Seducing Mr. Heywood (22 page)

“
Joan!
” Sophia scrambled from her bed and ran to the dressing room, where Joan slept. Sophia had asked the girl to sleep there temporarily when they moved to Rowley Hall, for company; she had felt so alone in Yorkshire. The maid’s bed was undisturbed, its covers neatly drawn. No one had slept there last night. In her heart, Sophia knew instantly what had happened.
She would murder Brent!

Hastily donning a wrapper, Sophia strode into the hallway and called for a footman to bring Bromley to her immediately. When the butler appeared moments later, she learned that the household was in an uproar and no one had thought to awaken Sophia and apprise her of the events.

Joan and Brent had eloped to Gretna Green! The maids Sarah and Lizzie had stars in their eyes at the romance of it all. A mere lady’s maid and a nobleman! Perhaps it could happen to any of them!

Sophia was furious. “How could this happen, Bromley?” she accused the butler. “Did none of you see what was happening under our very noses?”

“My lady,” Bromley attempted to explain, “I had no idea—”

Lady Sophia threw up her arms. She was still in her wrap, her long hair in a plait down her back, pacing back and forth in the morning room. “Pah!”
She
had known—that was the rub.
She
had known that something was afoot. Brent had lied to her.

Or had he? She paused. Had he lied to her? He’d insisted he was not trifling with Joan’s affections and he had now proved that his intentions were honorable—he was marrying her! Could anything on God’s earth be more unlikely than this? Sophia sat down weakly at the table and Bromley made haste to pour her a cup of freshly brewed tea, placing the sugar bowl within easy reach. Hot, heavily sugared tea was good in any emergency.

Sophia began to laugh. Head in her hands, she shook
with mirth. “Bromley, we have all been blind,” she chortled.

“Yes, my lady,” Bromley agreed, pushing the sugar closer. He ventured an opinion. “So much has occurred here of late. It has not been easy to follow comings and goings of those in the Hall or to be certain what is transpiring, even among the servants.”

She nodded in agreement and took a sip of tea, gesturing for the butler to be seated. When he hesitated, she took his arm and forced him to sit. “Pour yourself a cup of tea, Bromley. We both need it.”

Bromley, shocked by this breach of etiquette, nevertheless did his mistress’s bidding. Life had become too exciting since Lady Rowley had returned to the Hall. Yet, for all that, it was strangely pleasant. He was learning to expect the unexpected. The old master would be chuckling with them now, he thought. The baron was ever one for taking delight in human foibles. There had certainly been plenty of those at Rowley Hall in the last several weeks, to be sure!

He sipped his tea; it tasted good.

She missed him.

She missed him every moment of the too-long day, so used was she to seeing him at the Hall, fresh from a lively Greek lesson in the nursery, returning from a morning of fishing with a creel full of fat trout, or exuberant and rosy-cheeked from a brisk ride on the moors with the boys. He had become a part of her new life here, and she expected to see him at the Hall and answering her summons when she sent servants to the vicarage. He had never failed her when she had needed him. During the outbreak of the putrid sore throat, he’d been everywhere at once, yet had found time to see how she was faring, also. He’d located her boys when they were kidnapped. That alone was enough to make her treasure him forever.

Her intent had been to seduce him, but unexpected events had gotten in the way. His diffident manner, sweet good looks and long-limbed body; his passionate kisses, even his hesitant stammer…She had grown accustomed to all of these and so very fond of each. He had seduced her, instead, just by being himself.

If he stayed away much longer, she would be witless with despair; she would lose her mind. When would he return to her? Where was he?

Jarley had gone west; Charles Heywood had traveled east, and they would meet when the circuit was completed. Each had a copy of the list of churches in the area surrounding the Dunhaven estate where they would interview clergy. It was a long list. If either discovered an answer to the puzzle of what happened to Clarissa Bane fifteen years ago, he would immediately ride to find the other. That was the plan. The woman could not have disappeared into thin air. Someone must know what happened to her, and, pray God, could be persuaded to share that information.

Charles was weary, and he missed Sophia. He felt her absence like a burning ache that grew larger and more painful every day. Pushing ahead, at the end of a week he had made no progress but remained hopeful that the next town, the next village, the next pointed spire indicating a modest church and parsonage would be the place that supplied the answer he sought.

The hop-picking season in the Weald of Kent was under way when the vicar of St. Mortrud’s passed through on his quest. Golden hop blossoms—prized for clarifying, preserving, and flavoring beer—had been harvested in this southeastern area of England since the sixteenth century. Thousands of pickers convened from all over the country, even the teeming slums of London, to aid in the massive effort. The quiet roads and byways soon gave way to hectic activity as Charles neared the outskirts of Maidstone.

Men, women, and children walked up and down the hop rows, cloth bags of hops slung over their shoulders. Dotting the lush green acres were the curious contraptions called ventilators, or cowls, that dried the blossoms right in the fields. Timing was crucial, for the hop-picking season was short. As he rode past, Charles saw the golden ripe, papery heads of
Humulus lupulus
, set on twisting, woody stems that grew to a height of some twenty feet. The day was sunny yet cool, perfect picking weather. Charles imagined Kent-born Sophia as a young girl witnessing the same scenes that met his eyes.

He sighed, urging Lancashire Lad by the milling, sunburned
pickers, looking for signposts indicating the village of Bickley and the church of St. Mary Croy, his next stop on the search for Clarissa Bane. From the dismal lack of information gleaned previously, he was fast losing hope of uncovering a single clue that might lead to her whereabouts.

The Reverend Asa Cantwell regarded Charles suspiciously, looking him over as he explained his errand.

“Sir, I am looking for a Miss Clarissa Bane, the daughter of the late Reverend Zibah Bane of St. Mary the Virgin in north Shropshire. She disappeared some fifteen years ago from the estate of the Earl of Dunhaven, where she was governess to his daughter, Sophia Eliot—”

Mr. Cantwell interrupted him. “Why should I be thought to possess information concerning her disappearance, sir?”

“Lady Sophia Rowley—who was Sophia Eliot—believes that an action of her father, the earl, may have led to the disappearance of her governess. She and Miss Bane were very close, and she has felt her loss deeply all these years. She wants to know what became of Miss Bane, and if she is still alive.” Charles fixed his fellow clergyman with a look that could not be interpreted as anything but sincere. “It means a great deal to Lady Rowley, sir.”

“It was a long time ago,” the Reverend Mr. Cantwell murmured. “What good would be served by uncovering events that are better left buried? Perhaps the lady does not wish to be found. Surely, if she did, she would have contacted her former charge long ago.”

Charles’s heart leaped in his chest. Cantwell knew! From the way the man was speaking, he was certain of it. He had to press on.

“She may have tried to contact Lady Sophia and been thwarted, for Lady Sophia has been thrice-married and thrice-widowed in the long interim. With all those changes in surname and residence, and lack of mutual social connections, Miss Bane may not have been able to locate Lady Sophia.” He held his breath, waiting.

Asa Cantwell clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the small window in his study. For a moment, he stood contemplating the green and gold hop fields in the near distance and shaking his head. Charles’s heart sank.

Then the priest turned, fixing the younger man with a hard stare. “Can I trust you, sir? Are you truly an emissary of Lady Rowley?”

Charles stood tall, nodding. “You have my word upon it, sir, and I am prepared to swear upon the Good Book.”

Cantwell nodded slowly. “I like the look of you and cannot help but trust a fellow priest; there is no need to take an oath, sir. I will tell you of that evening fifteen years ago when Clarissa Bane knocked upon my door.” His eyes hardened. “She was a sad sight.” He motioned for Charles to take a seat. “It is a long story, so please make yourself comfortable. I will ask my wife to make tea and to join us.”

Miss Bane had been beaten and raped by her employer, the earl. Nearly witless from shock and fear, she had wandered in a daze, accepting rides from farmers in her frantic flight from the Dunhaven estate. She had appeared at the vicarage of St. Mary Croy at twilight, her hair disheveled, her dress dirty and torn. There was a wild look in her eyes, and her face was badly bruised, her mouth swollen and split. She could barely speak.

Like the good Christians they were, the Cantwells took her in and fed her, asking no questions. They put her to bed in their spare bedchamber, where she slept most of the next day. When she awoke, she asked for water to bathe. Susan Cantwell lent her a frock and laundered and mended her dress.

Another day passed before she recovered from the worst of her shock and was able to speak coherently. She had refused the attentions of the local surgeon, and though her battered face had healed tolerably well, a long, deep cut near her eye looked as though it would
scar. The Cantwells learned that it had been inflicted by a heavy signet ring worn by the Earl of Dunhaven.

Miss Bane feared for her life. She had long suspected, from servants’ gossip, that her employer had murdered his wife, the Countess of Dunhaven. She knew he was a callous, violent man and she had stayed on solely for the sake of his motherless young daughter, whom she loved dearly. The incident leading to his savage attack on her had started with a quarrel. The earl was taking Sophia to London to arrange a profitable marriage without delay; he had added that his daughter no longer had need of her services. Miss Bane had the temerity to argue.

“He assaulted her because she would not abandon her charge?” Charles asked, unable to believe that any man could so mistreat a woman guilty only of loving his own child.

The Reverend Cantwell nodded. His wife now sat beside him, holding his hand. She was a pretty woman whom age had treated well. Her gray eyes were kind.

“She did love that girl, Mr. Heywood, and she feared no good would come of the trip to London’s Marriage Mart,” Mrs. Cantwell murmured.

Charles nodded, his lips set in a grim line. “She was correct, ma’am. The earl arranged the marriage of his innocent young daughter to a depraved brute. God be thanked, Lord Rushton, Lady Sophia’s first husband, died in a fall from his horse a scant year after they were wed, and she was released from his cruelties.”

Susan Cantwell’s eyes filled with tears. “That poor child—” She grasped her husband’s hand, hard. “What happened then?”

“Her father sold her into marriage again. This time, her husband died from the ague. She was once more a widow. But, as luck would have it, she caught the eye of the kindest gentleman in the world, Baron Rowley. He was the first of her husbands to treat her as she deserved to be treated.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair. “The baron sent an investigator named Jarley to find out what had happened
to Miss Bane, but he ran into a brick wall of silence; his inquiries were useless. He found no one who knew where she had gone.”

Cantwell nodded. “It came to my ears that someone was seeking information about Miss Bane, some years after she had escaped from Dunhaven. We thought it best to volunteer no information. Clarissa had been badly hurt. We feared this man might have been sent by the earl; he had a rough look about him, we were told. We had to protect her, you see.”

Charles did see. “You did what you thought best, sir. No one, least of all our Lord, could fault you for that.”

“Yet—” Susan Cantwell’s features were troubled. “Yet, if we had contacted Clarissa ourselves—” She did not finish her statement.

“You know where she is, then?” Charles hoped.

The Cantwells looked at each other, and the cleric nodded at his wife, who said, “She is in York, sir, married to the Reverend Jesse Walters, secretary to the archbishop. You have come all the way to Kent while Clarissa was near the beginning of your journey, unbeknownst to you. She and her husband live in York Close, on the grounds of York Minster.”

Charles breathed a deep sigh of relief. His long journey was over. Miss Bane was alive and in York.

Two letters sat on the silver tray brought in by Horatio that morning. The few missives Sophia received these days were of more interest to her than those dozens she’d discarded daily as an active participant in the
beau monde.
She fingered the first one, savoring the feel of the thick, cream-colored stationery, then broke the red wax seal and opened it. It was from the Mainwarings and included notes from John and William.