A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season (14 page)

Amy’s raised eyebrows were eloquent. She wanted him to know she did not believe a word of it.

‘I thank you for your offer of help, Miss Devereaux, but I decline it. And now you must go.’

The determined set of her shoulders told him that she had no intention of doing what he asked. Ignoring every word he had said, she laid out her conclusion starkly. ‘You think William Lyndhurst-Flint is to blame, do you not?’

By Jove, she was sharp!

‘He is trying to trade on his expectations. We both know that. If you were to become the Major’s heir, he would have no such expectations. If you become a convicted felon, however…’ Gazing at him, wide-eyed, she let her words trail into nothing. When he did not immediately reply, she said, ‘I see that I am right.’

‘Amy—’

‘And if there is proof to be had, it will be in Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s chamber. He will be out shooting all day. I shall have time to search his room much more thoroughly than I did on the last occasion.’

‘No!’ That single word was much too loud. Could Anthony have heard? He dropped his voice to a whisper once more. An urgent whisper. ‘No, Amy! I beg you. It is much too dangerous.’

She cocked her head on one side and looked up at him with a tiny smile twisting the corner of her mouth. Then she dropped him an impudent curtsy. ‘I will be able to tell you what I find. There will be no danger. Timms will be in the field with the Major.’

‘Amy—’

‘And now I must go. You have detained me much too long, sir.’

‘Why, you—’

She grinned at him and put a finger to her lips. Marcus wanted to laugh, but he simply shook his head in disbelief. ‘You are quite astonishing, Amy Devereaux. And if you remain here one moment longer, I will not be answerable for my actions.’ He took a step towards her. To his surprise, she stood her ground, smiling up at him.

‘Amy…’ he said menacingly.

‘Mmm?’

He must not do this. He forced himself to step around her and to unlock the door. ‘Go, you unbiddable wench!’ He reached out a hand to her. She placed her fingers in it and allowed him to pull her towards the door. He opened it and pushed her gently into the corridor.

But before he let her go completely, he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them.

It was madness, indeed.

Marcus lent back against the door. He let out a long, heartfelt sigh. It was not Amy Devereaux who was out of her mind. It was Marcus himself.

He should have told her the truth about her brother. It would have meant betraying Anthony’s role in the kidnapping but, given the huge risks Amy was taking to help Marcus, he should have given her the reassurance she was desperate for. She could be trusted with the knowledge of Ned’s hiding place, surely?

Marcus’s common sense spoke up over his feelings of guilt. If he told Amy where her brother was, she would be bound to go there, to see for herself. And if she found Ned, others could do so, too. Anthony had been wise to spirit the lad away. It would not be for much longer, in any case. Not if Anthony decided to hand Marcus over to the law.

Abstractedly, Marcus ran a hand through his hair, noticing how much shorter it now was. Timms had been determined to make him presentable. Blast the man!

Did Amy find him presentable?

That thought had formed itself without any prompting. What on earth did it mean?

Shaking his head in disbelief, Marcus strode back to the window and gazed out at the night sky. Some of the stars were visible still, bright and unchanging, always there, always the same. To be relied upon. As Amy Devereaux was to be relied upon.

It seemed she was quite determined to take Marcus’s part against the world. And nothing he could say, or do, would stop her.

He had never before encountered a woman like Amy. Not in all his life. She even seemed to be totally different from the débutante he had met all those years before.
She had been very young then, of course, for it was just before her Season was cut short by her father’s illness and death. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Marcus had been little older. But, though only twenty-two, he had already learned to be very wary of single ladies. Single ladies coveted his fortune. He had had plenty of proof of that. Only Anthony’s intervention had saved him from a disastrous marriage in Spain. And Marcus had had two other very narrow escapes after his return to London.

And yet he had danced with Amy Devereaux. More than once. Why? His memories of her were now a little vague—a pretty face, good humour, and a light step in the dance. Was that all there was?

He shook his head. There must have been something more.

There was. Of course there was. He had taken her on to a balcony. In a moment of madness, he had tried to kiss her. He remembered it now. He remembered the honeyed scent of her in his arms. Amy Devereaux had been so tempting that all his resolutions about single ladies had evaporated. But she had simply ducked away, with a merry laugh. Other young ladies would have slapped his face, or—worse—allowed his advances in hopes of ensnaring him. Amy had done neither.

Marcus could smile at the memory now. Even then, she had been a remarkable woman—if he had but seen it. He had been too young to sense her true worth.

He knew it now.

He gazed out at the brightest visible star and made a silent vow. If ever he should come through this terrible coil, he would seek out Amy Devereaux and find out the real truth about what she was. And what she had become.

‘A
nd so I said I would search the room,’ Amy finished, ignoring the slight prick of her conscience. Mr Sinclair had already betrayed himself. Half the household must have heard about that fight by now. Besides, Amy needed Sarah’s help.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Sarah said. ‘Marcus would never have asked you to take such a risk. He didn’t, did he?’

‘Er…no. To tell you the truth, Sarah, he forbade me to do it. But I have no intention of obeying him. All the gentlemen will be out shooting and their personal servants will be with them. I can slip into Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s room when I am sure no one is about. It is next door to your bedchamber, after all. It will be easy.’

‘It will be dangerous,’ Sarah said flatly. ‘But I can see that you are not to be dissuaded. So, obviously, I shall have to help you. Now, let me see…Yes, that will do, I think. Cassie suggested, just yesterday, that the ladies should have a picnic on the roof, so that we might watch the shooting. She even suggested we might use a telescope to see exactly what was going on. Great-aunt Harriet took Cassie to task for it, of course. “Thoroughly improper behaviour for a lady. Viscountesses, my dear
Cassie, do not indulge in
larks
, as you so indelicately describe it.” I was hard put not to laugh.’

Amy did laugh. Sarah’s impersonation of Miss Lyndhurst was well-nigh perfect.

‘But I fancy…yes, I think it is just what you need, Amy. The roof is normally out of bounds to servants, of course, but I can ensure that Cassie’s maid accompanies us, so that she is kept well out of your way. I’ll say we need someone to wait on us, hand round the luncheon, that sort of thing. You should have a clear run.’

‘Sarah, you are brilliant.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Sarah promptly, her eyes full of mischief. ‘Once you have finished your search, come up to join us so that I know it is safe to return below. I will think of some excuse to justify your absence till then.’

‘If there is no one else around,’ Amy said thoughtfully, ‘it
should
work. Provided only that you can persuade Miss Lyndhurst and her companion to take part in such an improper escapade.’

‘I have no concerns about that. You forget, Amy dear, that I am the senior lady here and that I am, in effect, the hostess. Miss Lyndhurst may be thin as a rail, but she enjoys her food. I shall tell her that all the servants are required for the shooting party. The only food available for the ladies will be the cold luncheon laid out on the roof.’ She grinned. ‘Great-aunt Harriet will scold, but Great-aunt Harriet will not fail me, I assure you.’

Four ladies and an impromptu roof party seemed to require a houseful of furniture. Since all the male servants were occupied with the shoot, the two abigails spent more than half an hour carrying folding tables and chairs, cushions and work-baskets, and all sorts of other
apparently unnecessary things up the winding stairs to the cupola and out on to the flat roof.

There was no doubt that the view was magnificent. Amy stopped for a moment, her arms full of cushions, to admire it. She could see the shooting party quite clearly. The guns sounded just like children’s pop-guns from such a distance.

‘The purpose of those cushions, my good woman, is to provide comfort for your betters, not an excuse for your day-dreaming!’

Amy whirled round. Miss Lyndhurst was making her way slowly across the roof, with her companion in her wake. The old lady had her ear trumpet in one hand and a walking stick in the other. She was leaning heavily on it, but Amy did not believe for a moment that she really needed it. Miss Lyndhurst used her props as well as any actress. If Amy went too close, the old lady would probably use it to poke her.

‘Are you deaf?’ Miss Lyndhurst brandished her ear trumpet at Amy’s motionless figure.

Amy curtsied and hurried to arrange the cushions on the chairs for the ladies. She knew better than to say a word. No mere servant would dare to cross swords with this outrageous old lady.

‘No, not like that!’ Miss Lyndhurst pushed her cushion away. ‘I may be getting on in years, but even I have not yet shrunk to such a shape that I need a cushion
there
! Sarah, this woman of yours is not at all the thing.’

Sarah and Lady Quinlan had just emerged on to the roof and were blinking against the sunlight.

‘Goodness, Aunt Harriet, what an admission,’ Lady Quinlan said with a grin.

‘Nothing of the sort. It’s Sarah who should be making
the admission. That her selection of servants leaves much to be desired.’

‘Oh, that.’ Lady Quinlan waved a hand. ‘Dent will be gone in a few weeks. That’s of no consequence. But
your
admission, on the other hand…Now that
was
worth hearing.’

‘I
beg
your pardon, young lady?’

‘Well, even though you are my great-great-aunt, I never before heard you admit that you were getting on in years. Are you feeling quite the thing today, Aunt Harriet?’

‘Great-great—! You are getting above yourself, Cassie. Time was, you would never have spoken so. And you are no better, Sarah Mardon. I can see perfectly well that you have been encouraging Cassie in her outrageous behaviour. Why, in my day—’

‘Dent,’ Sarah said sharply, ‘you had better go down to the kitchens to fetch our luncheon now. Take Ebdon with you. Hurry along now.’

Amy curtsied and made for the cupola. Eliza Ebdon followed without a word. The two abigails exchanged glances. Miss Lyndhurst’s voice carried all too clearly across the rooftop. ‘In my day, gels of your age knew better than to insult their elders. Even gels who married a title.’

The kitchens were buzzing with activity. Food was being packed up, ready to be carried out to the shooting party. By comparison, the ladies’ luncheon was a very insignificant affair, with only a handful of mouths to be fed.

‘Careful with that hamper!’ the butler called. ‘If you break those decanters, I’ll have your hide, my lad.’

The two abigails flattened themselves against the wall
as the row of hampers and boxes filed past. It looked as though the house was feeding an army. The cook was bright red, shouting out warnings that none of the servants appeared to heed. The milling retainers seemed to have their own momentum.

At last, they were gone. The vast kitchen contained only the cook, the scullery maid and two abigails.

The cook collapsed on to her chair and began to fan her glowing face with her apron. ‘Well, I never did,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘Never known such servants. Here am I, preparing the finest victuals for all these guests and no one takes a blind bit of notice of a word I say. Why, I—’

Amy coughed loudly.

‘Oh, it’s you, Miss Dent.’ The cook turned in her chair, but did not rise. Amy was not sure the woman was capable of it.

‘Lady Mardon sent us down to fetch the luncheon for the party on the roof,’ Amy said calmly.

The cook waved a hand in the general direction of the pantry. ‘It’s all laid out, in there. Two trays. Mind you don’t spill anything, if you please. That fruit bruises very easily. And there ain’t no more to be had if you spoil it.’

Amy said nothing, but Eliza Ebdon was incensed. ‘I should hope I know how to serve her ladyship’s luncheon,’ she snapped. ‘And—’

Amy coughed again. The last thing she needed now was a first-class argument between Eliza Ebdon and the cook. ‘We had best get on. The ladies will be waiting. And we have a great many stairs to climb.’ She led the way into the pantry where they collected their trays. They did not seem too heavy at first but, by the time the two women had reached the spiral staircase leading up
to the cupola, Amy’s arms were aching. Being in service was very hard work.

She paused for a second at the bottom of the staircase to catch her breath. Then she started up. It was very narrow and it was difficult to manoeuvre the heavy tray round the spiral, but she emerged into the sunlight at last.

Miss Lyndhurst was still sitting in her chair, talking volubly. She now had an open parasol in her hand, instead of the cane. Her companion, Miss Saunders, was seated alongside. A book lay open in her lap. Sarah was standing over by the balustrade, a telescope to her eye, watching the shoot. Lady Quinlan was by her side, shading her eyes in an effort to see against the strong sunlight.

‘At last! Thought you would never arrive,’ Miss Lyndhurst scolded. ‘Gossiping below stairs, no doubt.’

Amy knew better than to respond. But Ebdon bristled. She ignored Miss Lyndhurst and addressed herself to her mistress. ‘I beg your ladyship’s pardon for the delay,’ she said evenly. ‘We had to wait until the luncheon for the shooting party had been despatched. Shall we serve your luncheon now, m’lady?’

‘Yes. Thank you, Eliza. You may lay it out—’

‘Good gracious!’ Sarah exclaimed.

Lady Quinlan turned back. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s William. You know how particular he is about his dress. One speck of mud and he seems like to have an apoplexy. Well, it looks like…Yes, I’m sure. He is being accosted by the dirtiest little child you ever saw. I can’t imagine why he allows such an urchin to come near him. Surely, he—? Oh!’

‘What is it?’ Lady Quinlan asked. ‘Give me the telescope, Sarah. Let me see.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing. The child has gone now. No doubt he was asking for money.’

Miss Lyndhurst snorted. ‘Wouldn’t get anything out of William. He doesn’t have two ha’pence to rub together.’

Sarah swung the telescope on to another part of the landscape. ‘I think the shooting party is about to pause for luncheon. I suggest that we do the same.’ She turned back to her companions and closed the telescope with a snap. ‘I am sure we do not need two maids to serve only four ladies. If you are happy for Ebdon to remain, Cassie, I will send Dent back to her mending. I am afraid she takes rather longer over it than I should like.’

At Lady Quinlan’s nod, Sarah said, ‘I have no need of you here for the moment, Dent. Go to my chamber and finish mending the flounce on my gown. And do not forget the other chores I set you. I expect them all to be completed this afternoon.’

Amy curtsied. ‘Yes, m’lady,’ she said demurely.

‘You may return here when you have finished. Ebdon will need your help to remove the chairs and tables.’

‘Yes, m’lady.’ Amy started for the cupola. Sarah was playing her part absolutely brilliantly. Even old Miss Lyndhurst suspected nothing.

Sarah was still speaking. ‘Miss Saunders, you have such a beautiful voice. Might I prevail upon you to read to us, once we have finished our luncheon?’

Amy smiled to herself and clattered down the spiral staircase. Poor Miss Saunders was decidedly put upon. When she was not tasked with reading aloud to the ladies, she was being despatched to the dressing room to do Miss Lyndhurst’s mending. What kind of life was that, for a well-born lady?

Amy knew the answer perfectly well. It was the kind
of life that befell a well-born spinster with no income and no other means of support. It was the kind of life that she herself might yet have to face.

Halfway through, and still nothing. Amy lifted down yet another expensive and immaculate coat. She began to search the pockets, one by one. She had been through every single drawer and all the other potential hiding places. After Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s clothing, there was nowhere else to search. What if she found nothing?

She tried not to think of that. Or of Marcus, locked in the Major’s dressing room, at risk of being dragged off to gaol at any moment. There must be some evidence somewhere. She must find it!

She reached for another coat and began to search the pockets. Marcus Sinclair…How could she have failed to recognise him? He had not changed so very much. Oh, he was considerably older, but he was still the same man. How was it that she had not seen past his unkempt appearance? The beard had hidden the shape of his face, to be sure, but still…The truth was that she had been trying to avoid looking him in the face. Since the moment she had first walked in on him, she had been embarrassed beyond measure. She had been trying not to look at him at all.

Only one more coat.

She wanted so much to help him. She knew he was innocent of all these absurd charges. Why was she so sure? Everyone else seemed to believe him guilty, perhaps even the Major.

But Amy
was
sure. Marcus Sinclair was a man of honour. He would never carry out such an attack. Why, he had put his own life in jeopardy in order to protect Amy. Being protected was something Amy had never
experienced before. In all her life, no one had tried to protect her. Amy had always been the one who protected others. First her widowed mother, and then her brother. It was a strange feeling to know that there was someone who was prepared to put Amy first. And to take such risks for her, besides. Marcus Sinclair was a very special man.

Amy slid her fingers into the last pocket of the last coat. It was empty. She had failed. She had promised to help Marcus, and she had failed.

She slipped back into Sarah’s bedchamber and sat down heavily at the little writing table. Now what was she to do? She could not face the thought of telling Marcus of her failure. She had promised him proof, but she had found nothing at all. Soon, the Major and the shooting party would return to the house. Would the Major carry out his threat to deal with Marcus then? He might be taken off to gaol this very day. And it would be Amy’s fault.

She dropped her head into her hands. But she refused to despair. She would not weep. There must be proof. Somewhere. She must have missed something.

What could it be? She had not found even the letter to Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s bankers. It had probably been despatched by now. Or perhaps he carried it on his person?

That was it! If there was anything to be found, William Lyndhurst-Flint would not have risked hiding it in his room. It would be on him. The pockets she needed to search were the pockets of the coat he was wearing.

Amy jumped to her feet. She would need to search Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s chamber again, while he was at dinner.

But what was she to tell Marcus? He would be furious
that she had risked herself thus far. He seemed so determined to defend her. Well, she would tell him the truth. Or part of it.