The Escape (Survivor's Club) (45 page)

“I am firmly of the opinion,” Lord Darleigh said in his pleasant, courteous voice, “that the scientific world
has been in a wicked conspiracy against the masses for the past number of centuries, Miss Dean, in order to convince us that the earth is round. It is, of course, quite undeniably flat. Even a fool could see that. If one were to walk to the edge of it, one would fall off and never be heard of again. What is
your
opinion?”

She turned her head sharply to gaze at his profile. Oh, he knew her game and he was trying to flush her out into the open. Surely. He could not
possibly
be serious. Surely she could relax now, laugh merrily, and ask him if he was as desperate to get out of this situation devised by their parents as she was.

But it was so much more difficult to be spontaneous with a stranger than it would seem. For there was the smallest possibility that he
was
serious. And if she laughed at him …

Well, she simply could not risk it.

“I am quite sure you have the right of it, my lord,” she said.

And she willed
him
to laugh and ask
her
if she was as desperate as he to be free of this farce.

Instead, he smiled politely and asked her if the wind was too chilly for her.

She was a bit angry, a bit bewildered. He was playing games as surely as she was. Did he expect
her
to speak the truth first? It was very unfair of him. It showed a lack of gallantry.

But perhaps he believed she really was a peagoose.

She set her fingertips on his sleeve and spoke in her sweetest, most breathless voice. She really was quite angry.

“I did not at all mind coming here, you know, Lord Darleigh,” she said. “Even though I have been looking forward forever to my first Season in London and do not remember ever being happier than I was on the
night of my come-out ball. But I know enough about life to understand that I was taken there not
just
for enjoyment. Mama and Papa have explained what a wonderful opportunity this invitation is for me, as well as for my sisters and brothers. I did not mind coming, truly. Indeed, I came willingly. I
understand
, you see, and I
will not mind
one little bit.”

And if
that
did not flush him out into the open, she did not know what would.

“You will think I am forward,” she added for good measure, “though I am not usually so outspoken. I just thought you needed to know that I do not mind. For perhaps you fear I do.”

Perhaps, she thought, she was merely digging a deeper and deeper hole for herself. For perhaps she had read all the signs wrong. And if so, then she had surely just committed herself to the very future she was most intent upon avoiding.

She willed him to turn his head and laugh at her. He could not possibly think she was serious. She was a walking, talking cliché.

He got to his feet, and she took his arm and deliberately steered him along the path toward the house, even though he had his cane and had used it without mishap to find his way out here earlier.

She really had sealed her own doom.

Oh, Julian!

She shivered in the chill of the wind.

J
ulian’s first sight of Middlebury Park was intimidating—first the ivy-clad outer wall stretching as far as the eye could see to either side of the gates, then the long, winding driveway through dense woodland, and then the sudden vista of the imposing mansion and
the formal gardens before it with closely scythed lawns stretching away to either side.

It was late morning, and the early mist had burned off to be replaced by sunshine.

He still did not know quite what he hoped to accomplish by coming here. But he did at least have his story clear in his mind. He hoped it would not seem hopelessly thin.

The butler looked dubious when Julian presented his card and asked to see Viscount Darleigh. He would see if his lordship was at home, the man said, and away he went, leaving Julian standing in the tiled hallway with its high ceiling, marble fireplaces on either side, and marble statuary—and a silent footman.

It was a hall meant to reduce callers to size, he thought—and it succeeded admirably. Not that he would have been intimidated if, as was entirely possible, he really was passing by and had thought to call upon an acquaintance and friend of his uncle’s in order to pay his respects.

He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, as though he were some sort of impostor. Philippa was staying here. Would he see her? But to what purpose? Was he already too late? But too late for
what
? He had come here without any clear plan.

Would Darleigh merely receive him in a private salon, shake his hand, offer him refreshments, make polite conversation for a while, then send him on his way?

Would he allow that to happen? But what could he do to stop it?

“If you will follow me, sir.” The butler had returned on silent feet.

Julian was led into the west wing of the house and along a wide corridor until they stopped outside high double doors, which the butler opened.

“The Honorable Mr. Julian Crabbe, ma’am,” he announced.

The room—a large, comfortable-looking apartment that Julian assumed was the morning room—was crowded with people. One of them, a lady of middle years, was on her feet and coming toward him, her right hand outstretched, a look of eager anxiety on her face.

“Mr. Crabbe,” she said, “how do you do? What can you tell me of Vincent?”

Vincent? He felt stupid for a moment as well as dazed. For two of the occupants of the room were Mr. and Mrs. Dean, who were seated opposite the doorway, close to the fireplace. And off to one side of the room, by the window, standing apart from everyone else, was Philippa, her startled face turned his way.

Good God. All else fled from his mind, though he dared not turn his head to look fully at her. And yet he knew that her face was parchment white, as pale as her muslin dress.

Vincent, he realized, his mind coming back to him with a jolt, was Viscount Darleigh. Vincent Hunt.

“How do you do, ma’am.” He shook the lady’s hand and bowed over it. “Lord Darleigh is a friend of my uncle, the Duke of Stanbrook. I met him at Penderris Hall once when he was there recovering from his war wounds. I am on my way to visit friends in this part of the country and called to pay my respects. I hope this is not an inconvenient time?”

Her shoulders slumped.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Crabbe,” she said. “I thought perhaps you brought news of my son.”

“He is … not here?” he asked. “I beg your pardon for intruding upon you, ma’am.”

Philippa, he could see with his peripheral vision, was as still as a statue.

“Not at all,” the older lady said briskly. “I am sorry that you have come out of your way for nothing. He is not here.”

“Perhaps he has merely gone somewhere for the day, Mama, and forgot to tell us,” a young lady said from her seat to Julian’s left.

“With his trunk and half his clothes and his valet?” a gentleman who was standing before the fireplace said. “Not to mention his traveling carriage and his coachman and four horses? Hardly, Ursula.”

“Anthony!” another young lady said sharply.

“He has bolted,” the man called Anthony said. “That is what he has done. I said it at breakfast, and I say it again.”

“Anthony!” The same young lady sounded mortified.

“He has indeed gone,” Mrs. Hunt said with weary resignation.

Julian felt acutely embarrassed—and something else too, which he was not yet at liberty to explore.

Darleigh had gone? Left home? Run away? Just when he had been presented with a prospective bride and was expected to make her an offer of marriage? And she was here in this very room with her parents—no doubt a horrible embarrassment for his family.

“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Crabbe,” Mrs. Hunt said. “You will think we all have the shabbiest of manners. Allow me to introduce everyone, and then we will all have coffee and cakes. Vincent has gone away quite abruptly, and I invited you in here in the hope that you brought word of him. No matter. You must stay awhile anyway.”

She proceeded to introduce him to her mother, to her daughters and their husbands, and to her guests.

He should, Julian thought, withdraw immediately. His continued presence here would seem an unpardonable
intrusion. But he could not tear himself away just yet.

“Crabbe.” Mr. Dean got to his feet when he was introduced and bowed stiffly. “I believe we have a previous acquaintance.”

“An unhappy one, as I remember with deep regret, sir.” Julian returned his bow. “I was a wild young cub in those days.”

He bowed to Mrs. Dean and asked her how she did.

“Do you have an acquaintance with Miss Dean also, Mr. Crabbe?” Mrs. Hunt asked him, indicating Philippa by the window.

At last she moved. And at last he looked at her.

For the first time in two years.

She curtsied. He bowed. She raised her eyes to his.

He had held in his memory an image of a sweet, almost ethereally pretty blond, green-eyed slip of a girl with an eager, smiling countenance. Two years had made her only more beautiful, for she was clearly a woman now.

If it was possible for a heart to stop and then resume its beating, then his surely did just that within the second or two that elapsed after the introduction.

“Miss Dean,” he said.

“Mr. Crabbe.”

Ah, that well-remembered sweet, light voice. Memory had not done it full justice.

Why the devil had Darleigh gone away?

But he had, and she was free.

She was free
.

“You must be wishing me at Jericho, ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Hunt, tearing his eyes away from Philippa’s. “I have come at an awkward time and embarrassed everyone.”

He hoped the Deans would not hold it against him.

“No one need be embarrassed on our account,” Mrs.
Dean said briskly. “You invited us here for a week or two, Mrs. Hunt, on account of my mama-in-law’s friendship with Mrs. Pearl, and we have enjoyed your kind hospitality more than I can say. We will return to London with renewed vigor to enjoy the rest of the Season.”

“It is kind of you to be so gracious,” Mrs. Hunt said. “I am quite sure there are many gentlemen who will be delighted to see Miss Dean back among them.”

All eyes turned toward Philippa, and she half stumbled as she turned back to the window, reaching out to the windowsill to steady herself even as Julian took a hasty step toward her and her mother jumped to her feet.

“Come and sit down, my love,” she said, hurrying toward her daughter.

“No,” Philippa said, “thank you. I—I would rather take a turn outside and breathe in some fresh air if I may be excused. It has turned into such a lovely day.”

“I will come with you,” her mother said.

“I beg you will not.” Philippa looked distressed again. “I would rather—”

“If I may be permitted,” Julian said. “My presence here in this room is decidedly de trop. But it would be my pleasure to escort Miss Dean into the garden before the house if her maid will chaperon her.”

“That is both tactful and kind of you, Mr. Crabbe,” elderly Mrs. Pearl said even as Mr. Dean opened his mouth to speak. “You are a relative of the Redfords of Bath, are you not? And a nephew of the Duke of Stanbrook, did you say? His heir, I believe?”

“I have that honor, ma’am.” Julian inclined his head to her. “Mr. Redford is my mother’s brother.” He looked beyond her to Mr. Dean, who was frowning at him. “With your permission, sir, I will escort Miss Dean into the garden before I resume my journey.”

“This has all been too much for you, Miss Dean,” one of Darleigh’s sisters said. “Oh, just wait until I get my hands upon that brother of mine.”

“If you will be so good,” Mr. Dean said to Julian, still frowning. “My daughter’s maid will be sent for.”

And Julian crossed the distance to the window and offered his arm—and she slid her hand through it and for a moment the world stood still.

Her eyes met his, and it seemed to him that the world stopped for her too.

“Thank you, sir,” she murmured, and he led her from the room while everyone watched with deep concern.

They walked along the wide corridor to the great hall without speaking. He led her through the double doors, down the flight of marble steps to the terrace, and across it to the parterres of the flower garden. A young woman, presumably her maid, came scurrying after them but remained on the terrace.

He drew air into his lungs and allowed himself to feel elation. She was
free
.

“Julian,” she said softly.

“Philippa.” He looked down at her and saw that color had taken the place of paleness in her cheeks. And her eyes were bright. “My love.”

“They thought it was because Viscount Darleigh has run off rather than marry me,” she said, “when in reality it was because the butler came into the room and Mrs. Hunt took your card from his tray and said your name. And then you came.”

“Did you think I would not?” he asked her.

She turned her face up to his.

“Just yesterday,” she said, “I was out here with
him
. He is charming and good-natured and very likable, and I played horrid games with him. I am ashamed of myself.”

“Games?”

“I did what I could see most annoys him when his family does it,” she told him, “though he is always cheerful and well mannered and patient with them. I spoke to him as though he were an invalid, I agreed with everything he said, and I offered him help even when he did not need it and resented it. I drove him away.”

“Are you sure?” he asked her. “Those seem very small, very subtle things, especially if he is accustomed to such treatment from his family.”

“He told me,” she said, “that he was convinced the earth was flat, that the experts had got it wrong all those centuries ago when they apparently discovered that it is a sphere. He said it was obvious to an idiot that if one walked to the horizon one would fall off the edge.
And I agreed with him
.”

He grinned at her. “He is an idiot, then?”