The Viscount's Dangerous Liaison: Regency romantic mystery (Dangerous Deceptions Book 3) Read online

  ‘Um.’ Laura studied a chipped blue and white jug on the dresser just behind his left shoulder. His very broad left shoulder. ‘No, not really.’ That was the honest answer. She did not want to tell him, had no idea how he would react to the truth.

  ‘I see.’ He did not sound angry at her refusal, merely puzzled. ‘Then it is nothing I can help with?’

  ‘No. Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘But you would rather Giles Swinburn was not in the house? Is he a problem around women?’

  ‘Yes.’ That was true, although not why she had run, but it would do as an excuse.

  ‘Then you may be quite sure that if he, or anyone else for that matter, troubles you, I will deal with them.’ His shoulders shifted slightly and she glanced down to see that his fist was clenched.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Why should he care about her? But he doesn’t, she realised. He’s a gentleman with decent chivalrous instincts and he would protect any woman.

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ the chivalrous gentleman was saying. ‘We have a slight problem, however. He brought an invitation to dinner tomorrow night, which I have accepted, which means that I should return the hospitality and there does not appear to be an inn suitable for a respectable dinner party within several miles. Can you tolerate him in the house if I issued an invitation but no female member of staff has to appear?’

  ‘That would be perfectly acceptable, my lord.’

  ‘Oh, and before that, I intend inviting Mr Thwaite the curate to dine in three days’ time. I hope you will feel more comfortable with him in the house?’

  ‘Yes, very much more so, thank you.’ For a bachelor party she would not be expected to appear, so she was quite safe from recognition by Mr Thwaite who knew her well. Where on earth has Lord Northam encountered the Curate? Somewhere on his muddy travels, presumably. ‘I will ring for Pitkin, my lord, so he can remove your boots in the hall.’

  He looked down and then back up with a grin that did dreadful things to her insides. ‘I am justly reproved – and do not look the innocent, Mrs Albright, I know a tactful scolding when I hear one.’

  And I know a charmer when I see one, Laura thought grimly. She should feel perfectly safe with him – his manners, and manner, were impeccable, but the threat was from her own foolish fancies and that smile that was so hard to resist. He’s a viscount, my girl, and spoken for, and don’t you forget it. You are just an East India Company man’s daughter with a tidy inheritance. Gentry certainly – trade, almost – and currently in the devil of a pickle. He was delicious for a youthful romantic tendresse, he is positively dangerous to your heart now.

  Sir Walter and Lady Swinburn clearly enjoyed entertaining Theo decided as he followed the butler into the crowded drawing room. Or perhaps, he guessed, it would be more accurate to say they enjoyed the social cachet of entertaining. The flower arrangements were imposing, dozens of candles blazed and the footmen were elaborately formal.

  ‘Lord Northam, my lady.’

  ‘Delighted you could make it, Northam.’ Sir Walter bore down on him, his handsome wife at his side. ‘Lady Swinburn, Lord Northam. You’ve already met our boys, of course.’

  Giles removed his gaze from the neckline of a young lady’s gown, looked across from where he stood by the fireplace and raised a hand in a gesture that was almost mocking.

  ‘Charles,’ Lady Swinburn said, with some emphasis. Theo revised his opinion of her looks. Close-to he could see how an air of steely determination had hardened the fine lines of her face and primmed up her lips.

  ‘Oh. Ah, yes, Mama. Lord Northam, good evening.’ Charles Swinburn got up from his seat on a sofa where he had been staring blankly in front of him and ignoring the middle-aged lady at his side.

  ‘Good evening.’ Theo produced a social smile and concentrated on names as his hostess began to guide him around the room, beginning with the lady on the sofa. She was tall and heavily-built, not through fat but because, he suspected, she had always been so. Her frame must have been a trial for a young girl forced into pastels and frills, but she dressed for it now, tailored and corseted into a statuesque elegance that was positively chic.

  ‘My sister-in-law, Mrs Finch, Sir Walter’s half-sister and wife to our dear Rector.’

  Mrs Finch had escaped her brother’s beak of a nose, he observed. Intelligent brown eyes surveyed him shrewdly from an unremarkable face set off by the exquisitely fine lace of her fichu.

  ‘Mrs Finch.’ He bowed. ‘Surely that is Alençon work? Exquisite.’

  ‘Very close, my lord. You know your lace,’ she said with a smile. ‘It is Valenciennes.’ Her accent was precise, he had clearly found an enthusiast.

  ‘Only enough to know high quality work when I see it. I understand it is difficult to obtain now and that the manufacture of both types is in decline since the Revolution.’

  Her smile thinned. ‘I was fortunate in a bequest.’

  Lady Swinburn swept him on. ‘And my brother-in-law and our Rector, the Reverend Aldous Finch.’

  They shook hands and Theo found he could envisage Mr Finch in a bishop’s mitre. It would suit him, he had a far more distinguished face than Mrs Finch, but the cold, assessing eyes were off-putting. The Rector was also somewhat younger than his wife, unless Theo was much mistaken. He recalled Will Thwaite, thin, shabby, overworked, doing this man’s duty and had no difficulty in responding with merely formal politeness.

  ‘Have you held this living long, Reverend?’

  ‘Eight years. I had a Norwich parish previously.’

  Time to be climbing on up the ladder of preferment, Theo thought. Perhaps this was an easy post and the man had few aspirations, although he rather doubted Mrs Finch was without ambition.

  They moved to the Jenners: Mr Jenner the red-faced squire of the parish of Saltings just along the coast and almost a caricature of the beef-eating English country gentleman, his wife who was unable to hide her delight at dining with a viscount and their two daughters who helped balance the sexes, possibly the only reason the family had been invited, he thought, judging by the lack of warmth with which Lady Swinburn introduced them.

  Theo revised his opinion by the time they had completed their circuit of the room: no-one appeared to spark warmth from his hostess except her younger son, Giles. A plump lady in black was introduced as, ‘Mrs Gilpin, widow of our late Rector,’ and the handsome man in his forties she had been conversing with as, ‘Mr Hogget. Mrs Hogget does not accompany him,’ she added, with no further explanation.

  Deciding to be awkward, Theo resisted the onward movement of Lady Swinburn and stuck to Mrs Gilpin and her companion who looked to him like the most amiable people in the room. Besides, he disliked the way they had almost been snubbed.

  ‘You both live in Fellingham?’ He broke the ice with the tale of his muddle over the dates and was pleased to hear them speak warmly of his friend Perry.

  ‘You have not visited here before then, Lord Northam?’ Mrs Gilpin asked. She seemed to have the knack most clergy wives acquired of making amiable conversation.

  ‘Not for two years and I have to confess that in those days we were a harum-scarum pair, Manners and I, more interested in wildfowling, hunting and sampling the contents of his cellars than enjoying the civilised company of his neighbours.’

  ‘You have become a staid gentleman in the intervening period then?’ Hogget asked with a sly smile.

  ‘I inherited the title when my uncle and father died within weeks of each other. It had a sobering effect.’

  ‘I imagine it would,’ the other man said, and steered the conversation towards the latest London news.

  At table Theo was on Lady Swinburn’s right hand with the elder Miss Jenner beside him. She was the young lady whose bosom had been the focus of Giles Swinburn’s interest and it soon became apparent that she was quite well aware of her own attractions. In addition to a well-formed figure she had a good complexion, glossy brown hair and a lively manner and was clearly delighted to engage in p
olite flirtation with a viscount.

  Her other partner was Charles Swinburn, who was more engaged by neats’ tongues in pastry, a sallet, a loin of pork and some lamb cutlets, all of which he had heaped on his plate. She turned her shoulder on him and her attention on Theo.

  Giles was separated from his brother by Miss Miranda Jenner, a more serious young lady than her elder sister and, from what Theo could hear, he was behaving himself, although the presence next to him of his Aunt Finch might have had something to do with that.

  Lady Swinburn had resisted the temptation to deck the centre of the table with large flower arrangements, epergnes or piles of fruit which meant that Theo could watch the guests on the other side of the table as well as hear them.

  The Rector was opposite him with Mrs Gilpin next and Mr Jenner as her partner. Mr Hogget and Mrs Jenner made up the rest of that side.

  By the time the second course was removed and the desserts, fruit and an ambitious iced confection appeared, enough wine had been drunk for the formality to have broken down and talk to have become general across the table. Theo had decided that he did not take to the Rector, although he suspended judgment on his wife who was too far away for him to be able to hear her conversation clearly. Mr Jenner struck him as having no great intelligence, but of being very fond of his own voice and opinions. Mr Hogget was clearly far brighter, although his dry, sarcastic manner grated after a while.

  It was not an enticing prospect to realise that he was going to have to invite this same group when he held his own dinner in return.

  Chapter Five

  ‘I hope you are finding enough in our quiet little part of the world to entertain you, Lord Northam,’ Mrs Gilpin remarked when they had all dutifully admired the iced pudding.

  ‘Other than being interviewed by the Riding Officer and having the cellars invaded?’ Theo asked with a wry smile.

  ‘Goodness! How alarming,’ Miss Jenner gasped. ‘The same thing happened to us last week and the Riding Officer is dreadfully sinister, don’t you think?’

  ‘Less so than a gang of smugglers, I’d have thought,’ Theo said. ‘I got the distinct impression in the local hostelry, the Mermaid, that if one knew the correct password, French brandy could be had. I, of course, did not possess the magic phrase.’

  His attempt at lightness was greeted with a grunt from Squire Jenner. ‘Damned un-British I call it, sending busybodies in uniform into a man’s home. Nothing sinister about the free traders. Local men, local tradition. What would we do for our baccy and brandy without them?’

  ‘Buy from the local merchants who have paid duty, perhaps?’ Mr Hogget enquired drily and earned himself a glare from the Squire.

  ‘Hah, shabby genteel ideas of morality,’ Jenner muttered, not quite low enough. The colour rose over the other man’s cheekbones, but he affected not to hear.

  ‘That confounded curate of yours preaching about the trade is tiresome, Finch. The rates of duty are deplorable – ’ Sir Walter began and was interrupted smoothly by his sister.

  ‘So, Lord Northam, what else have you found to entertain yourself, when you are not showing officers of the Revenue around the Grange?’ Mrs Finch asked. ‘Are you not finding our country ways a little dull?’

  ‘I have not been here long enough to become bored, ma’am. However, I have taken a long walk along the coast and found myself intrigued by that extraordinary chest tomb at Hempbourne Marish church. I am no antiquary, but it seems decidedly out of place in such a remote spot. And it is a charmingly naïve piece of work, for all its size and pretension.’

  ‘I agree. I always thought it strange,’ Mrs Gilpin remarked.

  ‘I enjoy a mystery,’ Theo confessed. ‘And so, it seems, does your curate, Mr Thwaite.’ Swinburn glowered at the name. ‘We discussed it at length and he tells me there are no records he can find of Sir Brandon Flyte, whose tomb it is. We agreed to do some more research – or, rather, Mr Thwaite has, as he knows all the sources and furthermore has a pile of old records he unearthed in some recess or another to look through. I intend to help him, although I am no scholar.’

  Beside him Miss Jenner, clearly bored with the topic, sighed. Mrs Gilpin nodded encouragingly but there was a silence, oddly strained, before Mrs Finch knocked over her wine and, as footmen bustled about with cloths and a fresh glass, Lady Swinburn directed Charles to pass the spiced fruit to Miss Miranda.

  That was strange. Theo was still puzzling over the moment as his hostess rose and led out the ladies, leaving the men to their port and nuts. What was equally peculiar was how tense the gathering seemed. Normally the departure of the ladies was the cue for unbuttoning – literal and metaphorical as the men took advantage of the chamber pot behind the screen and allowed themselves to converse on all the topics that actually interested them – politics, sport, horses, the more risqué scandals.

  Now there was an uncomfortable silence until Hogget asked about a horse that Giles Swinburn had recently bought and the conversation creaked into life again.

  It was the smuggling, he assumed. He had raised the subject, it had divided the company and Lady Swinburn was obviously uncomfortable having it discussed with young ladies present, especially as he would have wagered fifty guineas that the brandy they were drinking had landed on a beach by moonlight. But the women had left them now and he would have expected someone to have returned to the topic, even if it was Giles, a natural trouble-maker. A sore topic, best avoided, apparently.

  Sir Walter, wisely, did not prolong matters. The decanters circulated once, the subject of horses ground to a halt and they rose to rejoin the ladies. The tea tray was being carried into the drawing room behind them as they entered.

  The Swinburn sons did not appear to feel they had a duty to hand around tea cups and Theo found himself being beamed at by Mrs Gilpin when he carried one to her.

  ‘Milk or lemon, ma’am?’

  ‘Neither, I thank you. Now, secure your own cup, Lord Northam, and come and sit by me and tell me all the London gossip. The guest of honour should not be acting the waiter.’ As he came back with a cup of tea he did not want she moved the chair beside her for him and gave a ‘Tsk!’ of exasperation as it stuck on something. ‘Now what is wedged – Oh!’

  A sewing basket rolled out from under the chair, losing its lid in the process and spilling silks, a thimble and a piece of half-worked canvas at her feet.

  Theo dropped to his knees and began to gather it up. ‘You do very fine work, Lady Swinburn,’ he remarked, twisting round, the delicate petit point strip in his hands. ‘This will form part of a bell pull, I imagine.’

  ‘That is not my work,’ she said after one dismissive glance. ‘Our niece Laura embroiders. She must have forgotten it.’

  ‘Oh yes, you said the other day that she has gone to Bath to care for an elderly relative who is unwell, I recall,’ Mrs Gilpin said comfortably. ‘Such a good, dutiful thing to do. She is a dear girl.’

  From the expressions on the Swinburn family’s faces – except for Charles who was buried in his tea cup – good, dutiful and dear were not the adjectives they would have used for the absent Laura. For a moment Lady Swinburn looked as though she had eaten a wasp and Sir Walter glowered and then they were smiling again.

  ‘Yes, a dear girl indeed,’ Lady Swinburn agreed tepidly.

  Theo guessed that Miss Laura had been sent off in disgrace following a family disagreement, perhaps something as serious as a dangerous flirtation with a footman. Or even the consequences of that flirtation going too far, in which case the ailing relative was not going to recover for about nine months, he predicted.

  The sewing basket was put to rights, Theo took his seat, sipped his cooling tea and waited a polite half hour before making his farewells and escaping with a feeling of relief to the carriage for the moonlit drive back to the Grange.

  At the stables he found that Jed Tucker his groom had arrived with the riding horses. The man looked weary but the horses seemed to have travelled well. Jed was a man of fe
w words and rather more grunts, but Theo knew how to interpret them and was reassured.

  There was light from the kitchen windows, he saw, and took the shorter way across the back yard rather than walk round to the front door. He tapped and opened it and found Mrs Bishop reading the Norwich Intelligencer on one side of the range, Mrs Albright hemming a sheet on the other and the footmen playing cards at the table end.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you.’ He waved them all back to their seats. ‘I was too lazy to walk round to the front door from the stables.’

  ‘You had a pleasant evening, I hope?’ Mrs Albright said.

  ‘Very, thank you.’ Theo had no intention of trusting the footmen – Edward and Terence, if he recalled rightly – not to gossip to all the neighbouring servants if he made any disparaging remark about the Swinburn party.

  ‘I persuaded Pitkin to go to his bed half an hour since when he confessed that you had told him not to wait up for you, my lord. Terence, take a jug of hot water to his lordship’s chamber, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Albright.’ The man tossed down his cards, raked the pile of farthing stakes from the centre of the table towards himself with a grin for his opponent, and went into the scullery.

  ‘You will strain your eyes, sewing at this time of night, Mrs Albright,’ Theo observed.

  ‘This sort of plain hemming I can do with hardly a glance,’ she said, looking at him as she spoke, her needle still pricking in and out of the seam.

  You will make those lovely green eyes sore, was the kind of thing he would say to a lady at this point, but one did not flirt with the staff, it was unfair. She had dropped her scissors on the rag rug under her feet and Theo knelt to pick them up and drop them back into her sewing basket, thinking of the one he had already righted that evening.

  And there, under his fingers, was the weave of fine canvas and the satin slide of silk threads. ‘This is lovely work,’ he said as he lifted it from the basket, unable to resist the intricacy of the entwined foliage and flowers.