Love's Tangle (5 page)

By its light she could see the task that awaited her. Stacks of paper tottered untidily in all four corners of the room. They were an unlikely resting place for what she sought and after a brief glance, she discounted them. If the family Bible had ever been used as a paperweight, it must now have been re-shelved by Hannah. But where to find it amidst this welter of books? Long windows filled one wall of the room but the remaining three were crammed with volumes from ceiling to floor. Without exception the books looked very old and very untouched. A family Bible should surely have pride of place but from her slow survey of the room, it seemed not. There had been an attempt at organization: the books were shelved first according to their content and then alphabetically. She perused the different categories. Would not History be the most obvious place to start? Yes, she would start with History and make her way through the whole section from A to Z.

It was a tiresome business, for the gilt lettering on each spine had been rubbed away and she was forced to open every book to see its contents. After an hour of lifting down volumes and re-shelving them, her shoulders ached and her dress was filthy. The books had not been handled for many years and she was in constant danger of choking from pillows of dust. When one very large cloud engulfed her she tried desperately to stifle her sneeze but failed, the sound seeming to reverberate through the entire house. She crept to the library door and listened, her heart beating a tattoo. But the laughter across the corridor continued unabated.

Back to the shelves. This time she began work on the reference section, reasoning that after History, this was the most likely place. The books here proved even heavier and no more forthcoming. With a sigh she moved on and found herself facing a label marked Travel. An unlikely home for a Bible but at least the section was modest in size. One book caught her eye—
Tales
of Rajasthan—
and she began to read, more for the pause it offered her aching arms. But it proved an interesting journal and she found herself caught up in the traveler’s strange experiences in a country of which she knew little. She had just torn herself away from this intriguing account and begun to search haphazardly through the remaining shelves, when she became aware that the noise from the drawing room had stopped; in fact she feared it might have stopped some time ago.

Hastily she made for the door and inadvertently sent the nearest stack of paper toppling to the floor. She bent to scrabble the scattered sheets together and there right before her—the very book she sought. The Bible appeared to have been thrown untidily on the heap of papers and then covered with more. Her body brisked with excitement and her hands shook, as with the greatest of care she turned the pages, yellow edged and spotted with age—one page, two pages, the family tree! The first name shining out at her was Gabriel’s. He was twenty-six years old, she calculated, young for a man who had seen so much war and death at first hand. And there was his brother beside him, his birth followed by the somber record of his death. The quill seemed to have stuttered at this point, for the ink grew thick and uneven. A new hand had written the next entry—Charles Claremont’s passing, as Martha had said, a mere two years previously. His age made him a contemporary of her mother, she noted neutrally. But then looking more closely, she saw that the name of his wife, Louisa, had been scratched out with an almost fierce pleasure. Was Louisa dead? It seemed unlikely, though Elinor had heard no mention of her since she had come to Allingham. Divorce was even less likely. So why had Charles’ wife been obliterated so brutally? And was it significant that Louisa had not borne a single child?

The family was a great deal smaller than she had imagined. What of Hugo Claremont, Gabriel’s father, and those missing cousins she had supposed to exist? There was just one—Roland. His father and Gabriel’s had died when their sons were very small children, years before she herself was born. Neither could be the man her mother intended. No, there was only one person of the right age who had lived at Allingham eighteen years ago, a person bereft of heirs and eventually it seemed bereft of a wife. And that was Charles Claremont, fourth Duke. What connection could her mother have to him? A scandal, the air whispered. Is that why her mother had fled to Bath? Is that why, as she’d always presumed, her father had died or disappeared before he could reach the town?
The Claremonts own most of this county, you don’t mess with them
, had been Martha’s warning. She felt herself grow cold. If Charles Claremont had somehow been implicated in her father’s disappearance, he would surely be the last person Grainne would want her child to find. Yet the ghostly echo of her mother’s words was with her even now—
powerful, rich—
and the duke had certainly been that.

But she was indulging in a flight of fancy, nothing more. Her quest had come to a full stop and the fact hit her hard. She had been so sure the family Bible would tell her what she wanted to know. It hadn’t and she must live with the consequences. Her only security was to be that of a dairymaid and she was likely to lose even that if she were found here. She wetted her fingers and snuffed out the candle. Thank goodness none of the guests had seen its faint beam of light when they’d left for an unusually early bedtime.

Still clutching her candlestick she slipped around the library door and closed it very quietly behind her. She must regain the back staircase as soon as possible.

“And what pray are you doing in this part of the house?” The voice was at her elbow and she spun around.

Gabriel Claremont leant carelessly against the paneled walls but his expression was far from careless. He moved the candle he held closer to her face and she blinked in its sudden illumination.

“Have you lost your tongue, Nell, as well as your way?”

“No, Your Grace.” She kept her voice meek. She had once more been found trespassing and now was the time to think on her feet. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but I could not sleep and wished for something to read. I thought it would not matter if I took no books.”

His annoyance turned to amusement. “Something to read—from the Allingham library?”

She nodded.

“Did you not know this library is one of the most prestigious in the country? You will have to look elsewhere for your Gothic romance.”

“I don’t read Gothic romance,” she exclaimed with indignation, and then more honestly, “at least only very occasionally.”

“Then what do you read? What possible interest could the Allingham library hold for you?” He moved closer and she was aware of a tingling down her neck. She smelt his subtle scent and the warmth of a hard, muscular body.

“History,” she improvised. At least that had been one of the sections she had searched.

“History is a wide brief.” She saw his face in the candlelight, at once laconic and suspicious.

“Classical history,” she said, desperately trying to remember the lessons Grainne had taught her.

“Ah yes, Livy, I imagine.” His tone was sardonic.

“No, not Livy. Cicero,” she countered.

“Wasn’t Cicero a philosopher?”

“An historian too, I believe.”

She should not have been goaded into retort but he was behaving insufferably. She had been foolish to think he would do otherwise. Gabriel Claremont was as arrogant as she had first thought. In the shifting flame of the candle his deep blue eyes appeared almost black. He moved closer and she could feel his breath on her cheek. A strand of hair had fallen forward over his brow and she had to restrain herself from pushing it back. What was she thinking? Here she was in the middle of the night with an angry man standing inches away and all she could think of was what it would feel like to touch him.

He took her chin between his fingers and tipped her face towards his. “I don’t know what you are doing here, Nell, but the main house is out of bounds to you, strictly out of bounds.”

He let go of her and the smile was back on his face. “Remember that well or when
I
can’t sleep I might just visit you in
your
quarters. I’m sure I’d find the experience a great deal more interesting than Cicero.”

She blushed scarlet and was thankful that in the dim light he was unlikely to see the effect he was having. “May I go now, Your Grace?” She tried to keep her voice steady.

“You may, but next time, Mistress Nell, you won’t escape as lightly.”

She fled towards the safety of her attic. The duke was an attractive man, very attractive, seductive even, but he was also a hardened rogue, she was sure. The way he had moved his body so close to hers she could feel his breath, the way he had tipped her face to his so that she had thought at any moment he would bring those warm lips down on hers. She gave herself a mental shake. She must drive such thoughts from her mind; she had had a lucky escape.

****

She struggled awake as the first rays of light streamed through the attic’s uncurtained window. The memory of her abortive mission the previous evening gradually filled her mind and left her feeling dull and deflated. It had all been for nothing. The hard labor, the terror of discovery and the troubling encounter with the duke. And now she must face yet another day.

By the time she reached the dairy, the sun had already begun to climb through the sky and touch her skin with its warmth. But she hardly noticed, for her mind was once more busy. Last night, even very early this morning, she had been ready to relinquish her quest and settle for the small security she possessed. Further trespass could only put it at risk. But there was a mystery here, she was certain, and something pushed her to uncover it. If Charles had been the man in her mother’s thoughts, was it possible she might one day find a connection between him and her parents? The practical evidence for her mother’s involvement in Allingham was tenuous but instinct told her otherwise. She fingered the broken locket she carried, feeling through her skin its almost hypnotic force. What would Grainne want? She had kept her daughter in ignorance, yet in her last painful moments on earth, she had tried to make good the years of silence. In the deepest reaches of her heart Elinor knew she would continue the search, no matter what the cost.

Those papers last night—she had barely glanced at them, but she could see they were business communications relating to the estate and its tenants. So were there personal papers elsewhere? Where would Charles have kept his most sensitive documents? A rough plan of the house flickered past her inner eye. A study was the most likely depository and Gabriel’s study had doubtless been his uncle’s before him. If Charles Claremont had had dealings with her parents, what better place than his own private room to keep those confidences? Judging by the chaos that reigned in the house, any papers were likely to be there to this day. She wondered if Gabriel had any idea of what his study contained and for a few seconds considered telling him why she had come to Allingham. But only for a few seconds. He would almost certainly laugh her out of the gates if she were foolish enough to confess the truth.

There was no help for it. She would have to search the study secretly, but if she were again caught prying…she flamed at the thought of the duke’s last words and her usually buoyant spirits failed. She would have to be extra vigilant, and wait for an opportunity when the whole company had vacated the house and was certain to be gone for many hours.

****

Martha left for the kitchen at noon that day, carrying the batch of butter pats they had just made, and Elinor began straightway on the now familiar cleaning routine. As she scrubbed the marble shelf that ran beneath one of the double windows, she spied a group of figures coming towards the creamery. They seemed vaguely familiar, particularly the corpulent man who appeared to have been poured into tight cream pantaloons and a tight tail coat of shining blue velvet. A brightly colored floral waistcoat in startling hues of red completed his ensemble and made Elinor blink even from this distance. It was the Regent. He seemed to have difficulty navigating the flagged path and leant for support on the two men who had accompanied him at the race meeting.

As they drew nearer, the taller of the two called loudly, “Hey there, dairy. His Highness needs service.”

Why had Martha chosen this very moment to leave and why, oh why, had she not gone with her? “Your Royal Highness,” she said and bobbed a curtsy as she tripped up the steps.

“At last,” the prince wheezed. “I seem to have walked an age to find you. But I am sure it will be worthwhile. What do you think, Lansley? I wasn’t mistaken yesterday. A pretty little darling, eh?”

The man addressed as Lansley bared his teeth in what Elinor imagined was a smile. His gallantry was as unwelcome as his master’s. The prince was muttering almost to himself. “Mind you, not as buxom as—what was her name—the girl who was here before?”

“Letty, I believe, sir.”

“Yes, Letty. Not as buxom but most comely, wouldn’t you say?”

Lansley again bared the awful teeth and the other man gave a high whinnying laugh. Really, if they did not make her feel so uneasy, it would be better than a pantomime. But she was uneasy.

“Let me welcome you to Allingham, my dear,” the prince said grandly as though he owned the property. Which he probably did, Elinor surmised, having only the haziest notion of Crown privilege. “And tell me where you have sprung from.” He smiled in a worryingly doting fashion.

“I have come from Bath, Your Highness.”

“Frightful place,” the Regent opined “The waters taste like a sewer. But you know, I would have said you came from Ireland. That coloring, eh, Franks,” he said to the other man, “pure Irish.”

The topic seemed exhausted and Elinor was anxious to remind her visitors of their purpose. “May I bring you a glass of milk, Your Highness?”

The prince let out a roar of laughter which choked itself to a splutter. “What do you take me for, girl? Milk!”

If he had not come to the dairy to drink milk, what had he come for? It soon became abundantly clear.

“Yes, Claremont has a good eye, I’ll give him that. A lovely face and a delightful figure. Heartening to find beauty in such an out of the way place.”