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The Blanchland Secret
Nicola Cornick
Prim and proper Sarah Sheridan sought to live a respectable life as her cousin's companion, trying to put her family's past behind her.But everything changed with a letter insisting on her return to Blanchland. For her childhood home was now host to the most depraved parties in England…! Guy, Viscount Renshaw, was a well-known rake, but even he would not willingly set foot in Blanchland.And though the appealing Miss Sheridan appeared respectable, her upcoming trip to Blanchland revealed a woman of mystery, and only made him more determined to uncover all of Sarah's secrets.



“I know you are trying to provoke me, sir—”
“Indeed? I thought the reverse was true for once!” Guy exclaimed.
“Very well!” Sarah met his eyes. “I’ll admit that I said something that I deeply regret! Pray accept my apologies, my lord!”
The dance had ended, but Guy was still holding her hand. They were standing on the edge of the dance floor, surrounded by couples milling about, yet it seemed to Sarah that they were entirely alone. When Sarah looked up into Guy’s eyes she saw an expression of desire overlaid by wicked mischief. So strong was the conviction that he was about to kiss her that Sarah took an instinctive step backward.
“Do not worry.” Guy spoke so only she could hear. “I will not do it—at least, not here! But the temptation, Miss Sheridan, is acute.”
Color flamed into Sarah’s face as she realized he had read her thoughts. “Believe me,” she said with as much composure as she could muster, “so is the temptation to slap your face!”

Praise for Nicola Cornick’s recent titles
The Virtuous Cyprian
“…this delightful tale of a masquerade gone awry will delight ardent Regency readers.”
—Romantic Times
The Larkswood Legacy
“…a suspenseful yet tenderhearted tale of love…”
—Romantic Times
Lady Polly
“…a solid, cozy read with many delightful characters…”
—Romantic Times

The BLANCHLAND SECRET
Nicola Cornick



Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve

Chapter One
Mr Julius Churchward, representative of the famously discreet London lawyers of the same name, had a variety of facial expressions he could draw upon, depending on the nature of the news he was imparting to his aristocratic clients. There was sympathetic but grave, used when breaking the news that an inheritance was substantially smaller than expected; there was sympathetic but rueful, for unsatisfactory offspring and breach of promise; finally, there was an all-purpose dolefulness, for when the precise nature of the problem was in doubt. It was this third alternative that he adopted now, as he stood on the doorstep of Lady Amelia Fenton’s trim house in Bath, for if the truth were told, he knew nothing of the contents of the letter he was about to deliver.
Mr Churchward had travelled from London the previous day, stopped overnight at the Star and Garter in Newbury and resumed his journey at first light. To undertake such a journey in winter, with Christmas pressing close upon them, argued some urgency. The morning sun was warming the creamy Bath stone of Brock Street but the winter air was chill. Mr Churchward shivered inside his overcoat and hoped that Miss Sarah Sheridan, Lady Amelia’s companion, was not still at breakfast.
A neat maid showed him into a parlour that he remembered from a visit three years before, a visit during which he had conveyed to Miss Sheridan the disappointing news that her brother Frank had left no estate to speak of. At the back of his mind was an occasion some two years before that, when he had had to proffer the even more depressing intelligence that Lord Sheridan had left only a small competence to keep his daughter from penury. Miss Sheridan had borne the news with fortitude, explained that she had very few material needs and gained Mr Churchward’s admiration in the process.
He still felt the inequity of her situation keenly. A lady of Miss Sheridan’s breeding should not, he felt, be reduced to acting as companion, even to so benevolent a relative as her cousin, Lady Amelia. He was sure that Lady Amelia was too generous ever to make Miss Sheridan feel a poor relation, but it was simply not fitting. For several years Mr Churchward’s chivalrous heart had hoped that Miss Sheridan would make a suitable match, for she was young and looked well to a pass, but three years had gone by and she was now firmly on the shelf.
Mr Churchward shook his head sadly as he waited in Lady Amelia’s airy drawing-room. He tried hard not to have favourites; it would have been quite inappropriate when he had so many esteemed clients, but he made an exception in the case of Miss Sarah Sheridan.
The door opened and Sarah came towards him, hand outstretched as though he was a great friend rather than the bearer of doubtful news.
‘Dear Mr Churchward! How do you do, sir? This is an unexpected pleasure!’
Mr Churchward was not so sure. The letter he carried seemed to weigh down his document case. But such misgivings seemed foolish in the light of day. The parlour was bright with winter sunlight; it shone full on Miss Sheridan, but she was a lady whose face and figure could withstand the harshest of morning light. Indeed, her cream and rose complexion seemed dazzlingly fresh and fair and her slender figure was set off to advantage by a simple dress of jonquil muslin.
‘How do you do, Miss Sheridan? I hope I find you well?’
Mr Churchward took the proffered seat and cleared his throat. He was astonished to find that he was nervous, too nervous to indulge in talk of the weather or the journey. He bent to unbuckle his case and extracted a letter in a plain white envelope.
‘Madam, forgive my abruptness, but I have been asked to deliver this letter to you. The manner in which the request came about is quite extraordinary, but perhaps you would wish to read the letter first, before I explain…’ Mr Churchward was unhappily aware that he was rambling. Sarah’s wide and beautiful hazel eyes were fixed on his face with an expression of vague puzzlement. She took the letter and gave a slight gasp.
‘But this is—’
‘From your late brother. Yes, ma’am.’ Mr Churchward groped for his all-purpose solemn expression, but was sure he was only achieving the anxious look of a man who was not in complete control of the situation. ‘Perhaps if you were to read what Lord Sheridan has written…’
Miss Sheridan made no immediate attempt to open the letter. Her head was bent as she examined the familiar black writing and the sunlight picked out strands of gold and amber in the hair that escaped her cap.
‘Are you aware of the contents of the letter, Mr Churchward?’
‘No, madam, I am not.’ The lawyer sounded slightly reproachful, as though Francis Sheridan had committed a decided faux pas by leaving him in ignorance.
Miss Sheridan scanned his face for a moment, then walked slowly over to the walnut desk. Mr Churchward heard the sound of the letter-opener slicing through paper and felt relief wash over him. Soon they would know the worst…
There was silence in the little room. Mr Churchward could hear the chink of china from the kitchens, the sound of voices raised in question and answer. He looked around at the neat bookshelves laden with works he remembered from Blanchland; books that Sir Ralph Covell had dismissively thrown out of the house he had inherited from his second cousin, Lord Sheridan; books that Sarah had gladly retrieved for her new home.
Miss Sheridan did not speak at all. Eventually she crossed to the wing chair that mirrored Mr Churchward’s on the other side of the fireplace and sat down. The letter fell to her lap; she looked him straight in the eye.
‘Mr Churchward, I think I should read you the contents of Frank’s letter.’
‘Very well, madam.’ Mr Churchward looked apprehensive.
‘Dear Sal,’ Miss Sheridan read, in a dry tone, ‘if you get this letter I shall be dead and in need of a favour. Sorry to have to ask this of you, old girl—fact is, I’d rather trust you than anyone else. So here goes. I have a daughter. I know that will surprise you and I’m sorry I never told you before, but to tell the truth, I hoped you’d never need to know. Father knew, of course—made all the usual arrangements, all right and tight. But if he is gone and I’m gone, then the child needs someone to turn to for help, and that’s where you come in. Churchward will tell you the rest. All I can say is thank you and God bless you.
‘Your loving brother, Frank.’
Miss Sheridan sighed. Mr Churchward sighed. Both were thinking in their different ways of the insouciant Frank Sheridan who would have fathered a child so lightly, made cheerful provision for her future perhaps, but not really given the matter the thought it deserved. Mr Churchward could imagine him dashing off such a letter before he went off to join the East India Company on yet another mad attempt to make his fortune…
Sarah’s voice broke into Mr Churchward’s thoughts. ‘Well, Mr Churchward, can you, as Frank suggests, throw any more light on this mystery?’
Mr Churchward sighed for a second time. ‘I confess, madam, that I did know of Miss Meredith’s existence. Your late father…’ He hesitated. ‘Lord Sheridan came to me seventeen years ago to ask me to make arrangements for a certain child. I thought…’
‘You thought that the child was his own?’ Sarah said calmly. For a moment, Mr Churchward could have sworn that there was a twinkle in Miss Sheridan’s eye, a look that was surely inappropriate for a young lady when confronted with the evidence of some improper connection of her family.
‘Well, I assumed—’ Mr Churchward broke off unhappily, aware that it was dangerous for lawyers to make assumptions.
‘It was a natural supposition,’ Sarah said kindly, ‘especially since Frank could have been little more than eighteen himself at the time.’
‘Young men…wild oats…’ Mr Churchward made a vague gesture. He suddenly realised the impropriety of discussing such a matter with a young, unmarried lady, cleared his throat purposefully and pushed his glasses up his nose. He deplored the necessity of giving Miss Sheridan this information, but there was nothing for it. Best to be as businesslike as possible.
‘The child was placed with a family in a village near Blanchland, I believe, madam. The late Lord Sheridan paid an annuity to a Dr John Meredith each year during his lifetime and…’ he hesitated ‘…left a sum to him in his will. Dr Meredith died last year, at which time his widow and daughter were still resident near Blanchland.’
‘I remember Dr Meredith,’ Sarah said thoughtfully. ‘He was a kindly man. He attended me when I had the measles. And I do believe he had a daughter—a pretty little girl some seven or eight years younger than I. She went away to school. I remember everyone saying that the doctor must have some private income—’ She broke off, a rueful smile on her lips as she realised that the mystery of the doctor’s finances was now solved.
The arrival of some refreshments—a pot of coffee for Mr Churchward and a strong cup of tea for Miss Sheridan—created a natural break in the conversation and gave the lawyer the opportunity to move smoothly forward.
‘I do apologise for springing such a surprise on you, Miss Sheridan—’
‘Pray do not, Mr Churchward.’ Sarah smiled warmly. ‘This is none of your doing. But I understand from Frank’s letter that you were to contact me if Miss Meredith was in need of help. In what way may I assist her?’
Mr Churchward looked unhappy. He reached for his bag again and extracted a second letter. It was smaller than the first, the paper of inferior quality, the hand round and childish. ‘I received this three days ago, Miss Sheridan. Please…’
Once again, Sarah read aloud.
Dear Sir,
I am writing to you because I am in desperate need of help and do not know where to turn. I understand from my mother that the late Lord Sheridan gave her your direction, instructing her to contact you should either of us ever be in dire need. Please come to me at Blanchland, so that I may acquaint you with our difficulties and seek your advice.
I am, Sir, your most obedient servant,
Miss Olivia Meredith.
There was a silence. Mr Churchward was aware that he should have felt more at ease, for provision for illegitimate children and difficulties raised by said children was very much a part of Churchward and Churchward’s business. Never before, however, had he been confronted by the situation in which an errant brother had asked his younger sister to offer help to his by-blow. Frank Sheridan had been a likeable man, but thoughtless and devil-may-care. He had indubitably put his sister in a very awkward situation.
‘Miss Meredith makes no mention of the precise nature of her difficulties,’ Sarah said thoughtfully. ‘And when Frank wrote his letter he would have had no notion of the sort of help she would need—’
‘Very difficult for him, I am sure, madam.’ Mr Churchward still looked disapproving. ‘He wished to do the right thing by the child without knowing what that would be.’
Sarah wrinkled up her nose. ‘I fear I am becoming confused, Mr Churchward. May we go over this once again? I shall call for more coffee and tea.’
The pot was replenished, Sarah’s cup refilled, then the maid withdrew once again.
‘Now,’ Sarah said, in her most businesslike voice, ‘let us recapitulate. My late brother left a letter with you to be despatched to me in the event of a plea for help from his natural daughter, Miss Meredith. Frank was, I suppose, trying to guard against my niece being left friendless in the event of his death.’
‘I assume that to be correct, madam.’
‘And there has never been any request for help until three days ago, when you received this letter from Miss Meredith?’
Mr Churchward inclined his head. ‘All contact with Dr Meredith and his family ceased on your father’s death, ma’am. I believe that Lord Sheridan left them a sum of money—’ Mr Churchward’s lips primmed as he remembered that it was a not-inconsiderable sum of money ‘—in order that the child should want for nothing in the future. Why she has seen fit to contact us now…’
‘The help Miss Meredith needs may not be of a financial nature,’ Sarah observed quietly, ‘and she is still my niece, Mr Churchward, despite the circumstances of her birth.’
‘Very true, madam.’ Mr Churchward sighed, feeling reproved. ‘This is all most irregular and I am not at all happy about it. For you to have to return to Blanchland is the most unfortunate thing imaginable!’
Once again, the lawyer thought that he detected a twinkle in Miss Sheridan’s eye. ‘Certainly, Frank asks a great deal, Mr Churchward.’
‘He does indeed, ma’am,’ Mr Churchward said fervently. He shuddered, thinking of Sir Ralph Covell, the late Lord Sheridan’s cousin, who had inherited Blanchland Court upon Frank’s death. In the following three years Covell had turned the place into a notorious den of iniquity. Gambling, drunken revels, licentious orgies…The tales had been wilder each year. It seemed impossible to believe that Miss Sarah Sheridan, respectable spinster and pillar of Bath society, would ever set foot in the place.
‘Your cousin, Sir Ralph Covell, is still in residence at Blanchland, Miss Sheridan?’ Mr Churchward asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.
‘I believe so.’ The warmth had gone from Sarah’s voice. ‘It grieves me to hear the tales of depravity at Blanchland, Mr Churchward. It is such a gracious house to be despoiled by such evil.’
Churchward cleared his throat. ‘For that reason, Miss Sheridan, it would be most inappropriate for you to return there. If your brother had known what Covell would do to your home, he would never have suggested it. Besides…’ Churchward brightened ‘…he has not actually asked you to go to see Miss Meredith yourself! You may advise her through an agent, perhaps—’
Churchward broke off as Sarah rose to her feet and crossed to the window. She gazed into the distance. The bare trees that lined the Circus were casting shifting shadows onto the pavements. A carriage rattled past.
‘Perhaps someone could represent your interests at Blanchland,’ Churchward repeated, when Sarah did not speak. He was desperately hoping that she would not ask him to be that person. His wife would never stand for it. But Sarah was shaking her head.
‘No, Mr Churchward. I fear that Frank has laid this charge on me alone and I must honour it. I shall, of course, gratefully accept your advice when I have ascertained the nature of Miss Meredith’s problem. I imagine that it should be easy enough to find the girl and see how I may help her.’
Mr Churchward was ashamed at the relief that flooded through him. There was an air of decision about Miss Sheridan that made it difficult to argue with her, despite her relative youth, but he still felt absurdly guilty. He made a business of shuffling his papers together and as he did so he remembered the piece of news that he had still to impart. His face fell still further.
‘I should tell you, ma’am, that I took the liberty of sending a message to Miss Meredith to reassure her that I had received her letter. By chance I passed my messenger on the road as I made my way here. He had been to Blanchland and was on his way back to London.’
There was a pause. Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘And?’
Mr Churchward looked unhappy. ‘I fear that he was unable to find Miss Meredith, ma’am. The young lady was last seen approaching the front door of Blanchland Court two days ago. She has not been seen since. Miss Meredith has disappeared.’

Later, as he was driving back to London, Mr Churchward remembered that he had forgotten to tell Miss Sheridan about the third letter, the one that Francis Sheridan had requested be despatched to the Earl of Woodallan. His spirits, which had been depressingly low since leaving Bath, revived a little. Woodallan was Sarah’s godfather and a man of sound sense into the bargain. It was a pity that Mr Sheridan had ever thought to involve his sister in such an undignified situation, but at least he appeared to have had the sense to apply to a man of Woodallan’s stature to support her. Mr Churchward sat forward for a moment, debating whether to ask the driver to turn back to Bath, then he caught sight of a signpost for Maidenhead and sat back against the cushions with a sigh. He was tired and nearing home, and, after all, Miss Sheridan would learn of Lord Woodallan’s involvement soon enough.

Lady Amelia had already left for her morning engagements by the time Mr Churchward departed for London, so Sarah had no chance to confide in her cousin. She thought that this was probably a good thing, for her natural inclination had been to rush and tell Amelia all, when perhaps it would be better to think a little. Frank had not laid any strictures of secrecy on her, but Amelia was the least discreet of people and no doubt the tale of Sarah’s niece would be all over Bath in a morning were Amelia to be made party to the story.
Sarah sat on the edge of her bed and thought of Frank and of her father, paying for his granddaughter’s upkeep, and of neither of them breathing a word to her. She suspected that neither of them had ever intended that she should know. But perhaps Frank had had some premonition of his own end when he was about to set sail for India that last time. At least it would have been some comfort to him to think, as he lay racked by fever so far from home, that he had made some provision, hasty and thoughtless as it was, for Olivia’s future…
Sarah stirred herself. She could sit here thinking of it all day, but she had errands of her own to attend to—some ribbons to match at the haberdasher’s and bouquets to collect from the florist for the ball Amelia was holding the following night. Sarah replaced her lace cap with a plain bonnet, donned a sensible dark pelisse, and hurried down the stairs.
Mrs Anderson, Lady Amelia’s housekeeper, was lurking in the stairwell, a look of slightly anxious eagerness on her homely face. She started forward as Sarah reached the bottom step.
‘Was there…did the gentleman bring any good news, Miss Sarah?’
Sarah, adjusting her bonnet slightly before the pier glass, smiled slightly. News travelled quickly and a visit from the family lawyer was bound to cause speculation.
‘No one has left me a fortune I fear, Annie!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Mr Churchward came only to tell me of a request my brother Frank made a few years ago. Nothing exciting, I am sorry to say!’
Mrs Anderson’s face fell. In common with all the other servants in the house, she thought it a crying shame that Miss Sheridan should be the poor relation, and her a real lady, so pretty-behaved and well bred. Not that Lady Amelia ever treated her cousin as though she was a charity case, but it was Miss Sarah herself who insisted on running errands and doing work that was beneath her. She was doing it now.
‘Would you like me to collect the vegetables whilst I am out?’ Sarah was saying. ‘It is only a step from the florists to the greengrocer’s—’
‘No, ma’am,’ Mrs Anderson said firmly. It was one thing for Miss Sheridan to carry home a bouquet of hothouse roses and quite another for her to be weighed down with cauliflower and lettuce. She moved to open the door for Sarah and espied the portly figure of a gentleman just passing the gate. ‘Why, ma’am, ’tis Mr Tilbury! If you are quick to catch him up, he may escort you to the shops!’
‘Thank you for warning me, Annie,’ Sarah said serenely. ‘If I walk very slowly, I am persuaded he will lose himself ahead of me! I just pray that he does not turn around!’
Mrs Anderson shook her head as she watched Sarah’s trim figure descend the steps and set off slowly up Brock Street towards the Circus. There was no accounting for taste, but to her mind a marriage to a rich gentleman like Mr Tilbury was far preferable to being a poor spinster. Unfortunately, Miss Sheridan seemed too particular to settle for a marriage of convenience. Mr Tilbury was older, a widower with grown-up children, and if he were a little dull and set in his ways, well…
Mrs Anderson closed the door, noticing in the process that the housemaid had left a smear on the polished step. She walked slowly back towards the kitchens, still thinking of Miss Sheridan’s suitors. Bath was a staid place and could not offer much in the way of excitement, but there had been several retired army officers who would have been only too happy to offer for Miss Sheridan if she had given them the least encouragement. And then there was Sir Edmund Place—an invalid, with a weak chest, but a rich one! And there had been young Lord Grantley—very young, Mrs Anderson admitted to herself, barely off the leading reins, in fact, but infatuated with Miss Sheridan and no mistake! Old Lady Grantley had soon whisked her lamb out of harm’s way, declaring to all and sundry that Miss Sheridan was a designing female! Mrs Anderson bridled. Miss Sarah was more of a lady than Augusta Grantley would ever be!
Still, there was always hope. Cook’s sister, who was Lady Allerton’s housekeeper, had overheard her ladyship mention that a number of new visitors had been listed in the Bath Register, chief amongst whom was Viscount Renshaw, son of the Earl of Woodallan. Not just that, but his lordship was rumoured to be staying with his good friend Greville Baynham, one of Lady Amelia’s beaux…Still plotting, Mrs Anderson called for the housemaid and made some pungent remarks about the slovenliness of her cleaning.

The subject of these musings, completely unaware that her cousin’s matchmaking staff had plans for her, had purchased two very pretty pink ribbons for the bodice of Amelia’s ballgown and was just leaving the florist with her arms full of specially cultivated roses. No matter how she tried to avoid it, the events of the past hour kept flooding back into Sarah’s mind. A niece of seventeen! And she was only four and twenty herself! Frank, her senior by eleven years, had begun his womanising young. He had always been one with an eye for the prettiest maids. And who had been Olivia’s mother? Sarah paused on the street corner. Surely it had not been the doctor’s prim little wife? Mrs Meredith had been so very proper…
Aware that she was speculating in a most ill-bred manner, Sarah smiled a little. She was certain that Churchward had been shocked by her lack of sensibility when acquainted with the news! Engrossed in her thoughts, she stepped off the pavement and someone bumped into her, knocking all the breath out of her body. The roses went flying across the cobblestones. Sarah lost her balance and would have fallen were it not for an arm that went hard around her waist, steadying her.
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am!’ a masculine voice exclaimed. ‘Devilish clumsy of me!’
The gentleman set Sarah gently on her feet and removed his arm from about her with what she considered to be unnecessary slowness. He turned to gather up the scattered flowers, but he was too late. A carriage, bowling along at a smart pace, neatly severed the heads of half of them.
‘Oh, no!’ Sarah went down on her knees again to try to rescue those that were left, but even they were bruised, their petals drooping. Amelia would be furious. The red roses were the centrepiece of her decoration the following night and the florist had grown them especially for the event. With all her heart Sarah wished she had left the roses to be brought round later on the cart with the other flowers, but she had been looking forward to walking through the winter streets with such a splash of colour. She sat back on her heels, holding the sad bouquet in her hand.
‘Pray have some sense, madam! You are likely to be squashed flat if you remain in the road!’
The gentleman took Sarah firmly by the elbow and hauled her to her feet again. There was considerably less courtesy in his voice this time.
Sarah stepped back and glared at him furiously. ‘I thank you for your concern, sir! A pity you did not think of the danger before you consigned my roses to precisely that fate!’
The gentleman did not answer at once, merely raising one dark eyebrow in a somewhat quizzical fashion. His thoughtful gaze, very dark and direct, considered Sarah from her skewed bonnet to her sensible shoes, pausing on her flushed face and lingering on the curves of her figure beneath the practical pelisse. Sarah raised her chin angrily. Her experience of gentlemen was indisputably small, but she had no trouble in recognising this one as a rake—nor in reading the expression in his eyes.
His was a tall and athletic figure, set off to perfection by an elegance of tailoring seldom found in conservative Bath society. London polish, Sarah thought immediately, remembering Amelia’s description of her years in the capital and the intimidatingly handsome gentlemen who had flocked to her balls and soirées. This gentleman had thick fair hair ruffled by the winter breeze, its lightness a striking contrast to the dark brown eyes that were appraising her so thoroughly. A slight smile was starting to curl his firm mouth as he took in the angry sparkle in Sarah’s eyes, the outraged blush rising to her cheeks.
‘I can only apologise again, madam,’ the gentleman said smoothly. ‘I was so taken in admiring the beauties of this city—’ the amusement in his eyes deepened ‘—that I was utterly engrossed!’
Sarah felt an answering smile starting and repressed it ruthlessly. There was something here that was surprisingly hard to resist; some indefinable charm, perhaps, or, more dangerously, an affinity that was as disturbing as it was unexpected. The gentleman exuded a careless confidence and a vitality that seemed to set him apart. Bath was full of invalids, Sarah realised, and it was almost shocking to meet someone who seemed so very alive.
The strangest thing of all was that he seemed vaguely familiar. The combination of fair hair and dark eyes was very unusual and definitely stirred her memory. She paused, unaware that she was staring and that the quizzical twinkle in the gentleman’s eyes had changed to thoughtful speculation.
‘I beg your pardon, but have we met before, sir?’ Sarah frowned slightly. ‘There is something familiar—’
Too late, she realised just how he might misinterpret her question. She had been thinking aloud and bit her lip, vexed with herself.
The gentleman’s dark eyebrows rose fractionally and there was a certain cynicism in his drawl as he said, ‘You flatter me, ma’am! I should say that we could be very good friends if you so choose.’
The colour flooded into Sarah’s cheeks. She stopped dead, regardless of curious glances from the other shoppers in Milsom Street.
‘That was hardly my intention, sir! I would scarcely attempt to scrape an acquaintance in so ramshackle a manner, particularly with a gentleman who is an undoubted rake! Your assumptions do you no credit! Good day to you, sir!’
He was already before her as she turned on her heel to leave him standing there.
‘Wait!’ He put out a hand to detain her. ‘Forgive me, ma’am! It was not my intention to offend you!’
Sarah looked pointedly down at his hand on her arm, and he removed it at once. ‘I should have thought that that was precisely what you intended, sir!’
‘No, indeed!’ He would have seemed genuinely contrite were it not for the glint of amused admiration she could see lurking in his eyes. ‘I intended quite otherwise—’ He broke off at the furious light in Sarah’s eyes. ‘You must allow me to apologise for my deplorable manners, ma’am! And for the roses…’ He gave a wry smile to see the drooping posy in Sarah’s hand. ‘I hope it is a simple matter to procure some more?’
It was said in the tones of someone who had never had any difficulty in finding—or paying for—two dozen red roses for his latest inamorata. Sarah, who was finding it extraordinarily difficult to remain angry with him, managed a severity she was proud of.
‘I fear that these were the last roses to be had, sir,’ she said frostily. ‘They were grown especially. And even if they were not, I can scarce afford to go around Bath buying up flowers in an abandoned fashion! Now, you will excuse me, I am sure!’
The gentleman appeared not to have heard his dismissal, although Sarah suspected that he had, in fact, chosen to ignore it. He fell into step beside her as though by mutual consent.
‘I trust that you were not injured at all in the accident, ma’am?’ The undertone of amusement was still in his voice. ‘It was remiss of me not to enquire before. Perhaps I should escort you home to reassure myself that you are quite well?’
Sarah raised her eyebrows at such flagrant presumption. She wondered just how blunt she was going to have to be to dismiss him. It was difficult when a part of her was drawn to him in such a contrary fashion, but she was not accustomed to striking up a conversation with strange gentlemen in the street. Besides, no matter what her errant senses were telling her, such behaviour was dangerous. This man was definitely a rake and had already shown that he would take advantage.
‘It is quite unnecessary for you to accompany me, sir. I am indeed well and will be home directly!’
‘But it is not at all the done thing for a lady to wander around unattended, you know,’ the gentleman said conversationally. ‘I am sure that Bath cannot be so fast as London; even so, the worthy matrons would not approve of such behaviour!’
Once again, Sarah was almost betrayed into a smile. He was outrageous, but surprisingly difficult to resist.
‘I am sure that you are aware, sir, that it causes less speculation to walk around unchaperoned than to be seen in company with a complete stranger! That being the case, I shall continue alone and wish you a pleasant stay in our city!’
So saying, she gave him a cool nod and walked away, every line of her body defying him to follow her.

Guy, Viscount Renshaw, watched the slender figure walk purposefully away from him. A faint, rueful smile curved his lips. He saw the lady reach the corner of the street, saw her pause to exchange greetings with a gentleman coming the other way and noted with quickened interest that the gentleman was his good friend, Greville Baynham. Reflecting that it was fortunate that Bath society was proving to be so close-knit, Guy strolled across the street just as Greville took his leave of the lady.
‘Sorry I was so long, old fellow!’ Greville gave his friend an amiable grin. ‘Saw a pair of Purdeys that took my fancy. I hope that you found enough to amuse you in my absence!’
‘Oh, I was well entertained,’ Guy said lazily, watching Sarah disappear out of sight. She had a very trim figure, he thought, good enough to challenge any of the accredited London beauties. Those hazel eyes, set in the wide, pure oval of her face, were magnificent…He realised that Greville had addressed another remark to him and was waiting patiently for his response.
‘I merely asked whether you would care to take the spa waters?’ his friend said with a quizzical look. ‘Though perhaps you have found other attractions more to your liking? Bath is a slow place these days, especially out of season, but—’
‘But not as slow as all that!’ Guy turned a thoughtful look on his friend. ‘Tell me, Grev, who is the lady to whom you were speaking just now?’
Greville frowned, pushing a hand through his ruffled brown hair. ‘The lady?’ His brow cleared. ‘Oh, you mean Miss Sheridan? Save yourself the trouble if you thought to strike up a flirtation there, Guy! She don’t give rakes the time of day!’
Guy laughed. ‘I believe you, although she did claim an acquaintance with me! Thought I had mistaken her quality until she gave me the coolest set-down I’ve ever experienced!’ Guy frowned a little. ‘Sheridan, did you say? The name is familiar…Why, yes, I remember her! Well, I’ll be damned!’
Greville burst out laughing. ‘Doing it too brown, Guy! I don’t believe you’ve ever met the lady before!’
‘No, I assure you!’ Guy looked triumphant. ‘Miss Sheridan is the sister of the late Lord Sheridan, is she not? She is also my father’s goddaughter and, though I have not seen her for an age, it must be the same girl! We were practically childhood friends!’
Greville’s shoulders slumped. ‘Devil take it, Guy! Of all the cursed luck!’
Guy gave his friend a pained look. ‘Surely you mean it is a charming coincidence! And, as you evidently know the lady, you will be able to furnish me with her direction—’
Greville groaned. ‘Don’t do it, Guy! Miss Sheridan is Lady Amelia Fenton’s cousin and Amelia will string me up if you try to get up a flirtation with Sarah!’
Guy smiled. He had heard quite a lot about Greville’s hopeless passion for Lady Amelia only the previous night, when his friend had been in his cups and musing on the cruelty of womankind. Guy had imagined that Bath would prove very shabby genteel now that it had passed its heyday as a fashionable spa, yet the staid society was promising several intriguing possibilities. Greville had made no secret of the fact that he intended to press his suit with the lovely Lady Amelia and now there was Miss Sheridan…
Remembering the flash in those beautiful hazel eyes as Sarah had administered her set-down, Guy was forced into a reluctant grin. He had noticed her as soon as she had come out of the florist with those wretched roses in her arms. Beneath the prim bonnet, her hair had been the colour of autumn leaves; not brown or gold or amber, but a mixture of all three. She had held herself with an unconscious grace, slender and straight; despite her demure appearance, she was far from priggish. There had been a hint of laughter in her eyes and a smile on those pretty lips, and he had known that, for all her propriety, she had been attracted to him.
It was a shame that his father was also Sarah Sheridan’s godfather. Guy acknowledged that that would preclude the sort of relationship that had sprung to mind on first seeing her. Nevertheless, it gave him the perfect excuse to pursue the acquaintance and that was a thought that held definite appeal. He drove his hands into his coat pockets.
‘Has Miss Sheridan never wished to marry?’ he asked, still following a train of thought of his own.
‘No money,’ Greville said succinctly, watching his friend with deep misgiving. ‘Here in Bath everyone is looking to marry a fortune. Sarah goes about with Lady Amelia, writes her letters and so on—’ He broke off at the look of distaste on Guy’s face.
‘Miss Sheridan a lady’s companion? Surely not!’
‘It is hardly like that,’ Greville said, leaping to Amelia’s defence. ‘Lady Amelia is most sincerely attached to her cousin—they are friends rather than employer and employee! Why, Amelia is the sweetest-natured creature—’
Guy held up a hand in mock surrender. ‘No need for such heat, old fellow! You’ll be calling me out next! I had no intention of casting doubt on Lady Amelia’s generosity, but it seems…’ he hesitated ‘…incongruous to think of Miss Sheridan in such a situation. I wonder if my father knows? At the very least he would offer her a dowry…’
Greville’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘Thought it was something else you had in mind to offer Miss Sheridan, Guy!’
‘I won’t deny it crossed my mind,’ the Viscount murmured, ‘but m’father wouldn’t like it! Tell me, Grev, if all the roses in Bath had been sold, where would you go to buy a posy for a lady?’
Greville stared at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. ‘Don’t know what the devil you’re talking about, old chap! Roses in winter?’
‘It is very late for them, I suppose. Would I be able to send someone to purchase red roses in Bristol, perhaps?’
‘You can buy anything with your sort of money,’ Greville said, without rancour. ‘Though why you would wish to go to the trouble—’
‘A favour for a lady,’ Guy explained.
‘I collect you mean to win a lady’s favour!’ Greville said glumly. ‘Well, I can’t stop you! But be warned, Guy—Miss Sheridan is no fool! She will see through your schemes! And as for Lady Amelia, well, I would not like to be in your shoes if she takes you in dislike!’ His gaze fell on the one red rose that Guy had rescued from the street and which he still held in one hand.
‘Must you walk round carrying that thing?’ he besought. ‘Devil take it, Guy, you look like a cursed dandy!’

Chapter Two
‘Sarah! You cannot return to Blanchland! I absolutely forbid it! Why, your reputation would be in shreds as soon as you crossed the threshold!’
Lady Amelia Fenton, her kittenish face creased into lines of deep distress, threw herself down onto the sofa beside her cousin. ‘Besides,’ she added plaintively, ‘you know that you detest what Ralph Covell has done to the house, and have never wanted to set foot there again!’
Sarah sighed, reflecting that the only positive thing about the current situation was that it had successfully deflected Amelia from bewailing the loss of the red roses. She had been beside herself to discover that her artistic centrepiece was ruined—until Sarah had casually mentioned her plan to travel to Blanchland on the day following the ball.
Amelia got to her feet again and paced energetically up and down before the fireplace. She looked quite ridiculous, for she was far too small to flounce about. All Amelia’s features were small but perfectly proportioned, in contrast to her fortune which was big enough to make her one of Bath’s most sought-after matrimonial prizes.
Realising from Sarah’s expression that she looked absurd, Amelia sat down again, frowning. ‘I know you think I am making a cake of myself, Sarah, but I am truly concerned for your welfare!’ She sounded small and hurt. ‘Whatever you say, it will be the ruin of you to go there!’
Sarah sighed again. ‘Forgive me, Milly! I must go. It is at Frank’s request—’
‘Your brother has been dead these three years!’ Lady Amelia said incontrovertibly. ‘It seems to me that it is asking a great deal to expect you to grant his requests from beyond the grave!’
Sarah, reflecting that her cousin had no notion quite how much Frank was indeed asking of her, tried to console her.
‘It will not be for long, I promise, and it is no great matter. I am sure Sir Ralph cannot really be so bad—’
‘Ralph has made Blanchland a byword for licentiousness and depravity!’ Amelia said strongly. ‘You may pretend that you are happy to accept this commission, but you know it will ruin you! What can be so important to force you back there? Oh, I could murder Frank were it not that he is dead already!’
Sarah burst out laughing. ‘Oh Milly, I truly wish that I could confide in you, but I have been sworn to secrecy! It is a most delicate matter—’
‘Fiddle!’ Lady Amelia said crossly. She looked at her cousin and her anger melted into rueful irritation. She could never be cross with Sarah for long.
‘Oh, I am sorry, my love! I know you were most sincerely attached to your brother and that you believe you are doing the right thing, but…’ Her voice trailed away unhappily.
‘I know.’ Sarah patted her hand. At four and twenty she was Amelia’s junior by five years, yet often felt the elder of the two. It was Amelia who rushed impetuously at life, Amelia whose reckless impulses could so often lead to trouble if not tempered by the wise counsel of her younger cousin. Amelia, widowed for five years, still seemed as heedless as a young debutante. Yet now it was she who was counselling caution and Sarah who was set on a foolhardy course.
‘And to travel now!’ Amelia said fretfully. ‘Why, it is but two weeks to Christmas and I am sure we are in for some snow!’
‘I am sorry, Milly, it is just something I feel I must do—’
‘Excuse me, madam.’ Sarah broke off as Chisholm, Amelia’s butler, stepped softly into the room. ‘There are two gentlemen here to see you—’
‘I am not at home!’ Amelia cried vexedly. ‘Really, Chisholm, you know that I am not receiving!’
‘Yes, ma’am, but you did give orders that Sir Greville—’
‘Greville!’ Amelia cried. ‘Why did you not say so, Chisholm? What are you waiting for? Show him in at once!’
Not a muscle moved in the butler’s impassive face. ‘Very well, madam.’
Sarah, repressing a smile, wondered whether Amelia appreciated the long-suffering patience of her servants. They were all most sincerely attached to her, despite her grasshopper mind.
‘Sir Greville! How do you do, sir? I had no notion you were returned from London!’
Amelia, her ill temper forgotten, smiled sunnily as her visitors were shown into the room. Indeed, Sarah felt that a less good-natured man than Sir Greville Baynham might have read far more into the warmth of his welcome than was intended. Greville had been Amelia’s most constant admirer for the last few years and though she showed every evidence of enjoying his company, she had never accepted any of his proposals of marriage. Sarah privately thought that, should Sir Greville’s attentions be permanently withdrawn, Amelia would miss him rather more than she anticipated. Unfortunately her cousin showed no sign of recognising that fact.
‘Lady Amelia,’ Greville was saying formally, ‘please allow me to present Viscount Renshaw. Guy is staying with me at Chelwood for a few days. Guy, this is Lady Amelia Fenton and…’ he turned to smile at Sarah ‘…her cousin, the Honourable Miss Sarah Sheridan, whom I believe you have already met.’
Sarah’s heart had skipped a beat as she recognised the tall figure following Greville Baynham into Amelia’s elegant drawing-room. Guy Renshaw. What dreadful bad luck that he should appear again just when she had succeeded in banishing from her mind that wicked smile and those disturbing dark eyes. And worse, it seemed she had been correct all along in recognising him, though there was little resemblance between the gangling youth who had once teased her mercilessly and this very personable man.
Guy Renshaw sketched an elegant bow. ‘Lady Amelia, how do you do? I have heard much about you!’ His voice was low-pitched and very agreeable, as melodious as Sarah remembered from that morning. She found that her heart was beating fast and had to take a deep breath to steady herself.
Amelia blushed and smiled as she gave the Viscount her hand. Sarah tried not to laugh. Judging by the rueful look on his face, Greville might be regretting introducing his friend to the lady he ardently wished to marry! Amelia was quite the most dreadful flirt and did not deserve his devotion whilst Guy Renshaw, as Sarah now knew, could scarcely be trusted.
‘And, Miss Sheridan…’ Lord Renshaw turned to her. There was a smile playing around the corners his mouth. He really was quite shockingly attractive and Sarah was sure that he knew it. The thought served to calm her. She would not provide the confirmation!
‘Not only have you and I have met before, ma’am,’ the Viscount was saying, ‘but I would go so far as to say that we were childhood friends!’
‘Were you indeed, Sarah?’ Amelia’s eyes were bright with curiosity as they moved from one to the other. ‘How intriguing!’
Sarah looked at Guy Renshaw very deliberately and saw his smile deepen into challenge as he awaited her response.
‘Lord Renshaw mistakes,’ she said slowly. ‘We were never childhood friends.’
It gave her a certain satisfaction to see the swift flash of surprise in his eyes. Guy Renshaw, Sarah thought, was all too sure of himself and his power to attract.
‘How could we be,’ she added sweetly, ‘when Lord Renshaw spent the whole time tormenting me with spiders and toads? I do believe I thought him an odious boy!’
Amelia gave a peal of laughter. ‘Dear me, Lord Renshaw, it seems my cousin has a long memory for childhood slights! You will have to try hard to win her good opinion!’
‘I shall endeavour to do so, ma’am, if Miss Sheridan will give me a second chance!’ There was speculation as well as amusement in the look Guy cast Sarah. She felt a shiver of awareness, as though he had just issued a challenge she was unsure she could meet. She looked away deliberately.
Amelia was patting the sofa beside her. ‘How long do you plan to spend in Bath, Lord Renshaw? No doubt you will find our society sadly flat after London!’
‘I doubt it, ma’am,’ Guy murmured, casting another glance at Sarah. He took a seat beside his hostess. ‘I fear, however, that I am only here for a few days. I am but recently returned from the Peninsula and am anxious to see my family again. I shall be returning to Woodallan the day after tomorrow.’
‘Then you must come to my ball tomorrow night!’ Amelia gave him a ravishing smile. ‘It will be most apt for a returned hero, for I am celebrating the allied successes!’
They fell to discussing the Peninsular War and Sir Greville came across to Sarah and sat down next to her. She let herself be distracted by small talk. At least the arrival of the two men had had the effect of diverting Amelia’s attention from her proposed visit to Blanchland, but Sarah suspected that it was only a temporary respite. Amelia was known for her tenacity and if Sarah was really unlucky the topic of the roses might be raised as well. Sarah had managed to skate adroitly over the cause of her accident but she would not put it past Guy Renshaw to mention the whole story just to put her out of countenance.
A footman and maid arrived with refreshments and somehow, Sarah was not quite sure how, Sir Greville and Lord Renshaw exchanged places. It was done in the neatest and most unobtrusive manner, but Sarah did not miss the look of gratitude Sir Greville flashed his friend as he took his place by Amelia, and her opinion of Guy went up a little. She only hoped that the Viscount’s motives towards herself were as irreproachable.
‘May I join you?’ Guy was smiling at her, the smile that made her heart do a little flip despite herself. ‘I can assure you that it is quite safe—my preoccupation with arachnids and amphibians is a thing of the past!’ He leaned forward to help Sarah to a Bath biscuit. ‘I am most sincerely sorry for the spider on your chair—’
‘It was a toad on my chair,’ Sarah said severely, ‘and a spider in the schoolroom! I beg you not to regard it, Lord Renshaw. I do not believe that I sustained any lasting hurt!’
‘I am relieved to hear it,’ Guy murmured, ‘as I wish above all things to make a good impression upon you, Miss Sheridan!’
‘A little late for that, my lord, when you were so destructive to my roses!’ Sarah observed sweetly.
He lowered his voice. ‘Was your cousin very displeased? If only you had vouchsafed your name and direction, Miss Sheridan, I could have escorted you back here and apologised to her!’
Sarah knew he was trying provoke her by reminding her of the set-down she had given him. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she repressed it ruthlessly.
‘You know that that would scarcely have been appropriate, my lord! As for Amelia, she was a little dismayed. She is the dearest creature, but even she cannot concoct a red, white and blue flower arrangement without the red!’
‘Ah, I see. The patriotic theme?’
‘Precisely so!’ Despite herself, Sarah found that they were smiling together. Guy was sitting forward, his entire attention focused on her in a most flattering manner. It was very disconcerting.
‘I am so very sorry that I did not recognise you when we met earlier, Miss Sheridan,’ he said softly, ‘but how was I to know that the gawky schoolgirl I used to know had grown into such a beautiful woman? Such a transformation is enough to throw a fellow completely!’
Sarah felt a blush rising at the teasing note in his voice. There was admiration in the look he gave her; admiration and a more disturbing emotion. It seemed astonishing that she could be sitting here in Amelia’s drawing-room with a gentleman she had just met again for the first time in thirteen years, and be feeling this intoxicating and entirely improper stirring of the senses.
‘You are outrageous, sir!’ she said, to cover her confusion. ‘I believe you have not altered one whit!’
‘Oh, you must allow me a little improvement!’ Guy looked at her with mock-reproof. ‘At the very least, I am taller than when you last saw me!’
‘That was not at all what I meant! It seems to me that you were always given to the most excessive flattery! Why, I distinctly remember you practising your charms on my grandmother! She professed herself scandalised that one so young should be so adept at flirtation!’
‘Well, I’ll concede that I was ever inclined to practise on susceptible ladies!’ Guy said lazily. ‘You may find, however, that my scandalous behaviour has developed in other directions since then!’
Sarah was sure that he was correct and it seemed likely that the type of outrageous behaviour indulged in by a man of nine and twenty was infinitely more dangerous to her than that of a youth primarily obsessed with practical jokes.
‘I do not doubt it, sir! Pray do not furnish me with the details, it would not be at all proper!’
‘But then I am not at all proper,’ Guy said ruefully. ‘Though, to my regret, I believe you to be a very pattern-card of correctness, Miss Sheridan!’
‘So I should hope! Pray do not pursue this line of conversation, sir!’
‘Must I not?’ There was a look of limpid innocence on Guy’s face. ‘I was presuming that our previous acquaintance would allow a certain informality—’
‘Informality!’ Sarah realised that she had raised her voice when she caught Amelia’s look of curiosity. She hastily dropped her tone again. ‘You presume too much, my lord!’
Guy shrugged, gracefully conceding defeat. Sarah had the distinct impression that it would only be a temporary reversal. She cast around for a safe change of subject. Genteel Bath society had scarcely prepared her for dealing with so flagrant a flirtation. She plumped for something she hoped would be innocuous.
‘I understand that you had been abroad for some years, sir. Your family must be eager to see you after all this time.’
Guy took her lead courteously, though there was a flash of amusement in his eyes that told her he knew she was trying to deflect him.
‘Yes, indeed,’ he said agreeably. ‘I was serving with Wellesley in the Peninsula for four years and only returned because my father’s health has deteriorated and he needs my help at Woodallan.’
‘I am sorry to hear of the Earl’s ill health,’ Sarah said, concerned. ‘I hope that it is not too serious?’
For once the humour dropped away from Guy’s expression and he looked sombre. ‘I hope so, too, Miss Sheridan, but I fear the worst. It is very unlike him to admit that he needs my help, but he has intimated that he wishes me to take on more of the running of Woodallan and the other estates…’ He made an effort to try for a lighter note. ‘No doubt my mother will be glad to see me back—she has been cursing Bonaparte these four years past for prolonging the war!’
‘It is several years since I saw your parents, although your mother and I still write,’ Sarah said, with a smile. ‘She told me in her last letter that she had high hopes of your swift return. She is kind—she sent me a very sympathetic letter when my father died.’
She looked up, to see Guy watching her. For all his levity, those dark eyes were disconcertingly perceptive. ‘It must have been a difficult time for you,’ he said gently. ‘You must have been very young, no more than nineteen, I imagine? And then to lose your brother and your home in such quick succession…’
Sarah’s mind immediately flew to Blanchland again. It seemed strange that she had so completely forgotten about Frank’s letter during the past few minutes. She had lost a brother, but it appeared that she had gained a niece. What sort of a girl would Miss Olivia Meredith prove to be? Her letter had been very neat and proper, the writing of a young lady educated at one of Oxford’s more select seminaries. But how to find her? She had to concoct a plan…
Sarah realised that Guy was still watching her, his searching gaze intent on her face. It made her feel oddly breathless.
‘I beg your pardon. I was thinking of home…’ She tried to gather her thoughts and steer away from further confidences. ‘Yes, I thank you…It was a difficult time.’
‘And now you reside with Lady Amelia?’ Guy smiled, looking across at where Amelia and Greville were engrossed in conversation, her chestnut curls brushing his shoulder as she bent forward confidingly. ‘I imagine that must be quite amusing!’
Sarah laughed. ‘Oh, I have been most fortunate! Amelia’s society is always stimulating and she has been as generous as a sister to me!’
Guy lowered his voice. ‘Do you think she will ever put Grev out of his misery and accept his suit, Miss Sheridan?’
It was a surprisingly personal question. Sarah raised her eyebrows a little haughtily and saw him grin in response.
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Sheridan, if you think me impertinent. I am only concerned for my friend’s future happiness, for I know he holds Lady Amelia in high esteem. But perhaps you think me presumptuous—again?’
Sarah unbent a little. ‘There is nothing I would like more than to see them make a match of it, my lord. I have been promoting the alliance these two years past! Alas, Amelia is not susceptible to my arguments!’
‘Nor to Greville’s, it would seem,’ Guy said, shifting a little in his chair. ‘And you, Miss Sheridan? No doubt you have many suitors! I should be glad to have happy news of your own situation to take back to Woodallan with me!’
If the previous question had been bold, this one took Sarah’s breath away. Once again there was a teasing light in his eyes, daring her to give him the snub he deserved.
‘I shall be happy for you to tell your family that I am in good health and spirits,’ she said, with a very straight face, ‘and to give them all my very best wishes!’
Guy did not seem discomposed. His smile broadened with appreciation. ‘I shall take that as encouragement for my own hopes then, ma’am!’
‘You should not do so, my lord,’ Sarah said crushingly. ‘I had not the least intention of encouraging you!’
‘I was thinking that the gentlemen of Bath must all be slow-tops,’ Guy said, apparently undaunted by her coldness, ‘but now I perceive that you are very high in the instep, Miss Sheridan! Your good opinion is not easily gained!’
‘Certainly not by an acknowledged rake who carelessly destroys my roses!’ Sarah said coolly. ‘Pray do not repine, however, my lord! There are any number of young ladies in Bath who would be delighted to flirt with you!’
‘Minx!’ his lordship said, with feeling. ‘I have to tell you that I have no interest in them, Miss Sheridan!’
‘Indeed?’ Sarah hesitated over administering yet another set-down to him in a single day. She had the feeling that it would be inviting trouble.
‘Naturally I do not include you in their company, ma’am! Will you dance with me at your cousin’s ball tomorrow night?’
Sarah raised her eyebrows again. There was no doubt that Viscount Renshaw possessed a most persistent and provocative disposition, and that he was deliberately trying to incite a reaction.
‘It is not certain that I shall attend, sir,’ she said, still cool. ‘I have other plans—’
His eyes danced with a secret amusement. ‘Oh, surely you would not disappoint your cousin, ma’am? Shall I appeal to her to persuade you?’ He glanced across at Amelia and Greville, still deep in conversation.
‘Pray do not disturb them,’ Sarah said hastily, aware that her colour had risen again. It was an understood thing that she would be present at Amelia’s ball, for it would be the highlight of Bath’s winter season. She suspected that Guy had guessed as much. His amused gaze rested on her face, moving over each feature with slow deliberation. Sarah felt inordinately uncomfortable under that observant scrutiny.
The clock chimed.
‘Oh!’ Amelia got hastily to her feet. ‘I do beg your pardon, gentlemen! I am promised to Mrs Chartley’s card party! Pray excuse me or I shall be very late!’
Greville and Guy stood up, Greville offering his escort to Amelia, who accepted prettily.
Guy took Sarah’s hand and pressed a kiss on it. ‘I am sure we shall see you this evening, Miss Sheridan. Do you go to the dance at the Pump Room?’
‘Oh, yes, we shall be there!’ Amelia said cheerfully, seeming blissfully unaware that her cousin was about to deny it. She gave Guy Renshaw a melting smile. ‘It is the last public dance of the year, you know! But how charming to be able to see you again so soon, Lord Renshaw!’
Guy bowed. ‘The pleasure will be all mine, Lady Amelia! Your servant, Miss Sheridan!’
They all went out together. Sarah watched from the window as the Viscount parted from Greville and Amelia with a casual word and a smile. She was aware of a certain conflict inside her and a faint disappointment. Guy Renshaw was a charming man and he had made his admiration for her very plain, but he was also a dangerous flirt who probably did not mean a word of it. It would be very foolish to read anything into his behaviour and even more imprudent to allow an unexpected physical attraction to disturb her.
Besides, he would be leaving Bath in a couple of days and so would she. Abruptly, Sarah remembered her commitment to visit Blanchland, and felt depression settle on her. She did not want to see what Ralph Covell had done to her beloved family home, nor to become embroiled in the problems of Frank’s natural daughter, nor to ruin her own reputation in the process. Amelia was quite right—she must be mad. And Churchward had even offered her a way out by suggesting that an agent could represent her interests, yet for some reason she had chosen not to take it…
Sarah felt the beginnings of a headache stir. Since she had resolved on this rash course of action, she must at least plan how to accomplish it with a minimum of fuss. Blanchland was less than a day’s journey from Bath, and if she were fortunate she would be able to find Miss Meredith quickly, discover the girl’s difficulties and instruct Churchward on the best way to resolve them. The whole matter could be decided in a week—ten days at the outside. And no one need ever know.

The presence of Viscount Renshaw and Sir Greville Baynham caused quite a stir at the Pump Room that night. Sir Greville, whose family home was a few miles north of the city, had always been a universal favourite, with several young ladies expressing themselves willing to console him if Lady Amelia refused his suit. The Viscount caused an even greater commotion, being fortunate enough to be rich, handsome and heir to an Earl into the bargain.
It was a clear, starry night, and Sarah and Amelia had walked the short distance from Brock Street to the Pump Room, enjoying the fresh chill of the night air that brought the colour to their cheeks and made their eyes sparkle. As they handed over their cloaks and Amelia cast a thoughtful look over her cousin, Sarah saw her smile of approval.
‘How pretty you look, Sarah! I would not have dreamed of saying anything before, but I am so glad you have cast off that hideous half-mourning!’
She saw Sarah’s expression and added hastily, ‘I know you were a most devoted sister to Frank, my love, but surely you are too young to wear black forever?’
Sarah could feel her lips twitching as she tried to suppress a smile. Milly could be amazingly tactless at times.
‘I know the black was ageing,’ she agreed mildly, ‘but surely the lavender became me a little?’
Amelia looked contrite. ‘Oh, sweetly pretty, my love, but for a whole year? And even then you habitually chose drab colours that are nothing to this delicious rose tint you are wearing now!’ She cast her cousin a sideways look. ‘I did wonder whether the advent of Viscount Renshaw was the reason for your sudden—’
‘Oh, look, Milly, it is Mr Tilbury and his sister!’ Sarah was aware that she had never shown much inclination for the Tilburys’ company before now, but felt she had to distract her cousin. Amelia, however, was far too determined for that.
‘Yes, I fear we will be in for much the same company as ever tonight, especially with it being the end of the season! As I was saying, it is fortunate that Greville has brought that charming man, Guy Renshaw, with him! I declare, Bath society seldom offers the opportunity to meet so prodigiously attractive a gentleman!’
Sarah knew that she was blushing and prayed that it could be put down to the heat of the room after the cold outside. She would never have admitted to Amelia that she had spent twice as long as usual at her toilette and agonised between the rose pink and the aquamarine silk. Sarah had been aware of a growing sense of anticipation all afternoon, and found that she was feeling quite nervous as she and Amelia entered the ballroom. She experienced an altogether unfamiliar sensation of breathlessness, her heart suddenly racing and butterflies fluttering frantically in her stomach. Her slender fingers tightened on her fan. This was ridiculous! Good gracious, she was very nearly in a fit of panic, and all because of Guy Renshaw, who had once put a toad on her dining-chair!
She could see Guy across the ballroom, deep in conversation with Greville and attracting considerable attention from the female guests. The reason was not hard to seek: the classical good looks of the Woodallan family, combined with the immaculate black and white of the evening dress, made him look extremely handsome and ever-so-slightly dangerous.
‘Half my female acquaintance have already heard that the Viscount called on us earlier and have begged an introduction,’ Amelia was saying, with a giggle. ‘I declare, we have not seen so much excitement in an age!’ She linked her arm through Sarah’s and the cousins walked slowly down the edge of the ballroom.
‘Greville looks very handsome tonight,’ Sarah observed, giving Amelia a meaningful look. ‘Not even Lord Renshaw can put him in the shade!’
‘Oh, Grev looks very well,’ Amelia said, so carelessly that Sarah wanted to shake her, ‘and I am very fond of him, of course, but in a brotherly sort of way!’
‘A favourite brother, perhaps,’ Sarah said tartly.
Amelia cast her a look from under her lashes. ‘Oh Sarah, do I treat him so badly? I do not mean to!’
‘You know you do not value him as you ought! Greville would never lose all his money at cards, or drink himself into oblivion the way your late husband did—’
‘No…’ Amelia sighed soulfully ‘…Alan was such exciting company!’
Sarah sighed. In her opinion, Alan Fenton had been a wastrel with nothing to commend him, and she could never understand why Amelia appeared to value his dashing looks over Greville’s integrity. They were almost upon Sir Greville now and she saw the glad light that sprang into his blue eyes as he looked at Amelia. It was too bad.
‘Miss Sheridan.’ Guy Renshaw took her hand, his touch evoking much the same shiver of awareness as it had done earlier in the day, and Sarah was instantly distracted. ‘You look delightful. I would ask you to dance, but I fear that the excitement of the minuet might be too much for me!’
Sarah looked reproving. ‘I know you find our entertainments dull, my lord, but there are country dances after eight, if that is your preference!’
‘What, no waltzes?’
‘Oh, the waltz is much too fast for Bath!’
‘A pity! Perhaps I shall have to settle for a country dance after all, if you will so honour me. In the meantime, do you care for a little supper?’
‘Thank you.’ Sarah let him take her arm and steer her away from the others and into the refreshment room. He helped her to a seat in a secluded alcove, then crossed to the buffet table, where several young ladies immediately gravitated towards him and one of them artfully drew him into conversation over the merits of the strawberries.
Behind a pillar to Sarah’s right, the young ladies’ mamas were watching with gimlet eyes. Sarah tried not to listen, but at least half of her wanted to eavesdrop on their conversation. She was no cynic, but she knew that despite the pungent denunciation they would inevitably make of Guy’s character, either would marry him off to their daughter with triumphant haste.
‘A shocking reputation, Mrs Bunton, quite shocking!’
‘Really, Mrs Clarke? Just how shocking would you say it is?’
‘Oh, quite dreadful! Of course, that was before he went to the War—perhaps the rigors of campaign have instilled some respectability…but I doubt it!’
‘Once a rake—’ Mrs Bunton said meaningfully.
‘Though marriage to a good woman may redeem him, of course!’
Both ladies paused, evidently dwelling on the benefits of a match with their particular daughter.
‘They say that Lady Melville was his mistress for a whole year—’
‘Oh, yes, I had heard that, too! A most impassioned liaison, by all accounts!’
‘And then there was the business of Lady Paget—’
‘Dreadful! They say her husband never recovered! But the family is rich, of course,’ Mrs Clarke said, as if in mitigation, ‘and rumour has it that Woodallan wishes him to settle down.’
‘Emma could do worse…’
‘Much worse…Or your own dear Agatha, though they say Lord Renshaw prefers blondes…’
It was perhaps fortunate that Guy chose that moment to extract himself from the bevy of debutantes and return to Sarah, whose ears were becoming quite pink from what she had been obliged to hear. His observant dark gaze did not miss her high colour; as he put the loaded plate before her, he gave her a wicked grin.
‘Dear me, Miss Sheridan, whatever can have caused you such discomfort? You look positively overset!’
‘I am very well,’ Sarah snapped, trying to keep her voice discreetly low, ‘just embarrassed at having been obliged to overhear a rehearsal of your amours, sir! It is well that you will be leaving Bath soon, you have caused such a flutter in the dovecotes!’
‘Good gracious, I had no idea you could be so frank, Miss Sheridan!’ Guy said admiringly, eyeing her outraged face with amusement. ‘To bring yourself to mention such matters! I was fair and far out in thinking you a prim Bath miss!’
‘I am prim! That is why I am so agitated!’ Sarah took a steadying draught of champagne. ‘I do not think it wise for you to distinguish me with your attentions, my lord!’
‘Why not?’ Guy looked genuinely hurt. ‘Because you are so respectable and I am not? But you see, Miss Sheridan—’ he lowered his voice ‘—I am very grateful for the condescension you are showing me! Your respectability cannot but help improve my shocking reputation, you see! If the good ladies of Bath see that you are prepared to bear me company, perhaps they will not think me so bad after all!’
‘Nonsense! You speak a deal of nonsense, sir!’
Their eyes met and Guy smiled, the lightness of his tone belied by the intensity of his gaze.
‘Very well, if you don’t like my nonsense, perhaps the truth will serve instead! I have the oddest feeling, Miss Sheridan…’ his fingers brushed the back of Sarah’s wrist lightly but with a touch that seemed to burn her ‘…that we are kindred spirits, despite our differences…or perhaps because of them…’
Very deliberately Sarah freed herself and took a mouthful of food, glad that the hand that held the fork was so steady. Her heart was racing at his touch, so light, but so confusing. He was still watching her with that disconcerting mix of speculation and challenge.
‘Tell me, Miss Sheridan, have you never wished for any excitement?’
Damn the man, would he never change the subject? Sarah felt acutely vulnerable. Just how far was he going to press this particular topic?
‘My life is quite exciting enough, I thank you, my lord.’ Her voice was quite calm. ‘I have my books and my letters and my friends. There are concerts here at the Pump Room and if the weather is fine I may promenade in the park!’
‘It sounds a positive orgy of entertainment,’ Guy murmured, his eyes mocking her above the rim of his glass. ‘Have you never been to London?’
‘No, I have not.’
‘You had no come-out, like other debutantes? No…’ he looked at her thoughtfully ‘…I suppose your father died before you were old enough, and then your brother was too wrapped up in his travelling…’
‘I liked living in the country,’ Sarah said truthfully, ‘and Bath is very pleasant.’
‘That’s certainly true. All joking aside, it seems a delightful place. But have you no wish to recapture your youth?’
‘I was not aware that I had yet lost my youth, sir,’ Sarah said tartly. ‘I am scarce in my dotage!’
‘How refreshing to meet a young lady who does not think she is at her last prayers! So you consider that you still have plenty of time to throw your bonnet over the windmill!’
‘What an extraordinary idea!’ Sarah could not help smiling in return. ‘I assure you I have no intention of doing so, my lord!’
‘Ah, well, who can say?’ Guy raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Look at you this evening, Miss Sheridan, giving countenance to a rake!’
‘I scarcely think that I am giving you countenance, my lord!’
‘Maybe not, but I notice that you do not dispute the other half of my statement!’ There was a teasing note in Guy’s voice.
‘As to that, I cannot say.’ Sarah spoke with equanimity. ‘Nor,’ she added quickly, seeing the spark of devilment in his eyes, ‘do I have any ambition to find out!’
‘What a sensible lady you are, Miss Sheridan,’ Guy murmured. ‘So measured, so composed! Lady Amelia must find you a positive paragon of a companion!’
Remembering the concern she was currently causing her cousin, who had wasted another twenty minutes earlier that afternoon trying to persuade her against her trip to Blanchland, Sarah could not agree with him. She was almost glad to see the ponderous figure of Mr Tilbury approaching to request a dance. Guy did not demur when she excused herself and Sarah was annoyed that this should be so, then was even more irritated with herself for so out-of-character contrariness. She watched Guy performing a succession of country dances with Bath’s most eligible debutantes and told herself that she did not care in the least.
Guy presented himself a little late for his promised dance with her for he appeared to have had difficulty in tearing himself away from his previous partner, the extremely young and pretty Miss Bunton. Sarah discovered that this engendered in her a feeling of acute vexation akin to indigestion, the like of which she had never experienced before. She had to fight a hard battle with herself in order to greet him civilly, and was mortified to see the sardonic light in his eye that suggested he had seen and noted her reaction. Sarah was obliged to remind herself yet again that she had only met the man that very day and could have neither interest in nor opinion on his behaviour. Nevertheless, she kept her gaze averted from his, for she had the lowering suspicion that he could read her mind.
‘You are very quiet, Miss Sheridan,’ Guy observed softly, when the movement of the dance brought them together. ‘I know it cannot be that you need to concentrate on your steps, for you dance too well for that. Have I then done something to displease you?’
Sarah saw the flash of mockery in his eyes and, in spite of all her good intentions, she felt her temper rise. He really did have the most regrettable effect on her composure!
‘How could that be so, my lord?’ she asked sweetly. ‘I scarcely know you well enough to claim the privilege of being annoyed by your behaviour!’
She saw the look of amused speculation on Guy’s face before the dance obliged him to move briefly away. Sarah tried to get a grip on her bad temper. She had no wish to betray the fact that he had the power to affect her, nor to be drawn into a conversation that could be dangerous, and she was afraid that she had already said too much. She received confirmation of this a moment later.
‘I collect that you mean that one must care sufficiently for someone before their behaviour can influence one’s feelings?’ Guy said lazily, when they came back together again. ‘In that case, I shall hope that time will see you quite exasperated with me!’
Sarah reflected ruefully that she had probably deserved that and would think twice before crossing swords with him again.
Guy seemed disinclined to let the matter drop, however, for when she did not reply he raised an eyebrow and said, ‘What do you say, ma’am? Do you think you could find it in your heart to dislike me a little?’
Sarah smiled a little shamefacedly. ‘I know you are trying to provoke me, sir—’
‘Indeed? I thought the reverse was true for once!’
‘Very well!’ Sarah met his eyes squarely. ‘I’ll admit that I said something that I now deeply regret! Pray accept my apologies, my lord!’
The dance had ended, but Guy was still holding her hand. They were standing on the edge of the dance floor, surrounded by couples milling about as they either retired for refreshments or joined the set that was forming, yet it seemed to Sarah that they were entirely alone. Guy smiled and when Sarah looked up into his eyes she saw an expression there that was compounded of desire overlaid by wicked mischief. So strong was the conviction that he was about to kiss her that Sarah took an instinctive step backwards.
‘Do not worry,’ Guy spoke so softly that only she could hear, ‘I will not do it—at least, not here! But the temptation, Miss Sheridan, is acute.’
The colour flamed into Sarah’s face as she realised that he had read her thoughts. ‘Believe me, my lord,’ she said, with as much composure as she could muster, ‘so is the temptation to slap your face!’
Guy burst out laughing. ‘So the honours are even, Miss Sheridan!’ He pressed a kiss on her hand. ‘Until our next meeting!’ And he sauntered away to the cardroom, leaving Sarah feeling breathless and outraged in equal measure.

Chapter Three
Sarah slept well that night, but awoke early with thoughts of Blanchland pressing on her mind once again. She was aware that she had as yet made no plans for her journey to her former home, other than a vague decision that she should set off the following day. This was all very fine, but she needed to be better prepared. She could not predict how Sir Ralph Covell would greet the unexpected arrival of his late cousin’s daughter, nor had she decided whether she should take him into her confidence or not. If Churchward’s information had been correct and Olivia had last been seen approaching Blanchland Court, this might prove a very bad idea indeed.
Sarah shivered and burrowed deeper under her blankets for both warmth and comfort. Not for the first time she reflected that she was involving herself in a situation that appeared to have Gothic overtones, but she was a most practical girl and could only believe that there was a perfectly simple explanation for Olivia’s disappearance. No doubt the girl had gone to stay with a relative and forgotten to tell anyone. And the desperate matter on which she required advice would probably prove to be a romance, or, at worst, the need to go out into the world and earn a living as a governess. There was no need for worry.
Sarah threw back the bedcovers and crossed to the window. There had been a hard frost and the winter sun was rising in a pale blue sky. The house was astir with the peculiar excitement that characterised the day of a ball. Sarah had promised to help Amelia with her preparations, but she knew that her cousin would not be rising early and she needed some fresh air.
Amelia kept a small stable in the mews behind the buildings. There were her carriage horses, a gentle white mare that she occasionally rode in the park, and a decidedly more spirited one that Sarah enjoyed putting through its paces. The morning, with its crisp, fresh air, was perfect for a ride.
It seemed that Astra thought so, too, for her ears pricked up as soon as they left the quiet streets behind and reached the springy turf of Lansdown. Sarah enjoyed a fine gallop, leaving the toiling groom far behind, and only as she skirted Greville Baynham’s land did she slow down and allow herself to think about the previous night.
There was no doubt that some kind of peculiar affinity existed between herself and Guy Renshaw, and she knew that if she had any sense she would leave it well alone. Sarah sighed, allowing the horse to pick its own way along the steep path. She could not deny that in some senses Guy was a very eligible parti, so eligible, in fact, that he would look to marry far higher than a penniless companion, no matter how well-connected. In other respects he was utterly ineligible, for his reputation and evident disinclination for settling down rendered him not just unsuitable but positively dangerous. Sarah sighed again. She had had plenty of opportunities to marry in the previous six years, but somehow none of her suitors had quite matched her expectations and she had been too fastidious to marry just for the sake of it. She wondered now whether that had been a mistake. Living with Amelia was enjoyable, but how long would it continue? Besides, she had had the running of Blanchland and missed having her own establishment. Yet it seemed typical that when her inclination had finally settled on a gentleman who more than met her expectations, her choice should be totally inappropriate…
‘Good morning, Miss Sheridan! It is a beautiful morning, is it not?’
Sarah came out of her reverie in time to see the subject of her thoughts let himself through the gate that separated the downs from Chelwood Park. He brought his horse alongside Sarah’s and gave her a smile, his gaze openly appreciating her pink cheeks and bright eyes.
‘That’s a very spirited creature you have there, Miss Sheridan! It would be difficult to tell which of you looks as though they have enjoyed the gallop more!’
He sat his own chestnut hunter with a skill that Sarah did not find at all surprising and the casual elegance of his attire would be enough, she thought, to have all last night’s impressionable debutantes swooning again. This morning, with the breeze ruffling his thick, fair hair and the sun lighting those expressive dark eyes, Lord Renshaw looked utterly devastating.
‘Your cousin does not ride with you?’ he asked, looking down the hill to where the groom was exhorting his labouring horse up the slope. ‘I see that you are alone, to all intents and purposes.’
‘I think not.’ Sarah could not help wondering what intent or purpose he might have in seeking her out alone. She would have to be careful. ‘Amelia does not care for riding, but I brought the groom.’ She gestured down the hill, where Tom was still making heavy weather of getting the old cob to catch up. Guy laughed.
‘So I see—and promptly left him behind again! I did not imagine you to be so keen a rider, Miss Sheridan! You did not mention it as one of your ruling passions last night!’
Sarah cast him a look under her lashes. ‘I grew up in the country, so it can be no great surprise that I ride!’
‘No, but you ride very well indeed, which is rare. I’ll allow that it is commonplace enough to meet ladies who can prance about in the park and think that they look most accomplished!’
‘You are very severe this morning, my lord!’ Sarah could not help laughing. ‘I am glad that my own small skill gains your approval rather than your censure!’
Guy smiled lazily. ‘Oh, I am renowned as a hard critic, but I cannot find fault with you, Miss Sheridan!’
Sarah felt herself blushing under his scrutiny. For some perverse reason all she could think of was his threat—or was it a promise?—to kiss her on some future occasion. Would such a manoeuvre be possible on horseback? It was an intriguing thought. It would certainly require considerable skill, but—Sarah suddenly realised that Guy was still watching her, one dark eyebrow raised in teasing enquiry. Afraid that he would read her thoughts again, as he had the previous night, Sarah turned her horse’s head abruptly away and was relieved to see the groom struggling up the last incline to join them on the level summit.
‘There is an exceptional view from up here,’ Guy observed, looking out across the city to the Somerset hills beyond, ‘and a keen breeze. It leaves me sharp set! Will you join us at Chelwood for breakfast, Miss Sheridan?’
Tom the groom, who had been encouraging his exhausted horse, cast Sarah a scandalised glance. She smiled.
‘Thank you, my lord, but I do not think that would be very proper! I fear I must return to Brock Street for my breakfast!’
‘My sensible Miss Sheridan! A bachelor household, even one so unimpeachable as Chelwood, is not an appropriate destination for a single lady!’ Guy’s dark eyes were full of mockery. ‘A pity if you were to starve on your way home as a result!’
‘I must be going, at any rate,’ Sarah said, trying to crush her foolish excitement at his use of the phrase ‘my sensible Miss Sheridan’. She turned Astra’s head towards home. ‘Amelia will need help with all the preparations for her ball tonight. Good day, my lord.’
‘A moment, Miss Sheridan.’ Guy put his hand over hers on the reins. ‘Does Lady Amelia intend to be so fast as to have the waltz this evening?’
Sarah paused. ‘I believe so, my lord.’
Guy let her go and raised his whip in a salute. ‘Then save me a dance, Miss Sheridan!’

Amelia was in great good spirits. Silk drapes in red and blue swathed the walls and pillars of the ballroom, white candles filled the sconces and huge vases overflowing with red roses formed the centrepiece of her decorations.
The roses had arrived in the late afternoon and had caused much excited giggling and shrieking amongst the maids as they had tried to find sufficient receptacles in which to place them all. Several old, chipped vases had been pressed into service for the less prominent of arrangements and a chamber pot had even been proffered, though Sarah had seen Chisholm hastily hide it behind the umbrella stand before Amelia had noticed. There had been no card, which had led to much gossip and speculation, but when the pack of maids had gone and Amelia had swept off to see to the menus, Chisholm had stepped forward with a tiny, delicate posy of pale pink rosebuds with a card tucked inside. There were only two words, written in a strong black hand that Sarah had never seen before, yet instantly recognised: ‘Penance? Renshaw.’
And now Sarah was wearing one of the rosebuds pinned to the bodice of her aquamarine gown and was full of a most heady excitement at the thought of seeing Guy again.
‘Your decorations look very fine and patriotic,’ Sarah said, catching her cousin at a quiet moment between the arrival of two parties of guests. ‘I know you would not give away the secret before, but how have you managed the red, white and blue theme for the menus, Milly?’
‘Oh,’ Amelia laughed, ‘the trout with garlic and tomatoes is red and there is woodcock in a white wine sauce—’
‘And the blue?’
‘Ice cream with bilberries! We call it glace du Napoleon! Cook has been swearing that this is his finest hour!’ Amelia smiled as her gaze rested on the roses. ‘They are magnificent, aren’t they? Are you sure you have no idea of their provenance, Sarah?’
‘Good evening, Lady Amelia. And Miss Sheridan! I am so glad that you decided to attend after all, ma’am!’
Sarah swung round to see Viscount Renshaw bowing punctiliously. She was not sure whether she was glad to see him or not. On the one hand, his arrival was timely in diverting Amelia from her question. On the other, there was a decidedly wicked twinkle in his eye.
Amelia opened her eyes wide. ‘Lord Renshaw! Good evening, sir! But whatever can you mean? Why should Sarah not attend my ball? Sarah, you know you have been promised for tonight this month past!’
Sarah gave Guy Renshaw a fulminating look. ‘I have no notion what his lordship can mean, Milly!’
‘I beg your pardon.’ Guy gave her a look of limpid innocence. ‘I must have misunderstood you, ma’am. Lady Amelia, do I have your permission to take your cousin off and dance with her?’
Amelia looked speculatively from one to the other. ‘You have my blessing, Lord Renshaw, but whether Sarah will agree is another matter!’
Guy took Sarah’s arm. ‘It is a waltz and you did promise me…’
He appeared to take her acquiescence for granted, steering her towards the dance floor and taking her in his arms in a manner that might be entirely appropriate for the waltz, but nevertheless deprived Sarah momentarily of speech. Their bodies touched for a brief second before he held her a little away from him with impeccable propriety.
Sarah was an accomplished dancer, but she found that waltzing in Guy’s arms was a very different experience from attempting the boulanger with Mr Tilbury. Dancing with Guy was unnerving; the touch of his hands through the silk of her dress felt like a caress. His head was bent close to hers, and when their eyes met she could see the admiration in their depths, the flash of desire that he did not trouble to hide. It disturbed her and stirred something strange and sensual within her. Sarah closed her eyes momentarily, startled by her own feelings.
‘You dance beautifully,’ Guy said, after they had circled the floor a couple of times in silence. ‘I remember that you were musical even as a child. You used to sing and play most prettily.’
‘I do not recall that you were so eager to dance with me in our youth,’ Sarah said, with a slight smile, glad of an innocuous topic of conversation when her thoughts had been anything but innocent. ‘There was one children’s ball at which you spurned me quite ruthlessly, my lord!’
Guy’s arms tightened momentarily. Looking up, she saw a look of brilliant amusement in his eyes and her heart did a little somersault.
‘I had no discernment in my youth,’ he said regretfully, ‘and our parents were forever trying to throw us together. I believe they wished us to make a match of it and naturally enough, I tried to rebel! What boy of sixteen wishes to contemplate matrimony—least of all with a young lady of eleven!’
‘Perhaps they were a little misguided—’
‘Just premature, I believe, Miss Sheridan!’
Sarah was vexed with herself for giving him the chance to flirt with her. Just when she had thought they could talk on uncontroversial subjects, he had turned the topic around! He richly deserved a set-down.
‘More of your nonsense, sir!’ she said crossly. ‘I am no green girl to be taken in by your flattery!’
‘No, indeed,’ Guy agreed amiably, his smile teasing her. ‘I forgot that you had so many years in your dish, Miss Sheridan! My reputation is quite safe with you, is it not?’
Sarah was rendered momentarily speechless by his impudence. Before she could marshal her thoughts to deliver the cutting remark he deserved, the music whirled to a close.
Guy bowed. ‘Perhaps you will spare me another dance later, Miss Sheridan?’
‘I do not think that would be at all respectable, sir!’ Sarah said pertly, unable to resist. ‘As you have just pointed out, you must have a care for your reputation, and two dances could be considered fast!’
She saw him smile and knew he would have replied in kind had Amelia not arrived at that moment, bringing with her a very young man who had a hopeful look in his eye.
‘Lord Renshaw, pray forgive my interruption,’ Amelia began, ‘but Mr Elliston believes that you may have been serving with his elder brother in Portugal, and is most anxious for any news…’
Guy bowed. ‘Of course. You must be Richard Elliston’s brother? I remember him well.’ He gestured to the refreshment room. ‘We could talk over a glass of wine if you wish…’
Young Mr Elliston looked quite overwhelmed at such condescension. Amelia smiled, taking Sarah’s arm and drawing her away.
‘He is very kind. Poor Jack Elliston has been quite worried—the family has had no news for nigh on six months!’ She looked closely at Sarah. ‘Are you quite well, my love? Your colour is very high! I do hope you have not taken a chill!’
‘I do not believe so.’ Sarah was astonished how calm she sounded when inside she felt quite shaken. For all that she had acquitted herself well enough, flirting with Guy Renshaw was an occupation requiring sterner nerves than hers. No doubt the society ladies who indulged in a little intrigue to relieve the boredom of their marriages were well versed in playing such sophisticated games. She was not, having little or no experience of the art of dalliance.
‘Lord Renshaw seems to have been most charming to you,’ Amelia was saying, her voice casual but her gaze alert as she took in Sarah’s becomingly pink cheeks and sparkling eyes. ‘I do believe he is trying to get up a flirtation with you, Sarah!’
Sarah took a glass of wine gratefully from a passing servant and drank half of it straight away before answering. Amelia’s intent look deepened.
‘Sarah! Whatever ails you? Are you sure you are quite well?’
Sarah laughed and pressed her cousin’s hand. ‘I am feeling very well, I thank you. I believe you must put my uncharacteristic behaviour down to Lord Renshaw’s bad influence!’
Amelia’s eyes widened to their furthest extent. ‘Gracious, Sarah, how diverting! Surely you have not been encouraging him?’
‘Not precisely, but…’ Sarah hesitated ‘…I wonder if I have discouraged him sufficiently? He is, as you say, so very charming that it is difficult to resist…’
Amelia began to laugh. ‘I should not worry, Sarah! You are scarcely a hardened flirt and Lord Renshaw is experienced enough to know the difference between a lady of easy virtue and a respectable spinster! I am more concerned that your own heart should remain whole!’
Sarah wrinkled up her nose and reached for her wineglass again. ‘Really, Amelia! Respectable spinster! You make me sound at least sixty and as dull as ditchwater into the bargain!’
‘Better to be respectable than give in to Guy Renshaw’s blandishments,’ Amelia said drily. ‘He has a truly terrible reputation, Sarah! Why, Mrs Bunton tells me—’
‘Thank you,’ Sarah said hastily. ‘I have already heard her on the subject! I am in no real danger, I assure you, either from his lordship or from my own feelings! I know he can have no serious intentions and will not allow him to progress with any dishonourable ones!’
A little frown still marred Amelia’s forehead. ‘That is all very well, but it would not do to like him too much!’
‘I know.’ Sarah felt a little lurch of the heart as she spoke. Amelia had hit upon the very problem, for she was beginning to like Guy Renshaw very much indeed, and against her better judgement.
She let Mr Tilbury carry her off for the cotillion, noting that Amelia still looked concerned. She knew that her cousin had her own best interests at heart. Guy Renshaw could not be seen in the light of a suitable connection for a penniless companion. Her ineligibility could only mean that he could have no serious intentions, and designs of a less respectable nature would have to be ruthlessly crushed.
For a moment, Sarah felt an extraordinary disappointment. Guy’s charm was very potent and Sarah knew that her own inexperience made it difficult for her to treat his admiration lightly. Then there was the peculiar physical attraction he held for her, the like of which she had never even dreamed of, let alone experienced before. For a moment, Sarah let herself imagine being in Guy Renshaw’s embrace, recalling the hard strength of the arms that had held her in the waltz, the ripple of muscles beneath the smooth material of his jacket, the curl of that sensuous mouth…
Suddenly heated, Sarah felt her body diffuse with warmth and the colour flood into her face. It was fortunate that Mr Tilbury was rather unobservant, for it would have been impossible for him to believe that his own conversation could cause his companion to blush so vividly.
Sarah tried to concentrate on his observations on the price of coal, furiously castigating herself for allowing her thoughts to wander in so improper a direction. And this was hardly the first time!
The dance progressed in pedestrian fashion, with none of the zest of the previous waltz.
Guy was nowhere in sight, perhaps still talking with Mr Elliston, but Sarah noted a knot of people set a little back from the dance floor, with Mrs Bunton at its core. Several of the most influential hostesses in Bath had their heads bent close, their hairpieces waggling, their mouths forming shocked and horrified circles. One of them glanced in Sarah’s direction and looked away again hastily. Sarah frowned. Surely her behaviour with Viscount Renshaw had not caused such scandalised debate? One waltz, even with a notorious rake, hardly constituted a social solecism. Besides, Mrs Bunton had been pushing her own daughter in Guy’s direction only the night before.
Mr Tilbury addressed another of his remarks to her and Sarah temporarily forgot the group of gossiping matrons. However, she was reminded again swiftly as the dance drew to an end. As Mr Tilbury escorted her from the floor, Mrs Clarke drew her skirts aside and turned her back in the most pointed of snubs. Sarah stopped in surprise and Mr Tilbury’s face flushed with outrage.
He was about to speak when Mrs Clarke said loudly, ‘What can one expect with such low family connections? There’s bad blood in the Covell family, which no doubt accounts for his cousin throwing her lot in with him! I wonder at Lady Amelia giving countenance to a woman who is clearly lost to all sense of decency!’
Shock rendered Sarah temporarily speechless. All around her she could see the looks of speculation and hear the chatter of rumour and gossip. She looked about desperately for Amelia, but her cousin was across the room, talking to Greville Baynham. There was no help closer at hand. Mr Tilbury was opening and closing his mouth like a stranded fish, his own expression one of painful embarrassment. Everyone else merely watched to see what would happen next.
Murmuring an incoherent apology to Mr Tilbury, Sarah hurried from the ballroom, almost ran up the stairs and instinctively sought shelter in her own room. Once there, she closed the door softly and leant back against it with her eyes closed. Mrs Clarke’s sharply cruel words echoed in her mind: ‘Lost to all sense of decency…’
There could be no mistake. Somehow, word of her intention to visit Blanchland had leaked out, been seized upon by eager gossips, and passed around the ballroom. Sarah felt outraged and humiliated. How dared they speak of her like that, make her the butt of their slander, rip her reputation to shreds in her very presence? She had seen them all, some condemning her already, others merely excited by scandal, but all watching her reactions for their own entertainment. Sarah had heard of times when the collective disapproval of Bath society had ruined someone’s reputation, or left them a social outcast. It was just that she had never been on the receiving end before.
And why should she hide away here as though she had something to be ashamed of? Eyes flashing, Sarah flung open the door, ready to do battle in the ballroom. She would show Mrs Clarke and Mrs Bunton and all the other quizzes that she did not give a rush for their disapproval! She would not let them judge her and run away from them…
Sarah closed the door behind her and walked towards the stairs, still burning with outraged anger. She did not see the figure on the shadowed landing until it moved, and then she spun round with a gasp of alarm.
‘Lord Renshaw! Good gracious, you gave me fright! Whatever are you doing up here, sir?’
‘I wanted to speak to you, Miss Sheridan,’ Guy said, coming forward into the circle of light cast by the single candelabra. ‘I heard you come running up here and thought it best, perhaps, that we did not have an audience for our conversation.’
Sarah looked at him in puzzlement. There was something curious in his tone, some element that she could not define but that made her uncomfortable. It was impossible to decipher his expression in the flickering candlelight.
‘I do not understand you, sir,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Surely it would be better to return to the ballroom—’
‘Very well, if you are determined to face the extraordinary rumours that are circulating there,’ Guy said coolly. ‘Perhaps we could invite the whole of Bath society to join the conversation since they are taking such a close interest in your affairs!’
Sarah let out her breath in a long sigh. ‘Oh, so you have heard—’
‘I have! I could scarce believe it! Either you are seriously lacking in judgement, Miss Sheridan, or you are not the woman I thought you!’
Sarah stared at him, her temper soaring dangerously. She had been expecting him to sympathise with her in the face of the small-minded and malicious scandal-mongers, and to find herself condemned unheard was adding insult to injury.
‘Oh really, my lord!’ she burst out. ‘It is the outside of enough to have to put up with the ill-informed gossip of spiteful matrons without such as yourself picking pieces in my good character as well!’
‘Indeed?’ Guy stepped closer to her, his physical presence completely overwhelming her. Now that he was so near, Sarah could sense the slow burn of his anger, though she still did not understand its cause. ‘At the least you do not pretend ignorance! Are you telling me that the rumours are untrue, Miss Sheridan?’
Sarah hesitated for a fatal second, trapped by her own honesty. ‘Yes! No! At least…I do intend to visit Blanchland, but it is not as you imagine…’
Guy brought his hand down on the banisters with a force that seemed to make the delicate ironwork shiver. ‘Surely it can be no surprise that your apparent desire to spend the winter in a house of ill repute should set the town by the ears, Miss Sheridan! Good God, Blanchland is a place where no woman of respectability should dream of setting foot! You will not have a shred of reputation left to you!’
Sarah glared at him. ‘I can scarce believe that you are giving credence to chance-heard rumours, my lord! I should have thought better of you! You have not even paused to request an explanation!’
Guy had turned away, his face tight and angry, but now he swung back towards her.
‘There can be no reasonable explanation! At least,’ he corrected himself punctiliously, ‘the best construction I can put on your conduct is that you lack any sense of proper behaviour and the worst—’ his dark eyes narrowed murderously ‘—is that you are accustomed to the sort of society and pursuits that Blanchland has to offer! Neither is an adequate excuse!’
Sarah seldom lost her temper. The even tenor of life in Amelia’s household was hardly ever ruffled by upset or disturbance, but now she found herself furiously angry. Guy’s stubborn refusal to see anything but the worst in her was as distressing as it was infuriating. The situation was further exacerbated by the fact that she could not understand why he was so angry. Worst of all was a shaming desire to cry, as she realised that, despite the brevity of their acquaintance, his good opinion was something that she valued deeply. She swallowed hard and made a conscious effort to whip up her anger as a defence against the hurt she was feeling.
‘That is enough, sir! I do not wish to hear you slander my reputation! And as for your playing of the moral arbiter, it is rich beyond belief! You are the greatest hypocrite I have ever come across!’
Sarah made to walk past Guy and seek the sanctuary of her room again, all thoughts of returning to the ballroom forgotten. She was shaking with anger and mortification. She had no clear idea of how such a confrontation could have occurred, nor did she wish to prolong it. For Guy to take her to task in such a way was not the conduct of a gentleman, but deeper than that, more hurtful, was his evident contempt and unjust condemnation.
Guy shifted slightly, but he did not move to let her past. There was something wholly unyielding about his stance, as though he had no intention of letting her go easily. For a long moment their eyes met in angry conflict, then Guy stepped forward and trapped Sarah between his body and the balcony rail.
He bent his head and brought his mouth down on hers in a kiss that was searching and utterly ruthless. Disbelief and fury welled up in Sarah. She pummelled his chest hard with her clenched fists, but he only tightened his grip on her, rendering her protests useless.
‘I am living up to my reputation now, Miss Sheridan,’ he said, raising his lips an inch from hers. ‘I suggest that you start to do the same!’
His mouth returned to hers with a fierce demand. A shocking excitement swept through Sarah, setting her trembling in his arms. She could smell the faint, crisp scent of his lemon cologne, taste the sweetness of wine as his lips parted and moved over her own, lightly one moment, deepening again the next, but always in inexorable control. The merciless hands holding her hard against him did not relent for a moment.
Sarah gave up the struggle. She had no strength left to resist him, no will to do so. Despite the calculated nature of his embrace, to be kissed by him was such exquisite pleasure that she never wanted it to end. Her fingers uncurled against his chest and she slid her arms up about his neck. One of Guy’s hands slipped down her back and over her hip, drawing her against the hardness of his body. He slid his other hand under the hair at the nape of her neck, his caress on the tender skin there causing Sarah to shiver. She made a small, inarticulate sound of surrender, pressing closer, completely abandoned to the kiss.
Something had changed, although Sarah was too adrift to realise what it was. Guy’s cruel grip had eased and the touch of his lips, his hands, became gentle, exploring mutual pleasure rather than administering punishment. The aquamarine dress was slipping off Sarah’s shoulders and the lace fichu tumbled to the floor. She felt the featherlight touch of Guy’s fingers graze her collarbone before his lips left hers to trace a downward path from the line of her throat over the exposed curve of her breast. His breathing was as ragged as her own now. Sarah arched against him, weak with desire, stunned by her reaction to him.
His mouth returned to hers roughly, plundering its softness. He held her face still with one hand, upturned and open to his, his fingers tangled in her hair. His other hand gently brushed aside the silk of the dress and bared Sarah’s heated skin to his touch. The deep, sweet invasion of her mouth went on and on. The pins tumbled from Sarah’s hair and fell with a soft tinkle on to the marble floor of the hall below. She did not notice; did not notice as her hair fell from its carefully arranged curls to swirl about her bare shoulders, did not notice as her bodice slipped to her waist, leaving her half-naked in Guy’s arms, did not notice as a door below opened abruptly and people spilled out into the hall.
‘Oh!’ There was a squeal from one of the women. ‘I almost stepped on a pin!’
Sarah heard the voices, but could make no sense of them through the desire that clouded her mind. It seemed, however, that Guy retained just enough presence of mind to drag her back from the balcony and into the shadows before the assembled company turned as one to gaze up into the darkness of the upper hall.
‘I say! Whatever is going on? Is there anybody up there?’
There was a giggle from one of the women, a guffaw, hastily repressed, from one of the men, and some murmured words and laughter before they all drifted off into the cardroom. Then there was silence.
Reality hit Sarah like a tidal wave. How could she be standing here in the candlelight, her clothing all awry, having allowed this man the most appalling liberties imaginable? Only seconds before he had questioned her virtue, and now she had comprehensively proved his point! She was trembling, her whole body shaking not with passion but with the enormity of what she had done. Where would it have ended? With her naked on the landing in full view of Amelia’s guests? Her cheeks burned as she realised that she had been so lost in desire that she had not even thought of whom might see her. How could this have happened? She had always found Guy Renshaw attractive, but their verbal sparring had given her no clue to the shocking physical awareness that would flare between them. Why, when she had made to leave him on the landing she had not even liked him any more! And yet…
Sarah pulled her dress up over her shoulders and bent to pick up the discarded scrap of white lace. The point of a fichu, she remembered her mama telling her years before, was to preserve a lady’s modesty. Well, she had no need of that! Her own behaviour had proved as much! And worse, memory stirred to remind her just how much she had enjoyed it, how she had ached for Guy’s kisses, the touch of his hands on her body…How was it possible to dislike someone and want them at the same time? The thought made her despair.
More distressing still was the look of stony contempt on Guy’s face. Whatever emotions had shaken her, they had evidently left him singularly unmoved. He still had hold of her wrist, but Sarah wrenched it from his grasp and walked past him to the door of her bedroom, her head held high and the effect ruined by the knowledge that his gaze had taken in the decadent effect of her plunging neckline. Her heart sank as Guy followed her into the room. All she wanted to do now was recover from her humiliation in private.
‘You will oblige me by leaving me alone now, sir.’ Sarah knew she had not achieved the icy tone she sought and could hardly bear to raise her eyes to his.
‘A moment.’ Guy’s searing gaze swept over the dishevelled curls about Sarah’s shoulders and lingered on the shadowy cleft between her breasts. ‘You’re good, I’ll say that for you! Just enough untutored innocence mixed with passion!’ He gave a cynical laugh. ‘Good enough to leave me in some doubt! Anyway, I came to make you an offer—one that you may look kindly upon after your performance just now. I wish to spare you the trouble of looking for a protector at Blanchland. I am rich enough for any taste and I’m sure I can satisfy you! What do you say?’
The colour drained from Sarah’s face. This was the final insult. She had refuted his accusations only to fall into his arms and apparently prove herself experienced. Was carte blanche the logical outcome? She supposed that might be so. Could she blame him for thinking of her as he did? Perhaps not, and yet she had hoped he would know her better than that. She had cherished secret dreams that had been far removed from this tawdry reality. She could scarcely believe that everything good and pure and sweet between them had been ground into the dust.
‘Get out of my room!’ It felt to Sarah that she must have shouted, but her words came out as a whisper. Guy’s expression was blank for a moment, then he turned on his heel and the slam of the door echoed through the entire house.

‘Sarah?’ Amelia’s tap on the door was almost silent and her cousin barely heard her whisper. ‘Sarah, are you there?’
As Sarah struggled to sit up, Amelia turned the knob and stepped into the darkened bedroom. The lamp was turned down low, but there was enough light to see Sarah’s stricken face and Amelia hurried forward in obvious alarm.
‘Sarah! Whatever has happened?’
Sarah raised a face so blotchy and tear-stained that it was almost unrecognisable. A few minutes before she would have sworn she had no more tears left, but now she burst into tears all over again.

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