hands in his, and for a moment she thought he meant to gather her into an embrace.

Whether or not this had been his intent, he glanced back at Widdings and, after dropping a brief kiss on her fingers, released them and stepped back. Widdings, bearing the hat and gloves with appropriate reverence, silently exited the hall.

“I ... I suppose,” said Gillian rather breathlessly, “you have come to see Uncle Henry. John Smith arrived about an hour ago, and they are closeted in the study.” She turned to accompany him from the hall, but he placed a hand on her arm.

“I cannot stay,” he said. “I am on my way to Great Shelford to consult with the man who is going to start construction on new bridges next week. I merely came to—ah, good day, Mrs. Ferris.”

Aunt Louisa, who had hurried to greet the earl on hearing of his arrival, accepted his casual embrace. “How very nice to see you dear boy!” she exclaimed. “How early you are up and about, but we have missed you. Sir Henry and Mr. Smith have been at their work for some time. They—”

“Actually, Mrs. Ferris, as I was just explaining to Gill—Miss Tate, I must be on my way. I have merely stopped to invite you all to a small dinner party I am planning for a few days hence. In fact, I was hoping you would act as my hostess, dear lady.”

Aunt Louisa grew quite pink with gratification. “Why, of course. Cord. I would be delighted. Is there anything I can do to help with the planning of your party?”

Cord smiled ruefully. “I’m glad you offered, for I’d greatly appreciate your conferring with Mrs. Moresby on the guest list—and the menu. I was thinking of a week from Thursday. Is that enough notice, do you think? I don’t want to leave it much later, for I must return to London.”

Aunt Louisa’s face fell. “So soon?” She sighed. “I suppose it’s to be expected, for I’m sure you’ve left many duties unfulfilled in your absence. But, we will miss you, Cord.”

“And I you,” Cord replied gently. “All of you,” he added, though his gaze did not leave Aunt Louisa’s face.

“Ten days should be quite enough notice,” said Aunt Louisa after a thoughtful pause. “In any event, I should imagine that if any of your proposed guests have a previous engagement, they will cancel it. To a man—and woman—they’d rather die than miss the opportunity to further their acquaintance with the Earl of Cordray.”

Gillian watched with amusement as Cord absorbed this apparently unpalatable information. He merely bowed, however, and promised to pay a visit of longer duration within a day or two.

And he did. The very next day, the earl presented himself at the cottage, and spent the afternoon in lively debate with Sir Henry, following which he was persuaded to stay for dinner.

Conversation was general around the table, and Gillian did not allow her gaze to stray to Cord any more than was seemly. Nor did Cord direct more than a modicum of conversation her way. After dinner, he stayed for only a few minutes, taking himself off after a promise to make himself available for the next day for a visit from Aunt Louisa for the purpose of drawing up a guest list for the proposed dinner party.

Later that evening, as he prepared for bed, Cord congratulated himself on a few hours well spent. Though he would have preferred to stay longer at the cottage, envisioning another conversation with Gillian before the fire, he realized the folly—to say nothing of the danger— of such a course, and had contented himself with the pleasure of simply watching Gillian by candlelight. She had worn her chestnut hair in a loose knot atop her head tonight, from which a few glossy tendrils escaped to frame the delicate features of her face in a charming filigree.

As always, she had made her aunt and uncle the primary focus of her attention, chuckling at Sir Henry’s ancient witticisms and bending her head to catch each of Mrs. Ferris’s tidbits of local gossip.

With some effort Cord wrenched his thoughts from Gillian and the charming pictures she formed in his mind. Most important, he mused with some satisfaction, he had arranged for Mrs. Ferris to visit Wildehaven on the following day,
sans
Gillian, for a conference on the guest list for the proposed dinner party. His interest in the function was minimal, but he realized that it was incumbent upon him to make himself known to his neighbors. That it presented the opportunity for which he had been searching was sheer serendipity—all going to show, he reflected virtuously, that doing one’s duty provided its own rewards.

Mrs. Ferris appeared on schedule the next morning, a sheaf of papers in her hand.

“Just a few notes,” she explained, “on some of the families hereabouts.”

Cord led her to his study, where he deposited the little bundle on his desk and drew up a chair for Mrs. Ferris. The next hour was taken up with an exhaustive study of the notes and other information culled from that good lady’s brain.

“I know you will want to meet Sir Arthur and Lady Beecham. It is fortunate for us that they are in the area right now, for they usually repair to their estate in Scotland at this time of year. Oh, and, of course, the Wentleys. Such a nice family. They will be leaving soon for London, for their daughter, Emily, is to make her come-out this year. Lovely girl, but somewhat spoiled to my way of thinking. Now,” she added somewhat doubtfully after a moment, “there are also Mr. and Mrs. Drublingham. She comes from a good family, but I cannot like him. And their son, Reginald—he is four-and-twenty now, and a perfectly dreadful young man. A loose fish I think you would call him.”