Improper Advances (35 page)

“You needn’t whine to me about turning twenty-four. We met the day I attained my thirtieth year, remember.”

“It’s different for men,” she declared. “I don’t mind traveling back to town by myself. It’s time I resumed my voice lessons with Signor Corri, and I also need to confer with my solicitor about the sale of some property.”

“What property?” he asked sharply.

She gave the only answer that presented itself. “This isn’t the best time to discuss it.”

His lips thinned, and he gave her the stony stare she recalled from long ago. He could glower as long as he liked, but she wasn’t telling him about Thomas Teversal’s diamonds.

When he spoke again, he said, “I’ll be out of favor with my butler for parting him from his sweetheart at a crucial stage in their romance. They’ll soon be betrothed, if they aren’t already.”

“My maid has already given notice,” Oriana admitted. “Not in so many words, but her meaning was unmistakable. I can’t imagine Wingate would leave you, even if I could offer him a place in my household.

I’m confident that Suke will be extremely happy on the Isle of Man, and she’ll have easier access to her relatives in Cheshire than she does living with me in London.”

“You took her on at Lord Rushton’s behest. Doubtless
he’ll
find a suitable candidate to fill the vacancy.” When Dare mentioned the earl, the crease between his black brows deepened. “How much longer will he remain in Cheshire, reducing the grouse population?”

“The grouse will be safe again in a fortnight, when Parliament reconvenes.”

“I’ll be in London before him. If not, I’ll meet you in Newmarket at the end of the month—to watch Combustible run her race.”

The possibility that their separation might stretch as long as two weeks dismayed Oriana. This was the man who couldn’t let two days go by without seeing her, who had insisted on all those midnight meetings in the Soho Square gardens.

Had his passion for her faded?

Her husband’s love had lasted until death. She’d severed her relationship with a lover whose marriage promise had been false but whose desire had been constant.

Rejection by Dare, so ardent and possessive, would be a shattering and unprecedented experience.

From the moment she’d reached womanhood, men had pursued her. No previous admirer had abandoned her—but none had been given the chance. As Dare frequently pointed out, she had a habit of running away.

She could do it again, right now. With a few firm words, she could declare the end of this affair and board a swift coach to London. That might be easier to bear than the agony of a slow demise.

But she loved him too much to give him up. And therefore she must set aside all her aching uncertainties about their future and pretend they didn’t exist.

From the Manxman’s very first kiss, she’d been enthralled. His initial dislike had wounded her, but during her residence at Glen Auldyn a form of friendship had sprouted. Her control over her emotions had failed her at Skyhill, in an episode that hadn’t cured their passion for each other but had whetted it.

All those seemingly divisive truths she’d revealed in Liverpool and London hadn’t deterred him. He’d wrung from her a pledge that she could never have made, she now realized, unless she’d been in love. To spare her pride, she’d concealed her feelings, realizing that someday he must return to the Isle of Man—without her.

Dare had been her tormenter, her closest companion, her adoring lover—but he could never be her husband. And his solitary journey from Stafford to Damerham, she feared, was his first step on the road back to the life he’d known before their memorable meeting.

She walked up to him, taking his stern face between her hands, and rising on her toes to kiss him. His hands settled on her waist, and his mouth gentled. Elation and sorrow tumbled about inside her. Love was a test of endurance, and a great adventure. She would be faithful to the end.

When Wingate strode briskly into the parlor to announce that Dare’s chaise was ready, Oriana buried her regret beneath a facade of serenity and accompanied him to the inn yard.

The butler boldly kissed Suke Barry, in full view of his master and her mistress. They exchanged a few confidential words before he climbed into the carriage.

Oriana smiled valiantly and waved as Dare lifted his hat to her.

Suke, holding a handkerchief to her eyes, walked back to the inn.

Oriana put a consoling arm around her shoulders. “You’ll soon see him again,” she said reassuringly.

“I know.” The young woman drew a long, labored breath. “It’s not for sadness that I’m weeping, but for joy. He just asked me to wed him, and I said I would.”

A blade of envy sliced through Oriana’s soul.

In that moment of vivid understanding Oriana knew that she would surrender anything, everything—her talent, her fame, her lovely dresses, Nell Gwynn’s diamonds—if only she could become Dare Corlett’s bride.

“I’m happy for you both,” she declared in a tremulous voice, determined to share in her servant’s happiness rather than dwell on her looming sorrow.

Dare’s lantern augmented the feeble glow of coals in the grate and a pair of malodorous tallow candles, but could not overpower the pervasive darkness of Dan Bonsall’s cramped, low-ceilinged cottage. He nodded as his hostess held the spout of her teapot over his cup and added more of the weak brew. Wingate, seated beside him on the wooden bench, declined her offer.

Her husband, Dare noted, had not received a second serving of tea, a privilege accorded only to guests.

From the next room came whispers and childish giggles.

Mrs. Bonsall looked in upon her many offspring, piled onto one of the two beds. “Quiet, every one of you.” Turning back to Dare, she explained apologetically, “The excitement of having you here, sir. Late as it is, they’ll soon settle into sleep.”

Dan Bonsall sat at the opposite end of the kitchen table, shoulders bowed from exhaustion, chin propped by his dirty hands. “As I told you,” he said, “we all fared better with Mr. Melton as manager. He treated his miners fairly, and they respected him. He knew our wives’ names, and paid us enough to keep our cottages in good repair. The man who followed him wasn’t at all popular with us—until he went away.”

“And what about his successor, the current manager?”

“Eh, I don’t like to complain to you, Sir Dare, when there’s nowt you can do. But he’s the worst in Derbyshire, I’d wager—if I had any coppers to lose. Conditions at Dale End Mine have worsened since he came. First he reduced the pay, during the coldest winter in memory. There was much illness, but none of the men can afford to leave their work. Then we had the wettest of summers, with floods and damp, and our pumps were in such ill repair that for days on end the mines were closed. The price of wheat has already gone up four pence—it’s certain to rise much higher, for harvest will come late and food will be sparse.”

Mrs. Bonsall’s white cap moved up and down in an emphatic nod. “Bread’s goin’ to be even more costly this autumn—and worse in winter. We’ve decided to send our Laura, young as she is, to the cotton factory.”

The impoverished inhabitants of this cottage represented countless families living in these dales and moors, struggling for survival. Their disclosures made him wish that he’d come here much sooner.

“Tomorrow I’ll make an unannounced visit to all the mines—especially Dale End,” he said. “I don’t know whether that will help matters, but it can’t do any harm.”

“It will encourage the men,” Bonsall said, “to know they’re not forgotten.”

Dare reached into his coat pocket for his writing case. “I want the names of any men you know who may be injured or ill, or have sickness in their households. And those with the fewest resources—be it money, food, or fuel. I mean to assist as many as possible, but first I must know which are the very worst cases.”

The miner required no time to think. As the names spilled from his cracked lips, Dare listed them—the column grew longer, and with each addition his spirits sank ever lower. He recognized most of the surnames, and could associate faces with the majority of them.

Tomorrow, after touring the mines, he’d visit his bankers in Wirksworth to withdraw enough money to alleviate the ills caused by poverty and poor working conditions. Never before had he felt so blessed by his wealth—and a vast portion of it had come from the labor of men like Dan Bonsall, their sons and fathers and grandsires.

When the miner concluded the grim recital, Dare pocketed his writing materials. He took out his pouch, plucked out a gold coin, and laid it on the table.

“Eh, sir,” Mrs. Bonsall breathed. “What’s that?”

“Half a guinea. It’s worth ten shillings and sixpence.”

Bursting into tears, she hid her streaming face with her apron. Dan jumped up from the bench and went to comfort her.

“I’m going now,” Dare told them. “But I’ll return as soon as I can.”

He held his lantern high as he led Wingate away from the cottage and toward the tollhouse where they had left their innkeeper’s gig.

“Not a very pleasant homecoming,” he commented. “Affairs here are in a deplorable state.”

“Will you go to Damerham, sir? We’ll pass it by on our way to Wirksworth.”

“I don’t know,” Dare answered frankly. “Under the terms of the lease, I have a right to make an annual visit—which I’ve not yet exercised. It’s no longer my home, and won’t revert to my possession for four years. You thought me mad to give it up, I know. What a long time ago it seems,” he reflected. “I wonder whether anyone here remembers I was engaged to Miss Bradfield.”

“Sir, though I had no right to object or approve your decision to leave Derbyshire, I understood it.”

“My choice had unfortunate consequences for the miners, which I must remedy as best I can.

However long it takes.” As he marched into uneven terrain, he said, “If you dislike being away from Suke Barry, I shall pack you off to London.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” said Wingate’s disembodied voice. “I shall stay with you because it’s my duty, and also my most earnest wish. You’ve got used to having a companion. And though I’m a poor substitute for Madame St. Albans, I shall endeavor to keep your spirits up.”

Dare laughed softly. “Thank you, Wingate. I’m more grateful than I can express.” Feeling the soil beneath him shift, he flung up an arm and warned, “Come no closer!” He held the light out in front of him as far as his arm would stretch, but before he could ascertain what lay ahead, the earth opened up.

Down he tumbled, scraping against a hard, rough surface, deafened by the rumble of loose rocks. His descent was broken by a solid barrier, but the impact pounded the air from his lungs.

Numb and immobile, he waited tensely for burial by the inevitable avalanche from above.

It didn’t come.

He tried to open his eyes—and saw nothing.

I’m blinded,
he thought, frantically blinking to clear away the grit. Blackness surrounded him. He flexed his fists and gingerly shifted his legs. Groaning, he sat up. His entire body ached, but it wasn’t broken.

“Sir?”

“I’m down here!” His shout echoed in the well-like chamber. “I lost my lantern.” Was that the reason he couldn’t see? “I’ve landed on a wooden platform—a portion of the scaffolding, I think. And not at all sturdy.”

“I’ll go back to the miner’s cottage—we’ll bring some men to help you out.”

“Be careful,” Dare cautioned.

There was no answer.

After combing his fingers through his hair to remove the sharp pebbles and grit, he pressed them to the stinging scratch on his cheek. He suspected it was bleeding but couldn’t tell, because his entire face was moist.

Striving for a more comfortable position, he bent his knees. The right one hurt like hell.

Nothing to do but sit and wait. He chafed at his helplessness, but had too much knowledge of mines to attempt an escape. This one, he surmised, hadn’t been worked for years. Frequent rains and waterlogged soil had weakened the support timbers, which likely had been rotten. The planks beneath him were damp and muddy, and he prayed they were in better condition.

He shoved aside the harsh suspicion that this accident was a form of divine retribution, his penance for neglecting the many people dependent on the various Corlett mines. For three years he’d stayed away from Derbyshire, determined not to interfere in an enterprise that he’d entrusted to someone else’s management. Although he had no legal authority to make changes, he would consult with his attorney.

They should ascertain whether or not his tenant cared to break the lease.

As he waited, his thoughts turned toward Oriana, by far the greatest mystery in his life.

In recent days he hadn’t been able to banish his recurring suspicion that she’d used him to make Rushton jealous, to prompt the honorable proposal that would transform her from a hardworking social pariah into a pampered countess. Harriot Mellon’s enlightening conversation had undermined his certainty that the singer would never abandon her career to marry the earl. And Rushton himself had pointed out that her rise in the world would please the noble Beauclerks, proud of their descent from an English monarch and his Drury Lane mistress.

Doubts and false assumptions, Dare reminded himself, had too often misled him, and he mustn’t let them undermine his plans for her happiness. He could not lose Oriana to Rushton, or any other man, because no one else understood her as he did.

But he remembered their parting, and how she’d kissed him as though they might never kiss again.

She had also mentioned selling property—presumably her house.

Rushton had been adamant about removing her from Soho Square.

The earl would impose his lofty notions of respectability upon Oriana—motivated, Dare believed, by genuine affection. But he doubted that his independent, free-spirited songstress, accustomed to turning heads and setting fashions, would be content to dwell in obscurity at Rushton Hall.

He’d often assured her that his passion was boundless, but he hadn’t yet proved that he loved her with his entire being—body, heart, and soul. His infatuation with Willa Bradfield was feeble by comparison to what he felt for Oriana. These emotions were deeper and richer, they nourished and sustained him.