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Caught in Scandal's Storm
Helen Dickson


A SHAMEFUL PASTAlice Frobisher has fled Paris to escape a scandalous secret. But when she’s trapped with dark and dangerous Ewen Tremain on his snow-bound estate Alice finds herself the subject of rumours once again… Ewen is immediately drawn to this dark-haired beauty, and would do anything – even marry her – to save her from ruin.But can Alice truly shake off her past and accept the happiness Ewen promises? Or will she be caught in scandal’s tempestuous storm for ever?







A shameful past

Alice Frobisher fled Paris to escape a scandalous secret. But when she’s trapped with dark and dangerous Ewen Tremain on his snowbound estate, Alice finds herself the subject of rumors once again…

Ewen is immediately drawn to this dark-haired beauty, and would do anything—even marry her—to save her from ruin.

But can Alice truly shake off her past and accept the happiness Ewen promises, or will she be forever caught in scandal’s tempestuous storm?

“A fun, entertaining read.” —RT Book Reviews on Beauty in Breeches


Placing his finger beneath her chin, Ewen tipped her face up to his.

‘Would you care to tell me what the Countess was referring to when she said you were already skating on thin ice? You told me you were betrothed and that when you walked away it caused a scandal. Is there anything else you want to tell me?’

Shrugging his finger away, she shook her head. ‘No.’

‘There must have been something in your past to warrant her remark.’

‘There’s nothing, I tell you—except that suddenly and painfully I learned that when one breaks with convention one can never crawl back to its comforting shell again. I became cut off from the past and all its connections. At the time the realisation was both chilling and daunting, but I will not—cannot—go back.’


AUTHOR NOTE

CAUGHT IN SCANDAL’S STORM is the sequel to A TRAITOR’S TOUCH. Characters that appeared in A TRAITOR’S TOUCH are mentioned, and appear in the final pages of CAUGHT IN SCANDAL’S STORM, which can be read as a stand-alone book.

Ewen Tremain is the younger brother of Simon Tremain, the hero of A TRAITOR’S TOUCH, who, as a fugitive, was forced to flee Scotland following the Battle of Culloden. CAUGHT IN SCANDAL’S STORM picks up twenty years after the battle.

After eight years as a slave in North Africa, Ewen Tremain returns to civilisation to forge a new life for himself—but he is haunted by the betrayal of a beautiful woman and the terrible sufferings he endured at the hands of his captors. Only when he meets Alice Frobisher does he begin to feel that happiness is within his reach. But Alice, who is trying to come to terms with a disastrous betrothal which forced her to leave Paris to avoid further scandal, has issues of her own to deal with.

Both Ewen and Alice are beset with emotional conflicts that must be resolved before they can emerge victorious in the battle for their love.


Caught in Scandal’s Storm

Helen Dickson






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


HELEN DICKSON was born and lives in South Yorkshire, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.


Contents

Cover (#u069bdb10-14a7-57c0-b5ae-dd7caf2e9b28)

Back Cover Text (#u9d40f95d-9530-5917-92bc-df74145f84e2)

Introduction (#u0aaa4cb7-c6f5-5d89-857e-d4da549d0bfd)

Author Note (#u106e0a6d-6ab0-514b-a8f8-12a16abc053e)

Title Page (#u0f8ff265-1a32-5b21-b483-135b39d4e6c6)

About the Author (#u3e65a816-f00b-541b-a14f-47cfbe81daea)

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#ue961d453-3364-5e1d-ba45-a265433a9751)

1746—after the Battle of Culloden

Prince Charles Edward Stuart had come to Scotland to reclaim his father’s throne and restore the Stuart monarchy. This handsome young man’s head was full of great revolutionary ideas, ideas that had driven him to associate with those who would turn a revolution into a bloodbath on Culloden Field.

He had defeated the Government army at Prestonpans, but the Jacobite troops were cut to pieces on Culloden Moor. Prince Charles had become a fugitive fleeing for his life, leaving those who had supported him to face the brutal retribution of his enemies.

Government repression was brutal. Homes were raided in the search for Jacobites. Some were driven into the hills and those captured were swiftly put either to the bayonet, the hangman’s rope, or burnt alive in their homes. Women, children and the old were no exception. No quarter was given.

At Rosslea, the ancestral home of Iain Frobisher in the borderlands, the servants, fearing for their families and their lives, fled. Mary Frobisher was left alone with her twelve-year-old son, William, and her month-old baby daughter, Alice. Two of her sons had been killed on Culloden Field; her husband, Iain Frobisher, was a prisoner of the English.

The house stood high upon a promontory overlooking the village below. When dusk came there was a stirring in the valley. Scarlet-coated men moved among the cottages. They came with their torches to burn and to kill. Mary heard musket fire, then screams. They would soon set their sights on Rosslea.

Mary was prepared. Gathering what was left of her family and the few possessions she could carry, her money and jewels sewn into the seams of her cloak and gown, she was quickly away to the cover of the trees.

When darkness shrouded the land, the glow of fire from Rosslea lit up the sky. It was a blazing inferno, feeding greedily on the precious treasures it housed, the flames penetrating high into the night sky. Biting back her tears, Mary turned away. Now was not the time to show weakness.

Numb with shock and driven by fear, carrying Alice wrapped in a plaid and urging William on, familiar with the terrain having lived in these parts all of her life, she followed the drovers’ roads over the border. She managed to reach the west coast and cross to Ireland. From there she took ship for France, joining others who had fled persecution after Culloden.

It was in Paris where she learned of the death of her husband. Mourning three members of her beloved family, Mary managed to make a life for those who were left.

Ten years later—

somewhere off the coast of North Africa

Lieutenant Ewen Tremain could not be sure whether it was the scratching of a rat—a faint, irregular rasping, made audible only by the intense, muffled silence of the night, coming from somewhere between the oak bulwark that divided the cabins and narrow passageways of his Majesty’s ship the Defiance—or another soft, furtive sound that had awakened him.

It was scarcely more than a gentle lapping of water against the hull—or could it be the splash of oars? Surely not. It must have been the rat that had awakened him, he thought, relaxing with a small sigh. It was absurd that such a small thing should have dragged him out of sleep and into such tense and absolute wakefulness. His nerves must be getting the better of him. Or perhaps it was the ship, becalmed for four days, that had something to do with it.

He tossed and turned restlessly, but he was unable to go back to sleep—that faint rasping sound frayed at his nerves. Slowly, very slowly, a peculiar sense of unease stole into the small cabin—a feeling of urgency and disquiet that was almost a tangible thing. It seemed to creep nearer and to stand at the side of him, whispering, prompting, prodding his tired brain into wakefulness.

Rolling off his bunk, he shrugged himself into his clothes and went up on to the deck, deserted except for the man keeping lookout for any corsair vessels. Standing by the rail, he gazed into the darkness. A sea mist hung low in the air, veiling the ship in a damp, diaphanous shroud. The night and the brooding silence seemed to take a stealthy step closer and breathe a lurking menace about the isolated ship. There was something out there that clamoured with a wordless persistence for attention. Ewen’s tired brain shrugged off its lethargy and was all at once alert and clear.

Suddenly, for the first time in days, there was a breeze, a faint uneasy breath of wind that sighed and whispered among the rigging and ruffled the canvas.

A bleary-eyed Captain Milton appeared beside him, rubbing his stubbled chin. ‘The wind’s getting up, Mr Tremain. Come dawn we’ll be underway.’

Ewen remained silent, straining his ears. The splash of oars became more distinct. Suddenly, out of the mist a dark, sinister shape emerged, closely followed by another two ships, the oars manned by galley slaves. When the flag on the mainmasts became clear—a human skull on a dark background—it became apparent that the mysterious ships had not come in friendship. Ewen stared, held in the grip of a sudden, sickening premonition of disaster as he considered the evil fate which, in the shape of two great white-winged ships, had come out of the mist to menace them.

Unless some unexpected turn of events occurred, their chance of escaping seemed slender. To be captured by Islamic Barbary corsairs, who treated their captives with ruthless savagery, or to die in circumstances too horrible to contemplate, was a terrifying thing indeed.

Returning to Britain from West Africa, it was the summer of 1756, when Ewen Tremain, along with Captain Milton and the crew of the Defiance, was captured by Barbary corsairs and taken in chains to the great slave market in Sale in Morocco. Poked and prodded and put through his paces, he was sold at auction to the highest bidder, a tyrannical brother of the Sultan.

Resourceful, resilient and quick-thinking, Ewen was soon selected for special treatment. As a personal slave of his master, while dreaming of his home, his family and freedom, he witnessed at first hand the barbaric splendour of the Moroccan Court, as well as experiencing daily terror.

When his master was absent from the palace for six weeks, his circumstances changed for the worse when his eyes lighted on a Moorish girl named Etta. Cruel, savage, passionate and beautiful, with tigerish green-and-gold eyes, decked in gold and pearls, she was his master’s favourite concubine. It was whispered that more than one handsome, well-muscled slave had entered her apartment by night through a secret door to satisfy her sexual appetite, their corpses later found washed up on the shore.

Handsome, haughty and virile, and unable to see any way out of his prison, except for the grave, Ewen was unable to resist Etta. Twining her slender arms about his neck and using all her witchery to captivate him, she made him her pliant, willing slave. Their clandestine meetings were made with great risk and their lovemaking did not lack passion. She was a bright and beautiful beacon in Ewen’s dark and miserable world. He found a kind of happiness when he was in the arms of this infidel concubine who seemed to have cast a spell on him and in whose body he found the forgetfulness he craved.

A chivalrous and honest man, who would later deplore the fact that he had kept such a large streak of naiveté in his make-up, Ewen found it hard to grasp the guile behind the soft smiles, or fond words, especially when they came from the mouth of this exotic concubine.

He believed Etta loved him, but how purring and persuasive and soothing that voice of hers could be. He could not have guessed for a moment what weight of treachery it concealed. When his master returned to the palace and summoned Etta, she went to him willingly, happy that her position as number one concubine would resume. Since Ewen did not appeal to her heart or her feelings, she felt strong. The smile and caressing voice she bestowed on him when passing could not cancel out the hard, calculating expression of her eyes, or her betrayal when she denounced him to her master, accusing him of lusting after her even after she had spurned him.

Ewen saw what she did, heard her denounce him. He hung there, his eyes blinded by a scalding rush of tears. When he straightened at last, the tears were gone. What had come to take their place was rage at his own weakness.

And so she condemned him.

He was to be given one hundred lashes, and, if he survived, he would be consigned to the galleys and chained to an oar for the remainder of his life.

Ewen had thought himself indestructible. But what man of flesh and blood could hope to prevail against these barbarians? At first he had hoped against all hope and reason that he would emerge from his servitude miraculously safe and sound. But now he realised that there would be no miracle—until the galley was sunk by a British man-of-war off the coast of Spain.

Ewen could not believe his good fortune when the oar he had been chained to for two miserable years snapped and he was eventually washed ashore. There was one other survivor—the youth Amir who had worked on the same oar every day for the past year. He lay close by on the sand. His body was hunched, the knees drawn up to his chin, arms bent, in the position babies are supposed to have within a mother’s womb. He looked small, vulnerable, helpless. A feeling of pity for the sad, lonely youth overwhelmed Ewen. His heart went out to him as it had many times. He wanted to hold him as he had never held a child. It was a totally new feeling for him.

Lying there with the wet sand beneath him, Ewen closed his eyes and prayed to God with all the fervour of his being that they would both survive. Slowly, strength began to flow into him. It surged within him, bringing the peace of determination. Picking himself up, he went to Amir. The youth stirred, and, supporting each other, they made their way inland.

After many days, as they toiled over the steep, difficult terrain, Ewen’s thoughts were not on his present discomfort. He kept imagining that he saw the face of Etta stepping out of the mist, with her treacherous smile and cat-like eyes, which held nothing but betrayal. His throat became tight with pain and anger and he had to close his eyes against the wetness. Dragged down with weariness, for a moment he suffered so cruelly that he was tempted to lay himself down and wait for death. Only Amir and the instinct of self-preservation—a force greater than his pain and suffering—urged him to keep going.

His hope of seeing his family again was powerful enough to have carried him through so many trials. The journey from Morocco to the towering peaks of the Spanish hills and the refuge of the monastery a traveller had directed them to was a Calvary for Ewen.

When Amir stumbled and fell, Ewen raised him to his feet and held him. ‘Come, Amir. Be strong,’ he urged while his own strength was failing. ‘The monastery can’t be far now.’

Just then, as if to lend weight to his words, the faint sound of a single bell reached him through the air and he gave a sigh of relief.

‘The bell for lost travellers! We are on the right path!’

At last they came in sight of the monastery, where the man had told them men of all faiths and creeds were given sanctuary. The moon shone clear of cloud and its cold light streamed down on the low-roofed buildings with thick walls huddled at the foot of a narrow pass. A square tower stood over them and the road passed under a stone archway into the ancient monastery.

From somewhere within those walls came the faint sound of religious chanting. It was so unexpected and so unfamiliar that Ewen stopped to listen. A faint hope awakened in him. He found himself believing that the old chant must be God’s answer to his fervent prayer. He had reached the limit of his strength. Incapable of taking another step, he collapsed on to his knees. He saw the dim glow of lanterns passing to and fro, carried by human hands. To the weary man, these lights signified life and warmth and hope.


Chapter One (#ue961d453-3364-5e1d-ba45-a265433a9751)

1766

The swirling snow encircled the young woman, freezing her body and mind with a numbness that blocked her senses, but could do nothing to alleviate the pain in her heart. As she stumbled through the park she clutched her cloak tightly beneath her chin, the wide hood covering her hair. Blinded with snowflakes and buffeted by wind, she was unaware of the intense cold which numbed her hands and feet and turned her cheeks to ice. Her gait was that of a person in pain, but her pain was not physical. Her body was strong and youthful and healthy with the benefits of good living.

The whirling white flakes were coming down so thickly that she could not see more than a yard in front. She thought of her father, a man she could not remember, and was surprised to feel tears pricking her eyes. It had been so long. Since she had left Philippe, she had not been able to cry. She feared that if she gave way for a moment, she would shatter into a thousand pieces and never stop. So she kept her emotions wrapped tightly inside her. But now, the thought that her father was alive when she had thought him dead, that she would see him, pierced the barrier of her emotions and her cheeks were flooded with her tears.

Suddenly a dark form loomed up through the driving snow immediately ahead of her. She swerved wildly, but she was too late and cannoned into something solid. She would have fallen but for a hand that gripped her arm and held her upright. Panic struck her and she tried to wrench herself away, but the grip on her arm might have been a vice. A man’s voice said curtly, ‘What the devil are you doing out in this?’

Alice opened her mouth, but she was unable to speak. Her throat, along with the rest of her, seemed frozen and the wind drove thick snowflakes into her eyes, blinding her.

‘What’s the matter?’ the man demanded, his voice deep and rough. ‘Lost your voice?’

Her captor raised his gloved hand and brushed the snow roughly from her face, peering down at her in the hazy light. She had a fleeting impression, blurred by the driving snow, of height, and a pair of eyes, hard and flint grey and very angry, before her own were blinded with snow once more. The man muttered a low curse under his breath. She did not recognise the voice and she was suddenly very afraid.

The grip on her arm relaxed and in that moment, with a strength born of fear, she wrenched her arm free and fled as fast as she was able. Thankfully the ground beneath the trees was in her favour, being sheltered and only thinly covered with snow, and she was able to widen the gap between them. She heard him call out to her, but he did not follow as she vanished into a seemingly solid wall of snow.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, blinded by snow and buffeted by wind, breathless and shaken by her encounter with the stranger, Alice reached Hislop House in the heart of Piccadilly. Hislop House was the grand residence of Lady Margaret Hislop, Countess of Marchington. At present it was all abustle as servants busied themselves preparing for the grand occasion Lady Marchington was hosting that very night, to announce the betrothal of her niece Roberta to Viscount Pemberton, the Earl of Winterworth’s eldest son. Alice barely had time to compose herself before Roberta came hurrying to her across the hall.

‘I’m relieved to see you back, Alice. Although why you had to go off like that with a blizzard screaming outside escapes me.’

‘You know why, Roberta,’ she replied, managing with a supreme effort of will to keep her emotions well hidden. ‘I can’t bear being cooped up all the time. It’s so stuffy in the house. I need to breathe the fresh air.’

‘I know and I’m not complaining, but you know Aunt Margaret doesn’t like you to go out on your own. You should have taken one of the servants.’

Alice heaved a rueful sigh. ‘I hoped she wouldn’t notice.’

Alice had ignored the stricture which required that she take someone with her, after receiving a letter the day before from a person by the name of Duncan Forbes. Forbes had informed her that he had information regarding her father, whom she had believed deceased these past twenty years. Deeply troubled and anxious to find out more, Alice had fled to nearby Green Park without a chaperone to meet him at the designated time and place.

‘Aunt Margaret misses nothing. She knows everyone’s secrets and nothing is hidden from her. You should know that by now.’ Roberta gave Alice a speculative look. ‘Did the letter you received yesterday have anything to do with you going out?’

Alice shook her head. There had been few secrets between them since Alice had come to live at Hislop House two months ago. She had confided in Roberta about her reason for not marrying Philippe—though not all of it, for some of the things she had done with Philippe were too sordid for Roberta’s gentle sensitivities. Roberta was aware of the scandal that had shamed her and that, with her reputation in tatters, Alice had been forced to flee Paris. Alice would keep her meeting with Duncan Forbes to herself for the time being.

Duncan Forbes had told her that after the Battle of Culloden, back in ’46, her father, Iain Frobisher, had been captured and taken south to stand trial for high treason. He’d been held on the hulks in the Thames. Justice for traitors was swift and he had been stripped of his possessions and estate. When the guards had come to take him to Kennington Common for his execution, he had leapt into the murky waters of the Thames in a reckless bid for freedom. Although he was shot and the river searched, his body was never found. He was presumed dead.

Duncan Forbes had told her that he himself had been a common soldier at the time of Culloden and had been on the hulk with her father. He was one of many who had been released under the Act of Indemnity which was passed in ’47.

What Duncan Forbes hadn’t told Alice was that he had fallen on hard times. He had given little thought to Iain Frobisher since the day he’d jumped into the Thames, until he’d met a man in London recently who bore an uncanny resemblance to his companion on the hulk. His suspicions were proved correct, and after spending a short time reminiscing, the two men had gone their separate ways. But on reading a small clip in the papers about Alice Frobisher’s fall from grace in Paris, and learning that she had come to London to reside with Lady Marchington, he realised the information he had acquired could be turned to his advantage. He had sent a note to Marchington House addressed to Alice Frobisher, stating that he had information concerning her father she might find interesting.

Having whetted her appetite and seeing that she was desperate to know more, he had told her to meet him at the same time and place the following day. Alice had agreed, by which time she would have acquired the money to pay him what he asked for the information.

‘No, of course not,’ Alice lied in answer to Roberta’s question. She handed her snow-clad cloak to a waiting footman, who was not at all pleased to have water dripping all over his buckled shoes. ‘I’ll go to Lady Marchington as soon as I’ve changed my gown. The hem is quite sodden. See,’ she said, kicking a booted foot out in front of her to prove her point.

‘I think she wants to see you now.’

Alice threw Roberta an exasperated look. ‘Really, Roberta, unlike you I do not feel that I always have to do your aunt’s bidding. If I were you, I’d stand up for myself. No one would blame you.’

Roberta smiled tolerantly. She did not possess a strong will of her own and often allowed herself to be browbeaten into compliance by her Aunt Margaret. It was easier that way. ‘Aunt Margaret has been very good to me—to both of us, Alice. If it hadn’t been for her, I would have been sent to live with strangers. I could not have borne that. Aunt Margaret has done a lot for me.’

Roberta had the misfortune to be an orphan, but it was fortunate for her that she possessed as her sole relative and guardian the Countess of Marchington, Lady Margaret Hislop, a widow these ten years past and without offspring. Roberta had long ago become submerged in the strong waters of her aunt’s personality, for Lady Marchington was an autocratic, domineering woman who employed outspokenness to the point of rudeness as a form of social power and was feared and deferred to in consequence.

She had an eye that could bore holes through granite and a tongue that could flay the hide off a rhinoceros. It was pretty unnerving to those who found themselves in close proximity to the formidable lady. Roberta submitted herself to Lady Marchington’s authority without complaint. Strong men withered before her and women ran for cover. She was a highly colourful character, tall and slender with iron-grey hair and a face wrinkled with age, but it was said she used to be a raving beauty when she was a girl.

Alice was not afraid of her, but then she always took care to avoid her. ‘Oh, well,’ she said, heading for the stairs with Roberta following on behind her, ‘as long as you feel like that about it. What do you suppose the party will be like tonight? The whole of London is anticipating the announcement of your betrothal. Indeed, they can talk of little else. I doubt the bad weather will prevent those invited from attending.’

‘I sincerely hope not, but we will just have to wait and see.’

‘I am certain the evening will be a tremendous success.’ Alice cast Roberta an amused, knowing glance. ‘Knowing how enamoured he is of you, Roberta, you can be assured of Hugh’s company all night. The manner in which you become quite flustered when you are with him tells me that his attentions are not unwelcome. Come, do not deny it. It is forever Hugh this and Hugh that,’ she gently teased her friend, who had turned as red as a poppy when Alice pointed out this slowly growing obsession.

Roberta’s china-blue eyes never left Alice’s face, the soft brown ringlets demurely hiding her rosy dimpled cheeks. She was quite tall and slender and cast in a gentler mould than Alice. It was not just that, Alice mused bitterly. What she lacked and what Roberta had in abundance was a tender innocence to add to her sweet beauty.

‘You’re quite right, Alice,’ Roberta said, warming to her subject despite her strongest wish to be sensible. ‘It’s an exciting feeling. When I see Hugh I always feel so happy. I—I do love him, Alice.’

Alice smiled at her. She did not begrudge Roberta her happiness, but she did envy her and wished with all her heart that she could have found the same kind of happiness in her betrothal to Philippe. ‘That you cannot deny and very soon you will be his wife.’ When Roberta and Hugh were together, mostly they talked. Occasionally they touched each other’s hands, tentatively, the lightest of movements before making a shy retreat. Marriage would be a steady arrangement which Roberta would be content with and Hugh would have an absolute single-minded devotion for her. How Alice envied her friend these feelings. Let her not be disappointed as she had been.

‘I confess that I cannot wait,’ Roberta softly replied.

‘Although what will happen when Hugh discovers you were once betrothed to another—may still be betrothed to him since the engagement was never broken—is anyone’s guess.’

The light vanished from Roberta’s eyes at Alice’s mention of Ewen Tremain. ‘Aunt Margaret says Lord Tremain no longer counts. He pledged his troth to me in Paris. But where is he now? He left over a year ago after being summoned to his brother’s home in Bordeaux on a family matter and there has been no word from him since. Living close to Paris, did you never meet Lord Tremain?’

Alice shook her head. ‘I know of him. His brother Simon fought alongside my father and brothers at Culloden.’

‘I recall you telling me that your brothers did not survive the battle.’

‘Sadly, no. Two of them were killed. William was too young to fight. I have no memories of my older brothers. I was just a baby at the time. My mother died soon after we went to live in France. Now there is just William—and me, of course.’

‘Aunt Margaret has written to Lord Tremain on numerous occasions, without the slightest result. He could not have done more to earn her displeasure. He is deserving of her contempt, and mine. It would seem I’ve been fortunate to escape marriage with a man who is unworthy. In fact, I think Lord Tremain is the only man who has ever snubbed Aunt Margaret firmly—and, she says, with intention. I have to say that it’s a salutary experience for her. Which is why she has relegated Lord Tremain to the past.’

And which was why, Alice mused, Lady Marchington was giving a ball tonight to display Roberta like a costly gem to be admired, a diamond to be destined for a coronet, no less. Lady Marchington was the matchmaker, the woman who would marry her niece to the most eligible bachelor in London. She had thought of nothing else since Lord Tremain had left Roberta in Paris. Lady Marchington was fearfully strong willed and quite ruthless about getting her own way.

‘I do recall you saying how relieved you were when he left Paris. You had an aversion to him, I believe.’

‘Not an aversion exactly,’ Roberta answered, raising her skirts and having to hurry to keep up with Alice as she climbed the stairs.

‘Does he still trouble you?’

‘On occasion. We were not well acquainted, but on the few times we met he was always polite and considerate towards me. He was a man to stir a female’s heart—quite dashing—handsome, too. But he was a mysterious man—secretive—sinister even, I often thought.’

Alice had become very fond of Roberta. She was angry at the treatment her friend had received from Lord Tremain and was persuaded that he was unworthy of Roberta’s devotion. She was determined to remain just as sensitive to Lady Marchington’s motives of ridding Roberta of that erstwhile suitor, yet if Lord Tremain was as handsome as Roberta would have her believe, then one would assume he had made quite an impression on her. The loss of such a magnificent suitor would have made any woman resentful of an aunt who was determined on his removal from her life. Alice was of the opinion that, if for no other purpose than to make Roberta happy, Lady Marchington had been justified.

‘But what of you?’ Roberta asked. ‘I would not ask, Alice, but I fear I must. I’m so glad your brother sent you to live with my aunt and me, but you must miss Paris.’

Alice drew up her slender shoulders in a small, distressed shrug, not wishing to recall the events that had made her leave her brother’s house, the shame she had brought on William’s good name. Now that she was in England, she was keenly aware that her memory of those weeks was best put behind her for the sake of her own peace and well-being. ‘It wasn’t Paris I had an aversion to, Roberta, only the man I was supposed to marry.’

‘You jilted him. But if you did not love him, then you have nothing to reproach yourself for.’

Despite Roberta’s charitable words, Alice realised she was still feeling the effects of the nightmare of what she had done. A fleeting frown touched her smooth visage as a memory stirred in her mind of the self-satisfied smirk Philippe had worn that first time he had taken her to bed. It was almost as if she had become a possession he could flaunt to lord it over others. The day had come when she had told him she would not marry him and walked away. She had never loved him and had soon come to despise him, so she knew he could not break her heart.

William’s wrath had been terrible at first. ‘How could you?’ he had berated. ‘Have you no shame? No remorse? You’re a disgrace to this family and especially to the memory of our dear mother.’

Alice had closed her ears at that point. She wished he hadn’t mentioned their mother. That had been unfair of him. Alice couldn’t really remember her—she had been just four years old when she died of a weakness of the lungs. All she knew of her was what she had gleaned from William and she had taken his memories to herself. She might not have known her mother long, but she felt sure she would have listened to Alice, that she would have understood and taken her side.

But when William’s wrath had subsided, for the first time Alice had seen sadness rather than anger. ‘What happened to you would be shocking and tragic even if no one in the world knew of it but me,’ he had said. Alice saw that her brother was sincere in this and the realisation had thrown her off balance. It was true that William’s pride was wounded, but that was not all. He genuinely feared for her welfare. Alice was sorry she had hurt him, which had added to her disgrace.

And then London. She was sent to London to live with Lady Marchington and to learn some wifely skills and, presumably, the sense that her brother set such store by. She had told herself it was for the best. She had to trust William to have her best interests at heart. On saying farewell, he had looked mortally wounded. Alice had felt regret like a sudden pain. It gave her no satisfaction to see her brother’s distress. But then his expression had changed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he had said. ‘The matter will be dealt with. I’ll take care of everything.’ There had been a hardness in his voice that had made her uneasy. But, encased in her own misery, she had thought no more about it.

It was when she had been in London for two weeks and received a letter from William’s wife that she realised there was a side to William she did not know. She shuddered, not wishing to dwell on the contents of that letter just now—of how her brother, defending her honour, had fought a duel to the death with Philippe. She kept the guilt and shame locked away, and there it would remain until, coward that she was, she could face what had happened.

‘I suppose there are many who would say running away never solved anything,’ Roberta said, breaking into Alice’s reverie.

‘It is a fresh start, Roberta.’

‘A happy one, I hope. Whatever people say I, for one, am glad you’re here. So now I insist that you forget all about him and begin by enjoying my betrothal party.’

Alice no longer lived in dread of seeing Philippe again, but nor was she able to relax. She was suspended in a past for which she felt a deep shame and hated to think about, and a future she could not bear to contemplate.

Although she had not been raped by Philippe it had still been an assault—she had been so young and innocent, and what he had done had had life-changing repercussions. She was no longer the happy, carefree girl she once was and she mourned the loss of her innocence. Her heart had been badly damaged and she felt so tainted that she had lost her faith in love. Romantic love was just a silly dream. Feeling insecure in herself, she did not feel capable of having a successful relationship after all that she had endured, nor did she imagine that she could ever be truly happy again, or make someone else happy.

With Roberta hard on her heels Alice hurried along the landing and passed through her chamber doors. She began to unfasten her dress. ‘I’m surprised Lady Marchington agreed to allow me across her threshold—although I suppose William’s wife being the daughter of her closest friend had something to do with that.’ What she said was perfectly true. Lady Marchington had taken her in as a favour to William’s wife, Anne, but also to act as companion to Roberta. Alice was in no doubt that as soon as Roberta wed Viscount Pemberton, Lady Marchington would lose no time in securing a match for her. Although, she thought bitterly, she could not hope for as fine a catch as Roberta. Anyone would do as long as Lady Marchington got her off her hands.

Seeing her fingers struggling with the buttons, Roberta went to her. ‘Here, let me.’ After a moment she asked, ‘What was he like—Philippe? Was he handsome?’

Alice’s gaze hardened as her heart had hardened when she had decided not to marry him. ‘Oh, yes, he was handsome. It was a matter of fact rather than opinion. But it was his handsome looks that annoyed me. They added to his air of arrogance and his self-belief. Confidence was not lacking in that particular male either. It never occurred to him that he would not get what he wanted.’

Roberta helped her off with her gown and draped it over a chair for Alice’s maid to attend to later. ‘But he must have attracted you for you to agree to marry him.’

‘Perhaps a little—in the beginning. Philippe Duplay, the Comte de St Antoine, was the kind of man women dream of—a man to whisper words like little pearls into their ear. Weak men would give their souls to be like him, to be as tall and fair as him, to possess those laughing blue eyes—witty and gay—and to ride and dance like him. But strip away those pretty words and fine titles, and what is left? Arrogance, a blackguard—a roué, a gamester.’ She spoke with such bitterness that Roberta looked at her with a questioning eye.

‘You speak of him as if he were dead, Alice.’

Alice stiffened and looked at her hard. ‘He is, Roberta. Philippe is dead. And now, if you don’t mind, I do not wish to discuss him further.’

Turning away from the shocked expression her revelation had caused, Alice moved to the window and watched the snowflakes flutter down. Roberta disappeared into her dressing room to compose her thoughts and to select a suitable gown to wear for her meeting with Lady Marchington.

Alice thought of William, with whom she had lived for most of her life in a village close to Paris. When she had reached eighteen, William had only one ambition and that was for his sister to marry—and to marry well. William was wealthy in his own right and would offer a substantial dowry. Suitors came and went, leaving Alice feeling like an animal at the local market. It was finally decided that she would wed Philippe Duplay, Comte de St Antoine, who had long been enamoured of her.

But from the start Alice had felt out of her depth. The scale of the Duplay family’s power and wealth intimidated her, reflected as it was in their grand chateaux and vast estates and the value of everything with which they surrounded themselves. The treasures that filled the Châteaux Duplay were all manifestations of the Duplays’ significance.

‘What you did,’ Roberta said, emerging from the dressing room with a plain blue day gown over her arms, ‘deciding not to marry him—knowing a scandal would ensue—was a brave thing for you to do, Alice.’ Much as she would have liked to ask how Philippe had died, not wishing to distress Alice, she refrained from doing so.

Alice was normally a mistress of restraint. She hated being the subject of gossip and speculation. Generally she kept her thoughts and opinions to herself, observing the outbursts of emotion and the careless talk of others with disdain. With Philippe, she had learned to control her feelings better than ever. In this way she kept up the appearance of being a perfect fiancée. Sometimes, however, when provoked too far, she would allow herself the luxury of a spontaneous outburst. When it came, it had the impact of a summer storm, which was the case when she told Philippe she would not be his wife.

She had not been prepared for his vicious retaliation or how she would afterwards be ostracised by society. To cover his embarrassment on being jilted, Philippe had let it be known that she had the morals of a harlot.

This piece of slander was repeated all over Paris and with much embellishment. At first Alice was hurt, then she was angry. With strength and determination, she made herself come to grips with what she had done and faced the painful knowledge that her former life was permanently over. She learned how to cry lonely, private tears for all she had lost, then put on a brave face and her brightest smile. But unable to avoid the publicity and the very unsavoury scandal, she left Paris for good.

‘I would not have been happy married to Philippe. When I thought of him I could not see him as my husband. He gave me so much grief when we were together I could not bear it. I decided to weather the scandal of walking away rather than live the rest of my life with a man for whom I felt neither love nor respect.’

Roberta looked at Alice’s still figure and sighed. ‘We have both experienced a broken engagement, Alice, so in that we are alike. I can only hope that in the future you find yourself with someone who will make you as happy as I am with Hugh.’

Alice very much doubted she ever would, and at this present time, when bitterness continued to gnaw at her heart, the very last thing she wanted was another man in her life. She supposed she would marry eventually. A good man. One who would treat her with the respect and tenderness due his wife. Please God, she thought, let such a man exist.

Roberta moved to stand behind her, her face flushed with disquiet. ‘I—I’m sorry, Alice. I hope I didn’t sound insensitive—I didn’t mean to.’

Smiling reassuringly, Alice turned and patted Roberta’s hand. ‘You were not insensitive, Roberta. I was merely thinking.’

‘But you had such a melancholy look about you,’ Roberta said plaintively.

‘These are melancholy days,’ Alice said softly. ‘Now I’d best go and see Lady Marchington before she comes looking for me. No matter how agreeable I always try to be, I will never find favour with her.’

Leaving Roberta to go to her own room to begin preparing for the evening’s festivities, Alice went in search of Lady Marchington. Her astringent tones could be heard uplifted in comment and criticism from the ballroom as the footmen and servants rushed about to do her bidding. Alice cringed as she descended the curving staircase and braced herself to receive the force of her wrath. Lady Marchington emerged from the ballroom with the unshakeable confidence and regal bearing that came from living a thoroughly privileged life. She regarded Alice with an attentive, critical expression in her eyes.

‘Ah, Alice, there you are. I was looking for you earlier. Well?’ Her voice was as cold as her face. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you would explain yourself. Where have you been?’

‘I merely stepped outside for some air, Lady Marchington.’

‘Stepped outside? Really! How dare you disobey me? How dare you leave the house without a maid to accompany you—and in this weather?’

‘Lady Marchington—I am sorry...’

‘It is most unseemly that you should embarrass me in this way.’

‘That was not my intention. I did not mean to upset you in any way—’

‘Hold your tongue, Alice,’ the formidable lady snapped. ‘Your unacceptable behaviour is why you left Paris in disgrace. I will not have it. I am most displeased with you, most displeased. Now run along and get ready for the ball. I’m sure Roberta could do with some help. I trust you will be on your best behaviour tonight. I want you to remember that this is Roberta’s night. I want nothing to spoil it.’

She turned away to speak to Simpson, the butler, who was requiring her attention, but it was evident she continued to seethe at Alice’s disobedience. Lady Marchington had opened her house and her purse to help Roberta on the demise of her parents, Roberta’s mother being her stepsister, her father being Lady Marchington’s brother-in-law by marriage, she wanted nothing to jeopardise Roberta’s marriage to Viscount Pemberton. Just four weeks ago she had extended her hospitality to Alice Frobisher, the sister-in-law of the daughter of an old and valued friend.

Alice’s circumstances had necessitated her flight from her family in Paris. Her brother had sent her to London to join the Marriage Mart, and the man she married would become the recipient of a dowry generous enough to elevate his status considerably. Lady Marchington had agreed to take charge of her and opened her door to the girl in the hope that a suitable husband could be found.

Unfortunately the scandal of jilting her betrothed on the eve of marriage had followed Alice to London and given her a certain notoriety that was unsavoury and most unwelcome. Ever since she had made her appearance at her first society event, she had become the focus of everyone’s scrutiny, male and female. The admiring looks of eager young males followed her wherever she went, and with so many posturing about hoping to gain an introduction, she could have the pick of the bunch. But Alice seemed to have ideas of her own. She showed no interest in the rich, titled and handsome men she met—in fact, she scorned them all, much to Lady Marchington’s annoyance, for she was eager for her to make a good marriage and be off her hands.

Relieved that the moment had passed, Alice returned to her room.

As she dressed for the ball she couldn’t stop thinking about her meeting with Duncan Forbes. What did he have to tell her? If her father was still alive, then where was he? It was twenty years since he had leapt into the Thames. Why had he not contacted William? It was a mystery to be certain. She was impatient for tomorrow when she handed over the money and Duncan Forbes would reveal all.

Her nerves were strung tight and she was in no mood for socialising. She could not wait for the night to be over.

* * *

Alice was right. The weather did not deter the guests from arriving. An unending line of carriages filled the circular drive and overflowed through the double gates into the neighbouring streets, lined with big private houses. To be invited to the Countess of Marchington’s ball was an honour, a true mark of distinction.

The grooming and dressing preparations for her engagement ball took Roberta, her maid and Alice three hours. Adorned in a chiffon gown with an overskirt dusted with shimmering silver spangles, her hair brushed until it shone and arranged in soft brown curls high on her head, she resembled a fairy princess.

Alice stood back to survey their handiwork and smiled. ‘There! All done. You’re looking as radiant and as beautiful as the bride you will be in just a few weeks!’

Lady Marchington swept into the room, wearing an elegant russet-and-gold satin gown trimmed in cream lace. ‘Nearly everyone has arrived,’ she announced as Roberta’s maid finished putting the last touches to her coiffure. ‘It’s time to make your grand entrance, Roberta.’

Roberta faced her aunt obediently, but her knees were trembling. ‘I would much rather have stood in the receiving line with you, Aunt Margaret, so I could meet the guests separately. It would have been less nerve-racking.’

‘But not nearly so effective. Come along—you, too, Alice,’ she said, casting a critical eye over the young woman standing by the vanity, her shining black hair caught up at the crown in a mass of thick, glossy curls entwined with ropes of tiny pearls. Roberta was lovely, but Alice was the acknowledged beauty of the two. Tonight no one would have eyes for anyone but her.

Footmen dressed in formal, claret-velvet livery trimmed with gold braid stood to attention in the hall, which resembled a flower garden and smelled just as sweet, with tall silver stands holding urns of freshly delivered flowers and exotic pots of airy ferns. So as not to take the shine off Roberta’s entrance as she walked beside Lady Marchington, stiff with pride, Alice followed in her wake. Simpson stood at the entrance to the ballroom and announced her name in stentorian tones.

A lightning bolt of anticipation seemed to shoot through the crowd, breaking off conversations as three hundred guests turned in unison to look at the girl who, it was rumoured, had stolen the heart of Viscount Pemberton. But the majority looked beyond the pretty brown-haired girl with her shining eyes focused on the young man striding to her side, to feast their eyes on the exotic, raven-haired goddess beside her, a young woman who had fled Paris to escape a scandal of her own making according to the gossips. Alice was dressed in a shimmering gown of sapphire watered silk decorated with serpentine ruched robings on the stomacher, the sleeve ruffles in matching lace fabric. The fashionable style was elegant, the colour matching her lustrous deep-blue eyes.

Indeed tonight she was breathtakingly beautiful. The slender rope of diamonds that adorned her throat flashed with white fire as she stepped into the glittering light of the ballroom, rousing an answering flash of envy in the eyes of every woman present and of their male escorts, too. But the gentlemen’s desires were bent as much on the wearer and the perfection of her smooth features as on her diamond necklace. And yet if one troubled to look harder, they would see something at once remote and detached in the attitude of this dazzling creature, an indifference to her surroundings that was almost melancholy.

When everyone was present, Simpson stepped towards the Countess and called for attention. Conversations broke off and guests slowly turned to their hostess.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said in an unsurprisingly carrying voice, ‘I have the very great honour of announcing the betrothal tonight of my niece, Roberta Hislop, to Viscount Pemberton. I ask you to raise your glasses to the happy couple. I will ask them to do us the honour of performing their first formal duty as future husband and wife by officially opening our ball.’

Simpson signalled to the musicians in the gallery with a nod of his head to start the music. It was a happy crowd that watched the handsome Viscount Pemberton take Roberta’s hand and lead her on to the dance floor to begin the dancing. Scrupulously polished mirrors around the opulent ballroom reflected the dazzling couple as they danced before some of London’s richest and most influential people.

Alice watched them, moved by the happiness she saw shining from Roberta’s eyes as she upturned her face to that of her betrothed, which only emphasised her own miserable state. She was seized by a longing to run away. It was a primitive urge, a legacy perhaps from some long-dead ancestor. It was not cowardice—she was not afraid to face her troubles—but rather a need to hide her feelings from prying eyes and seek her own cure in silence and solitude.

* * *

The betrothal banquet was excellent. Only the very finest food was served, with many of the dishes so elaborately dressed that they were viewed and commented on before they were finally tasted. Huge ice sculptures of peacocks and swans formed centrepieces for the tables.

‘Magnificent!’ exclaimed one of the guests. ‘A spread fit for royalty.’

‘And suitable for the betrothal of the Countess of Marchington’s niece to the grand Viscount Pemberton,’ another murmured.

Above the ballroom Italian-crystal chandeliers twinkled and turned, their lights reflected in fancy glassware, ice sculptures and glittering jewellery. With extravagance the order of the night and with an army of servants dancing attendance on the guests, the hours of wining and dining succeeded in their objective of producing a truly unforgettable night.

Alice smiled and laughed, drank some wine and chatted with a group of ladies. She danced with several dashing young men who asked her and made polite conversation, sat through supper with an admirer and danced some more and listened to her partners’ words of admiration. She even managed to keep smiling when one ardent gentleman who had consumed too much wine whispered lewd suggestions in her ear.

He was not the only man present who did not look at her for her wealth, who stared with a lustfulness that sickened her to her soul. She saw with a feeling of horror men who skulked about the edges of the room, now moving in on her like rats after the only morsel of food. As a result of the damage Philippe had done to her reputation, were these the only type of men she could attract now, men who would flaunt her at their sides like a trophy for all to view and envy?

When she could stand it no longer, seeking out Lady Marchington and pleading a headache, she quietly left the ballroom and went upstairs to her room where she could close her eyes and let the darkness hide her.

She felt suddenly very tired. The nervous tension she had lived under since her meeting with Duncan Forbes had left her feeling drained, longing for nothing but the peace and sanctuary of her own room. Closing the door behind her, she crossed to one of the two French windows opening on to balconies with wrought-iron balustrades overlooking the garden. She pulled back the long curtains.

It had stopped snowing. The sky was still and bright with stars, the fountain and stone statues in the shrouded garden etched with a silvery glow. It was a night made for lovers and Alice sighed at the persistent twists of fate by which she, whom so many men desired, seemed doomed to everlasting loneliness because of her disastrous affair with Philippe, which had made her unwilling to become close to any other man.

Abruptly she turned her back on the night. She snuffed out the candles on the mantelpiece, leaving the room with no other light than the soft glow shed by the small lamps placed at the bedside. The room, with its dim, mysterious light and the soft, inviting bed, had the power to attract her. She had made up her mind to sell some of her jewellery in the morning with which to pay Duncan Forbes the hundred pounds he had requested for information about her father, whatever the consequences might be should Lady Marchington find out. She knew she would never rest until she had the truth and then she must write to William. But first she must undress.

Removing the pins from her hair, she shook it out with both hands so that it tumbled like a thick black mantle down to the small of her back. The dress was more difficult to manage and for a moment, driven to distraction by the innumerable hooks, she was tempted to summon her maid, but then she remembered that Philippe had admired her in the dress and with a sudden spurt of anger she tugged and tore the fragile material away from its fastenings and tossed it into a chair. Attired in just her shift, she sat on the bed and removed her shoes. About to stand up, she froze. She had the strange feeling that she wasn’t alone, that someone was watching her. As she looked up her throat tightened and fear jabbed her in the chest.

A man was standing as still as a statue at the window, holding the curtains apart to watch her, looking dark and severe in the shadows. His manner of dress told her he had not been invited to the ball. He wore a tightly cut coat of black cloth and a white cravat. His narrow hips and muscular thighs were encased in black breeches and his gleaming black boots came to his knees. His long hair was tied back in a somewhat unruly style which, she suspected, was the result of carelessness rather than deliberate design. It was a dark shade of brown and in its depths were several strands of glittering grey.

He took a menacing step forward, edging into view with a cynical twist to his lips, allowing the shifting light of the lamps to illuminate his features. The eyes seemed to bore through her, and the gaze was so bold and forward that Alice’s eyes slowly widened and for a brief moment she held her breath, frozen by his steely gaze.

‘You!’ she uttered, struggling against that aching, mesmerising stare. It was him! The man in the park! She had not seen his face properly, but it was him. When he spoke, she was certain.

The intruder saw the wary look of a trapped but defiant young cat enter her transparent eyes, eyes of the deepest blue. ‘Please do not be alarmed. Forgive my intrusion.’

‘I do not, sir! If you lay one finger on my person, I swear I will scream.’ With a cry of indignation and in fearful panic she sprang off the bed and made for the door.

‘For God’s sake, I am not going to hurt you,’ he ground out, and as quick as a panther he moved after her. With no other thought than to stop her raising the alarm prematurely, he grasped her shift from behind and pulled her back, ripping the soft fabric.

Before Alice knew what was happening her foot became tangled in the loose folds of material about her legs. Her arms floundered wildly before she fell to the floor, dragging her assailant with her. She gasped with pain and tears of helpless fury filled her eyes. Her thick hair was trapped beneath the man’s arm and she was unable to move her head. With this small measure of discomfort, something exploded inside her. Suddenly she ceased to care how much he hurt her, but she would not let him do the vile things to her that Philippe had done. His entire being was of finely tempered steel as he leaned over her, his head so close to her own that his warm breath fanned her face.

Fear pricked her consciousness that he would demean her and abuse her, and the surety that he would was beginning to loom monstrously large in her mind. Her mind tumbled over in a frenzy. Please God,don’t let it all be about to happen again. Had she not suffered enough at Philippe’s hands, when he had commanded and she had obeyed, when she had submitted to his pawing? She had wondered what evil she had done that he should abuse her most cruelly, while he pleasured himself at his leisure, telling her that soon she would come to enjoy what he did to her—but for the present she must learn to accept her lot.

Her already depleted strength would little deter this intruder’s assault. But it was best not to dwell on the degradations that would precede the final one and Alice fought the despair that threatened to reduce her to a whimpering wretch.

A new strength surged into her. Like a baited wildcat that turns on its tormentors, she jerked her hair free and hit out at him. Managing to wriggle out from underneath him, in desperation she sank her teeth into his hand. With a string of oaths the man sprang to his feet.

‘You little hellcat!’ he bit out, taking her arm and hoisting her to her feet. ‘Be still, damn you! I’m not going to hurt you.’

She struggled, but he held her easily, letting her wear herself out until she was still. Resolutely she detached her mind from what was happening, the grip of his hand, and thought with savage concentration of how she would punish him when she escaped to tell the constables how she had been treated.

With her breath coming rapidly from between her parted lips, she glared into the cold silver-grey eyes. There was no denying that this man was handsome, physically magnificent. Before Philippe had spoiled her for all men, she might have even dreamed of such a man. But never in those innocent dreams of romance did she imagine that her love would fly to her on the wings of violence.

‘Take your vile hands off my person,’ she hissed. ‘I will scream, so help me I will. I don’t know who you are, but I hate you! I loathe you! I despise you. I don’t want you to touch me.’

‘I promise you that nothing was further from my mind until you threatened to scream the house down,’ he replied coldly.

Ewen Tremain’s manner was almost calm as he looked at her. A more observant woman than Alice might have noticed the distinct hardening of his lean features, the tightening of his jaw, the coldness of his gaze—and taken warning.


Chapter Two (#ue961d453-3364-5e1d-ba45-a265433a9751)

‘Draw your claws in, lady.’

Alice shrank from him and a shudder of revulsion passed through her as his gaze went deliberately down her body, boldly, rudely evaluating every angle of her scantily covered assets.

‘Despite what you think I am not here to ravish you. As lovely as you are, you’re very tempting, but I have neither the time nor the inclination for such dalliance. I wish you no harm, believe me,’ he said. ‘If I release you, do you promise to be still?’

Alice saw no passion, no desire in his eyes, only his dark brows gathered together and the silver-grey eyes smouldering in well-kindled rage. After a moment of indecision, she nodded.

He looked at her hard for a moment before releasing her arm. Immediately Alice snatched her robe draped over a chair. Wrapping it around her as if it were a suit of armour, feeling less exposed, she lifted her chin and faced the intruder. She flung her long hair back from her face, sending it spilling down her back.

‘You’ve got some explaining to do—prowling about my room at this hour.’

His face was in shadow, but his silver-grey eyes gave his angular face with its high-planed cheekbones a harsh expression. She glared into his eyes. They were as cold as ice behind the black fringe of lashes. Slowly his gaze descended, sweeping boldly down the length of her, bringing a blush to her cheeks as his appraising eye paused momentarily upon her heaving bosom. When he looked into her face again, one corner of his lips quirked in obvious approval.

‘Who are you?’ the stranger asked.

‘Is that relevant?’

The man’s interest quickened. Her expression was wary. Most females were nervous in his presence, but there was a watchfulness in this woman’s eyes that suggested something more guarded.

‘Don’t be obstructive. I like to know who I’m speaking to.’

‘You were not invited into my bedchamber so I do not feel obliged to give you my name. Who are you?’

‘Ewen Tremain,’ he replied with an arrogantly raised brow.

The name struck Alice like a heavy blow. Why, it was Roberta’s betrothed come to terrifying, throbbing life. Dear Lord! What was he doing here? The band of light slanted across his hard, chiselled face. His eyes were pale and fierce, like a predator. Frightening, powerful and fatally attractive, he looked like a warrior about to go into battle.

The room dimmed as dizziness seized her. She almost sank down on to the bed, but then braced herself. She would show him no weakness and despite her state of undress she refused to be intimidated by him. She swept him with a look of haughty disdain. ‘So, the erstwhile Lord Tremain has at last deemed to grace Roberta with his presence. Tell me, Lord Tremain, do you make a habit of entering a lady’s bedchamber or have you lost your way?’

‘Both.’

Ewen moved slowly towards her. He saw a young woman with a sculptured face of incredible beauty. She had high, delicately moulded cheekbones, a perfect nose, generous lips and a tiny, intriguing little cleft in the centre of her chin. Beneath her dark brows her eyes continued to blaze with defiance.

‘When you have finished scrutinising my face, sir,’ she clipped out suddenly with a fine, cultured accent like frosted glass, ‘I would appreciate it if you would explain what you are doing in my bedchamber.’

‘I recognised you as the woman I met in the park earlier when I saw you looking out of the window.’

‘You were in the garden?’

He nodded. ‘It was easy enough to hoist myself up to your balcony window. If you wish to discourage intruders, you should instruct your maid to close it when the room is unoccupied.’

‘Never mind that. What do you want?’

Ewen looked down at her face upturned to his, well aware that she was probably scared out of her wits behind her show of bravado. ‘What has the dress done to you to make you treat it so?’

Alice cast her torn gown a sidelong glance. ‘That is my concern, not yours.’

‘When I saw you in the park, you were weeping. Clearly you were upset about something.’

‘I wasn’t crying. It was merely the melted snow on my face.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Deny it all you like. I know what I saw.’

‘You have yet to tell me what you are doing here. Why now of all times?’ she asked him outright. ‘I know who you are and I sincerely hope you have not come to make trouble.’

‘I have not seen my betrothed for some time. I thought it was about time I did.’

‘In my bedchamber?’

He shrugged. ‘I did not want to alarm Roberta by showing myself too soon. I wish to know how the land lies before I present myself. I assume you are Roberta’s friend. Who better to ask?’

‘Haven’t you caused her enough sorrow and heartache?’ Alice accused irately. She was incensed that this man could come here at this time and work his mischief. ‘Must you mar the eve of Roberta’s betrothal with more pain?’

The silver-grey eyes took on a steely hardness as they settled on her. ‘How can she possibly become betrothed to another while she is still betrothed to me? What would you have me do? Ignore the insult and leave without a fight?’ His low, sardonic laugh belied the possibility. ‘Watch me, lady, and see if I will.’

‘Why, what will you do? Go down to the ballroom and put an end to it? Make a show of Roberta and shame and humiliate her? If you have any heart at all, you will refrain from doing anything so cruel.’

‘Then be so good as to summon the Countess.’

‘I will do no such thing. I think you should leave this minute and come back tomorrow if you wish to speak to her—although she may not wish to speak to you. And please use the front door next time.’ She pointed across the room. ‘There is the window. Please—just go, will you?’ The furious look on the intruder’s face made Alice want to laugh so much that she forgot her fear for the moment. She could almost swear she heard him growl.

His eyes slashed hers like razors. Slowly he leaned forward, his hand reaching out and grasping her chin so that she was forced to look into the eyes that blazed white fire just inches from her own. ‘Lady, let me assure you that it is unwise to cross or disobey me,’ he declared through gritted teeth. ‘I am not here to play games. I’ve already played them all and you wouldn’t enjoy them even if you knew how to play. Now, if you will not go yourself then send one of the servants to summon her ladyship.’

‘You dare to order me about?’

‘I do dare.’ His eyes were two slits of hard, unyielding steel. Alice tried turning her head, but the strength in his fingers held her chin firm. ‘Do as I ask, otherwise the whole house will know you are entertaining a man in your room, which would prove highly embarrassing for you. So if you care for your reputation you will do as I say before I get tired of waiting and go myself.’

Insulted to the core of her being, Alice shot him an angry, indignant glare. She did care. She had no intention of causing another scandal for herself and running the risk of ruining her reputation even further. ‘You seem to forget that this is my bedroom and it was you who insinuated yourself into it.’

Releasing his hold on her chin, he stepped back. ‘Do it.’

Alice’s heart skipped a beat as she gazed up at the powerful, dynamic man looking down at her. Masculine pride and granite determination was sculpted into every angle and plane of his swarthy face and cynicism had etched lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Relenting, knowing she would get no peace unless she did, she turned to the door to do his bidding.

They awaited Lady Marchington’s arrival in silence. From beneath dark brows, Lord Tremain observed Alice with close attention, and with quiet patience he waited for Lady Margaret Hislop, like a cat before a mouse hole.

With arms folded, Alice slowly paced the carpet, aware that the brooding Lord Tremain’s gaze was fixed on her, holding her in its silvery depths. Suddenly she was the captive of those fathomless eyes, but she gave his attention the lack of regard it deserved. Yet she found it hard to be at ease with his gaze following her with an intensity and vibrancy to which she was not accustomed. And if his staring were not unsettling enough, he seemed to possess some mysterious power over her traitorous gaze, as now and then she could not prevent it straying in his direction. It was as if his keen appraisal were tangible—she could feel the heat and weight of it, as surely and distractingly as if he were trailing the tips of his fingers over her flesh.

Feeling a flush bloom in her cheeks, she looked away when the door opened and Lady Marchington walked into the room.

Lady Marchington’s eyes honed in on the man who stood by the fire. When he turned his head and she saw his familiar features her face blanched and her hand lifted to her throat. Her mouth tightened itself into a hard, unattractive line. Confusion, then belligerence, clouded her obdurate features and her narrow face became etched with bitter scorn.

The bow he gave her was sufficiently formal to send a chill through her, but at the same time acted as spur to her determination to keep him away from Roberta. Lady Marchington had recently learned of Lord Tremain’s past, a past he had tried to keep secret, of how he had been captured and held as a slave in North Africa. She had been totally ignorant of this dark past a year ago when she had agreed to a betrothal between him and Roberta. Had it been made known to her then, she would never have given her consent.

Since that day he had become a malignant presence in her mind—a man tainted by what had been done to him, frightful, barbarous things she could not begin to imagine and had no wish to, since to do so was utterly repellent to her. No man could emerge from eight years of slavery in North Africa and not be affected by it. From the moment she had learned of his past, even though it was not of his doing, she had decided that should he return and try to resume his betrothal to Roberta, she would not allow it. The thought of someone as naive and gentle as Roberta being joined in matrimony to such a man was inconceivable. Besides, his pedigree was way below that of Viscount Pemberton.

She assessed this new situation and chose her strategy on the instant. This dramatic and what could have been a very public invasion of the evening’s event displayed that supreme arrogance only achieved through the acquisition of power. Her instincts warned her that she was under threat, but she could not, must not, allow herself to be disadvantaged on her own territory and within sight and hearing of her guests. At all costs her machinations to remove Roberta from her association with Ewen Tremain must be prevented from raising its dangerous head before so many witnesses waiting to receive the latest society scandal.

When she had ended her visit to Paris with Roberta and returned to promenade her in London society in search of a worthier suitor, she had avoided any association with the lower-ranked gentlemen as one might avoid physical contact with the plague. It was fortunate that as soon as he laid eyes on Roberta, Viscount Pemberton was completely enamoured—a sure sign that Providence was supporting her ambition for her niece. Indeed, Lady Marchington was prepared to concede that Fate’s method of bringing Roberta within proposing distance of the Viscount was more ingenious than anything she might have engineered. And now here was Lord Tremain, in London from wherever he had spent the last twelve months since he had left, ready to take up where he had left off.

Her face was hostile, her heart cold as she faced Ewen Tremain. ‘Surely, sir, you are a little late in the day showing your face?’

‘You are perfectly correct, Countess.’ Lord Tremain’s voice was clipped. ‘I was obliged to delay my return for family reasons. I must ask you to excuse me, but you must remember, at the same time, that it does not interfere with my betrothal to your niece.’

‘You are mistaken. There was nothing in writing. You have no claim on my niece—no claim at all. How dare you force your way into my home! And why are you here—in Miss Frobisher’s bedchamber? It is most inappropriate.’

Lord Tremain glanced at the young woman clutching her robe about her person. Frobisher! The name seemed familiar, but he could not place it just then. ‘I apologise for any embarrassment I may have caused. It was not my intention. I imagine Miss Frobisher will explain how I come to be here later. I wrote informing you I would be back next month. However, as things turned out, I found I was able to return sooner—and just in time, it would seem. I believe the festivities taking place as we speak are to celebrate the betrothal of Roberta to Viscount Pemberton.’

‘Roberta is no longer betrothed to you, Lord Tremain. You are correct. Tonight she has become betrothed to Viscount Pemberton, the Earl of Winterworth’s eldest son.’

Ewen’s lips formed a grim smile. ‘I see you have been busy in my absence, Lady Marchington. I expected to be treated with all the welcome of a rabid dog. You do not disappoint me.’

‘Then I have achieved something after all. I did not expect you to come here.’

His mildly amused smile did not waver as his gaze settled on the face of the woman whom he considered had tricked him. ‘And why is that? You must have known I would not stay away forever.’

‘The longer you stayed away, the more I hoped you would. My trust in you was misplaced.’

Alice stepped into the shadows to observe the bitter altercation between these two, her eyes drawn more and more to Lord Tremain. The candlelight touched on his face and for a split second she was halted by the cold, stark features. He was Satan to her. Handsome. Ruthless. Evil? She had no way of knowing, but at that moment she had an overwhelming desire to flee the room and leave them alone.

His long, finely boned hands testified that he was indeed a gentleman, except that some of his fingers bore faint scars—almost as if he’d once been forced to perform heavy labour. His prominent cheekbones slanted attractively and there were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, fine lines as if he had spent too much time squinting into the sun. His mouth with its attractive straight lips hinted of disapproval and she felt laughing, much like smiling, was alien to him. She was intrigued, for she felt that he had not always been so, that he had once been a merrier soul, but that something had driven the joy from his life.

When Lord Tremain caught her looking at him, Alice dropped her eyes. Gazing at her directly, he glimpsed a soft, slightly parted mouth and eyes so deep a shade of blue they stirred his imagination no small amount.

He didn’t raise his voice, but when he responded to Lady Marchington’s remark, the authority in it was clear all the same. ‘As far as I am concerned the promises I made to Roberta before I went away are binding. I always carry out what I promise. When both you and Roberta failed to reply to my letters, you forced my hand, which is why I am here now.’

Alice stared at Lady Marchington, whose expression had not changed. She was suddenly confused, which deepened as she uttered an enquiry. ‘But, Lady Marchington, I was led to understand there had been no word of Lord Tremain since he left Roberta in Paris.’

Lady Marchington glanced at Alice, feeling a stab of unreasonable irritation against the girl. Making no comment, she faced Lord Tremain. She had been caught out in her deception, but it did not concern her. So great had been her determination to keep him away from Roberta, that she had kept his letters from her and burned all his correspondence without a qualm. Yet she felt the crawling prickle upon her nape as the full weight of Lord Tremain’s accusing gaze fell on her.

‘I had Roberta’s best interest at heart. Yes, I kept the letters from her, Lord Tremain. I admit it and have no conscience for having done so. I know what happened to you before I became acquainted with you in Paris. How could you possibly expect me to consider you a fit suitor for my niece after hearing that?’

Lord Tremain’s expression froze. Apart from his close family and his fellow sailors who had shared his incarceration, the world at large knew nothing of the years he had spent in captivity—although it came as no surprise that the truth had surfaced now. ‘And that would have made a difference?’

‘Of course it would. You were less than honest with me. My main concern was how Roberta would react to such knowledge. I wanted to protect her.’ A sudden flame leapt in Lord Tremain’s eyes and she sensed the murderous anger behind his stare. ‘Indeed, what happened to you left me wondering if your experiences at the hands of your captors had affected you in ways I could not begin to imagine. Roberta is of a gentle nature. By agreeing to her becoming the wife of a man with such a dark and troubled past was a risk I was not prepared to take.’

Ewen’s eyes narrowed into glittering slits and he stared back at her as if she had struck him a physical blow. A thousand memories of his suffering rushed through his mind and coursed like poison through his veins, when the shadow of death had darkened the days that slipped by and fear had tortured his soul.

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes intense. ‘Madam, your words are of the vilest nature! You may hide behind your title and your wealth, but beneath all your fine airs and graces you have the manners of a shrew. Were you a man I’d demand satisfaction for what you have just said.’

Lady Marchington’s expression was one of scorn and contempt. ‘I do not doubt it. I expect you learned that kind of brutality at the hands of your captors.’

The words Ewen would have uttered turned to ashes in his throat. His pride refused to let him divulge the torment that still bled in the core of his heart after all this time.

Watching him closely, Alice saw Lord Tremain was wearing the same grim expression she had seen when she had become aware of him in her room. He looked strained with the intensity of his emotions, but slowly, little by little, he was getting a grip on himself. His shoulders were squared, his jaw set and rigid with implacable determination, and even in this pensive pose he seemed to emanate restrained power and unyielding authority.

‘I hope I have made my feelings clear.’

‘As crystal, Countess, so that even a misfit like myself can understand.’ Her cold, insulting slight had brought him rudely to his senses, a cutting reminder of the impossibility of any further association between Roberta and himself.

‘Roberta is to wed Viscount Pemberton. No woman in her right mind would give up the like of his title and wealth for a man who has lived as you have lived.’

‘As a slave,’ Ewen stated with sharp icy clarity, ‘and not of my choosing, I assure you. I did not go to the villains of my own free will.’

‘I do not imagine you did. But you cannot escape the fact that the taint of slavery still hangs over you. You shall probably never shake free of its degrading grip. I feel I should also remind you that you are also a Roman Catholic and a defender of the Jacobites.’

‘I do not need reminding of my faith. I am a defender of my family.’

‘With a brother who was involved in plans to bring James Stuart back to the throne—a brother who fought at Culloden—and afterwards his whole family were held to be traitors.’

‘It is my brother Simon you speak of,’ Lord Tremain replied, his voice thick with unsuppressed wrath. ‘Whatever he has done in the past, he has suffered at the hands of those people who wish harm to the Catholic church.’

‘If he were my brother, I should have become a Protestant long ago. All your troubles might then have been avoided.’

‘I do not think my brother ought to be censured for doing what he believed was right. Had I been of an age, he would have had my full and active support.’

Ewen felt a perverse pleasure in seeing the Countess’s face blanch at his carefully flung remark. He was surprised also by how angry her attack had made him. He had certainly never considered himself a defender of the Jacobites, not even of his own religion, but the Countess had forced from him a loyalty that he had not known before. After all, Simon had been stripped of his right to property and position. It was easy enough to forget now that twenty years had elapsed since the battle that had blighted his family and the Scots loyal to King James.

‘Nevertheless, it is one of the reasons why I cannot countenance a marriage between you and my niece.’ A mild-mannered woman might have quaked beneath the murderous contempt Lord Tremain directed at her, but Lady Marchington had never known anything but wealth and power. Her imperious disposition had been carefully nurtured by a demanding father, who had instilled in her the importance of aristocratic breeding and the family’s pre-eminent ranking above worthier nobles than Lord Tremain. ‘It is done.’

‘Is it?’ With those two words hanging in the air he turned away. Halfway across the room he turned and looked back. ‘Have a care, Countess,’ he warned. ‘Have a care, for I would not hesitate to expose your most intimate family linen to the scrutiny of the illustrious company partaking of your hospitality below.’

Lady Marchington paled. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Oh, no? Try me,’ he challenged. ‘We both know there is one member of your own family whose connections to the Jacobites could not withstand the most scrupulous examination. I believe you know what I am talking about.’

He had hit a nerve. His words made Lady Marchington recoil. Her voice was barely audible. ‘How dare you?’

‘But I do dare. Where is he now, Countess? Or perhaps you have no idea since you quietly disowned him after he, too, fought at Culloden. You may not wish to know, but I will tell you anyway. He is in Italy, and on occasion in France, with Charles Edward Stuart, the Bonnie Prince. Although after all the years the Prince has spent in idleness and good living, he is not quite so bonnie these days.’

Lady Marchington stared at him in horrified silence as she weighed up his words. Should it come out that her only brother was a Jacobite who had once taken up arms against the King, it would be the society scandal of the year. There were many who would like to see the proud and mighty Countess of Marchington brought low. She would not allow that to happen.

‘Whatever else you claim to be, sir, you are not a gentleman.’

His lips curled scornfully. ‘Did you expect to find one from the slave pens of Morocco?’

‘What are you trying to do? Destroy Roberta?’

‘Destroy Roberta?’ Lord Tremain echoed with a twisted smile on his firm lips. ‘Oh, no. I am not here to harm Roberta. I intend to marry her. As God is my witness, Countess,’ he grated out, ‘I shall see our bargain carried through.’

Lady Marchington must have been aware of Lord Tremain’s anger, for whatever she saw in his eyes made her let the matter rest without further discussion.

The moment caused a peculiar unease and Alice felt a little chilled when she looked at Lady Marchington and saw her staring at Lord Tremain. She could not begin to recognise the depth of Lady Marchington’s fury, but she saw the taut rage emanating from every line of her body. There was a look of such cold calculation in her eyes as they rested on Lord Tremain that Alice felt the cold hand of fear race up her own spine.

Lord Tremain turned sharply on his heel and headed for the door.

Alice took a step forward, wondering if he would acknowledge her, but he was encased in his anger and resentment and either did not or would not see her. She watched him go with a feeling that Lord Tremain was a man with no room for forgiveness or emotion. Dismissing her without a glance, he strode to the door and went out, letting it swing shut behind him with a bang that echoed in the very depths of her heart.

Bringing herself erect, Lady Marchington cast a steely eye on Alice. ‘What you have heard in this room tonight you will never speak of. Do you understand me, Alice? Roberta must not know of this.’

‘Yes—yes, of course,’ she murmured.

Without another word Lady Marchington walked out of the room.

* * *

A while later, lying in bed with her eyes wide open, Alice reflected on the strange occurrence that had taken place in her chamber and the man who had disrupted the events of the evening. What had happened to him to make him so objectionable? She suspected there was more to it than his broken engagement to Roberta. What Lady Marchington had disclosed about his past disturbed her. He had been a slave, she had said. How could that be? Alice wondered. There was something indestructible about Lord Tremain, something fear-provoking that made her shiver.

* * *

Ewen left the house with a firestorm of humiliated fury erupting from his heart, burning its way through every nerve, every vein and every artery. His pulse pounded out a primal drumbeat as he strode through the snow to where Amir was waiting with a horse.

With Roberta Hislop by his side, he had been looking forward to beginning a life as near normal as was possible for him. So he had been taken aback to find Lady Marchington had betrothed her to someone else—a Viscount, no less. He clenched his mouth in a grim line in roiling anger and persistent shame of himself, of the monster he had become.

The pain was back again. Not the crippling pain he had felt from the wounds inflicted on him by the whip, but the other, the bad, the unthinkable hurt that was inside him. It had no definite location, but filled the whole of him. It was inside and out, expanding until it tore through his veins.

During his years in captivity, where torture, deprivation and helplessness—compounded by Etta’s treachery—had driven him to the brink of madness, he had struggled to retain his grip on sanity. He had sustained himself by focusing his mind on escaping his torturers and returning to the world as he had known it to pursue a normal life.

In his mood of dismal self-loathing, his eyes were often fierce. They were wild sometimes—with pain, with passion. Sometimes when he was alone, they were deep and dark and brooding—haunted, as he had been when he’d gone to live with his brother in Bordeaux after his captivity. His family had worried about him. They could not conceal it. He could not wipe out what had been done to him.

‘Ewen,’ his brother had said, ‘you will either be destroyed by it—or you will change it. There won’t be any compromises.’

His brother had been right. He would not let what had happened to him destroy him. But he was a changed man, no longer the light-hearted youth who had loved life and lived it to the full.

That honest part of his mind, that he had no control over, whispered, You would give your soul to be like him again, wouldn’t you, Ewen? To laugh as he had once laughed, to be witty and gay, to dance and whisper words like pearls into a woman’s ear.

On meeting Roberta—sweet, innocent Roberta—he’d believed he had been given a second chance at an untainted life. He would not allow Lady Marchington to rob him of that. He was Lord Ewen Tremain, master of Barradine, a man of honour. Having lost his dignity and self-respect for eight years of his life, it was important for him to assert his place in the world and fulfil past obligations.

A voice inside his head told him he should forget Roberta. To hell with her and her sweet and gentle face, her refined manners and her fine friends and her brilliant Viscount. He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anyone, but he could not, would not, leave Lady Marchington with the upper hand. She did not deserve to get off the hook so easily. It was intolerable to his pride and he would not let it rest.

He almost had the old woman, but not quite. He had to play his last card.

Taking a sealed letter from his pocket and a small purse of coin, he handed them to Amir. ‘Take these, Amir. Find one of the servants who will deliver the letter to Miss Hislop. Bribe them if you must, but instruct them to be discreet.’

* * *

After Ewen returned to his lodgings, his mind remained occupied with the evening’s events and the indomitable Countess of Marchington. But the last thing he thought of before he went to sleep was the young woman whose teeth had punctured his flesh when she had fought to defend herself from him, of the gentle fragrance of her perfume and the warmth and feel of her body when he had held her close.

Their meeting had affected him. As they had waited for Lady Marchington, he recalled how intrigued he had been at the way her hair had seemed to twine of its own free will about her shoulders. As his eyes had passed over her face, he was rather amazed to find the shape and delicate structure appealed to his senses. Her slender nose had the sauciest tilt, her eyelids the longest, darkest lashes, her brows were wide-sweeping above eyes that had seemed the bluest blue he had ever seen.

* * *

The following morning while the house was being set to rights following the ball, with Roberta and Lady Marchington still abed, Alice ordered the carriage and left the house to obtain sufficient funds with which to pay Duncan Forbes for information about her father. She hated having to sell some of her jewellery, but William had made her Lady Marchington’s ward until she either reached twenty-one or married, and she did not have direct access to the money William had placed at her disposal.

A pawnbroker in Drury Lane bought her jewels for a fraction of their value, but it was enough to pay Mr Forbes when she kept their appointment later in the afternoon.

* * *

When Alice returned to the house, Roberta followed her into her room. There was a wild, almost desperate look about her. Alice looked at her with concern.

‘Why, Roberta, what on earth is the matter? What has happened to make you look so anxious?’

‘Alice, I am beset by a grave problem,’ she murmured dismally. ‘Something quite dreadful has occurred and I need your help desperately. There is no one else I can ask.’

Alice stared at her, wondering what on earth could have happened. ‘I cannot help until I know the nature of the problem. What troubles you, Roberta? Why do you say such a thing?’

‘A letter has been delivered to me from Lord Tremain. It was given to my maid. It would appear he is in London. Oh, Alice, what am I to do?’

Alice looked at her sharply. ‘Lord Tremain? But—what did the letter say and why did he not come to the house?’

‘He did. This morning. But according to my maid, Aunt Margaret told Simpson to say she wasn’t at home to him. He wants to meet me. But how can I? After all this time? Where has he been since he pledged his troth to me?’

‘When does he suggest you meet? Where?’

‘This afternoon at four o’clock—in the park. But of course I couldn’t possibly. Aunt Margaret would have a seizure. It’s quite out of the question.’

‘Yes—yes, of course it is.’ Alice’s brow puckered in a thoughtful frown. It was clear to her that Lady Marchington had said nothing to her niece about Lord Tremain’s visit the night before and did not intend to. Alice would not betray her confidence, even though she felt like a traitor for not doing so.

‘I do not want my association with Lord Tremain to jeopardise my betrothal to Hugh.’ Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘Oh, Alice, I couldn’t bear it. Will you help me? Will you go to Lord Tremain and explain why I cannot see him, that under the circumstances it would not be appropriate?’

There was such anguish in her eyes that Alice was deeply moved by it. She was sensitive to Roberta’s uncertainty and understood only too well the troubling disquiet Lord Tremain could rouse in a newly betrothed’s breast. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she promised. ‘Where can I find him?’

‘He said he would be looking out for me. Please don’t tell Aunt Margaret, Alice. When you explain to Lord Tremain that I am betrothed to someone else, I am certain he will understand and not trouble us again.’

* * *

Extremely uneasy about her meeting with Lord Tremain, Alice waited until she had to leave in a state of nervous tension. She had arranged to meet Mr Forbes half an hour after her rendezvous with Lord Tremain. When it was time, she left the house by a back entrance.

Slipping into the park, she covered her head with the hood of her warm cloak. Low leaden clouds dulled the light and deepened the gloom beneath the trees. Spitting snow stung her face and the wind wailed a mournful lament as it swept over the park. Thankfully the awful weather had kept most people indoors so it was relatively quiet, but there was a group of people hurrying by that she recognised, neighbours and acquaintances of Lady Marchington. They passed her, but by their curious looks Alice was certain they had recognised her.

Looking to her right, she could see a coach drawn by two horses with a lighted lantern waiting a little off. A driver sat huddled in a greatcoat holding the reins, his breath steaming before him in the cold air. It looked empty and the air was so bitterly cold that she shivered and hurried on. A sudden eerie feeling slithered down her spine and compelled her to turn her head and look back. There against the snow she saw her silhouette cast, but creeping stealthily towards her shadow from either side were a pair of other shapes, large and threatening shapes of men dressed in full capes and broad-brimmed hats.

‘That’s her! It must be,’ a muffled voice said. ‘Stop, miss,’ the voice shouted. ‘We would have a word with you if you don’t mind.’

Alice breathed deeply in an attempt to quell the trembling that had suddenly taken hold of her. The park, which suddenly seemed quite unrecognisable, seemed to be full of phantoms. They moved without a sound and this silence only added to the nightmare situation of the scene.

‘Damn it!’ one of the men uttered. ‘This is not the kind of night to be hangin’ about. She’s gettin’ away. Get somethin’ to tether her with, Taff. You saw how eager ’e was to ’ave her. Our lives won’t be worth tuppence if we go back empty-handed.’

Sprightly and spirited, Alice did not hesitate another moment. She dashed in the direction of the place where she had arranged to meet Duncan Forbes, her feet, though hampered by the snow, racing in time to her swiftly beating heart.

Before she had covered half the distance, the two men had quickly overtaken her. A long arm stretched out and closed tightly about her waist, snatching her from her feet and pulling her back against a solid and unyielding unknown chest. Appalled at this rude handling of her person, Alice struggled and kicked her heels against the man’s shins. Only the sound of heavy breathing told her she had not been spirited away by ghosts.

‘Get your hands off me, you—you swine.’

‘Not a chance, love. You’re comin’ with us. Docile as a lamb, he said,’ one of the voices grumbled. ‘More like a she-cat if you ask me.’

Alice opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died away on her lips, stifled, not by that strange paralysis which follows a particularly terrifying dream, but by a large and unmistakably solid hand which had been clapped over her mouth. Now she was being wrapped in a large sheet of some kind, one end of which was flung over her head.

‘Make it a little quicker, Hicks,’ a muffled voice said.

‘I’m doing me best.’

Terrified, Alice found herself in total suffocating darkness as ropes were wrapped round to secure her. She fought desperately against imminent suffocation and driving panic.

‘Be still, lady,’ one of the men ordered. ‘We don’t want you to suffer unnecessarily.’

‘You brutes!’ Alice cried. ‘How dare you do this?’

Hicks could not find words to soothe the girl’s ire. She had much cause to feel offended and he could not blame her for resenting them. Perhaps all would be well when she saw the master.

‘We’ve been charged with your safety. We have to get you to the master in one piece.’

Alice stilled. The master! Who was the master? Who were these men and what did they want? She heard hushed voices, voices she did not recognise, and then felt herself being carried along. She couldn’t scream because her mouth was muffled by the heavy sheet. After a short time she was put down—not roughly, but with some care, which she thought odd. It was as though they did not wish to hurt her. She must be on the floor of a coach because the driver of the conveyance—probably the coach she had seen loitering on entering the park—urged the horses on almost at once. The pace was slow, almost deliberate, and Alice’s spirits plummeted as she found little hope of rescue.

After several minutes the carriage picked up pace. In her suffocating confinement she did not know that it was leaving Piccadilly behind and was now rattling along the road to the north. Her blood congealed with terror. This hideous adventure was like a nightmare from which there would be no awakening. She was like a trapped bird flinging herself against the bars of her cage, but only succeeding in hurting herself.

The cord-bound sheet restricted her movements and held her arms pinned to her sides. As the horses’ hooves threw up splatterings of muddied snow with each step, Alice wriggled in her dark retreat, trying to loosen the choking folds of cloth, but there was no room to move. Her mind ranged far and wide, conjuring up a thousand evil deeds which might be done to her. She realised then that she was being kidnapped. But by whom? And why would anyone want to? For what reason? What was their intent? These terrible apprehensions dragging out the unknown played on her nerves so that the rattling of the wheels over the rutted road was as nothing compared to the wild beating of her heart.

Neither of her companions had spoken for some time. She might have panicked and struggled and kicked against her bonds, but aware of the presence of her abductors and not knowing who they were or what they were capable of, realising that all resistance would be useless, she was persuaded to hold herself still and hope she would soon be released of her bonds.

Yet she did wonder if these men had captured her for their pleasure? A cold, agonising dread congealed within her, but she finally and firmly settled the matter in her mind that if this was indeed so, then she would at least give them a fight worthy of her strength. She had been well tutored by Philippe, and though she had the body of a feeble woman, she had the temperament and determination of a brawler.

‘Bit still, don’t you think?’ a man’s voice said.

‘I think she’s fainted,’ his companion answered.

‘Better for us if she has.’

The journey dragged on and the longer she was confined, the more her discomfort increased. She grimaced as the carriage lurched around a bend. The bumps and jolts were making themselves painfully felt along every inch of her body. With her back and hips pressed to the floor, with no padding to cushion her, she began to suffer aches and pains in areas of her body she didn’t know existed and, as illogical as the idea seemed, she began to wonder if she would emerge from her torture alive. Unable to guess how long the journey would take, gradually she grew more weary and numb and her mind, seeking relief from her distress, began to wander. In the stuffy confines her eyes closed and she drifted into some semblance of sleep.

* * *

The coach had passed through heavy iron gates and along a tree-lined avenue leading up to a house. The gravel sweep and smooth lawns were hidden beneath deep drifts of snow.

Suddenly the carriage came to a halt, bringing Alice immediately alert. A cold, agonising dread congealed within her and left her heart thudding heavily in her breast. One of the men spoke in muted tones and there was the sound of the door opening. Then she was being hauled out of the coach. The cloth became loose about her head and a gap appeared close to her mouth. Swaying and breathing in the cold night air, she felt life begin to flow back into her body. A helpless, plaintive cry escaped her lips before a hand was clamped over her mouth and she was lifted off her feet. Against her struggles to escape, she was carried up some steps.

Her tormentor cursed suddenly and snatched his hand away from the sharp teeth that tested the flesh of his palm. He set the slender form on her feet and then jerked back abruptly as her small foot came free of the cloth and kicked out with vicious intent, hitting her target and eliciting a satisfying yelp. She was pushed on to a sofa where she sprawled in a heap.

Struggling to toss back the restricting cloth and glancing up, she saw two men bending over her, looking stupidly down at her, one of them rubbing his sore hand. Focusing her eyes, to her surprise she saw these men didn’t appear to be unduly awful and dangerous. The man she would come to know as Hicks was quite tall and of strong build with light brown hair and kindly brown eyes. The other man, Taff, was short and stout with unruly dark hair and twinkling pale blue eyes. Neither looked capable of doing the evil deed they had been charged with.

But this was ridiculous. How could she feel this softening towards them after suffering their rough treatment? Anger was now beginning to overcome her fear, reviving her instinct for self-preservation.

‘You—you idiots!’ she cried, still struggling with the cloth. ‘Halfwits! Why have you done this? Why have you brought me here? Who ordered you to abduct me?’

A masterful voice rang out. ‘What the hell have we here? Remove the cover and hurry up about it.’

The two men jumped in sudden alarm when they turned and saw a tall, cloaked figure sweep into the hall as if blown in by the blizzard raging outside. White flurries whirled about him in a frenzy. Slamming the door shut on the howling curtain of snow that was threatening to invade the hall, he strode towards them, removing his heavy cloak and tossing it over a chair.

The fretting Hicks was the first to relent. ‘’Tis the young mistress, m’lord,’ he said, sounding as if he had a blockage in his throat. Then he cleared it and said, ‘We’ve brought her as you instructed.’




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