His Lady Mistress (5 page)

‘Oh.’ He seemed to accept that. ‘I’ll mention this to your mistress and—’

‘For God’s sake,
no
!’ Shaking, she forced her voice to calm. ‘My—’
She’s your mistress, not your aunt
‘—Lady Faringdon would blame me, not Godf—not him. I’d be sacked. Please, don’t!’

‘What is your name?’

It nearly choked her, but somehow she got the hated name out. ‘Selina Dering, my lord.’ And bobbed a curtsy.

Another voice broke in. ‘And what, may I ask, is going on here?’

Chapter Two

V
erity wished she could turn to stone at the sound of Aunt Faringdon’s voice. Or at least to ice so that she wouldn’t feel anything. The soft voice bit deep.

‘You, Selina! Take yourself off. Presumptuous girl! Go to your room!’

Lady Faringdon turned to Lord Blakehurst, all honeyed smiles. ‘I must beg your pardon, Lord Blakehurst. That sort never know their place. I hope you were not too inconvenienced.’ She bore Lord Blakehurst away, casting a look over her shoulder at Verity that promised dire retribution on the morrow.

Verity retreated to the stairs and raced up to her dark, chilly little room. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, shaking in the cold blackness. Eyes tight shut, she saw again the face of her rescuer. Familiar eyes stared back haughtily. Eyes that comforted her dreams, that she’d never expected to see again in the waking world. The moonlight had never revealed their colour. Burning amber. He hadn’t recognised her.

Don’t think of him.

Verity prepared quickly for bed in the dark. Shivering, she lit her tallow candle, took her father’s journal from under her pillow and got into bed.

She couldn’t hide from the truth.

Lord Blakehurst, Celia’s supposed suitor, was
her
Max.

Dazed, she let the book fall open where it would. The start of the Waterloo campaign and her father’s first reference to
‘…my new Brevet Major, Max B. I shall not call him anything else here. His family name and degree have not the least significance in what lies before us. He is, however, a gallant lad, and one I shall be happy to rely on when we finally face Bonaparte. I have good reports of his intelligence and courage from his previous commanders…’

That was the first of many references. Apparently Colonel Scott had become very much attached to the younger officer. Almost like a son. She shut her eyes, remembering that tiny, dead baby sharing her mother’s grave…no, she mustn’t think of it, mustn’t remember her father’s return the next day…

‘I think Mary would approve him and Verity would like him. He has a gentle way with women and children.’

A few of the things William Scott had written about Max’s way with women should have brought a blush to his daughter’s cheeks, but Verity had come to the conclusion that young men were young men the world over. And apparently all the women Max had
entertained
in Brussels had been more than willing. It did not appear that her father had thought the worse of Max for his youthful sins.

Hungrily she read on through her father’s account of the weeks leading up to Waterloo. Max was mentioned regularly. In the five years since she had first read this journal, he had come alive for Verity in a way she could not quite understand. She knew his expertise with horses and his fondness for dogs. She knew he hated tea and how he liked his coffee. She even knew how he liked his eggs and bacon. And that he was perfectly capable of cooking it himself.

Above all his kindness and thought for an orphaned child glowed in her memory…
a gentle way with women and children
…

He was as real and precious to her as life itself. And the
Max she had found in her father’s journal reassured her that the man who had planted bluebells on a suicide’s grave, guarded her sleep and left her a decent breakfast, was not a figment of her imagination. In the past five years he had been her only friend, his very existence her only comfort as she cried herself to sleep. And now he was here, in the house, supposedly courting her cousin.

Shivering, she replaced the journal and snuffed the candle. She had never thought that he might be of such high degree. She wished she could forget.

An hour later she still lay in the dark, wishing Lord Blakehurst had never come to the house. Then she could at least have held on to her vision of Max. Max who, at least in her dreams, might be able to care for the disgraced daughter of a suicide.

Now the image she had held all these years was overlaid with the disturbing reality. An aristocrat who would never give her a second thought. Bitterly she remembered asking if she would ever see him again.

Better not, little one. I can offer you nothing.

No. Earl Blakehurst could offer nothing to Verity Scott. And, if she possessed the least vestige of common sense, she would stay out of his way.

Extricating himself from Lady Faringdon’s effusions, Max made his way to the billiard room where he found the gentlemen, except Godfrey. He only hoped he had convinced Lady Faringdon that his meeting with the unfortunate Selina had been entirely his fault. Somehow he doubted it.

The girl’s eyes haunted him. Dark, shadowy grey. Trusting. They struck a strange chord in him. Another girl had looked at him like that. He’d failed to help Verity Scott. He was damned if he’d fail to help this girl. A few quietly voiced threats might do the trick.

At the end of a game he said, ‘A word with you, please, Faringdon.’

Faringdon turned slowly, setting his cue down with great care. ‘If it’s about that business you mentioned earlier…’

Max took a careful breath. ‘Not exactly, sir. Merely that you might have a word with your son. I found him forcing his attentions on…one of your maids this evening.’

Faringdon started. ‘A…a maid? Which one?’

Remembering Selina’s eyes, wide with fear of dismissal, Max said, ‘How should I know?

Faringdon shrugged and picked up his cue. ‘Oh, well. Just a housemaid. Young men need to have their fun. You know how it is, my lord.’ He looked knowingly at Max. ‘Just a bit of sport. Dare say the wench was not really unwilling—’

Ice flooded Max’s veins. ‘I assure you, she was most distressed,’ he stated. ‘And I would have no hesitation in stating that to anyone who asked me.’ For all the use it would be. Faringdon didn’t give a damn. He added, ‘After all, you wouldn’t want anyone asking questions about Miss Scott’s tragedy, would you?’

To his utter amazement the other man went absolutely white. ‘Well, of course I will have a word to Godfrey, but really, Blakehurst! A maidservant! It’s not as though she is anybody important.’

Max walked out without another word before he could ask if Verity Scott had been important—before he could choke Lord Faringdon into a sense of his iniquities.

He went up to his bedchamber, where he found his ex-batman folding shirts.

‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he growled.

Harding grinned. ‘Doing me job, sir. It’s better than the servants’ hall here. Stuck-up lot, they are. Any luck, sir?’

Max dragged in a breath. Then let it out. Verity Scott’s death was too raw a wound. ‘No. Goodnight, Harding.’

Harding’s brows lifted. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

The door shut behind him and Max slumped into a chair.
All he wanted was some peace and quiet in which to think. To accept that he had failed Verity Scott as badly as he had failed her father. He had assumed that all was well, that she was safe with her relatives. He had thought there was nothing he could do.

The silence pounded the same message into his brain over and over. He had assumed wrongly. What the hell had they done to her? An image of Godfrey Faringdon flashed into his thoughts. Had Godfrey bullied her? Persecuted her the way he was apparently persecuting that poor girl, Selina?

Bitterly Max accepted that he would never know. That no one would talk for fear of scandal. And he had no way of finding out where the poor child was buried. He couldn’t even do as much for her as she had done for her father.

Shutting his eyes, he saw again the despairing child’s face. He’d never even seen her clearly in the firelight. Just the bleak misery and fear in her dark eyes. And the trusting gratitude. He didn’t even know what colour they had been.

Enthroned on a canopied sofa in her boudoir the following morning, Lady Faringdon ranted at her errant niece. ‘And just what did you intend by insinuating yourself into Lord Blakehurst’s presence? You conniving little slut!’ Without giving Verity a chance to respond, Lady Faringdon swept on. ‘To think that we have given you a home all these years, lent you our countenance! How dare you!’

Verity drew a deep breath, reminding herself not to strike her aunt’s countenance. ‘You can get rid of me easily enough, Aunt Faringdon. Write me a reference so that I can find a position and I’ll be gone.’

‘Why, you ungrateful wretch! Do you think—?’

She broke off as the door opened and Godfrey walked in. A night’s sleep had not improved the livid scratches, and Verity’s satisfaction burned coldly.

‘Godfrey! How frightful! Whatever happened?’ gasped Lady Faringdon.

He shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Just
her
—’ he cast Verity a spiteful look ‘—taking exception to something I asked of her.’

Verity shut her eyes briefly as churning fear replaced satisfaction. She could tell the truth about what Godfrey wanted—and be accused of trying to trap him into marriage. To share that particular trap with Godfrey…Better dead.

Breathing deeply, she sank into herself, away from the stream of invective, away from the hatred, letting it wash over her. She forced her eyes to remain blank, uncaring. It was the only defence she had left. A cloak of meekness over the boiling fury within.

The door opened abruptly to admit Lord Faringdon. His bulging gaze lit on Verity. ‘Out,’ he snapped.

Only too glad to remove herself, Verity headed for the door. And heard Lord Faringdon ask as she opened it, ‘What the devil happened between you and Blakehurst last night, boy?’ Shock held her, but she dared not remain. She shut the door with a shaking hand and glanced around the corridor. Empty.

Swiftly she bent to the keyhole. She was used to hearing nothing good of herself, and sometimes knowledge was safety.

‘Enough, sirrah! You will leave that chit alone until Blakehurst is out of the house! Do you hear me?’

Godfrey whinged unintelligibly, but Lord Faringdon’s response came through loud and clear.

‘Because if you don’t, I’ll cut off your allowance for a year. The last thing we need is—’

Whatever the last thing was, Verity missed it. Hearing footsteps, she straightened and fled. She’d heard enough. For the next few days she was safe. Perhaps that would give her time to think of some escape that had not occurred to her in the last five years. In the meantime, she must stay out of Lord Blakehurst’s way.

Verity folded another sheet and added it to the mended pile. Three to go. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that she had plenty of time. Everyone was still out on their river-boating expedition. She had at least two hours before she need expect them. Plenty of time to finish the mending, slip out into the gardens and still get back before there was any risk of being seen. Aunt Faringdon had made it perfectly plain yesterday morning that if she…
had the impudence to importune any other guests
…she would regret it.

There was nowhere else to go. She couldn’t afford to be thrown out. Not unless hell froze over and Aunt Faringdon gave her a reference as a governess or companion.

‘Which she won’t,’ muttered Verity, as she reached for another sheet. ‘She may hate me, but she’d hate paying twenty pounds a year for a governess even more.’ That was the only explanation she could think of for their refusal to let her go. Without a reference she was helpless.

The door opened abruptly and a tall, familiar figure whipped into the room, shutting the door with a speed only equalled by the silence with which he managed the feat. He spoke not a word, but looked around wildly.

Verity blinked as Lord Blakehurst made for the large cupboard in the corner. The doors stood wide and to her utter amazement he slipped into the corner behind the door. Still without a word.

‘Umm…my lord…’

He glared at her from his hiding place.
‘Ssshhh!’

Returning the glare with interest, Verity asked politely, ‘And your boots, my lord?’

‘My…?’ He looked down. ‘Oh, damn!’ His boots were clearly visible beneath the door. ‘Quick. Shove that mending basket in front, girl.’

Verity obliged, wondering what could have sent one of the wealthiest peers in the realm scuttling for cover like a startled coney.

A moment later she had her answer. The door opened and Lady Moncrieff looked in.

‘Is his lordship about, wench?’

Verity couldn’t help her eyes narrowing slightly. From her position she could see the lordship in question. And the very faint shake of his head.

Blandly she answered in her best servant’s voice. ‘Oh, no, mum. The master went boatin’ wiv all the other quality. Do you need summat mending?’

‘Lord Blakehurst, girl!’

Verity gritted her teeth. ‘Lord Blakehurst? Up here, mum? What would his lordship want wiv the likes of me?’

The delicately curved lips curled. ‘Nothing, I dare say. You’ve little enough to recommend you!’

The door shut with a snap and Verity muttered one pungent and graphic word more usually associated with the kennels.

‘Yes. Quite.’

She spun around and met her unwanted companion’s smile as he emerged from behind the door. Heat surged across her cheeks. In her anger she’d forgotten his presence.

‘She was wrong, you know,’ he added conversationally.

‘Wrong?’

‘Wrong,’ he affirmed. ‘You have plenty to recommend you,’ he went on. ‘Brains for one thing. Your accent was inspired.’ The smile in his eyes deepened. ‘Thank you,’ he added.

She resisted the urge to smile back and said shortly, ‘I think you’d better go.’ Before her lungs forgot how to function.