Jane Feather (9 page)

And so damnably infuriating and opinionated and
blind
about so many things. She dropped to her knees to retrieve the pieces of the puzzle, scrambling around until she was sure she had them all. There was nothing worse than coming to the end of a puzzle and finding pieces missing.

On her way upstairs to change into her riding habit, she bumped into Duncan and his friends in the hall. “We’re bidden at Beringer Manor for twelve thirty, Gen, so we thought we’d start out at noon,” her brother said. He was looking somewhat recovered, and the faint scent of ale on his breath indicated that he’d resorted to the age-old remedy of the hair of the dog. The same miasma of fermented yeast hung around his guests, who, although bleary-eyed still, seemed cheerful enough.

It was just then that the front door opened and Harry Graham came in, stamping frost off his boots. He showed no ill effects of a late night’s drinking: His dark blue eyes were clear, his complexion glowing with health and the brisk cold air. Zoe accompanied him and ran up to Imogen, her tail wagging furiously.

“There you are, Harry,” Duncan exclaimed. “We wondered where you were.”

“I took a long walk across the heath,” Harry said, unwinding his muffler. “Beautiful countryside around here. Hope you don’t mind, Miss Carstairs, but I took the puppy with me. She seemed anxious for a run.”

“She always is,” Imogen agreed, bending to stroke the dog. “I trust you found some breakfast, Mr. Graham, if you were out so early.”

“Oh, yes, one of the parlormaids was good enough to bring me some porridge from the servants’ breakfast. Very good it was too.” He shrugged out of his coat, which was swiftly removed by a hovering footman.

“I wish you’d told me you were going for a walk,” Duncan said. “I’d have come with you. I was wondering where you’d got to.”

Harry laughed and threw a careless arm across Duncan’s shoulders. “I looked in on you before I went, but you were snoring like a hippopotamus, m’dear fellow. Robbie said you wouldn’t wake for at least two more hours.” He lightly patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’m an early riser, I’m afraid.”

“We’re bidden to Beringer Manor for luncheon. We’re riding over at noon,” Duncan told him. He was looking a little aggrieved, Imogen thought.

“Excellent. I trust you have a horse up to my weight.”

“Sahib will suit Mr. Graham admirably, Duncan.” Imogen turned to the stairs. She looked over her shoulder, one hand on the newel post. “He’s spirited, even a little frisky, Mr. Graham, but I’m sure you’ll be able to handle him.”

“Of course he will,” Duncan stated. “Harry’s a bruising rider.”

Imogen merely smiled in response and headed up the stairs, Zoe bounding ahead of her. She suspected that Harry Graham, with his slight frame, was probably more of an elegant rider than a bruising one.

Chapter 9

Beringer Manor was built in the Tudor style in the mid-1880s, and Imogen had always privately considered it to be a singularly ugly house, although set in beautiful gardens. Lady Ivins, the wife of the previous owner, had loved her gardens and had spent countless hours, not to mention countless of Lord Ivins’s guineas, creating a pastoral paradise. But since most of his lordship’s fortune had been brought to the marriage by his wife, it was said she had no scruples about spending it at will.

On Lord Ivins’s debt-ridden death, his childless widow had been obliged to put the house on the market, where it had languished for six months. The gardens were showing signs of neglect as a result, but Imogen noted several men clearing out an overgrown shrubbery, and a fresh layer of gravel lay thick on the wide driveway. Charles seemed to be taking his landowner’s responsibilities seriously.

“The house looks in good order,” Esther observed, chiming in with her sister’s thoughts. They were riding side by side a little behind the men, who had started out ahead of them. The mullioned windows were gleaming, the brick- and chimney work looked newly pointed, and there was a smell of fresh paint in the air.

“How long ago did Charles buy the place?” Imogen wondered. And how, she also wondered, had the news not reached Beaufort Hall earlier?

“In early January, according to Martha,” Esther told her. Martha was her maid, and an inveterate village gossip.

“Mmm.” Once again, Imogen wondered why. But only Charles could answer that question.

A groom came running from behind the house as they reached the front door, which opened directly onto the driveway, no stately flight of steps to separate them. The groom took the horses’ reins, and as Imogen prepared to dismount, Charles came out of the house. “Your brother and his guests are already arrived.” He reached up and lifted Imogen to the ground as he was speaking, and, again, his hands at her waist were so familiar she didn’t think twice about it, until her feet touched the gravel and she watched him hold up his hand to Esther to assist her to dismount in the generally accepted manner of a courteous gentleman. Her guard went up instantly. Signs of intimacy appropriate enough between a betrothed couple were no longer appropriate, and Charles knew that perfectly well, so what was he up to?

“I’m so glad you agreed to come,” he said cheerfully, pecking Esther’s cheek in a familial way, “and also managed to persuade your sister.” His dark brown gaze seemed to stroke Imogen as she stood in front of the door. “Come inside out of the cold.” He extended an arm to encompass both sisters and swept them ahead of him into the square hall, its walls paneled in dark oak. A huge log burned in an inglenook fireplace at the far end, and a narrow staircase led up to a minstrels’ gallery. A massive circular chandelier hung from the beamed ceiling, gaslight glimmering in its imitation torch sconces.

“How familiar are you with the house?” Charles inquired of the sisters as a footman helped them out of their coats.

“We’ve been here a few times,” Esther answered, handing her gloves and crop to the footman. “Lady Ivins was something of a recluse, but she always held a garden party in the summer. Her garden was her pride and joy.”

“So I understand. I’m doing my best to prepare it for a spring seeding and general refurbishment. . . . Imogen, let me unpin that very fetching hat.”

“It’s already done, thank you,” Imogen said with a touch of ice, lifting the hat from her head and handing it to the footman. Charles was being too familiar again.

He seemed not to notice, however, and gestured to the drawing room doors. “Will you come and take a glass of sherry with the rest of my guests?”

Imogen wondered how many guests he had invited at such short notice. She stepped ahead of him into the drawing room and realized she had walked into an ambush. Half of Hampshire County society was gathered there, and it was as clear as day that
they
had not been invited at short notice. But at least there was no sign of the odious Mr. Warwick.

She held her anger in check as she moved forward, hand outstretched, to greet people most of whom she had known all her life, all of whom, she could feel, were agog with curiosity at her presence here, under her jilted fiancé’s roof. Her brother’s little party were dispersed around the room, playing their own parts to perfection despite hangovers. What they lacked in sophisticated conversation they more than made up for in the social graces. It would take more than a thumping headache to cause William Markham to neglect a lady’s glass, or Sir Gregory to fail to make comfortable small talk with a timid debutante. Harry Graham was gallantly conversing with the very deaf Lady Carew, whose ear trumpet never seemed to be correctly positioned, having a fairly constant droop towards her shoulder that rather defeated its purpose.

Charles brought her a glass of sherry. “A dry sherry, my dear Imogen. I know you prefer it to cream sherry or to Madeira.”

“Your memory was always infallible, dear Charles,” she returned, her voice low but dripping sarcasm. “Why didn’t you warn me this was to be a party?”

“The invitation was to your brother,” he reminded her, his voice as low. “I saw no need to alert Duncan to the number of my guests.”

“You knew damned well that if you’d told me, I would not have come,” she retorted in a fierce undertone. “It was an underhand trick, Charles, and I was a fool to imagine that you were no longer prepared to practice them.”

He frowned at the accusation. “I admit to a slight manipulation because I wanted to see you. After last night, I couldn’t face the thought of a whole day without speaking with you again, and I could do nothing to change this arrangement.” He gestured with his glass to the assembled company. “I will contrive somehow that we should have a little time to ourselves after luncheon. We have so much to talk about . . . to decide.”

Decide?
There was nothing to decide. His eyes had taken on that dark velvety brown glow, and she could feel again his hands at her waist as he’d lifted her from her horse . . . and he was trying to seduce her again, stealing away her righteous anger at this blatant manipulation. How many times had she turned a blind eye to some action or words of his that had felt wrong to her? That blind eye had led to all the wretched mess of a broken engagement when she’d been forced to confront the reality of their differences, and it would
not
happen again.

“I have other matters to attend to, Charles. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me if I make an early departure after luncheon.” She walked away from him to a group of young people gathered by the fireplace.

Charles looked after her, controlling the urge to seize her by the shoulders and shake that hauteur out of her. It was the one thing that she knew would infuriate him, one of her most provocative tricks that had caused some of their most spectacular fights. “You look as if you could wring Gen’s neck,” a soft voice observed at his elbow.

He turned to Esther, who was standing beside him with an air of faint amusement. “So I could,” he responded. “Sometimes I’d like to strangle her and throw her body in the lake.”

“Except that it’s frozen,” Esther said with a sweet smile. “But of course you know that.”

His brown eyes sharpened. “So Gen told you.”

Esther nodded and took a sip from her glass. “She was also making plans to return to London, but after this little spectacle she might well have changed her mind.” She gestured with her free hand to the crowded drawing room.

“Was it
that
bad?” he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. “I didn’t lie to her.”

“No, but not all lies are those of commission as I’ve heard you say many times. In court you’re as quick to expose those of omission as well as commission. I’ve heard you say so on many occasions.”

He shook his head with a rueful smile. “You’re as bad as each other, you two. Tongues like rapiers and you never miss a trick.”

“Well, really, Charles, how could you possibly have imagined that it was fair to Gen to oblige her to walk into this social trap quite unawares?”

“I didn’t think of it like that,” he confessed. “But what do I do now to pour oil, Esther?”

“Follow Gen’s lead and steer clear of any signs of undue intimacy,” was the swift advice. “Make sure she’s sitting next to someone at luncheon whom she actually likes, and well away from you.”

“Oh . . .” He frowned. “I had intended to have her next to me.”

Esther shook her head. “Sometimes I despair of you, Charles. Try to see things through Gen’s eyes for once.” She moved away from him with a neutral smile, as if they’d been having the most ordinary conversation imaginable, and went to support her sister.

“Yes . . . it was certainly a surprise to find that Mr. Riverdale had acquired Beringer Manor,” Imogen was saying to the circle around her. She smiled brightly. “But it’s always pleasant to know one’s neighbors, don’t you think?” She sipped her sherry. “So much nicer than finding oneself with complete strangers in one’s midst.”

Imogen really didn’t need much support, Esther reflected. What could anyone say to that blithe and unarguable statement without sounding utterly crass?

Charles left the drawing room after his exchange with Esther to rearrange the place cards in the dining room. He felt a fool after Esther’s castigation. Somehow he had thought, after last night on the ice, when Gen had been so responsive, so warm, so much her old self, that it would be plain sailing from now on. She knew as well as he did that they were made for each other. Oh, they fought tooth and nail sometimes, but the bedrock of their love, liking, lusting for each other was as solid as ever. But it seemed she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Typical female perversity, he thought crossly as he switched her name card with that of a young lady barely out of the schoolroom whom he’d thought to pair with Harry Graham. He’d do penance for his apparently arrogant assumptions by enduring the excruciating shyness of a demoiselle who was terrified to open her mouth in case she said something to annoy her ever watchful mother.

Imogen had been aware of the colloquy between her sister and Charles but there was no opportunity to ask Esther what had been said as she returned service in the conversational match in which she found herself. She cursed Charles for his thoughtlessness, even as she wondered if the trap had really been deliberate. In her present mood it was easy to believe it had been, but a little voice nagged that she knew him so well, and while he might use a tactic like this to unnerve a witness in court, he would never deliberately put
her
through such a mill. She smiled through the barely concealed inquisitions of their elders, the throwaway comments about how nice it was to see her going out into society again, and how pleasant that she and Mr. Riverdale were able to get past the drama of such an abrupt broken engagement and behave in such a civilized fashion. Her hearing was particularly sharp, however, and she heard many variations on, “Fancy seeing Imogen here, of all places,” murmured from behind carefully plied fans and handkerchiefs.

Anger and resentment burned as she entered the dining room on Harry Graham’s arm, but at least she was seated at the far end of the table away from their host. The dining room was as ugly as the drawing room, she reflected, casting a critical eye around as Harry pulled out her chair for her. The furniture was heavy Victorian oak for the most part, clumsy and unattractive, which was a pity, as the rooms themselves were beautifully proportioned, with high ceilings and delicate cornices. Charles must have bought the house furnished, she thought. Nothing in it reflected his own style, which was generally impeccable. How could he live with it like this?

She almost found herself turning to ask him before catching herself abruptly. “I understand you met Duncan up at Oxford, Mr. Graham.” She placed her napkin on her lap, offering him a somewhat distracted smile. “You were in the year below, I believe?”

“Oh, please, Miss Carstairs, may we dispense with the formalities,” he asked with a warm smile.

“With pleasure, Harry.” She picked up her wineglass, which had just been filled by a footman. “How exactly did you and Duncan become friends?”

“We both tried out for the fencing team,” he said. “We met on the piste in my third year and Duncan’s fourth.”

“Duncan did not make the team, as I recall.” Imogen took a sliver of smoked trout on her fork. “Did you?”

He looked a little embarrassed. “I won a blue in my final year.”

“Well done.” She smiled at him. A blue was the top award for any sport at either Oxford or Cambridge, and they were rare. “So, now you’ve come down, how do you intend to pass your time?”

“I have a living to earn,” he said, forking trout with a hearty appetite. “Unlike your brother, I have no independent means. I intend to study for the bar.” He glanced up at the table, to where Charles was engaging young Miss Belvedere in conversation. Imogen followed his gaze and reflected with grim satisfaction that the discussion looked like a painful experience for both of them.

Harry was continuing oblivious of his companion’s momentary distraction. “Mr. Riverdale has made quite a name for himself in Lincoln’s Inn. It makes sense to specialize in one particular area, I think. The new divorce laws are a particularly fruitful area, I should imagine.”