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Return Of Scandal's Son
Janice Preston
Scandal Comes Courting!Caught in a coach accident, Lady Eleanor Ashby seeks help from a mysterious stranger. But the dashing Matthew Thomas is not all he seems. And when it appears someone is trying to hurt her Eleanor doesn’t know who to trust. Disowned by his family, Matthew is living under an assumed name. Falling under Eleanor’s spell, he determines to protect her. It’s time for Matthew to return home and confront his scandalous past if Eleanor is to be part of his future... Men About Town: Traders in Temptation...


Matthew held her gaze, his ragged breathing loud in the silence of the room. She pushed harder against him and stepped back. Instantly his gaze sharpened and he gripped her shoulders, preventing her from retreating further, wringing a gasp from her.
“I have been searching for you … following you … trying to catch up with you … worrying about you …’
‘But … why? I thought you were—’
‘You need protection. I—’
‘Protection?’
Eleanor, now with her wits fully about her, stiffened. For one fleeting, joyful second she had thought maybe he had followed her for her own sake—because he felt something for her. As speedily as the thought arose she quashed it, inwardly berating herself for being a romantic fool, beguiled by a handsome face and rugged charm. She and Mr Thomas were worlds apart.
Author Note (#ulink_271d3ac5-6fed-50d8-a3b0-10aefe8ad955)
Eleanor, Baroness Ashby, is a rarity: a peeress in her own right. The early English baronies were created by a writ of summons to Counsel or Parliament (rather than by letters patent, as later became the norm). The remainders of these baronies by writ devolve upon the ‘heirs-general’ rather than being limited to male heirs, meaning an only daughter can inherit the barony. It’s interesting that if there are two or more daughters the title will fall into abeyance until the co-heirs can come to an honourable agreement as to which of them will claim the title. The claimant must then petition The Crown to have the abeyance terminated.
I really enjoyed writing about Eleanor—she is loyal, courageous and independent, but her outer confidence masks a deep insecurity at her core. She is also impulsive at times, and I knew she needed a resilient hero. Enter Matthew: strong and honourable, but with a secret in his past that might easily damage Eleanor’s determination to be fully accepted by Society and to gain admittance to Almack’s Assembly Rooms.
I thought it would be fun to see how a proud man like Matthew would cope with falling for a wealthier, higher-ranking woman than him.
If you have read Mary and the Marquis you might like to know that Eleanor is the cousin of Lucas, Marquis of Rothley. Lucas’s mother, Lucy, is Eleanor’s chaperon, and his younger brother, Lord Hugo Alastair, also makes an appearance.
Return of Scandal’s Son
Janice Preston

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JANICE PRESTON grew up in Wembley, North London, with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. In the past she has worked as a farmer, a police call-handler and a university administrator. She now lives in the West Midlands with her husband and two cats and has a part-time job with a weight management counsellor (vainly trying to control her own weight despite her love of chocolate!).
For Elizabeth Bailey, whose encouragement and advice during my early writing attempts was invaluable.
Contents
Cover (#u2a0f1a9e-3309-565a-a4ab-fdb0f06efc52)
Introduction (#u26205bad-1808-5d8d-8717-14fb4f38404f)
Author Note (#uf799e170-4e6c-5777-a972-f99ec507e1bb)
Title Page (#uc254f320-77fc-5dd9-a5b6-6e0637fdd189)
About the Author (#u7813c0a9-eadd-5c85-b5e2-9ac72ef55634)
Dedication (#u930ae41f-d881-536a-bfb2-d15215381f96)
Chapter One (#ucf2dbd35-5116-5efc-93e5-7a9c89576134)
Chapter Two (#u25321de3-4d55-521e-a6df-12bf5c2d4017)
Chapter Three (#ud9f9cbfd-1d0d-52e2-9079-84beb08af322)
Chapter Four (#ua3625747-83f4-5fd6-a30b-0ac3edb0c584)
Chapter Five (#u2fe6e183-16cf-50ff-aa62-9ec8c4966108)
Chapter Six (#u58fe0c7a-6971-50ef-ba4f-f8a77cd5595e)
Chapter Seven (#u96cfa3ce-deb0-5553-846b-a23cd95e3b10)
Chapter Eight (#uffa3e7e2-c5ed-5671-831a-96b26ac3d0e4)
Chapter Nine (#ubaa60d98-6591-5bcf-81c3-3ac14839c7ce)
Chapter Ten (#ud82126ae-49ea-5b02-95c1-56cd776b7f9f)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_e90841a6-12d1-5e0f-bd5b-e5f342c7c2f2)
April 1811
Eyes streaming, coughing and choking, she tugged at the window, but it refused to budge. The floorboards scorched her feet and she could hear the ominous roar of the fire below. Dragging the pungent air deep into her lungs, she screamed.
‘Ellie. Ellie. Wake up!’
‘What?’
Eleanor, Baroness Ashby, roused to the gently rocking rhythm of her carriage. She stared groggily into the anxious eyes of Lucy, Dowager Marchioness of Rothley. Eleanor levered herself upright on the squabs, her nightmare still vividly real.
‘You screamed. Was it the nightmare again?’
Eleanor drew in a deep breath—fresh, clean, untainted. ‘Yes. I’m sorry if I frightened you, Aunt.’ Her heart slowed from a gallop to a fast trot. ‘Everything seems so real in the dream. And I can never get out.’
‘Well, we must be thankful you escaped the real fire, my pet. It doesn’t bear thinking about, what might have happened.’
‘Milady?’ Lucy’s maid, sitting on the backward-facing seat, opposite Eleanor, leant forward.
‘Yes, Matilda?’
‘Is it true someone set fire to the library deliberately?’
‘Yes.’
Eleanor did not elaborate. Someone had broken into Ashby Manor—her beloved home—at the dead of night, piled books into the middle of the library floor and set fire to them. The whole east wing had been destroyed. All those beautiful books!
‘I told you.’ Lizzie, Eleanor’s maid, also travelling in the carriage to London, nudged Matilda. ‘If milady had not woken up when she did, she’d be—’
‘Lizzie!’
Lizzie cast an apologetic glance at Eleanor as she subsided into silence. Eleanor needed no reminding of what would have happened had she not woken when she did, two weeks before. She shuddered, recalling that terrifying moment when, climbing from her bedchamber window, her searching toes met empty space where the top rung of the ladder had, only moments before, been placed against the wall by her head groom, Fretwell. If Lizzie had not come looking for her when she did... Fear coiled in Eleanor’s belly. Lizzie had arrived just in time to see a shadowy figure knock Fretwell out cold before flinging the ladder to the ground.
Who was he? Was he really trying to kill me?
They had been unable to find any trace of the culprit. Fretwell had not seen him, and Lizzie’s description was so vague it was no help at all, but there had been no further incidents and no one could recall seeing any strangers in the vicinity.
‘I hope Aunt Phyllis will be comfortable staying with Reverend Harris,’ Eleanor said to Aunt Lucy, keen to distract them all from the events of that night. Aunt Phyllis—Eleanor’s paternal aunt—had lived at Ashby Manor all her life and had helped raise Eleanor after her mother left when Eleanor was just eleven. She had also been Eleanor’s chaperon since her father’s death three years before.
‘Oh, I make no doubt she will thoroughly enjoy her captive audience,’ Aunt Lucy said. There was no love lost between Lucy—the older sister of Eleanor’s mother—and Aunt Phyllis. ‘It’s the Reverend and his wife I feel pity for. Still, it is to my benefit that she refused to accompany you to London, my pet. I shall enjoy the opportunity to get you settled at long last.’
Eleanor shook her head, laughing. ‘You know very well the only reason I am going to London is to escape the building work at home. I have no wish to find a husband.’
Unless I fall in love with someone and he with me. And that is unlikely in the extreme.
‘You will feel differently if you meet someone who sets your heart a-flutter,’ Aunt Lucy replied, her dark eyes twinkling.
‘You take a different view of matrimony to Aunt Phyllis,’ Eleanor replied. ‘Her only concern is that any suitor should have the correct breeding and be wealthy enough to add to the estates.’
‘Ah, but she does not have to live with your choice. You do. Believe me, you do not want to be trapped in a marriage with a man you cannot respect. Or one who is unkind.’
Aunt Lucy fell silent and Eleanor guessed she was thinking back to her own unhappy marriage. The late Lord Rothley had been a violent and unpredictable man.
‘No, indeed,’ Eleanor said, heartened by the realisation that her aunt would not spend the Season trying to pressure her into a match she did not want.
‘Where did James say our house is?’ Aunt Lucy asked.
Eleanor fished Cousin James’s letter from her reticule and smoothed it, scanning the lines until she came to the relevant section.
‘Upper Brook Street,’ she said. ‘I hope it will prove suitable.’
James, upon being told of the fire, and Eleanor’s desire to visit London for the Season, had taken it upon himself to lease a house on her behalf. Thereby making certain I do not land on his doorstep, Eleanor had sniffed to herself upon receipt of his letter. Ruth, his wife, had clearly not mellowed towards her yet.
Relations between Eleanor and Ruth had been strained ever since Ruth had discovered that Eleanor, and not James, would inherit Ashby Manor and the title, becoming Baroness Ashby in her own right after her father’s death. The barony was an ancient title—one of the oldest in England, created by King William I—and, as was often the case with such ancient baronies, the title devolved upon the ‘heirs general’ rather than the nearest male relative.
Marry in haste... Eleanor allowed herself a quiet smile. In her opinion, Ruth only had herself to blame for trapping James into marriage before she had ascertained the truth of his prospects. Eleanor was just relieved she had seen through Ruth’s brother, Donald, on the eve of their betrothal, although the scandal when she rejected him had revived the old stories about her mother’s disgrace.
Blood will out, Aunt Phyllis’s voice echoed—the same refrain having been drummed into Eleanor ever since her mother created a scandal by running off with a rich merchant fourteen years ago. Eleanor was determined never to give the ton any cause for such salacious gossip about her. She forced her attention back to Aunt Lucy’s contented chatter.
‘Upper Brook Street is more than acceptable,’ she was saying. ‘I’ve always loved the Season—nothing can quite compare. Let us hope you have a happier time of it than during your come-out. I told your papa and that sourpuss Phyllis you weren’t ready for society. You were too young, too shy. And that was hardly surprising, given your poor mama... Well! I shall say no more on the subject. Oh, I can’t tell you, my pet, how delighted I am. Between you and me, this is just the remedy I need. I was bored to death at Rothley. I’ve come to the conclusion I’m far too young to retire to the dower house, despite what that reprehensible son of mine says.’
* * *
It was early afternoon on their first day of travel when a deafening crack jolted Eleanor from her daydreams. The carriage lurched violently sideways, slammed to a stop and then, very slowly, tilted until it fell on to its side with a crash. Eleanor flung her arms around Lucy to cushion her as they tumbled over to land on the side of the carriage. Lizzie and Matilda landed beside them in a tangle of arms and legs, shrieking hysterically.
Hip throbbing from the impact, Eleanor pushed herself up, still clutching Lucy.
‘Oh, my life! Oh, my head... We’re trapped! Milady, milady...oh, how shall we ever get out?’
‘Gunshot! Highwaymen! Highwaymen! We’ll be robbed and murdered, and no one to save us. Oh, dear Lord...’
‘Lizzie! Matilda!’ Eleanor raised her voice to be heard over the wailing of the two servants, who were still huddled together, eyes tight shut. ‘Do please stop that infernal noise. Is either of you hurt?’
‘My head...oh, milady—blood! I shall bleed to death.’
Eleanor twisted to look at Lizzie, who was clutching her head, a look of horror on her face. There was a minor cut on her scalp, which, like all scalp wounds, bled freely.
‘Nonsense, Lizzie. Do please calm down. Here, take my handkerchief and press it to your scalp—it’s only a tiny cut.’
Aunt Lucy had wriggled free from Eleanor’s grasp and was talking to Matilda.
‘Aunt? Are you all right?’
‘Shaken up, my pet, as are we all. But not hurt, thanks to you. You provided a soft landing, for which I am vastly grateful. And Matilda seems uninjured, just shocked.’ She grimaced at Eleanor as, at the sound of her name, Matilda burst into fresh sobs. ‘And you, Ellie? Are you hurt?’
‘I banged my side, but nothing broken, thankfully.’
‘What on earth do you imagine has happened? Oh, do hush, Matilda. Really, there is no lasting harm done. We are all still alive.’
‘I cannot imagine, although Lizzie is right—it did sound like a gunshot.’ Eleanor strove to speak calmly, to conceal her fear and the panic lurking below the surface. Were they being held up?
She looked up at the window above their heads. The carriage, despite being on its side, was still jerking and she could hear the men outside trying to calm the horses. She manoeuvred herself upright, her legs still shaky from the shock of the accident, and braced one foot on each side of the door frame that now formed the floor. There were some advantages in being tall, she thought wryly, as she shoved at the door above their heads. It crashed open, provoking another series of jerks from the horses, accompanied by a frenzied whinnying. She stuck her head through the opening, but was unable to see much. She shouted and the grizzled head of Joey, Eleanor’s coachman, appeared over the side of the upturned carriage.
‘Joey, thank goodness. What happened? Help me out, will you?’
Eleanor reached up and grasped Joey’s hands and, with much heaving and kicking, she was hauled out of the carriage and helped down to the ground. She took in the scene, gasping at the mayhem.
The lead pair plunged and scrabbled to regain their footing against the weight of the wheelers, both of which were off their feet. The offside of the wheelers was lying prone, blood pumping from its side, and the nearside of the pair, lying half beneath its teammate, eyes rolling wildly, was making intermittent half-hearted attempts to struggle free. Fretwell was trying desperately to free the lead horses, sawing at the leather harness with his knife, whilst the footman, Timothy, who had also accompanied them on their journey, was at the leaders’ heads, trying, not very successfully, to keep them calm, whilst dodging their flailing hooves.
Eleanor was about to go to his aid when Joey clutched her arm.
‘We just come round a sharp bend, milady. Get back there, lass, make sure nowt’s coming. Last thing we need—another pile up.’ Stress made the old coachman revert to speaking to her as the child he once knew.
Eleanor looked back, past the carriage, and only then did she appreciate the peril they were in. They had come around a sharp bend just before the carriage had overturned and the vehicle now blocked most of the road, which was enclosed by dense woodland. She shuddered at the thought of what that woodland might conceal, but there was no time to worry about that now. Surely any vehicle coming around that blind bend at even a modest speed would be upon them before they knew it. Picking up her skirts, Eleanor sprinted back along the road, suddenly aware of the approaching thunder of horses’ hooves.
Her heart leapt with fear. The horses sounded almost upon her, but were not yet in sight. Pain stabbed in her side. She could run no faster. The driver was unlikely to see her in time to react, he was travelling so fast. She did the only thing she could to avert disaster. She ran into the middle of the road, arms waving, just as a curricle drawn by two black horses raced into view.
Curses filled the air as the driver hauled desperately at the reins, slewing the curricle across the road as they came to a plunging stop, missing Eleanor by mere inches. Lungs burning, legs trembling, she could only watch, mute, as a groom jumped from his perch and raced to the horses’ heads. The driver speared her with one fulminating glare, then tied off the reins and leapt to the ground. Eleanor hauled in a shaky breath, flinching at his livid expression as he strode towards her.
Chapter Two (#ulink_746ee3c2-bd05-5b71-80fc-9e14160f7318)
Eleanor stumbled back as the irate driver, frowning brows beetled over penetrating ice-blue eyes, loomed over her.
‘What in God’s name were you trying to do?’ he bit out. ‘Get yourself kill—’ He stopped abruptly as his gaze slid past Eleanor to the scene beyond. He grasped her upper arms, steadying her as he searched her face.
‘Are you hurt?’
Eleanor shook her head.
‘Good. Now, I need you to stay calm and be strong. Go over to Henry—’ he indicated his groom ‘—and tell him to come and help me, whilst you hold my team. Can you do that?’ She nodded. ‘Good girl.’
He stepped around her and strode over to the stricken carriage. Eleanor, still in shock, stared after him for a few seconds, then, shaking out of her stupor, she did as instructed and went to hold his horses as the stranger took charge with an ease that spoke of a natural leader.
Good girl? Who does he think he is? He cannot be much older than I am.
The minute those uncharitable thoughts slipped into her mind, she batted them away. Never mind that he had relegated her to the role of helpless female, she must remember he was only trying to help. Like a knight in shining armour. She bit back a smile at such an absurd thought. In her experience, men rarely felt chivalrous towards tall, independent and managing females such as herself.
The stranger’s presence focused the servants and the leaders’ traces were soon cut, allowing the horses to stand and be calmed. Whilst they were occupied, Eleanor gathered her courage and forced herself to study the surrounding woodlands for anyone who might be lurking. She saw no one...no movement.
Timothy was dispatched to a nearby farm, just visible through the trees, to summon assistance, and the injured horse was examined. A heated discussion appeared to take place between the men before the stranger placed his hand on Joey’s shoulder, bending down to speak in his ear. He pushed him gently in Eleanor’s direction whilst nodding to Fretwell, who extracted a pistol from behind the box of the carriage.
Joey stumbled over to Eleanor, tears in his eyes. ‘They’re going to shoot her, lass. My Bonny. She’s been shot and her leg’s broke. There’s nowt we can do to save her.’
‘Oh, Joey, I’m so sorry. I know how you feel about the horses.’ Eleanor’s vision blurred. ‘Don’t look.’ She clasped his arm and turned him away from the grisly scene. A few seconds later a shot rang out and they both stiffened. Then Joey sighed.
‘That’s that, then, lass...beg pardon, I mean, milady.’ He straightened. ‘There’s still three horses there needing me. I must get back.’ He began to walk away, then stopped, looking back at Eleanor with troubled eyes. ‘Oh, milady, who d’ye think could do such a wicked, wicked thing? Shooting at an innocent animal is bad enough, but that shot could’ve killed any one of us.’
His words echoed as Eleanor watched him return to the other men, who were now heaving Bonny’s carcass from on top of her teammate, Joker. A chill ran down her spine as she saw Fretwell reload the pistol and pace slowly back along the road, gazing intently into the dense woodland along its edge. Eleanor pulled her travelling cloak closer around her, as if it could render her invisible.
Joker scrambled to his feet as soon as he could and stood, shaking, allowing Joey to clasp his drooping head to his chest whilst he murmured into his ear. Henry returned to take charge of the curricle and pair and Eleanor made her way slowly towards the men and the carriage.
She was self-consciously aware of the stranger’s scrutiny, which she returned unobtrusively. His curricle and pair were top quality, but his clothing—a greatcoat hanging open over a loose-fitting dark blue coat, buckskin breeches and an indifferently tied neckcloth—was not of the first stare. No gentleman of her acquaintance would settle for comfort over elegance. His build was athletic, his face—sporting a slightly crooked nose that had surely been broken and badly set in the past—was unfashionably tanned and the square set of his jaw somehow proclaimed a man who would be ill at ease in society’s drawing rooms.
He would make a formidable opponent. The words crept unbidden into her head. Opponent? Mentally, she shook herself, irritated that she imagined menace all around her since the fire.
She braced her shoulders, lifted her chin and met the stranger’s stare. Cool blue eyes appraised her, sending another shiver whispering down her spine, this time of awareness. His features spoke of strength and decisiveness and, yes, even a hint of that menace she had imagined earlier. His eyes narrowed momentarily before he smiled. It transformed his face—still rugged, but softened as his eyes warmed.
‘I thank you for your assistance, sir.’
He bowed. ‘It was my pleasure, ma’am.’ His smile widened. ‘I have long dreamed of rescuing a damsel in distress and now—’ his arm swept the scene ‘—my dream becomes reality.’
Eleanor glanced at his face, suspecting him of mockery, but the candour of his expression and teasing light in his eyes appeared to hide no malice.
‘Nevertheless,’ she said, ‘I do thank you and I am sorry to have so nearly caused another upset.’
‘You did the right thing. There could have been serious consequences had you not been so decisive. Or brave.’ He studied her anew and she recognised the devilish glint in his eye as he added, sotto voce, ‘Or foolhardy.’
Eleanor stiffened and opened her mouth to retaliate, but he was already spinning round, his attention caught by a faint shout from within the overturned carriage.
‘Good heavens!’ Eleanor put her irritation aside as she remembered Aunt Lucy and the two maids, still trapped inside. ‘Sir, might I impose on you once more?’
‘Who is in there?’
‘My aunt and our two maids.’
The stranger leapt on to the carriage, knelt and reached down through the open doorway to help out Aunt Lucy, Lizzie and Matilda before lowering them safely to the ground.
He was certainly accustomed to taking charge, Eleanor thought, watching him work, wondering who he was and where he came from as Aunt Lucy joined her, pale and shaken.
‘How are—?’ Eleanor got no further.
‘Who is our rescuer, I wonder?’ were the first words Aunt Lucy uttered, in a sibilant whisper. ‘I wonder where he is from. He is very attractive, in a manly sort of way, is he not, Ellie?’
‘Hush, Aunt Lucy. He’ll hear you,’ Eleanor hissed as he strode towards them, his greatcoat swinging open to reveal muscular, buckskin-clad legs. He was hatless, and his dark blond, sun-streaked hair fell over his forehead at times, only to be shoved back with an impatient hand.
‘It seems I am in your debt again, sir,’ she said.
‘I repeat, no thanks are necessary. It was...is...my pleasure. If I might introduce myself? Matthew Thomas, at your service, ladies.’
Aunt Lucy, her small dark eyes alight with curiosity, replied, ‘Lady Rothley.’
Mr Thomas bowed. ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Lady Rothley. And...?’
‘Allow me to present my niece, Eleanor, the Baroness Ashby.’
Mr Thomas bowed once more. ‘Enchanted, Lady Ashby.’
As he straightened, his bright eyes locked with Eleanor’s, appreciation swirling in their depths. Eleanor’s insides performed a somersault. Oh, yes, she agreed silently with her aunt, he was certainly attractive. She switched her gaze from Mr Thomas to Fretwell, who had returned and now joined them, a frown creasing his brow.
‘Fretwell, I do hope this hasn’t aggravated your head wound. It has only just healed.’
‘I’m all right, milady, barring a few bruises. Lucky nothing was broken; leastwise, nothing human,’ he added gloomily.
‘Indeed, it could have been much worse. What—’
‘Milady—’ Fretwell shot a suspicious glance at Mr Thomas before lowering his voice ‘—if I might have a word?’ With a jerk of his head he indicated the far side of the road.
Mystified, Eleanor excused herself and followed him. ‘What is it?’
‘We must get away from here as soon as we can, milady,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe. You’re too exposed and we don’t know who he might be, either. He appeared very timely after that shot, don’t you—?’
‘Fretwell! Surely you’re not suggesting the horse was shot deliberately?’ Eleanor denied Fretwell’s suspicions despite her own doubts. ‘Why would anyone—?’
‘After the fire, milady, it seems a mite coincidental.’
The fire... The by-now-familiar coil of unease snaked through Eleanor. Irritated, she suppressed it. It was her duty to maintain her composure in front of her servants. If they began to view her as a feeble woman, their respect for her, and her authority, would soon diminish.
‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘There is nobody there—it was surely a stray shot and, as for your suggestion that Mr Thomas might have had any part in it, I’m surprised at you. You are not normally given to such flights of fancy.’
Fretwell reddened, but stubbornly held her gaze. ‘Be that as it may, milady, I know what happened to me the night of the fire. That was no accident. It was deliberate.’
‘Very well, I shall take care, but please keep your conjectures to yourself. I don’t want Lady Rothley upset and there is no reason for Mr Thomas to become further embroiled in our problems.’
Movement further along the road caught her attention. Her footman was on his way back, accompanied by another man leading a pair of draught horses.
‘Come, Timothy is here now with help. Let us go and sort the carriage out, then we can all get away from here and put your mind at rest.’
Although how she was to contrive that, with a damaged carriage, she could not imagine. Aunt Lucy, Lizzie and Matilda, the latter still sobbing into her handkerchief, were sitting on a grass bank a short way along the road. Eleanor, more shaken by the accident than she would admit, wished for nothing more than to join them, leaving the men to cope.
But this was her carriage, her horses and her servants.
Ergo, her responsibility.
She joined the men, ignoring the curious looks of both Mr Thomas and the farmer, a wiry, weatherbeaten individual of few words, but surprising strength. Her own men knew better than to question her desire to be involved.
It soon became clear that Mr Thomas still considered himself in charge and Eleanor, at first bemused at being relegated to a mere onlooker, grew increasingly indignant at being totally ignored.
She stepped forward, preparing to assert her authority.
Chapter Three (#ulink_f13e59ff-1fce-5281-bb5c-0782908b48e9)
Matthew Thomas studied the overturned carriage.
‘Tie the chain there,’ he said to Timothy, pointing to a position on the spring iron at the rear of the carriage and trying to ignore the baroness, who was clearly itching to get involved.
‘Timothy,’ she said in an imperious tone, after the footman had attached the chain, ‘you ought to attach that chain further forward—it is too near the back there.’
Matthew straightened from checking that the chain was secure and turned to face Eleanor, lifting a brow.
She raised her chin, holding his gaze in typical aristocratic haughtiness.
‘If you pull from there it will surely pull the carriage around, rather than upright,’ she said.
He felt his temper stir and clamped down on it hard. He was not the wild youth he had once been and the intervening years had taught him to control his emotions, particularly in fraught situations like the present.
‘When the other chain is attached—as it will be shortly—towards the front of the carriage, it will counteract the pull on this chain. And pull the carriage upright.’
He deliberately blanked his expression, hiding his amusement at her indignation as she drew herself up to her full height—which was considerable, for a woman. She was barely four inches shorter than his own six feet. Her bright blue cloak had swung open to reveal a curvaceous figure, which Matthew perused appreciatively before returning his gaze to clash with her stormy, tawny-brown eyes. Her dark brows snapped together in a frown.
His interest had been aroused the minute he had leapt from his curricle and stared down into her face, pale with shock. She was strikingly attractive, although not a conventional beauty—courageous, too, leaping in front of his horses that way. His heart had almost seized with terror as he had fought to avoid her. Admittedly, he had been springing the horses—keen to test their paces—but that fact had not mitigated his fury, which was fuelled as much by the fear of what might have happened as by anger.
Now his interest was still there, but tempered with reality. He could admire her beauty, as one might admire, and even covet, a beautiful painting or a statue. But he would admire from a distance. He was no longer part of her deceitful world. He turned his attention once more to the stricken carriage.
‘We will need some poles to lever the carriage as the horses pull,’ Eleanor declared some minutes later.
Matthew once more stopped what he was doing. He took a pace towards Eleanor, catching a glimpse of—was that fear?—in her expression as she retreated. Then her lips tightened, and she stepped forward, bringing them almost nose to nose. Pluck? Or was that merely her innate feeling of superiority?
‘If—’ he kept his voice low, in order that the others shouldn’t overhear ‘—you are so keen to help, might I suggest you go and hold the horses so Henry can come and assist? Unless, that is, you really are capable of putting your shoulder to the carriage as the horses pull? I would suggest, with the utmost respect, that you are neither built, nor dressed, for such an activity.’
‘Hmmph!’ Her gaze lowered.
‘Good point about the poles, though, my lady.’ He waved an arm to the rear of the carriage, where two stout poles lay on the ground. ‘The farmer, as you can see, has thought of everything.’
She followed the direction of his gesture. A flush coloured her cheeks.
‘Oh.’ There was a pause. Then, ‘I hadn’t noticed them.’
Shame pricked Matthew’s conscience. He had not meant to make her feel foolish. He should not have risen to her arrogance—it was not her fault she was a part of that world he so despised. He reminded himself she must still be in shock after the accident.
They were still standing very close, her perfume tantalising his senses—floral notes interwoven with the undeniable scent of woman. A wave of desire caught him off guard and he spun away, forcing his attention back to the problem at hand.
The carriage was pulled upright with much heaving and straining, and they examined the extent of the damage. One wheel would need replacing, but the rest of the damage could be repaired. Try as he might to ignore her, Matthew was constantly aware of Eleanor’s presence. He could feel the frustration radiating from her as she peered over his shoulder at the carriage.
‘There’s a wheelwright in the village over yonder,’ the farmer, who had introduced himself as Alfred Clegg, said. ‘I’ll send word. The horses can go in the home paddock for the time. Where’re you folk heading?’
‘We have rooms bespoke at the White Lion in Stockport,’ Eleanor replied.
The farmer scratched his head, peering at the sky. ‘That’s a tidy way, mum. And it looks like rain.’
‘Do you have a carriage or some such that you could loan or hire to us?’
‘’Fraid not, mum. The missus is to market today in the gig. Hay wagon is all I got.’ He looked at her dubiously. ‘It might do for your luggage, and mebbe the maids there wouldn’t object, but...’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘Anyways, my horses couldn’t get all the way to Stockport and back—they’m built for power, not speed.’
‘It so happens that I have a room reserved at the Green Man in Ashton tonight,’ Matthew said. ‘It is much nearer than Stockport and it is clean and comfortable—I’m sure there will be enough accommodation for us all. The hay wagon is an excellent suggestion for the luggage and the servants and I can take the ladies in my curricle, if they have no objection to squeezing in.’
He looked around the group as he spoke. Approval shone on the faces of the majority, the exceptions being the baroness, who looked mutinous, and Fretwell, who was eyeing him with deep suspicion. Lady Rothley had joined them in time to hear Matthew’s proposal.
‘That sounds an excellent suggestion, Mr Thomas. Do you not agree, Ellie?’
Matthew returned Lady Rothley’s smile, praying she would not recognise him. He had known her sons, of course—wild rakes, the pair of them—but he was certain he had never met the marchioness. It was many years since he had been cast out from the world these ladies inhabited and, although in his youth he had borne a striking resemblance to his mother, he had lived a full and eventful life since then. He suspected the similarities were no longer so apparent. At the thought of his mother, his heart contracted painfully before he dismissed his weakness with a silent oath. His family had not believed his innocence; they had banished him from their lives and forgotten his very existence. Bitterly, he forced his black memories into the box where he confined them and slammed the lid.
‘I should prefer to continue as planned to Stockport, Aunt,’ Eleanor was saying. ‘Fretwell, you may as well stay here—if Clegg does not object—and then take the remaining horses home tomorrow, as planned, as long as they are all fit.’
The farmer nodded his consent.
Fretwell scowled, shooting a suspicious glance at Matthew. ‘I think I should stay with you, milady. For protection,’ he muttered.
Matthew felt his brows shoot up. What was he missing here?
‘No, Fretwell, I will not alter my plans. I shall hire another carriage to convey us to London. Joey, you can also stay on here and oversee the repairs. I shall arrange for a team to be sent out so you can follow us down to London with the carriage.’
She was certainly a lady used to having her own way, Matthew thought, listening as she set out her expectations. Fretwell was clearly unhappy with her decision, but he raised no further objections.
‘I shall hire a chaise at Ashton to take us on to Stockport,’ Eleanor continued, ‘as Mr Thomas has offered to transport us as far as there.’
Her clear reluctance to spend the evening in his company irritated Matthew. Who the hell was Lady Ashby to dismiss him as a nobody? She appeared to believe that he was not worthy of her time or attention. Tempted to just forget her and be on his way, he paused. Lady Ashby needed dislodging from that high perch of hers. Besides, some female company that evening would be a welcome change to his planned solitary dinner. And she was without doubt prettier than the locals in the taproom of the Green Man, where he would most likely end up after his meal.
His devil got the better of him. He lifted one brow in deliberate provocation before directing his words at Lady Rothley.
‘With everyone so shaken, you will be far better advised to remain at Ashton tonight, my lady. I’m sure you will find the Green Man to your liking, and, forgive me, but you look as though you would welcome a fireside to sit beside and a warm drink.’
‘That is an enticing prospect, Mr Thomas,’ Lady Rothley said, with a warm smile.
Eleanor’s lips tightened.
‘Excellent,’ Matthew said. ‘That’s settled, then. I shall convey you and your niece in my curricle, and the servants and luggage can follow on in Clegg’s wagon.
‘Of course—’ he switched his attention to Eleanor, grinning at her poorly concealed pique ‘—once we arrive at the Green Man, should you still insist on continuing your journey then you must do so.
‘Shall we go?’
Chapter Four (#ulink_1c67319d-c9cc-5590-b410-efd4b462abaa)
The journey to the Green Man was both uncomfortable and, for Eleanor, disconcerting. The vehicle, designed to seat two comfortably, was a squeeze for three and, to her vexation, Matthew handed her into the curricle before Aunt Lucy, leaving her squashed in the middle when he leapt aboard the other side. Her objection that her aunt would feel safer sitting between them was summarily dismissed, both by Matthew and by Aunt Lucy herself, who appeared to thoroughly approve of their rescuer.
The heat of his touch through the fine kid of her gloves as he handed her into the curricle sent an unsettling quiver through her, despite her irritation. Quite simply, Matthew Thomas rattled her, with his knowing smile and the tease in his voice and his undeniable masculinity.
During the drive, Aunt Lucy was uncharacteristically quiet.
‘Are you sure you were not injured, Aunt?’ Eleanor asked, concerned.
‘Yes, I am sure. Do not mind me, my pet. I am a little tired, that is all.’
Her lids drooped even as she spoke. Eleanor squeezed her hand. They had all had such a shock. She, too, felt drained, but Matthew’s rock-hard thigh pressing against hers and the heat radiating from him ensured she remained on edge. Try as she might to focus on the road ahead, her attention kept wandering to his hands, gloved in scuffed leather, as he handled the ribbons with dexterity, controlling his highly strung pair with total confidence.
‘How long have you had them?’ she asked, indicating the jet-black horses trotting in front, their powerful haunches gleaming in the late afternoon sunshine. ‘They look...’ She hesitated, appalled by what she had almost said. ‘That is, they are a splendid match.’
‘They look...?’
What a careless slip of the tongue. Eleanor firmed her lips, conscious of his head turning and those blue eyes boring into her.
‘They look too good for the likes of me? Is that what you were about to say?’
She had struck a nerve there. She risked a sidelong glance. ‘I meant no offence.’
‘It is as well I took none, then, isn’t it?’
She did not quite believe that. For several minutes there was no sound save the horses’ hoofbeats. Eleanor bit her lip.
‘You are quite right, nevertheless,’ Matthew said, eventually. ‘They are far superior animals to anything I usually aspire to and, in answer to your question, I have owned them since last night.’
Eleanor bit back her exclamation of surprise. For an unfamiliar team they were going very sweetly indeed. Matthew Thomas was clearly a skilled whip...but he had no need of her praise to boost his already puffed-up opinion of himself. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead.
‘Take care, my lady,’ Matthew said, after a couple of beats of silence, amusement threading through his voice. ‘You are determined not to admit your surprise, but I must inform you that I interpret your very silence as a compliment and a welcome salve to my bruised pride.’
‘They have obviously been extremely well schooled,’ Eleanor replied tartly, exasperated by his ability to read her thoughts.
Matthew shouted with laughter. ‘Touché. An impressive put-down.’
Eleanor arched one brow, but could not prevent a corner of her mouth from twitching. ‘When you warrant a compliment, Mr Thomas—whether for your driving skills or for any other purpose—please be advised that I shall not stint in offering one. Until then...’
Silence reigned for a moment, then Matthew laughed again.
‘You are a hard lady to please,’ he said. ‘Let me see...’ from the corner of her eye Eleanor saw him lean forward and glance across at Aunt Lucy, who appeared to be dozing ‘...you almost cause an accident by running in front of my curricle—an accident that was only prevented by my superior driving skills. I cut your injured horses free, rescue your aunt and maidservants, help pull your carriage upright, and now I am transporting you to an inn to recuperate, and still I do not warrant any praise for my actions. Tell me, Lady Ashby...’ his voice lowered to a husky whisper as he put his lips close to her ear ‘...what, precisely, can I do for you that will earn your approval?’
Eleanor suppressed a quiver as his breath tickled across her sensitive lobe and caressed her neck. Risking a quick glance, she could see he was fully aware of the effect he was having on her. She stiffened, her earlier amusement vanquished. She ignored his question.
‘Do you travel far, sir? I do not believe you said where you are heading?’
‘No, I do not believe I did.’
He did not elaborate, and Eleanor gritted her teeth against the extended silence, raising her chin and keeping her eyes riveted to the road ahead.
Eventually, he sighed in an exaggerated fashion and continued, ‘I stay at Ashton for two nights. After that, I plan to visit Worcestershire before I return to London.’
She itched to question him further, but held her silence.
‘Do you travel to London for the Season, my lady?’
‘We do.’
‘And do you go every Season?’
‘We do not.’ Two could play at being evasive.
‘Have you travelled far today?’ His voice quivered.
‘From Lancashire.’
‘North of the county or south?’
She slanted a suspicious look at him.
‘Is that where you call home?’
His voice was now definitely unsteady. Eleanor stifled her hmmph of irritation.
‘You, sir, are being deliberately provoking.’
His laugh burst free. ‘Pax. I could continue this game of question and answer all day, but I suspect you do not share my enjoyment of the ridiculous. I shall not bore you with further impertinent questions.’
Unreasonably, Eleanor was stung by his assumption that she lacked a sense of humour. She was unused to this kind of byplay between a man and a woman and she was aware her embarrassment caused her to appear stiff and unfriendly. Although why she should care about his opinion of her, she did not know. However well he spoke, he was not of her class. She wondered what he was—a prosperous farmer, perhaps, or a merchant or a military man?
She felt his eyes on her and risked another sideways glance. He captured her gaze—his eyes warm, his expression open. His easy smile transformed his face, giving him a charm that Eleanor found instantly appealing. To her confusion, she read admiration in his regard and her blood heated instantly at the notion. She felt a telltale blush creeping up her neck and cheeks and, uncertain, she tore her gaze from his.
She was her own woman—rare in this day and age—in control of her own life and finances, answerable to no one, not even her trustees since she had reached her twenty-fifth birthday. She was strong and decisive when running her estates, responsible for not only her own comfort and lifestyle, but also the livelihoods and well-being of everyone who worked for her, plus their families—a responsibility she discharged with assurance. However, for all her outward confidence, she found herself regressing to the awkward, tongue-tied girl of her past in the presence of Matthew Thomas, simply because he was passing time with a light flirtation. Her experience with Donald had caused her to doubt her judgement of men and their true intentions. And had Aunt Phyllis not warned her time after time of the danger of showing too much encouragement to any gentleman?
‘If you truly wish to earn my approval, sir, might I suggest that you keep your eyes upon the road? We have already suffered one upset today.’
She fixed her eyes once more on the road ahead and it was with relief that she saw the Green Man come into view.
As they pulled up in the courtyard of the inn, Aunt Lucy came to with a start.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘it could have been another attempt on your life, Ellie.’
Chapter Five (#ulink_d1fe1ddb-9a13-5ca6-b876-f8f0c21f9b4d)
Matthew, on the verge of springing from the curricle, paused, his interest roused.
‘Aunt Lucy! That is preposterous. Bonny’s death was an accident.’
‘You cannot be certain of that, Ellie. What about the fire at the Manor? Someone set that fire and lurked around to see what happened. He brained Fretwell to stop him rescuing you, in case you had forgotten.’
‘Brained...! Aunt! What a thing to say.’ Eleanor’s voice lowered, holding a clear warning. ‘Mr Thomas does not want to hear those wild conjectures. I’ll warrant it was as I said—a burglar, and Fretwell was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘A burglar? In the library? Why would a burglar deliberately set fire to a pile of books? You must not dismiss this as coincidence.’
Eleanor glared daggers at her aunt, who took no notice, continuing, ‘Your bedchamber is directly over the library and now a shot is fired at our carriage. Who knows what their intention was, but you are a common factor to both, you cannot deny it.’
‘I think you have been indulging in too many Gothic novels,’ Eleanor said. She laughed in a dismissive fashion, but Matthew caught the haunted look that flashed across her face. ‘That sort of thing simply doesn’t happen in this day and age. Do you not agree, Mr Thomas?’
Matthew completed his descent from the curricle. Eleanor was regarding him with her brows raised, clearly awaiting his agreement, but he was by now intrigued. He would not be pressed to give his opinion before he knew the facts. He did not doubt that, beneath her dismissal of her aunt’s words, Eleanor was more troubled than she would admit.
‘I should prefer to hear the full circumstances before passing comment, my lady.’
He assisted Eleanor from the curricle, biting back a grin when she snatched her hand from his as soon as she was on solid ground, her cheeks now glowing pink. She was certainly a woman of contrasts: one moment acting the grande dame, the next blushing like a schoolgirl. Not the response he expected from a married woman. Most likely her husband was one of those aristocrats—plentiful enough in the ton—who did not inconvenience himself with romancing his wife. A sad waste, in Matthew’s opinion.
‘In the meantime, ladies,’ he continued, with a pointed look at the innkeeper, who had emerged to welcome his guests, ‘I think we should continue this discussion inside, in private.’
Eleanor turned to the innkeeper, but Matthew stepped forward to forestall her. He might not dress the gentleman, but his upbringing—slowly stretching and awakening after what seemed like a long sleep—dictated that he, as the man of the party, should deal with innkeepers and their ilk.
‘Good afternoon, Fairfax. We shall require two additional bedchambers for the ladies, plus accommodation for their servants, who will be arriving shortly. I trust there is room to accommodate the whole party?’
Fairfax’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry, sir; would that I could accommodate you, but the place is full to the rafters.’ His voice dropped discreetly as he shot a sideways glance at the two ladies. ‘What with the prize fight tomorrow, sir, I doubt you’ll find a spare room anywhere in Ashton tonight.’
Matthew swore beneath his breath; the fight had slipped his mind after dealing with the aftermath of the accident. The illicit match was the reason he had returned to Ashton after the successful conclusion of his business in Rochdale.
Eleanor stepped forward, interrupting his reflections.
‘It appears we have no choice but to continue our journey after all, Mr Thomas,’ she said, with barely concealed satisfaction, a distinct challenge in her tawny eyes.
Matthew clenched his jaw. The provocative grande dame had materialised once more.
Eleanor turned to the innkeeper. ‘I shall require a carriage to convey my party to Stockport, where we have rooms bespoken for tonight, if you please.’
Before Fairfax could respond, Lady Rothley swayed, groaning quietly, her hand to her head. Eleanor was instantly at her side, her arm around her aunt’s waist.
‘Aunt Lucy! Are you all right?’
‘A little shaken still, my pet—I feel utterly overcome of a sudden.’
‘Come, let us go inside. You need to sit down and rest. Oh, what was I thinking? How could I even consider making you travel any further after what you have been through? Only...what are we to do now, with no rooms available?’
Matthew could not resist the hint of desperation in Eleanor’s voice.
‘Might I suggest you ladies take my room here? It is not ideal, with so many strangers in town, but I am sure you will be safe enough. And I am in no doubt Fairfax will be able to provide a cot somewhere for your maids.’ It would mean a longer drive to view the fight tomorrow, but that would be a trivial inconvenience. ‘The ladies’ carriage was involved in an accident,’ he continued, by way of explanation to the innkeeper.
‘Of course, sir. If the ladies don’t object to sharing, I’m sure we can find a corner for their maids, and any men can bed down above the stables. I dare say they’re used to making do.’
‘I shall continue on to Stockport today and stay at...the White Lion, was it not?’ Matthew said.
Lady Rothley perked up, reminding Matthew of a bird that had spied a juicy worm, with her tiny, delicate frame and her bright, beady eyes. ‘That is a splendid notion, Mr Thomas, is it not, my pet? I must confess that the thought of travelling further today quite overset me.’
Eleanor ushered her aunt into the inn. ‘I am sorry, Aunt. I hadn’t given a thought to how you must feel. You’ve had such a shock. Well,’ she added, ‘so have we all. I make no doubt the servants will also welcome the chance to rest here.’ She paused on the threshold, turned to Matthew and held out her hand. ‘Mr Thomas, we greatly appreciate your assistance today but, please, do not let us detain you any longer. I am sure you have many demands upon your time.’
Anger rumbled through Matthew at her arrogance. What was wrong with the woman? First, she resented him helping out at the roadside and now she was dismissing him—after having sacrificed his bedchamber, no less—when at the very least she could invite him to stay and take some refreshment.
‘Thank you so much for your concern,’ he replied, ignoring her outstretched hand, ‘but, if you care to recall, we have a discussion to continue, and I have every intention of staying until I am satisfied you and your aunt are not in danger.’
Lady Rothley had stopped to listen. She frowned at her niece. ‘Really, Eleanor, how can you be so ungracious after all Mr Thomas has done for us?’ She smiled at Matthew. ‘I am most grateful for your assistance, sir, and I assure you that we shall both be delighted to take a dish of tea with you, if you would care to join us?’
Eleanor had reddened at her aunt’s rebuke. ‘I apologise, Mr Thomas. I was concerned for the time, considering you still have to drive to Stockport. Of course, you must stay and take tea with us, if you have the time.’
Matthew studied her expression. There was contrition there, but she could disguise neither the strain she was under nor the distrust that haunted her eyes. Perhaps, in view of the dark picture painted by her aunt, he should not blame her.
‘You have no need to be concerned on my account,’ he said, understanding full well the mendacity of her words. ‘I have plenty of time to get to Stockport before dark.’
‘Very well. Fairfax, we should appreciate some refreshments served, if you would be so kind,’ Eleanor ordered.
Fairfax bowed. ‘Of course, my lady. Please, follow me.’
They were shown into a small but clean parlour. Matthew waited until Eleanor and her aunt were seated before settling on a small sofa on the opposite side of the fireplace and, before long, two maidservants served them tea with thinly cut bread and butter and rich pound cake.
Eleanor had removed her bonnet, cloak and gloves on entering the parlour and Matthew studied her with appreciation. She was even more attractive than he had first thought: her smooth ivory skin—enhanced by the rosy hue of her cheeks as she was warmed by the flames—invited his touch, and her wide mouth and soft pink lips were ripe for kissing. Her hair was a glossy dark brown, the curls that framed her face glinting as they caught the light from the flames. How would her hair look—and feel—loosened from the restricting hairpins, cascading over her shoulders and down her back? It was a long time since he had been so attracted to a woman. Were it not for her air of superiority, he might say she was his idea of the perfect woman.
It’s a shame she is married.
The thought caught him unaware and he tore his gaze from her.
It is not a shame. Even were she not wed, she moves in a very different world to you. You know she would never give you a second glance had circumstances not thrown you together.
Matthew’s modest fortune had been built from his own hard work, a touch of luck at the tables—he had won his curricle and pair in a game just the night before—and from trade, that term that was despised by the idle aristocracy. No, the likes of Lady Ashby would never look at the likes of him.
He waited until the servants withdrew before raising the subject on his mind. ‘Will you tell me about the fire your aunt spoke of, my lady?’
After some initial reluctance, Eleanor recounted the night of the fire—the smell of the smoke that woke her; the terror of her escape through her window; the mystery of Fretwell’s injury and his shadowy assailant. Through it all, her anguish at the damage to her beloved home shone through.
Matthew’s fascination with Eleanor marched in step with his mounting concern. Her eyes, framed by thick lashes and strong, dark brows, revealed her every emotion as she warmed to the telling of her tale. They sparkled with impish amusement as Lady Rothley sprinkled the story with a selection of servants’ lurid tales, learned through Matilda. They lit up in laughter at some of the more ghoulish speculations that Eleanor had clearly not heard before, her generous mouth widening into a stunning smile that transformed her already attractive face into one of mesmerising loveliness. Glimpses of the real woman were revealed when she forgot to stand on her dignity and Matthew had to keep reminding himself of her earlier arrogance and also that she was married and, therefore, out of bounds.
Her uninhibited and infectious laugh triggered an unexpected surge of loneliness that he swiftly thrust aside. Apart from his business partner, Benedict Poole, he was dependent on no one and no one was dependent on him, and that was exactly how he liked it. His burgeoning desire for Eleanor was as unwelcome as it was unexpected and he forced his thoughts from the direction they were taking to concentrate on her words.
‘As for this afternoon,’ she was saying, ‘you have already heard what happened. A stray shot—surely an accident—hit one of the team, causing the carriage to overturn. It was no more a deliberate attack on me than the fire was, despite my aunt’s vivid imaginings. Mark my words—it was a burglar, or someone with a grudge. It must have been.’
He recognised the faint hint of desperation in her final words. Eleanor was nowhere near as confident as she pretended to be. Still, it was none of Matthew’s concern. He would go on his way very soon—and, judging by his increasingly salacious thoughts, the sooner, the better—and he would likely never see either of the ladies again.
‘I must agree with your aunt that a burglar would be unlikely to set fire to a library,’ he said, ‘but I also think you may be right that a grudge was the cause. If someone was intent on killing you, surely they would pick less haphazard methods? After all, both the fire and the carriage accident had the potential of injuring, or even killing, many more individuals than you and with no guarantee that you would be amongst the casualties.
‘It would appear that, for once, you and I are in agreement,’ he added, unable to resist a final teasing comment, biting back his smile at her disgruntled expression.
Chapter Six (#ulink_e6d96db9-028f-5a87-9bb2-2f5a149bb7a3)
Eleanor had begun to relax despite her suspicions about Matthew, initially roused by Fretwell, and her earlier irritation at his relegation of her to the role of helpless female in a crisis. After all, had she not pictured him in the role of a white knight before lamenting she was not the sort of female to arouse protective instincts in a man? And he had proved an easy man to converse with, when he was not deliberately goading her, or flirting, that was. When his blue gaze settled on her in that particular, assessing way he had, her blood heated and her insides fluttered in a way they never had with Donald.
‘It would seem that, for once, you are right, Mr Thomas,’ she retorted. How did he manage to ruffle her feathers quite so effortlessly?
He laughed. Their eyes met and Eleanor felt a jolt of pure energy shoot through her. Her cheeks flamed. Flustered—and irritated by her reaction—Eleanor jerked her gaze from his and stared at the flames, saying, ‘Goodness, this fire is hot.’
She searched in her reticule for her fan and plied it, grateful for an occupation as she fought to control her inner turmoil. Thankfully, Aunt Lucy appeared not to notice anything amiss, and launched a determined crusade to discover as much information as possible about their rescuer. Matthew proved adept at evading her questions, clearly relishing their verbal swordplay, and Eleanor viewed her aunt’s increasing frustration with quiet enjoyment.
She relaxed back in her chair, allowing her nerves to settle. Without volition, her gaze wandered over Matthew, admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the solid muscle of his legs. She watched as he picked up his cup with a broad hand—no gentleman’s soft, well-manicured hand this, but strong and masculine and capable. He drained the contents, his penetrating eyes flicking to her face as he leaned forward to set his cup on the table, his lips still moist from the tea. Desire coiled deep within her as the rumble of his voice enveloped her. She could listen to him for ever. How wonderful would it be to be able to lean on such a man, to share the burden of her life?
Even as that thought flitted into her brain, she suppressed it. She needed no man to lean on. She had spent the three years since her father’s death striving to prove that point. Besides, he would end up the same as all the men who had ever shown her any attention—interested only in her fortune.
She dreamt of being swept off her feet, of being wooed by a man who was besotted with her and declared his undying passion for her, but could she ever trust her own judgement?
Donald had fooled her with his eager courtship after they met at James and Ruth’s wedding. He was an army officer and had returned to Ashby, shortly afterwards, when he was on leave. Eleanor had believed he was in love with her and, even though his kisses had left her strangely unmoved, she had persuaded herself her love for him would blossom given time.
She studied Matthew and desire flickered deep within her...surely a kiss from a man like Matthew Thomas would not leave her unmoved? She tore her attention from his sensual lips, vaguely scandalised by her outrageous thoughts.
Would she ever know the feel of a real man in her arms?
She blessed the day she had discovered Donald’s true intent. She had overheard him discussing her with his sister, Ruth, and their contempt for Eleanor was clear. Donald was interested only in her position and the wealth she would inherit from her ailing father. The following day, to her father’s distress, she had refused Donald’s offer of marriage and he had returned to his regiment. Sadly, she had heard, he had not survived the war.
Eleanor’s father had died the following spring and Eleanor still regretted that he had died worrying over both her future and that of the estate.
The room had fallen silent. Eleanor came back to the present with a guilty start.
‘You appear lost in your thoughts,’ Matthew said. ‘It would seem they are not all pleasant?’
Blushing, Eleanor realised that she had been staring directly at Matthew whilst her mind wandered. Aunt Lucy was dozing by the fire and they were effectively alone together.
‘I am sure they would be of no interest to you, Mr Thomas.’
‘I think you would be surprised at my interests, my lady,’ he replied softly, his blue eyes aglow.
There was admiration in his gaze. Awkwardly, Eleanor gazed down at her hands, entwined in her lap, uncertain how to respond. Her come-out, as well as her experience with Donald, had taught her to be cautious of reading too much into a man’s supposed admiration for it seemed, more often than not, that it was disingenuous.
Matthew continued to regard her steadily, waiting for her reply. Irritation at his persistence clambered over her discomfort.
‘Indeed, you are mistaken, sir.’ She injected a bright, vacuous note into her voice. ‘My thoughts were exceedingly pleasant. I was thinking of all the gowns and hats and shoes and other fripperies I shall buy in London and of all the wonderful parties and balls I shall be invited to. Why—’ she fixed him with an arch look ‘—I dare say I shall never be at home, what with all the shopping and the amusements London has to offer.’
His lips twitched and his eyes crinkled at the corners.
‘In other words, your thoughts are none of my business. I shall pry no further. We are all entitled to our secrets, after all. Now, let us return to the innocuous subjects you seem to prefer; do you go to London for the Season every year?’
Eleanor laughed, unaccountably pleased that he had not been fooled by her performance. He was clearly intelligent and she did have some pride. She had no wish for this man to believe she was a brainless ninny, despite her subterfuge.
‘I believe I answered that query the first time, sir. But I shall expand upon my previous effort, which was, I admit, a little brusque. This will be the first time I have been to London in seven years.’ She faltered momentarily, memories of her first Season all too raw even after all this time, before continuing, ‘I am looking forward to it. I have become quite dull at home, you know, and I am more than ready for all the excitement and diversion London can offer.’
She saw his eyes narrow as she stumbled over her words. She cautioned herself to take care. Intelligent? Oh, yes. And disconcertingly perceptive, to boot.
‘I am most fortunate that Aunt Lucy is accompanying me,’ she continued. ‘To lend me countenance, she would have me believe. She has not been to town for several years, but she was a notable hostess in her day. I suspect,’ she added, smiling, keen to eliminate her slip from his mind, ‘she is eager to see if she can still wield the same influence.’
‘She appears to be a most redoubtable lady—I have no doubt she will be setting the standards with ease. Will you be joining other family members in town?’
‘My cousin James and his wife, Ruth, live in London. James has kindly leased a house on my behalf, however, so we shall not be obliged to reside with them. My family is small in number, I fear. Other than James, there are only my cousins on my mother’s side—Lucas and Hugo, Aunt Lucy’s sons. Lucas is at Rothley, but I hope Hugo might be in town, for Aunt Lucy’s sake.’
‘Rothley,’ he said. ‘I know the name, but I cannot quite place where it is.’
‘It’s in the county of Northumberland.’
‘And a colder, more desolate place you could never imagine,’ Aunt Lucy interjected, ‘although it’s very wildness is extraordinarily beautiful, too, in its way. Exactly what part of the country do you hail from, Mr Thomas?’
Chapter Seven (#ulink_a04303ab-2220-562d-a29e-134423948a08)
Aunt Lucy—wily lady that she was—had out-manoeuvred Matthew. Eleanor could see his frustrated struggle to avoid answering such a direct question without telling an outright lie. Somehow, she did not think him so dishonourable. Evasive, yes. Secretive, yes. But not out-and-out dishonest.
‘Worcestershire, my lady.’
‘Ah.’ There was a wealth of satisfaction in that one word. ‘I believe you said earlier that you are headed there before you return to London. Do you visit family?’
Matthew’s eyes widened and he shot a stunned glance at Eleanor. She could not help but smile. He had just realised that Aunt Lucy must have heard their every word during the journey to the inn. Eleanor was unsurprised, knowing from experience just how far her aunt would go to hear a juicy morsel of gossip, even if it did involve deceiving her only niece by pretending to doze.
‘No. I merely plan to visit a few of my youthful haunts, for old times’ sake.’
‘A beautiful county, Worcestershire. What part of the county did you say?’
‘Near the town of Bromsgrove.’ Matthew’s brows were now low enough to almost conceal his eyes. ‘It is many years since I have lived there, however.’
Eleanor intervened before her aunt could continue, afraid she would poke and pry until Matthew became annoyed. Better to cut straight to the point. ‘Forgive my direct speaking, Mr Thomas, but what my aunt is trying to ascertain is whether she might know your family.’
The crease between Matthew’s brows deepened as their gazes fused. Eleanor waited for his answer, brows raised. She recognised his irritation with her persistence, but stood her ground.
‘I am a merchant,’ he said to Aunt Lucy, after a long pause. ‘Can you think of any reason why a lady such as yourself should know my family?’
Oh, clever! He blocked that thrust with ease.
‘You are clearly well educated,’ Eleanor said.
‘Indeed. My family were...are...not poor. I went to Harrow.’
A knock at the door announced Fairfax. ‘Your luggage and servants have arrived, miladies.’
He disappeared, and Lizzie and Matilda soon appeared at the parlour door. Aunt Lucy rose from her chair, extending her hand to Matthew.
‘Mr Thomas, I beg you will excuse me, for I am very tired. I am afraid the events of the day have caught up with me. I have the headache and am exceedingly stiff and sore. I shall go to our bedchamber for a rest now that Matilda is here to assist me. I do hope we shall meet again. Perhaps you will call upon us in Upper Brook Street, once you have returned to town.’
Matthew bowed over her hand. ‘I shall be pleased to, my lady, if only to ascertain you have reached your destination without further mishap.’
Then Aunt Lucy turned to Eleanor.
‘Eleanor, would you speak to Fairfax and request a light supper be sent up later for the two of us? As the inn is so full, I do not think it would be wise for us to dine downstairs. We should not wish to attract unwarranted attention.
‘Mr Thomas, allow me to thank you once again for all your assistance today. I do not know what we should have done without you.’
Looking pale and drawn, Aunt Lucy clung to Matilda’s arm as they left the room. Lizzie hovered in the doorway, clearly awaiting Eleanor, who waved her away.
‘You go on upstairs, Lizzie, whilst I speak to Fairfax. I promise I shall be up in a trice.’
‘You make sure and come upstairs as soon as you have spoken to him, milady,’ Lizzie hissed over her shoulder as she turned to go, having cast a suspicious glare at Matthew. ‘There are some most undesirable characters a-wandering around this inn.’
She stalked off down the passageway, muttering. Fretwell’s suspicions must be contagious.
Eleanor smiled at Matthew, ready to take her leave.
‘I regret we appear to have started on the wrong foot, my lady,’ Matthew said. ‘May we call a truce? I have accepted your aunt’s invitation to Upper Brook Street, but I should like to feel that you, too, are happy for me to call.’
Eleanor was aware she had been both snappish and arrogant in many of her responses to Matthew, but she could not help but be flustered by him. He was by turns aggravating and flirtatious and she didn’t quite know how to respond to him, other than with a sharp retort or by pokering up. She forced a smile and extended her hand.
‘I, for my part, owe you an apology, Mr Thomas, for I did not mean to appear ungrateful for your help this afternoon. I am not always so quarrelsome—I dare say I am too used to ruling the roost and it is increasingly difficult to allow another to make decisions on my behalf.’
‘No apology is necessary, I assure you.’
‘I should also like to start anew. I shall be delighted to welcome you to our house in Upper Brook Street when you return to town.’
He took her hand in his, but instead of a shake, as she had intended, he carried it to his mouth. Her stomach fluttered as his lips pressed against her bare flesh. He captured her gaze with piercing eyes, setting her pulse skittering.
Heat washed through her and her legs trembled as her body seemed to sway towards him of its own volition. Disconcerted, she took a step back, and then another. She gasped as he followed her, his blue eyes intent.
‘Sir... Mr Thomas...?’
Matthew halted and Eleanor saw his jaw tighten before he executed a brief bow. ‘I fear I was in danger of forgetting my manners, my lady. I can only beg your forgiveness and hope you won’t hold it against me when we meet again.’
What had she done? Although she had scant experience of men, Eleanor was aware, on some deep, primeval level, that when they had locked eyes she had wanted him to...what? Touch her? Follow her? Blood will out. She had, somehow, enticed him without words and honesty compelled her to admit it, if only to herself. She couldn’t censure him when she was equally at fault. She was simply grateful that he was too much the gentleman to accuse her of leading him on.
‘As we have only just agreed upon a truce, Mr Thomas, it would be a little poor spirited of me to resume hostilities so soon. It has been a long, trying day, so perhaps we may blame it upon that?’
‘You are all generosity. Now, I must be on my way but, with your leave, I shall convey your aunt’s request to Fairfax before I depart. And might I suggest you return to your aunt forthwith, before that fierce maid of yours comes in search of you?’ He made an exaggerated pretence of looking behind him, a comical expression of fear on his face.
Eleanor tried, and failed, to swallow a giggle. ‘Goodness, I never took you for a coward, Mr Thomas. Lizzie was only doing her duty as she saw it, with Aunt Lucy too exhausted to look out for my reputation.’
As she laughed up at Matthew his eyes darkened and Eleanor saw a powerful emotion swirling in their depths before he blinked, and it was gone. When he spoke, however, his voice was steady. Had she imagined his response?
‘I trust you will spend a comfortable night, my lady, and I will see you upon my return to town.’
‘I shall not say goodbye, then, but au revoir, Mr Thomas, and thank you again for your assistance today.’
‘It was my pleasure. Until we meet again.’
He bowed and was gone.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_2e639ed2-3256-5cf5-a656-8e7eb04fd42d)
Just before dawn the following morning, Matthew was jerked awake from a fitful sleep by a piercing scream. It took a couple of moments for him to register his whereabouts—he was in one of the two rooms bespoken for Eleanor and her aunt at the White Lion in Stockport. He catapulted from his bed as a series of thuds sounded from the next bedchamber. It was dark in his room and he groped his way to the door.
In the passage, the next door but one to Matthew’s room had opened and the occupant peered out, holding aloft a candlestick. The wavering flame illuminated the scowling features of an elderly gentleman, clad in his nightcap and gown.
‘What’s to do?’ he grumbled.
Matthew didn’t waste time answering, but ran to the door between them and flung it open, vaguely aware of the man hurrying along the passage, quavering, ‘That’s my Jenny’s room!’
The bedchamber was as dark as his and all Matthew could make out was a shapeless, struggling mass on the bed. He darted forward, yelling, ‘Bring the light.’
As the elderly man reached the open door, the scene was suddenly revealed: a figure in black, turning in Matthew’s direction, eyes glinting through holes in a mask; the flash of a blade; blood, streaking the bed linen in vivid splashes of red; a girl’s terrified face, mouth suddenly slackening as her eyes closed.
Matthew grabbed the man, hauling him from the bed. He staggered backwards as the assailant swiftly changed from resistance to flinging himself at Matthew. Stiff fingers jabbed at Matthew’s windpipe as a blade burned his arm and the man wriggled free, barging past the man with the candle as he fled the room. Matthew dragged in a painful breath and rushed to the door, but the assailant was already out of sight. The elderly man—presumably Jenny’s father—stood frozen, his mouth gaping in horror.
On the verge of giving chase, a moan from the bed stayed Matthew. The victim needed help. He found a candle on the mantelshelf and lit it. He went to Jenny’s father, gripping his shoulder, then shaking him hard.
‘Sir, you must be strong.’ He could hear the sound of people stirring, voices getting louder. ‘Find the innkeeper. Tell him there has been an accident and to send for a doctor immediately. And send his wife here, to me.’ He pushed the man out into the passage. ‘Hurry!’
He crossed to the bed, shrinking inside with the dread of what he might find. Jenny lay motionless. Her face, shoulders and arms were the only parts of her visible. Her arms and hands bore the signs of struggle. Blood seeped from her wounds, but it wasn’t pumping out. That was a good sign. Matthew put a finger to her neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, not as weak as he feared. He lifted the candle, to examine the bedclothes that covered Jenny. The slashes he had feared to see were not there. The blood appeared to have come from Jenny’s arms and hands and one long diagonal slash from her left collarbone that had ripped through her nightgown. Matthew grabbed a towel from the washstand to try and stanch the bleeding. Jenny did not stir.
As he worked, Matthew’s mind travelled back to India and to his great-uncle, Percy, who had been so kind to a bewildered and resentful youth, unjustly banished from his family and his homeland. Poor Uncle Percy, who had died after being attacked and stabbed during the course of a robbery. Matthew’s throat squeezed tight as he relived his futile efforts to save his great-uncle. He prayed Jenny had suffered no injuries other than those he could see.
His thoughts returned to the present as the innkeeper’s wife, Mrs Goody, bustled into the room, followed by Jenny’s father.
‘Lord have mercy, sir,’ Mrs Goody gasped, hands clasped at her ample bosom as she halted by the bed. ‘Whatever happened?’
‘She was attacked. Her hands, arms and upper chest are bleeding, but I do not think she has been stabbed elsewhere.’
‘Stabbed? My Jenny? Oh, Jenny, Jenny, my love...’ The elderly man cast himself on to his knees by the bed, clutching at Jenny’s hand. Her eyelids fluttered.
‘Goody’s sent for the doctor,’ Mrs Goody said. She glanced at Jenny’s father, then leaned towards Matthew, lowering her voice. ‘Did you examine the girl for more injuries, sir, or...?’
Matthew felt heat flood his cheeks, understanding both her question and her discretion. Her father had enough to worry about.
‘No,’ he said.
Poor girl. Depending on her position in society, if news of this got out there would always be gossip and innuendo about her innocence. The thought made his blood simmer. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I merely examined the bedcovers and, as they do not appear torn, I took that to mean she was only injured in those areas we can see.’
‘Thank you, sir. We will do all we can to protect her. Can I ask you to find Goody and ask him to boil water and send up some clean linen? If you close the door on the way out, I’ll check the lass for any further injuries. Oh, to think such an evil thing could happen here.’
On his way to find the innkeeper, Matthew came to a dead stop, his knees suddenly weak. Dear God! The realisation robbed him of his breath. Had he not swapped accommodation with Eleanor and her aunt, it could have been one of them in that room tonight. He quelled the wave of nausea that invaded him—there would be time enough for that horror later.
After speaking to Goody, Matthew sped back to the bedchamber, with a bundle of clean cloths, to find Jenny awake. As he entered, her eyes widened and she clutched at her father. Mrs Goody shooed him from the room.
‘She’s had a terrible fright, sir. It’ll take her time to get over it. You go on back to bed. You’ve done all you can.’ Her eyes skimmed him and then she touched his arm. ‘You’re bleeding. I’ll fetch a cloth to bind it.’
Matthew remembered that burning sensation as he had grappled with the attacker. He pulled up the sleeve of his nightshirt. It did not look deep. Mrs Goody soon returned with a strip of linen. She wrung a cloth out in cold water from the washstand.
As she bathed and bound his arm, she said, ‘The lass has no other injuries, sir, thank the good Lord. None at all, if you get my meaning. It was a lucky thing for her that you were there.’
Matthew nodded, relieved for poor Jenny. At least she did not have that nightmare to deal with on top of everything else. He pulled on his clothes and sought out the innkeeper again. Goody had already roused some of his ostlers to search for Jenny’s attacker and Matthew joined them. How he regretted not chasing the villain immediately but, with Jenny’s father in a state of shock and without knowing how severe Jenny’s injuries were, he knew he had been right to tend to her first.
A lengthy and thorough search of the area around the White Lion—joined by other local men—proved fruitless. Whoever the culprit was, it seemed he was long gone, or holed up somewhere. Matthew returned to the inn and ate a hearty breakfast, after which Goody beckoned him into a room at the back of the inn. Jenny’s father levered himself to his feet as Matthew entered.
‘George Tremayne,’ he said, in a gruff voice, holding out a trembling hand.
Matthew shook it. ‘Matthew Thomas.’
‘I must thank you for what you did for my daughter. I don’t know what I should do if...’ His voice cracked, and he harrumphed noisily, taking a large handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose.
‘How is Jenny?’
‘As well as she can be. Physically, at least. She is still very shaken. The doctor advised her to stay here for a few days’ rest, but she doesn’t want to spend another night under this roof.’
‘Understandable,’ Matthew said.
‘The magistrate and the constable were here, asking questions,’ Mr Tremayne said. ‘They want to speak with you.’
Matthew grimaced. ‘I don’t think I can tell them much to help. The rogue was masked. Do they know how he got in?’
‘A window at the back was open. There’s a lean-to roof just below. They think he was a thief and Jenny woke up at the wrong time. She doesn’t remember much. That’s probably for the best.’
‘Indeed. Is the magistrate still here?’
‘No, but he said he will come back later and asked that you remain here until then.’
Matthew quashed his frustration. The sooner he left, the sooner he could catch up with Eleanor and her party on the road and assure himself of her safety. Had she been the real target? If the attacker had meant to kill, he would know he had failed. And, if he was still in the town, he would soon discover he’d attacked the wrong girl anyway. Eleanor was still very much in danger.
* * *
It was mid-morning before the magistrate returned and Matthew could recount his version of events and answer his questions. At first, he seemed disposed to believe Matthew the culprit, until Matthew pointed out—with some vigour—that Mr Tremayne had also seen Jenny’s masked attacker. Finally, satisfied Matthew had given all the information he could, the magistrate gave Matthew leave to continue his journey. The interview had seemed to Matthew to last a lifetime and he had fretted throughout. All thought of returning to Ashton to attend the boxing match was forgotten. He was convinced Eleanor was in grave danger and his one thought was to protect her.
The minute he was free to leave, he leapt aboard his curricle—with Henry perched on the rumble seat behind—and whipped up the horses. It was almost noon already. Even though he doubted Eleanor would have set off early—bearing in mind she must arrange a suitable replacement for the damaged carriage first—her party must surely have passed through Stockport already, on their way to the capital.
Matthew drove south, worry gnawing at him as he wondered what further dangers Eleanor might face. He varied the pace, mindful of the need not to overtire his horses, but also needing enough speed to give him some chance of catching up with Eleanor’s party. He was conscious of Henry muttering behind his back and, upon hearing his man’s sharp intake of breath as they flew past a lumbering farm wagon with mere inches to spare, Matthew shot a quick glance over his shoulder.
‘You do know, I s’pose, that this is the wrong road for Ashton?’ Henry said, leaning forward to speak into Matthew’s ear.
‘Indeed.’
‘Can I ask where we’re headed?’
‘That,’ Matthew replied, setting his teeth as he narrowly avoided a stagecoach coming in the opposite direction, ‘is a very good question. I don’t precisely know. But we are following Lady Ashby and her party. They are heading for London. I need to find out where they will stop for the night.’
‘You think that attack was connected to them?’
Matthew tamped down the surge of fear as the image of Jenny, lying bloodied in her bed, rose in his mind. Her features rearranged themselves in his imagination until it was Eleanor’s face he saw and he knew, deep in his gut, that she might now be dead, had they not swapped accommodation.
‘I am certain of it,’ he replied. ‘We must enquire at the posting inns we pass, to find out if they have changed horses. We can ask if anyone knows where they plan to stop for the night. Whoever was responsible for the accident and the attack clearly knows the route she is taking and could try again.’
‘Last night brought it all back, didn’t it?’ Henry said. ‘You aren’t responsible. You weren’t responsible. You can’t protect the whole world and everyone in it.’
Matthew clenched his jaw. Henry had been with him since the early days in India, and was a trusted employee, taking on the roles of both servant and groom as required. He knew Henry referred to Uncle Percy’s death, but Matthew was still haunted by his insistence on going out that night. If only he had been at home... The guilt had near overwhelmed him at the time. His uncle’s death had spurred Matthew’s decision to return home. There was no one to anchor him to India now and he and Benedict could run their business equally well from England.
He was driven by the need to protect. It was in his nature, a part of him, but that did not fully explain why the thought of Eleanor being hurt made his stomach clench with such fear. Frustration flooded him as their progress was slowed by the need to enquire for the travellers at every likely-looking inn they passed, and the need to rest his own horses.
‘Where on earth can they be?’ he bit out, as they drew yet another blank. ‘They must have stopped for the night by now.’
‘Maybe they just had too much of a head start on us, sir. Now, don’t bite my head off, but them cattle are getting weary and you’ll be risking their tendons if we carry on much further.’
Matthew knew Henry was right. He cast a worried look at the sun, sinking to the horizon, then straightened in his seat as a milestone proclaimed they were one mile from Leek.
‘This must be it,’ he muttered. ‘They surely can’t have gone any further today. They have to be here.’
* * *
Shortly afterwards, they drew up in the yard of the George, situated right in the middle of the small market town, where the first person they saw was Timothy. Leaving Henry to see to the horses, Matthew strode into the inn, breathing easily—it seemed—for the first time that day.
‘William Brooke at your service, sir—landlord of this fine hostelry. How may I be of assistance?’
‘Good evening, Brooke. I understand Lady Ashby is a guest here tonight? I wish to see her.’
The innkeeper lowered his gaze. ‘Lady Ashby, sir? I’m sure I couldn’t say. Might I ask who is enquiring?’
Matthew resisted the urge to grab the fool by his neck. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked down his nose at Brooke. ‘My good man,’ he announced haughtily, ‘I am Lord Ashby. Now, please be so good as to conduct me to my wife.’
The innkeeper bowed low, almost wringing his hands in his obsequiousness. ‘My humblest apologies, my lord, I wasn’t expecting you. Your lady is in the private parlour, if you would please follow me?’
Matthew followed Brooke along a passageway to the rear of the inn. The innkeeper paused outside a closed door and Matthew stayed him before he could announce Matthew’s presence.
‘Thank you, Brooke, that will be all. If you could see that we are not disturbed, I should be grateful.’
‘Very good, my lord.’ Brooke backed away, bowing as he retreated.
The fear that had plagued Matthew since before dawn that morning receded only to be replaced by a rush of anger, stoked by Brooke’s meek acceptance of his identity.
I could be anybody.
He hauled the door open and stepped inside the room.
There, sitting at her ease on a comfortable sofa, glass of wine in hand, was the object of all his fretting and fears throughout the long day. Relief exploded through him and all his pent-up emotions surged to the fore as he slammed the door shut and crossed the room in three swift strides.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_2fc359e4-4ec3-5b94-805e-08310c37ec6f)
Eleanor’s eyes flew open, fear seizing her throat as the door crashed shut, startling her from her drowsy thoughts. She barely had time to register his identity before Matthew Thomas was looming over her, taking her glass from her hand and hauling her to her feet. Before she could utter a word, she found herself clasped in a pair of strong arms, her head pressed hard against a broad chest, the sound of his heart thundering in her ear.
‘Thank God you are safe.’
As soon as his hold relaxed, she pushed her hands between them, against his chest, leaning back to look into his face.
‘Mr Thomas...whatever is wrong? Why are you here?’
He met her gaze with eyes that swirled with anger and fear. What had happened? Why was he so anxious? How had he found her? She gradually became aware of their surroundings. They were entirely alone, in the private parlour she had reserved for use by herself and Aunt Lucy, who was resting in her room. How did he get in? Where was Brooke?
Matthew held her gaze, his ragged breathing loud in the silence of the room. She pushed harder against him and stepped back. Instantly, his gaze sharpened and he gripped her shoulders, preventing her from retreating further, wringing a gasp from her.
‘I have been searching for you...following you...trying to catch up with you...worrying about you...’
‘But...why? I thought you were—’
‘You need protection. I—’
‘Protection?’
Eleanor, now with her wits fully about her, stiffened. This was about Aunt Lucy’s ludicrous idea that the fire and the shooting were somehow connected. For one fleeting, joyful second she had thought maybe he had followed her for her own sake—because he felt something for her. As speedily as the thought arose, she quashed it, inwardly berating herself for being a romantic fool, beguiled by a handsome face and rugged charm. She and Mr Thomas were worlds apart.
‘It seems to me the only protection I am in need of is from you.’
Her heart quailed as his eyes flared and he stepped closer. The heat emanating from him surrounded her as his breath fanned her hair, but she was determined not to reveal her rising alarm and stood her ground, glaring up at him as his eyes pierced hers.
‘A young girl was attacked—’ He stopped abruptly, his voice cracking with emotion, his expression haunted.
‘What...? Attacked? But...what has that to do with me?’
‘I’ve been frantic. If anything had happened to you, I—’
‘Mr Thomas! You’re making no sense. You said someone had been attacked?’
Matthew swiped one hand through his disordered locks and took a hasty turn about the room, returning to stand in front of an increasingly concerned Eleanor.
He hauled in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘She was asleep in the room that had been reserved for you. At the inn in Stockport. Luckily, she screamed and fought him off for long enough for help to arrive. Her attacker ran away, but she ended up with several knife wounds.’
‘Oh, the poor, poor thing.’ Eleanor’s stomach churned as the full significance of Matthew’s words finally sank in. ‘But...you said...in my room? That poor girl was attacked in the bed I would have slept in?’
Her hand rose to her mouth and she felt herself sway. Matthew was by her side instantly, arms around her as she leant gratefully into his solid strength. He helped her to the sofa and sat by her side, holding her hand, rubbing his thumb gently across her knuckles.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said faintly. ‘I am not normally...that is, it was such a shock.’
She raised her gaze to his, only to find his face much closer than she had anticipated.
‘For me, too,’ he murmured, his blue eyes darkening. ‘I can’t bear to think...’ His voice tailed away as he cradled her cheek and slowly lowered his head.
Eleanor stilled as warm breath feathered her skin. Lips—surprisingly soft and tender—brushed hers...once, twice...then settled, moving enticingly. She leaned into him, feeling his hand in her hair. Pleasure and anticipation spiralled through her as her lips relaxed and she pressed closer. As his tongue probed her mouth, she raised her restless hand to caress his cheek, but her action seemed to return him to his senses. He wrenched his lips from hers and jumped up from the sofa.
‘I’m sorry.’ Harsh lines bracketed his mouth.
Eleanor tried to gather her wits, to understand what had just happened.
‘I shouldn’t have done that... I had no intention... It was a mistake,’ he said, and then muttered, as if to himself, ‘I do not need complications.’
‘Complications?’
The word jarred, rousing Eleanor from her dreamlike stupor.
He looked distant and reserved and didn’t quite meet her eyes as he said, ‘Please forget that ever happened.’
‘You regret kissing me?’
Humiliation flooded Eleanor. She had allowed a virtual stranger to kiss her, and had kissed him back, without a murmur of protest. She was her mother’s daughter all right. Blood will out. Aunt Phyllis’s voice—accusatory, censorious—echoed in her head.
‘Yes. No!’ He turned abruptly from her, raking his hand through his hair once more before facing her again. His eyes met hers, and softened. ‘No, I cannot regret it. But I forgot myself. I was frantic with worry, but that is no excuse for my behaviour. You are a lady and I like to suppose myself a gentleman, despite my station in life, yet at the first opportunity I have behaved like the lowest of rogues.’
Complications. The word rankled. He obviously regretted his impulsive embrace. For that is what it had been—an impulse. He had found her alone and taken advantage, stealing a kiss simply because he could. Now, he was shouldering the blame in order to make her feel better and to excuse her shameful conduct in returning his embrace. Furious with herself, Eleanor turned and would have left the room without a further word had Aunt Lucy not chosen that very moment to come in, her bright gaze darting from one to the other before lingering for some time on Eleanor’s hot cheeks, triggering another surge of shame.
‘Why, Mr Thomas,’ Aunt Lucy said at length, her voice icy, ‘how very nice to see you again so soon. I had understood you to be heading in a quite different direction from ourselves. Had I been informed of your presence, I should have made sure I came down to greet you immediately. I am, after all, Eleanor’s chaperon. I can see I shall have to keep a wary eye on you, sir—it is so very easy for a woman to lose her reputation, as I am sure you are aware.’
Eleanor cringed inside. Not only did Mr Thomas now have a complete disgust of her wanton response to his advances, but Aunt Lucy’s suspicions had also been aroused. She could wonder at neither of them, for she had no less disgust for herself. Gathering her pride, she walked to the door and opened it, standing to one side.
‘Mr Thomas is just leaving, Aunt Lucy. He has said all he needs to say.’
She raised her chin, boldly meeting his gaze. He might have crushed her feelings, but she would rather die than reveal her humiliation.
‘Oh, no, I’m not,’ Matthew retorted, holding her gaze for what seemed an eternity before switching his attention to Aunt Lucy. ‘I have brought grave news, Lady Rothley, news that has serious implications for the safety of your niece.’
Eleanor clamped her teeth shut on the remark she longed to fling at his head. How had the mere touch of his lips managed to block the news of the attack from her mind?
‘What news do you bring? What implications?’ Aunt Lucy sank on to the sofa and beckoned Eleanor to sit by her side. ‘Please, Mr Thomas, be seated—’ she waved her hand at the chair opposite ‘—and explain yourself.’
‘Last night, a young woman was attacked in the White Lion in Stockport,’ he said. ‘She was attacked by an intruder wielding a knife as she slept in one of the bedchambers reserved for your party. I occupied the other.’
Aunt Lucy gasped, turning stricken eyes to Eleanor, who took her hand, her fear giving way to annoyance at Matthew’s brutal telling of the story.
‘It does not mean,’ she said, ‘that the attack was intended for me. Surely...’ she faltered as Matthew focused his hard gaze on her once more ‘...surely, it must be a—’
‘Coincidence?’ Matthew interrupted roughly. ‘One coincidence I can believe, but two? So close together? It would now seem beyond doubt there is a pattern. There have been three attempts on your life in the past few weeks. It is time to take this threat seriously. Tell me, can you think of anyone who would wish you ill?’
‘Why, no, of course not. I’ve barely left Ashby Manor in the past seven years.’
The very idea was absurd.
‘Forgive me, but...your husband? Could he wish you harm?’
‘Husb— But I’m not married, Mr Thomas. Why would you believe that I am?’
‘Not married? But, how...? You’re a baroness. You must be wed, or...perhaps you’re a widow?’
Aunt Lucy put him straight. ‘My niece is a peeress in her own right. Unusual, to be sure, but not unheard of.’
Eleanor watched as Matthew digested this information. He looked, at best, not pleased. The implication of his belief she was married dealt a further blow to her already fragile self-esteem.
Was that why he kissed me, because I was a safe target? A married woman who might enjoy a flirtation in her husband’s absence?And how much more disgust must he feel now, knowing I’m single and yet returned his kiss?
‘Hmm, that puts a very different complexion on it.’
‘What possible difference does my being unmarried make?’ Shame made her sharp with him.
‘It makes every difference. There are many reasons to kill or harm another. Were you married, the reasons someone might wish to kill you might be hatred, or possibly jealousy or passion. But now, with greed as part of the equation, it begins to make more sense. May I ask—who is your heir?’
‘My cousin, James Weare.’
‘Then he must be our prime suspect.’
‘James? Never!’
‘Greed has driven more than one to kill, my lady. The lure of a peerage, and the power and privilege it bestows, is more than enough, quite apart from any wealth that accompanies it.’
Eleanor was silent, weighing Matthew’s words against her knowledge of her cousin and his character. The fear that had plagued her at odd moments over the past few weeks returned to gnaw at her insides and she shuddered, thinking of that poor girl who had been hurt.
That could have been me. But...no! Not James. He couldn’t...not the James I know. It’s just too horrible. This is nonsense. It must be nonsense.
Eleanor looked at Aunt Lucy and Matthew, both wearing the same troubled expression, and bitter resentment bubbled up inside. How dare he come here and scare her like this, accusing her much-loved cousin of trying to kill her?
She sprang from the sofa to pace the room. ‘No, I will not believe it. James and I grew up together at Ashby—we were like brother and sister. It makes no sense. If he had wanted to kill me he could have done so with ease many times. I am convinced the fire and the accident were unrelated.’ She rounded on Matthew. ‘I will thank you, sir, to keep such wild accusations to yourself.’
Chapter Ten (#ulink_8eb9dc87-8a9f-5a08-bfb1-daf67a8eab8a)
Eleanor’s agitated pacing prompted Matthew to abandon the topic of her cousin’s likely guilt rather than antagonise her further.
The news she was unmarried was an unwelcome shock. He was not the kind of man to dally with innocents—although, eyeing her determined stance as the baroness challenged him, innocent hardly seemed an apt description. But also, to his surprise—and equally unwelcome—was a spurt of pleasure that she was unattached. All nonsense, of course. What on earth could he, a lowly merchant without even the backing of his family name, offer a wealthy baroness? His plans for the future were set. He would work hard to build up a successful business and then he would take the greatest satisfaction in repaying his father every last shilling of his debts. He would prove that the son so easily disowned had made a success of his life without his family’s backing.
That kiss, though... He clamped down his desire to taste Eleanor’s sweet lips again. Concentrate on the matter in hand, man...surely it’s serious enough to warrant your full attention without being waylaid by such thoughts.
‘You are in danger, my lady,’ he said. ‘That is a fact and, regardless of who might wish you ill, you must take all possible measures to ensure your safety until the culprit is found.’
‘Mr Thomas is right.’ Lady Rothley went to Eleanor, taking her hands. ‘Oh! It doesn’t bear thinking about. That could have been you attacked in your bed. You could have been murdered.’ Her voice quavered. ‘Please, Ellie, do not be stubborn. Surely you must see these happenings cannot all be coincidence? What do you suggest we do, Mr Thomas? Should we return to Ashby? Will that be safer than London?’
‘It might be the wisest move.’
Eleanor directed a scathing look at Matthew. ‘I’m sorry you are so troubled, Aunt, but I have no intention of returning to Ashby. Besides, Batley, if you remember, was concerned that the house cannot be made secure during the renovations, so we would be no safer there.’
‘Who is Batley?’
Eleanor scorched Matthew with an impatient glance. ‘He is my bailiff. No, we will not return to the Manor. We shall continue our journey to London. And that,’ she added, jabbing her finger in Matthew’s direction, ‘is not up for negotiation.’
Matthew bit back his instinctive retort. There was no point in quarrelling with Eleanor in the mood she was in. Never had he come across such an opinionated female.
‘I can see you are determined to have your way, Eleanor,’ Lady Rothley said, ‘so I shall not try to dissuade you. But I give you warning—unless you treat this seriously, we shall return to Ashby, whether you like it or not.’ At Eleanor’s mutinous look, she continued, ‘If I leave London, you will have no option other than to accompany me. You could not remain there unchaperoned. Think of the scandal.’
Eleanor visibly subsided. Her aunt’s emphasis on the word ‘scandal’ must have some particular meaning for her. Matthew wondered if she had been embroiled in some sort of scandal in the past. Was that why she was still unmarried?
Lady Rothley returned to the sofa. ‘What precautions would you advise us to take, Mr Thomas?’
‘The servants accompanying you must be put on the alert immediately, as must the whole of your household in town as soon as you arrive,’ Matthew said. ‘I will escort you for the remainder of your journey and your niece must take care never to go out unaccompanied. And by that—forgive me, Lady Rothley—I mean that she must take someone other than yourself for protection.’
He watched the conflicting emotions chase each other across Eleanor’s expressive countenance. He knew she was still mortified by their kiss, but that could not be the only reason she was so determined to hide her fears over the murder. Was it her reluctance to accept her cousin’s involvement?

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