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Dangerous Lord, Seductive Miss
Mary Brendan
Lord…libertine…lawbreaker? Heiress Deborah Cleveland jilted an earl for Randolph Chadwicke. He promised he would come back for her. But then he disappeared… Seven years later Randolph, now Lord Buckland, bursts back into Deborah’s life! She’s unmarried and penniless, he’s as sinfully attractive as ever – but this time he isn’t offering marriage…Worst of all, he seems to be involved with the murderous local smugglers. Can Deborah resist the dark magnetism of the lawless lord? Regency Rogues Ripe for a scandal. Ready for a bride.



‘You’re a very seductive lady, and undoubtedly we still like one another enough to want to keep in touch, don’t you think?’
Deborah moistened her lips. His mocking, lustful tone had lacked the emotion she craved to hear. A searching glance at his smouldering eyes told her that with just a little encouragement from her he’d see off the Captain and come back to her in minutes, not days. He very much wanted her—but not as he once had, as his wife. Next time when he returned to Woodville Place he would proposition her, and to her shame she knew if he did so whilst touching her she might be tempted to accept an offer to be his mistress.

AUTHOR NOTE
Regency Rogues—Ripe for a Scandal. Ready for a Bride.
A roguish gentleman can be devastatingly attractive to a genteel lady—especially when she’s already had a taste of loving him and regrets losing him.
In CHIVALROUS RAKE, SCANDALOUS LADY the heroine is unwilling to succumb to a rejected suitor’s offer to be his mistress, despite being sorely tempted to do so. The vengeful rogue has a fiancée, and the heroine has a secret that should remain hidden if she is to salvage what remains of her reputation.
This second book in the duet, DANGEROUS LORD, SEDUCTIVE MISS, finds the heroine under threat from a gang of local ruffians. Then she is unexpectedly reunited with the hero many years after their youthful romance ended in a bitter parting. But is he a villain too? And does he present a greater danger … to her heart?
I hope you enjoy reading about how these couples overcome scandal and heartache to eventually find love and happiness.

About the Author
MARY BRENDAN was born in North London, but now lives in rural Suffolk. She has always had a fascination with bygone days, and enjoys the research involved in writing historical fiction. When not at her word processor, she can be found trying to bring order to a large overgrown garden, or browsing local fairs and junk shops for that elusive bargain.

Novels by the same author:
WEDDING NIGHT REVENGE
(#ulink_71abd4ad-0e9a-5622-9d99-2d76264a7e26)
THE UNKNOWN WIFE
(#ulink_71abd4ad-0e9a-5622-9d99-2d76264a7e26)
A SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE
(#ulink_71abd4ad-0e9a-5622-9d99-2d76264a7e26)
THE RAKE AND THE REBEL
(#ulink_71abd4ad-0e9a-5622-9d99-2d76264a7e26)
A PRACTICAL MISTRESS
(#ulink_b8da3ff8-c1b5-55bc-8350-3a906000c2fd)
THE WANTON BRIDE
(#ulink_b8da3ff8-c1b5-55bc-8350-3a906000c2fd)
THE VIRTUOUS COURTESAN
(#ulink_cf99e8cb-c9d8-50d5-8679-b3d18aaefd82)
THE RAKE’S DEFIANT MISTRESS
(#ulink_cf99e8cb-c9d8-50d5-8679-b3d18aaefd82)
CHIVALROUS RAKE, SCANDALOUS MISTRESS
(#ulink_76ed691f-cffd-5885-b151-40d2d1e2bef8)

(#ulink_e387a4b0-e845-560c-a773-4f10cc609654)The Meredith Sisters

(#ulink_df0d7de7-90e5-51f9-a155-ab21ae90d135)The Hunter Brothers

(#ulink_65b9e97e-a2ce-52c8-8e77-445e16cd23c6)linked by character

(#ulink_bb4b11dd-4510-55ad-89c3-606df5e41185)Regency Rogues
DANGEROUS LORD, SEDUCTIVE MISS
Mary Brendan






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

Prologue
Coastal Sussex, circa 1828
‘Do I have a choice in the matter?’
‘You can refuse if you wish, my lord,’ Colonel Montague replied stiffly.
The Colonel shifted to evade the glare of a pair of hawk-like eyes. The question directed at him had been uttered with an unnerving softness. If the fellow had bellowed at him, unleashing an anger he sensed was being tightly controlled, he might have preferred it.
Lord Buckland lounged back in the chair before coming abruptly to his feet, his bitter laugh shattering the tense silence that had developed. Having strolled to the window, he propped his tall frame against the crooked timber with a large brown hand. The view, had he chosen to pay attention to it, was quite picturesque. From his vantage point in the Colonel’s office he could admire a quaint harbour scene complete with weatherbeaten old salts preparing fishing boats for sea, all set against a backdrop of mellow, autumnal hues. ‘And what would be the consequence of such a refusal?’ Lord Buckland demanded harshly over a shoulder. ‘Will my mother and sister be ousted from their home and left destitute?’
‘It’s possible the crown might move to reclaim the Buckland estate.’
‘It’s more than damn well possible, and you know it.’ Lord Buckland pivoted about and his amber eyes swooped on the Colonel’s ruddy face. The fellow was embarrassed, and so he should be. A more blatant case of blackmail would be hard to imagine. And he had little choice but to knuckle under to it. ‘The continuing comfort of my family is a very strong bargaining tool as you’re well aware.’
‘Be sensible, sir,’ Gordon Montague said persuasively, as he fiddled a finger between his throat and his collar. ‘Your brother has caused grave problems for you all. You’ve a chance to put things right and in doing so will keep your family’s reputation safe. In addition, you’ve the prospect of earning a magnificent sum.’ The Colonel’s coaxing smile faded, for there was no reciprocal lightening in my lord’s grim, sardonic expression on hearing that a king’s ransom was to be had. He spread his hands appealingly. ‘There’s the matter of your brother’s body, too. Surely you want it properly laid to rest? Sebastian will be given a Christian burial instead of remaining hanging on a gibbet till the crows have done their devilish work. Think of your mother’s feelings and your sister’s. Your father, God rest his soul, would have been desolate to know how things have turned out for you all. He would rely on you to do your utmost to ease their distress and contain a scandal.’
An acerbic smile tugged upwards a corner of Lord Buckland’s thin lips. Inwardly he damned the Colonel to perdition for reminding him of what he couldn’t forget. The duty to his family and the Buckland reputation—what remained of it—must determine his decision and therefore there was only one answer to give to the proposition that had been laid before him. He limited his agreement to a curt nod, simply a tightening of his mouth indicating his resentment at having been backed in to a corner.
‘Do you want these?’
The Colonel opened a drawer in the desk to reveal some documents. ‘There are papers here that might be of considerable use—names … places—’
‘I need nothing,’ Lord Buckland brusquely interrupted. ‘I’ll find my own way.’
‘But … why? These may help.’
‘Who else knows what’s in that little lot?’
‘Only the most loyal and trustworthy individuals.’ Indignation brought ruddy colour in to the Colonel’s cheeks.
‘Tell that to the dragoon who last week had his head caved in on Hastings beach, betrayed, no doubt, by someone who had knowledge of what’s in documents such as those. The soldiers were ambushed.’
The Colonel coughed and loosened his neckcloth at that reminder of the recent injury sustained by an officer on the south coast. He frowned at the tall man lounging back against the window, blocking the light with the athletic breadth of his shoulders. ‘Are you saying you think we have a traitor in our midst?’
‘I’m saying I’ll trust no one, not even you, to protect me in this.’
‘I’ll report back that you’ll do it, shall I?’ The Colonel shoved the papers again out of sight.
‘You may tell his Majesty that I’ll need the wherewithal to get started,’ Lord Buckland bit back. ‘But then he knows I’m desperate for funds, doesn’t he, or he wouldn’t have me squirming beneath his thumb.’
Within a moment Lord Buckland was at the door and had jerked it open. ‘I’m staying at the White Hart in Lowestoft. You can get a message to me there. I’d like to journey south before the end of the week.’

Chapter One
‘Your anger is understandable in the circumstances, Miss Woodville, but you must understand that there is little I can do.’
Deborah Woodville cast a glinting blue eye on the fellow seated behind the desk. ‘I understand no such thing, sir,’ she responded crisply. ‘You are a local magistrate, are you not, and therefore responsible for upholding the law?’ she reminded him of his office, hoping it might shame him into offering to do something to punish the vicious bullies who had set about one of her servants earlier that afternoon. Frederick Cook drove her carriage and he’d been knocked unconscious by two louts simply for remonstrating with them for using disrespectful language in her vicinity. The worst thing was that she knew it was she whom they meant to hurt. But she was a Lady of Quality and so far had been protected by her gentility in this rural backwater in East Sussex. Today the despicable cowards had vented their spite and frustration on her loyal manservant. But danger was coming closer and Deborah feared it might not be long before the ruffians breached the final barrier and laid their horny hands on her.
‘I am privileged to hold the office of Justice of the Peace.’ Roderick Savidge acknowledged his authority with a stately dip of his auburn head. ‘But you must know how it is—the people hereabouts are close-lipped when questions are asked about their kith and kin. It would be impossible to get witnesses. Did you see it, Miss. Woodville?’
‘I did not; I have said I had gone in to the draper’s shop and came out to find Fred bleeding in the road. When he came to, he told me he’d been attacked by two men who’d spouted abuse about me.’
‘Can he describe his attackers?’
That was a tricky question to answer and her hesitation became more marked as blood seeped in to Deborah’s cheeks. She was quite sure that her driver could describe them. She’d go further and say she believed he knew their names, but he would not identify them. Frederick worked for her and her mother and lodged with them at Woodville Place, situated midway between Rye and Hastings. But his parents and siblings lived in a village close by. Fred wouldn’t want them to suffer the consequences should he stir an investigation into the villains who ruled the roost in this neighbourhood.
Mr Savidge gave a sigh that terminated in a sympathetic smile. ‘I know the difficulties, you see, Miss Woodville, and understand why your servant has chosen to keep quiet,’ he commiserated. ‘Decent people might want to eject these felons from their midst, but they fear reprisals if they speak out.’
‘But I do not fear reprisals, sir, and I shall say that I believe it was one or both of the Luckhurst brothers who beat Frederick. Will you apprehend them for questioning?’
‘If you will forgive me, your attitude towards your safety—and you risk your mother’s, too, of course—is not wise, Miss Woodville.’ Mr Savidge frowned. ‘As for apprehending likely suspects, it would be pointless issuing the warrants, my dear.’ A patronising smile writhed on his fleshy lips. ‘There is little chance of a conviction without a witness or even the victim’s testimony to rely on. You will simply stir more enmity towards yourself and your kin by persevering with this. Fred’s injuries will no doubt mend and perhaps he will in future think before he lets loose his tongue.’
‘The risk of becoming increasingly unpopular does not worry me,’ Deborah snapped, tilting up her shapely little chin in a way that denied the nausea rolling in her stomach. ‘Why should Fred not voice his disgust for such boorish behaviour?’ She knew she was dicing with danger, but she would not, could not, stand by and let bullies dictate her life or shape her character.
Mr Savidge picked up a little bell on his desk as though he would cover her complaints with its clatter. ‘You will take tea, Miss Woodville?’
‘No … thank you,’ Deborah refused immediately. ‘You have said you will not arrest the Luckhursts so I shall be on my way.’ The fellow’s eyes were lingering on her in a way she didn’t like. She found his pale blue regard unsettling and she did not want to tarry a moment longer than necessary in his company. It seemed he had no intention of sending out the dragoons to investigate the assault on Fred and bring the culprits to court, so it was pointless remaining. She stood up and gave a single nod in mute farewell.
‘You have done little to encourage the villagers to show good will towards your family, you know, Miss Woodville.’ Mr Savidge had gained his feet whilst speaking and carefully replaced the little brass bell on the desk.
Deborah turned, her hand still gripping the doorknob. A sparking sapphire gaze was levelled on his worship. ‘And I think you know, sir, why that is. We have endured much trouble and heartache at the hands of some of the locals. It is hard to like people who choose violence and lawlessness as a way of life.’
‘Indeed, it was shocking what happened to your fiancé. But some years have passed now and the fellow responsible got his just deserts.’
Deborah knew that he was referring to an individual who had been nicknamed Snowy on account of his prematurely white shock of hair. It was generally held that he’d been responsible for Edmund’s murder. The authorities had hunted the fellow but, before he could be captured and brought before a court, Snowy had been found dead in the lane. It had been murmured he’d come before another court: that of the smugglers themselves. They’d rid themselves of him rather than have the militia forcing entry to every house in the locality to discover if a neighbour was hiding him. No villager would want the authorities prying in cupboards and cellars for fear of what illicit goods they might find.
‘Smuggling is entrenched in the communities hereabouts,’ Mr Savidge began. ‘City people don’t always understand the ways and customs of coastal folk. Your late stepfather had a more …’ he hesitated as though seeking the right word and then pounced upon ‘… mellow outlook on free-trading. A lot of the gentry in the vicinity feel the same way. Live and let live is a sensible motto for outsiders who intend to stay a while in these parts and dwell amongst the rascals.’
‘I expect there is the added advantage of a barrel of brandy or a pound of tea as a reward for those prepared to turn a blind eye,’ Deborah remarked sourly.
‘I would advise you to keep such frank opinions to yourself, my dear.’ Mr Savidge’s bland tone did not quite correspond with a sharp glitter in his eyes.
‘Had my fiancé not been murdered by those endearing rascals,’ Deborah said scathingly, ‘perhaps I might heed your good advice. But never will I be moved by the romantic myth of it all. The Luckhursts and their ilk are brutal criminals and should be brought to justice.’
‘It is not at all wise to say so, Miss Woodville,’ Mr Savidge cautioned her. ‘You and your mother are living alone with just a few servants to protect you.’
‘Indeed, we are alone; it seems we cannot rely on the law of the land or its servants to come to our aid,’ Deborah concluded damningly. With an angry frown creasing her ivory brow, she jerked open the door and exited the building.
The most galling thought, she acknowledged as she emerged into the autumn sunlight, was that his worship’s attitude might be anathema to her, but it was undeniably logical. She should turn a blind eye, for she could no more stop the smugglers going about their business than she could control the tides that washed the shores they used for their illicit trade. But how could she forgive or forget when Edmund lay buried in St Andrew’s churchyard, run through simply for carrying out his army duties?
‘Debbie!’
Roiling thoughts rendered Deborah deaf to her friend hailing her. A second summons brought her head up and she spun about. A smile immediately lightened her delicate, fair features as she spied Harriet Davenport hurrying towards her.
Deborah clasped the gloved hands that Harriet had extended in greeting and the two ladies proceeded to walk arm in arm along Hastings Upper Street. The stiff breeze blowing off the seafront made them lower their bonnet peaks to protect their complexions from a briny buffeting.
‘I saw you coming out of the magistrate’s house,’ Harriet began. ‘Is Mr Savidge going to try to find those responsible for beating Fred?’
‘I’m afraid not. He says it would be a pointless exercise.’ Deborah sighed and tucked a wispy honey-coloured curl behind an ear. ‘Mr Savidge regrets he has no assistance to give, other than to issue his opinions.’
‘Which are?’ Harriet asked expectantly.
‘I should keep quiet and mind my own business.’ Deborah pursed her lips ruefully. ‘As I retired to bed last night I could see lights moving in the woods again. The smugglers were about their work.’
As Harriet heard her friend’s comment, her teeth sank into her lower lip. ‘Mr Savidge has a point, you know, Debbie,’ she said carefully. ‘We all know it is not right, but it is best not to cross them.’
‘Indeed,’ Deborah agreed with a grimace. ‘What can be done if even the local magistrate is in cahoots with the felons?’
‘Do you think he is?’ Harriet gasped, her eyes widening.
Deborah shrugged. ‘Actively? I doubt it. But I imagine he would describe his own attitude to those depriving his Majesty’s treasury of funds as mellow.’ She sighed. ‘I know from experience that even people who can afford to pay full price for their luxuries are not averse to buying them cheaply.’
Indeed, she knew that very well; Woodville Place still had a residual amount of contraband stashed in its cellars and larders from her late stepfather’s days.
After her father had died and her mother had married again, to a country squire, she had been loath to quit her fashionable Mayfair life at the age of nineteen and move permanently to a remote country house. She still would prefer to live in London, but over the years she’d grown to appreciate the natural beauty of her new surroundings. She’d become fond of her stepfather. George Woodville had been kind and generous to her and had been an amiable sort of chap. At first it would have been hard to find something in him to which she might object. But eventually she had.
She could clearly recall her first sight of the smugglers at close quarters. It had been on a midsummer night of unbearable humidity when the twilight barely dwindled, but remained till dawn. She had risen from her bed and settled on the windowseat to get some air. For some minutes she’d sat quietly, her chin resting in her cupped palms, listening to a soothing sound of distant surf rushing on shingle. A few bobbing lights had drawn her attention and alerted her to people approaching in the early hours of that pale, misty morning. Then she’d spotted the shape of a donkey cart lumbering up the incline towards their door and in its wake two more beasts laden with a keg slung on each fat flank. She’d watched, agog with curiosity, as fellows unloaded and rolled barrels towards the side of the house where a cellar opened in the earth. She’d caught fragments of a furtive exchange that had taken place between Basham and a burly fellow holding a flare who’d pocketed the cash handed to him by their manservant.
She had gone downstairs early to breakfast alone and her innocent questions had caused the serving girls to blush and giggle and scurry hither and thither with coffee and chocolate pots to avoid answering her. Basham had uncovered the dish of kedgeree for her with a flourish, then a wink and a tap at the side of his nose had warned her to ask no more. At nineteen she’d deemed herself a woman grown, not a child, and she had resented their attitude that it was some sort of secret from which she must be excluded. When she’d insisted on knowing what was going on, Basham had reported that back to the master of the house. Her stepfather had duly made a point of gently chiding her for her inquisitiveness about something that need not concern her. Bit by bit thereafter Deborah had pieced together the puzzle from overheard comments made by the servants and the locals. It became clear to her that not all thought it a shameful trade; a lot of people deemed the outlaws who ran contraband worthy of their pride and loyalty.
Her stepfather might not have held those fellows in high esteem, but he obviously gave tacit permission for their booty to enter his house.
That first introduction to the smugglers had been five years ago. Two and a half years later she’d become engaged to Edmund Green. It was to be a tragically brief betrothal. He had been killed within four months by one of the smugglers in an affray with the dragoons on coast watch.
Her solemn musing was interrupted as she spied Harriet’s brother emerging from a large, elegant house set back from the road. Her expression turned wry as she saw he’d caught his vicar’s robe in the gate and was fighting to free it from the hinge. Having adjusted his dress, the Reverend Gerard Davenport banged shut the gate with discernible irritation.
‘Gerard seems to have finished his meeting with the bishop earlier than expected.’ Harriet had also caught sight of her brother and waved at him. ‘I hope he is going to take me to Rye market.’ She gave her friend a smile. ‘It is always nice when Susanna is from home,’ she said, referring to her sister-in-law with a frown. ‘It is like the old times when Gerard and I would go shopping or visiting without a sour puss sitting between us on the seat.’
Gerard Davenport had married for the first time when he’d just turned forty. His wife, Susanna, was only a few years older than her sister-in-law. Harriet was twenty-eight but she had always got on very well with her older brother, and they had lived in peace and harmony at the vicarage until Gerard had decided it was time to get a wife and family.
He’d found his wife too quickly, Harriet was wont to mutter. She knew very well that Susanna resented her presence in what she classed as her domain, but Gerard maintained his sister was welcome beneath his roof for as long as she wanted to remain there.
‘Why do you not come to Rye, too, and forget all this unpleasantness for a short while?’ Harriet suggested. ‘Perhaps Mrs Woodville might like an invitation. An outing will do you both good.’
‘I’d like to go with you,’ Deborah said wistfully. ‘But … Mama has been suffering with her heads recently. I sent Fred back with the trap.’ She sighed. ‘I told him to bathe his face and rest a while in case he again came over queer. I shall walk home …’ Her soft lips remained parted as though she had more to say, but had been distracted.
Deborah had been intermittently flicking glances about at the street scene whilst conversing with her friend. She’d just noticed a gentleman emerge from the blacksmith’s doorway and she continued to gaze in his direction so steadily that Harriet frowned at her.
‘What is it?’
‘I thought I recognised someone,’ Deborah said with a hollow little laugh. Her heart had ceased beating for those few seconds she’d stared and wondered if it could possibly be him. The man had again gone inside the forge, and she was no longer able to scrutinise him from a distance. Now, as her lurching stomach steadied, she realised just how silly she’d been to imagine that Randolph Chadwicke would be so far from home. His home now, to the best of her knowledge, was in the Indies and had been so for many years. If he were back in England on a visit, she imagined he would either be found in Suffolk, where his family lived, or in Mayfair where he used to lease a town house. Perhaps he still did. She knew nothing of him now, nor did she want to. But once … once she’d been keen to know everything about him. She’d wanted him for her husband.
‘How are you, Deborah?’ Gerard asked solicitously as he joined them and slipped his sister’s hand through the crook of an arm. He gave Harriet’s gloved fingers a fond pat before launching into speech. ‘I saw Fred mopping his face of blood this morning. He told me that some local ruffians had set about him. Would you like me to speak to Savidge about it to find out what can be done, my dear?’
A grateful smile rewarded the vicar for his offer. ‘That’s kind, Gerard,’ Deborah said. ‘But I have already been to see him.’
‘Mr Savidge thinks that nothing should be done,’ Harriet told her brother flatly.
‘It’s a dreadful to do when even the local magistrate is too scared of the villains to act.’ Gerard Davenport sadly shook his head. He looked at Deborah for a response, but again her wide blue eyes were riveted elsewhere.
The tall gentleman had emerged from the smithy and she no longer was presented with his profile. He’d turned her way, causing a small gasp of disbelief to escape her soft lips.
Almost as though he sensed her eyes on him, he looked up. At first there was nothing, just the slightly sardonic, narrow-eyed interest of a gentleman who has caught an attractive young woman watching him. Then she saw the change in him, saw the hand that had been smoothing the sleek flank of the newly shod bay become still. He looked down before slowly raising his head to stare at her, and with such fierce intensity that Deborah felt her face flinch aside as though to evade a blow. A moment later she was aware of him approaching.

Chapter Two
‘Miss Cleveland?’
It was a long while since Deborah had been addressed so and it brought with it a poignant memory of her time as the débutante daughter of Viscount Cleveland. At eighteen she’d been the toast of the ton, and newly single, having broken her engagement to the heir to an earldom.
He’d spoken before reaching her, a query accenting her name. He’d thought, too, that his eyes might be deceiving him, Deborah realised. A darting glance at her companions confirmed they were swinging interested looks between the two of them.
George Woodville had been her stepfather, not her sire, but since she’d arrived in Sussex with her remarried mother, people had seemed to assume she would want to be a Woodville too. Her father had been a peer of the realm, but he was not known in these parts, whereas the Squires Woodville could trace their prominence in Sussex gentry back as far as Cromwell’s days. It had seemed trivial to Deborah to keep pointing out that her mother might now be a Woodville, but she was not.
Harriet was cognisant with her history and Deborah could see the young woman retrieving the relevant snippet from her mind. She turned with her brother to gaze up at the ruggedly handsome stranger who had joined them.
‘Why … Mr Chadwicke … what a surprise to see you,’ Deborah uttered in a stiff, suffocated tone. It was not at all the first thing she had promised herself she would say should their paths ever again cross. But her good manners dictated that she remain polite in company. She could tell that her friends were impatient to be introduced to him, but his relentless golden gaze remained unnervingly on her face, causing colour to seep beneath her cheeks.
‘I should like to introduce you both to Mr Chadwicke, he is …’ Debbie hesitated and her uncertainty on how to continue caused a skewing of his narrow mouth. ‘Mr Chadwicke and I … have mutual friends,’ she resorted to saying. ‘This is the Reverend Mr Gerard Davenport and his sister Harriet,’ she concluded the niceties.
Randolph enclosed Gerard’s extended fingers in a large brown hand and gave them a firm shake. Harriet received a courteous bow coupled with a murmured greeting.
‘Are you related to the Somerset Chadwickes, sir?’ Gerard asked brightly.
‘I’m not,’ Randolph replied. ‘I hail from the east of Suffolk.’
‘Ah,’ Gerard said. ‘A good part of the country; I have been to Yarmouth on several occasions and have found it most pleasant. But the cold winds nigh on cut one in half.’
‘It can be bitter there in winter,’ Randolph agreed.
At close quarters, and having surreptitiously studied him from beneath her bonnet brim whilst he conversed with the vicar, Deborah was astonished she had so easily recognised him. Apart from those hazel eyes seeming just as wolfish as she remembered, he looked quite different. His hair, once nut brown, had been made fair by a foreign sun and streaked here and there to colours close to caramel. His skin tone, too, was weatherbeaten and his features roughened. He looked to be a man who had been brutalised by life and the elements since last she’d seen him. There was no more of the debonair youth in him. Yet something in her first glimpse of his profile, of his physique, had been achingly familiar to her.
‘Are you staying long in Hastings?’ Deborah blurted as a silence developed between them all.
‘I’m not sure, Miss Cleveland. Are you?’
‘I reside here now, sir,’ Deborah informed him levelly. ‘I live at Woodville Place with my mother. My stepfather, George Woodville, died just over two years ago.’
‘I had a communication from Marcus that your father had died,’ Randolph said gently. ‘I was very sad to hear that news. I knew, too, that your mother had remarried, but not that she was once again a widow. Neither was I aware you had permanently quit London for the country.’
‘My stepfather kept a small town house in Chelsea. Before he passed away we used it quite often in the Season. Now I believe his son lives there.’
A silence again strained, but it seemed that Mr Chad-wicke had no intention of taking his leave and returning to his horse. The blacksmith had emerged from his forge, looking for his customer; seeing him socialising, he’d tethered the magnificent beast more securely to a post before returning inside.
‘Are you away from Suffolk to visit relatives in the area?’ Gerard asked amiably.
‘I have no relatives in the area,’ Randolph once more told him. ‘I’ve travelled to the south coast on a business matter.’
‘And will it keep you here long, sir?’ Harriet asked politely.
‘Possibly,’ Randolph replied succinctly.
After a pause that vainly begged a better explanation Harriet reminded her brother, ‘Well…we must be going. You’ve promised to take me to Rye this afternoon and I’ve not forgotten. Are you sure you won’t come with us, Debbie?’
‘I must be getting along home,’ Deborah replied huskily, but with a small smile for her friend. The ruthless golden gaze was again savaging the side of her face and instinctively she raised a hand to touch her hot cheek.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately without being gawped at?’ Randolph said whilst watching the vicar and his sister strolling away towards their dogcart.
Deborah, too, had noticed that they were under observation. In London well-bred people would mask their inquisitiveness behind concealing lashes or fluttering fans; these simple country folk employed no such sophisticated tactics. They stared quite openly as they passed by.
‘Strangers always stir interest hereabouts,’ she explained to him. Deborah knew, too, that undoubtedly news was travelling on the grapevine that her driver had been involved in a brawl whilst protecting her.
‘Is there a tearoom we can go to?’
She had heard nothing from him in almost seven years. Now he wanted to sit and chat over tea!
Oh, there was much they could discuss that need not touch on the very thorny subject of their brief romance. They might swap news about their mutual friends, the Earl and Countess of Gresham. They could reminisce on the couple’s glittering wedding when she had been a bridesmaid and Randolph had been Marcus’s groomsman. It had been the last occasion they’d seen one another, seven years ago. The last time he’d kissed her passionately before forgetting about her.
‘There is a teashop, but I’m not sure that visiting it, or prolonging this meeting, is necessary, sir,’ Deborah rebuffed him coolly.
‘Not necessary?’ he ground out. ‘Have we nothing to say to one another after so long?’
‘If you had something to say to me, I imagine you would not have waited seven years to air it,’ Deborah snapped. She took a deep breath and looked away, striving for composure. She would not give him the satisfaction of guessing that she’d pined for him for years after he went away. She would never let him know that she’d wanted to write to him in the Indies but had felt unable to abase herself and beg an address from his friend, the Earl of Gresham, so she might do so. Nor would she have needed to do so if Randolph Chadwicke had been true to his parting words on that glorious day when Marcus Speer had married Jemma Bailey.
At the reception, away from prying eyes in an alcove in the hallway of Marcus’s magnificent mansion, Randolph had kissed her and told her that he must go away to sort out pressing family matters, but that he would write to her as soon as he could. Obviously he had never found the time or the inclination to put pen to paper and say where he was, or how he was doing, or when he would return and issue that unspoken proposal that had thrilled in the air between them. But no disaster had befallen him to prevent a communication. She had heard through her friends that Randolph Chadwicke was still in the Indies with his older brother.
‘I didn’t wait one year and well you know it,’ Randolph muttered viciously through his teeth. He’d deliberately put too little volume in the words. He was equally keen not to reveal he’d been wounded by their ill-starred attraction. ‘You sound as though you might have missed me, Miss Cleveland,’ Randolph drawled as his eyes roamed over her classic pearl-skinned profile.
This time she heard very well what he’d said, just as he’d intended she should. A bubble of laughter met his conceit, but she swallowed the immediate denial that sprang to her tongue. It would sound false however she expressed it. ‘Perhaps I did at first, sir,’ she insou-ciantly agreed. ‘But a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then.’ A smile was forced to her lips. ‘I was just a girl of eighteen when last we spoke.’ She raised cornflower-blue eyes to his, held his narrowed gaze for a significant long second whilst adding, ‘Now I am a woman.’ Her brashness withered beneath lupine eyes. She felt suddenly uneasy for having implied something that was quite untrue, and she was at a loss to know why she’d done it.
‘Despite all that water and experience you recognised me straight away,’ he reminded her very quietly.
‘As you did me,’ she returned in a snap and then swiftly turned to stare at the sea sparkling in the distance. Her mind was in turmoil. She felt unprepared and unequal to dealing with this meeting. Once she had longed for it to occur; she had prepared in minute detail what she would wear and what she would say. But the event had sprung up defiantly when she’d believed the chance of it doing so had expired. She was at a loss to recall any of that witty conversation that had for years whirled in her mind, and her outfit was sensible rather than seductive. ‘I didn’t intend to sound brusque a moment ago,’ she hastened on. What was she thinking of? Seductive? She no longer wished to attract him, she reminded herself. ‘I have rather a lot to do. I expect you, too, have a lot to do as you are in the area on business.’ She inclined her head towards the forge. ‘I see Donald Smith is again looking for you. He is a stickler, so I’ve heard, for having his bills immediately settled.’ She imagined Donald would not be too worried that this gentleman might abscond without paying. She ran a discreet eye over the impressive masculine figure beside her. His tailored jacket and snugly cut buff breeches were of obvious quality and the long leather riding coat that carelessly covered them looked to have been topstitched by a master craftsman. She remembered that she’d always admired how well his lofty, muscular body suited formal attire when they’d socialised together at balls and parties.
But all that was gone and forgotten. Charming and elegant he might have contrived to be, but she knew it all for a sham. He’d been a practised flirt and she’d been naïve enough to take his empty promises seriously. She extended gloved fingers. ‘It is nice to have met you again, Mr Chadwicke. I hope your business in the area goes well.’ It seemed he was not going to match her polite farewell. A firm clasp tightened on her hand as she made to slip it free after an appropriate time had passed.
‘I have to go home now. My mother will wonder what has become of me.’ Deborah again wriggled her fingers against the warmth of his palm whilst scouring her mind for a polite yet meaningless remark. ‘Of course, if you find business ever again brings you this way, sir, you must come and see us.’
He looked down at those fidgeting digits and slowly released them. ‘Thank you for the invitation,’ he said softly. ‘I shall call on you tomorrow afternoon.’
‘I didn’t mean this time—’ Deborah blurted before her pearly teeth nipped at her lower lip. She hadn’t intended to sound quite so inhospitable, but she wasn’t sure she could cope with again being tormented with his presence. This impromptu meeting had set her pulse accelerating alarmingly; she couldn’t countenance sitting and politely taking tea whilst brooding on memories of what had happened seven years ago. The disturbing knowledge that just ten minutes of his company had the power to stir to life embers of emotions she’d believed withered to ashes made her heart constrict beneath her ribs. ‘It would be better to leave a social call till your next trip to Sussex,’ she insisted, dipping her head in readiness to step away.
‘Why next time? I should like to see the Viscountess before I leave the area.’
‘She is plain Mrs Woodville now and not always in the best of health.’
‘Then I should certainly like to have the opportunity to pay my respects to her, if I may. I remember both your parents with fondness.’
Deborah looked about as though hoping something might catch her eye and allow her to distract him.
‘Where is your house?’
‘Oh … not far. It takes me only about twenty minutes if walking briskly towards Rye.’
‘You have no carriage or servants accompanying you today?’
‘I did set out with a vehicle and a driver …’ Deborah hesitated, feeling oddly reluctant to disclose to him the tale of her servant’s misfortune. She concluded there could be no harm in recounting what had happened to Fred. ‘My driver was set about by some bullies whilst I was shopping.’ She grimaced in a mix of regret and disgust at the memory of it. ‘I sent Fred on ahead in the trap so he might rest in case he is concussed.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ Randolph said, quietly adamant.
‘There’s no need,’ Deborah immediately countered. ‘I’m quite able to look after myself. But thank you in any case for your concern.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ Randolph repeated with such grit in his voice that Deborah blinked nervously at him. As though to impress on her that he meant what he said, he took her elbow and moved her determinedly with him towards the forge.
Once the bill had been paid, and Donald had tugged at his forelock several times before ambling back in to the smithy, they set off along the lane that led to Rye with the magnificent stallion clopping docilely at his master’s heels.
At first they proceeded in silence, both seemingly deep in their own thoughts. Debbie’s feverish mind had been occupied in searching for an innocuous topic of conversation that would skirt any past intimacy between them, yet be absorbing enough to fill the twenty minutes that stretched ahead. The most obvious subject was settled upon. Their mutual friends would provide all that was needed to fill the time until they reached Woodville Place.
‘I have recently had a letter from Jemma—’ ‘What caused those louts to attack your driver?’ They had spoken together and fell silent together too. Deborah realised she’d had no reason to fear he’d been brooding on their past and might increase her uneasiness by referring to it. She was unsure whether to feel relieved or indignant that Fred’s misfortune seemed of more interest to him.
Randolph indicated with a polite gesture that she should carry on.
‘I … I was just saying that I have recently had a communication from Jemma. She and Marcus have been visiting relations in Ireland since the early summer. They hope to return by late November and have invited us to join them at Gresham Hall for the Christmas holiday.’ Deborah slid a look up at him. ‘Do you regularly keep in touch with Marcus? I imagine you know they have a son as well as a daughter?’
‘The boy is named after me … at the end,’ he qualified wryly, a smile twitching his lips.
‘John Solomon Bailey Randolph Speer,’ Deborah recited softly the name of their friends’ infant son. ‘He must be toddling about now. His sister, Violet, is nearing her fifth birthday,’ she added, naming her sweet goddaughter.
‘You are one of Violet’s godmothers, I believe,’ Randolph remarked, slanting a look down on the top of her bonnet. He could see just a glimpse of her beautifully carved profile. A lock of honey-gold hair had tumbled forwards to dance against her cheek as she walked. Randolph’s left hand clenched as he suppressed the urge to brush back the curl, caressing her complexion. Once he would have touched her and she would have welcomed it. But not now. He’d sensed the frostiness in her from the first word she’d spoken to him. Whatever infatuation she’d had with him had long gone. Perhaps he shouldn’t have expected a woman as young and as stunningly lovely to wait for him while he went overseas. But, of course, she hadn’t waited, had she? he savagely reminded himself. She’d quickly forgotten him, and in time had become engaged to an army officer. But for the unlucky fellow’s demise she’d be a married woman.
She was presently tolerating his company because of good manners and because they shared mutual friends. Now he was back in England it was likely they would from time to time be thrown together whilst guests of the Earl and Countess of Gresham. She saw potential embarrassment in their forced proximity and was struggling to feel indifference for him. Unfortunately he knew he’d never manage to have such lack of feeling for her, much as he might want to.
Not for the first, or the thousandth, time in his life Randolph cursed his brother Sebastian to damnation. But for his selfish, licentious ways he wouldn’t be in this part of the country at all and Deborah Cleveland would still be just a shadow in his past. Gone … if not completely forgotten. Now she was again by his side and it seemed the most natural place for her to be. An unbidden curse broke beneath his breath at such maudlin romanticism and with enough volume for Deborah to hear his frustration.
‘I was asking about the men who set about your servant,’ Randolph reminded her to cover his lapse. ‘Did some sort of quarrel erupt between them?’
‘Yes,’ Deborah said and gazed into the distance, uncertain whether to admit that she’d been the unwitting cause of poor Fred getting a beating.
‘Over what did they quarrel?’ Randolph probed, a ghost of a smile acknowledging her reticence in informing him.
Deborah sighed. ‘As you are new to the area you probably know nothing of the horrible things that go on around these shores,’ she began. ‘My servant was simply protecting my reputation by remonstrating with some ruffians for being disrespectful. He got a beating for being loyal to me.’
Randolph stared straight ahead, his eyes narrowed to slits against the afternoon sun low in the sky. ‘And why would these ruffians want to be abusive about you?’ he asked exceedingly softly.
‘Because I hate them, and I make no bones about letting them know it,’ she returned forcefully. ‘I’m not going to act blind, deaf and dumb so that they may carry on unchallenged. But for them I would now be Edmund’s wife.’
A firm grip on her arm spun her about so she stood before him. ‘Explain exactly what you mean by that,’ he roughly demanded. His hands were on her shoulders, drawing her close; through the cloth of her cloak he could feel her quivering.
‘My fiancé was on coast watch and they killed him.’ Deborah’s voice shook with distress. ‘More recently another dragoon, Lieutenant Barrow, was wounded. He has a dreadful head injury and it is feared it will prove fatal.’
Randolph’s hands dropped away, then were again refastened on the soft tops of her arms. ‘Your fiancé was killed in a clash with smugglers?’ he said hoarsely.
Deborah nodded and her huge blue eyes glistened at him.
‘I’d heard from Marcus that you were betrothed to an army officer and that he’d been killed on duty,’ Randolph said softly. ‘That’s all I knew. I wasn’t aware how he’d died.’
‘He was murdered by the outlaws who infest this area,’ Deborah said querulously. ‘They hate me because I won’t forget or keep quiet about it.’
Randolph pulled her close, stilling her agitation against the warm, solid strength of his body. A hand was raised to tilt up her chin; slowly it slid to cup a cheek and to keep her looking at him.
Deborah felt her breath wedge in her chest. For a moment it seemed the years were peeled away and she was dressed not in sturdy outdoor clothes and chipstraw bonnet, but a pastel silk gown with gardenias threaded in her hair. She was not in an autumnal setting, serenaded by birdsong, but in the Earl of Gresham’s pale marble hallway with strains of a lilting melody drifting from the ballroom. But the gaze that was bathing her face with golden warmth was the same and her lids drooped as she anticipated Randolph’s lips bruising hers with a passion she recalled had left her feeling weak and dazed and so wonderfully happy. A second later the spell had been whipped away.
‘Hope we’re not interrupting.’ sneered a male voice.

Chapter Three
‘You are very much interrupting,’ Randolph returned in a lethal tone. He moved Deborah behind him and anchored her there with an unshakeable hold on her wrist. ‘So go away.’
‘You!’ Debbie spat whilst squinting against a gilded western sky to see the youngest Luckhurst brother grinning at her. She’d immediately recognised the owner of that coarse voice. Behind him were two other men of about the same age whom she’d noticed accompanying him on other occasions. ‘I know it was you who set about my driver, Seth Luckhurst—’ she began, before pressure on her wrist insisted she keep silent. She heeded Randolph’s warning and her teeth sank into her unsteady lower lip to stem further wrathful accusations. Thereafter her loathing was limited to glaring at the three men who were emerging from a thicket a few yards away. All were dressed in rough country garb, although a neckerchief knotted about Seth’s throat brightened his drab figure.
‘Are you deaf as well as stupid?’ Randolph enquired mildly. ‘I said your presence is unwelcome. Do you not understand English?’
A look of surprise passed between the men. They were used to issuing threats, not receiving them, but all of them were ready for a fight.
‘Don’t reckon it’s us wot’s stupid.’ Seth smirked as he swaggered closer. ‘You’re not from round here, are you, friend? If you was, you’d know not to cross me.’ One of his thumbs jabbed arrogantly at his chest. It rose to tip his hat back on his head in a cocky gesture, then both brawny fists were jammed on his hips. ‘If you fancy being a hero for Miss Woodville, I’ll give you a fight. Or you could just get going, y’know.’ Something about the stranger’s cool confidence was unsettling Seth Luckhurst despite the odds being stacked very much in his favour. ‘It’s her I’m after. I need to … talk to her,’ he finished on a lewd chuckle.
Randolph gave a sigh, as one might when one’s patience is being tested to its outer limit. ‘Unfortunately you can’t,’ he replied with weary courtesy. ‘I want to talk to her and my need is greater than yours.’ He let go of Deborah’s wrist and started to shrug off his leather coat as though readying himself to take up Seth’s offer of a fight.
Deborah immediately sought and gripped hard at one of his hands, unsure whether she did so to seek his security or to stop him brawling. He had little chance of success against three adversaries. She was as worried as much for Randolph’s safety as she was for her own. A finger traced a soft, secretive caress on her palm—a wordless instruction that she remain quiet and trust him. Randolph turned to his horse to deposit the garment over the saddle and pivoted back with a pistol in each hand.
An immediate gasp parted Deborah’s lips. She’d not even seen him remove the weapons from their repository, so coolly and smoothly had he handled them.
‘Be sensible and be on your way.’ Randolph’s suggestion held an amount of tedium.
Seth rubbed a nervous hand over his bristly jaw. ‘There’s three of us and you’ve only got two shots.’
‘And both of them are levelled on you,’ Randolph told him with a smile. He could tell that Seth was the ringleader and the others deferred to his authority. He seemed a common enough bully and Randolph suspected Luck-hurst would crumble when his own life was in serious peril.
‘Shoot me and they’ll get you,’ Seth blustered, but he’d backed away a pace.
‘Sensible move,’ Randolph drawled his praise.
Seth stopped on seeing his cronies peering at him askance. Turning tail so quickly would do nothing for the reputation of the Luckhursts. He and his brother, Zack, were feared as the area’s most brazen villains. If Zack found out what had gone on, he’d beat the living daylights out of him. Seth adjusted his hat and, beneath its lowered brim, ruminated whether his accomplices would blab that he’d retreated from a stranger who spoke and dressed like a town fop.
Sensing he was wavering, Randolph helped the fellow make a decision. A shot rang out, making Deborah start and suppress a scream and Seth bellow in rage as his hat flew backwards off his head. It landed, tattered and smoking, on a grassy mound.
‘Missed.’ Randolph tutted and gave a sardonic smile. ‘I’ll need to practise.’
‘You’ll pay for this,’ Seth snarled. His usually rubicund cheeks had turned ashen in alarm. He knew very well that the fellow could have put a bullet between his eyes had he chosen to. He was obviously a proficient marksman and therefore a fellow to be wary of. From town he might be, but he was certainly no novice gunman. Seth turned and, furiously swiping the ragged hat from the ground, stomped back towards the shrubbery. His cronies fell into step behind him, looking uneasy. Before he disappeared into the thicket Seth turned and glowered at Randolph. ‘Stupid thing you just done. I’m going to come looking for you and when I find you …’
‘I’ll make it simple for you. I’m staying at the Woolpack in Rye. Ask for Randolph Chadwicke from Suffolk.’
Immediately on hearing that three tousled heads almost collided as the men immediately conferred. Seth straightened, arrowed another suspicious stare at Randolph. A moment later they’d disappeared and soon after came the sound of hooves hitting hard ground.
Randolph paced away from Deborah, the loaded pistol still raised as though he suspected they might arc about to return on horseback in a surprise attack.
As the sound of the gang’s retreat died away Deborah’s shoulders slumped in a release of tension and a sigh shuddered out of her. A moment later the enormity of what had happened—and how much worse it could have been—hit her like a thump in the stomach. A sob burst in her chest and she crossed her arms over her middle, inclining forwards as though she felt sick.
As soon as he noticed her stifled anguish Randolph returned swiftly to her side. An arm remained raised, levelling the loaded gun in readiness whilst the other enclosed her in a comforting embrace and pointed the spent weapon skywards. A moment later he had deposited both weapons whence they came and swung into the saddle. Reaching down, he circled an arm around her narrow waist and scooped her up easily in front of him as though she were weightless.
Simultaneously Deborah smeared the wet from her eyes and sucked in a startled breath. She could never in her life remember being handled so roughly. Spontaneously she squirmed as though she might slide down the animal’s sleek flank to the turf. A brawny arm girdled her midriff, preventing her moving, then jerked her back against his solid torso.
‘Be still,’ Randolph growled against her ear. ‘Trust me, if they decide to come back mob-handed and overpower me, you won’t like what it is they have in mind for you.’
Deborah could feel her cheeks starting to prickle and burn, and not simply from the warm breath that had just bathed it. She knew as well as did Randolph it wasn’t conversation those villains had had in mind for her this afternoon. The terrifying thought made her shudder and her hands pressed at her stomach as though to suppress the nausea rolling there. Seth and his cronies might not have happened upon them by unlucky chance as they walked towards Woodville Place. It was not unusual for her to stroll home using this route. Had Seth been watching her since Fred drove off in the trap? Had he plotted to ambush her with the intention of physically punishing her for reporting him to the magistrate? If so, he must have put his plan into action before he saw her set off home with an escort. He certainly had not been ready for the challenge Randolph presented.
‘They won’t cow me,’ Deborah announced with a shaky attempt at bravado. ‘I’m not frightened of them.’
‘Well, you should be.’ A large hand caught her sharp little chin and tilted her head so he could scan her profile beneath a shadowing bonnet brim. He tightened his hold as she tried to twitch her face free. ‘Has he tried to intimidate you like this before?’
Deborah shook her head, her golden tresses swaying against his abrasive cheek as he inclined towards her to catch her quiet response. ‘It’s just been nasty looks and comments and so on, although on one occasion he did try to grab me when I passed him in a lane near Hastings. Our maid Lottie was with me that day. But that didn’t stop him.’
‘And?’
‘I knocked away his hand. It was about six months after Edmund was murdered by one of those brutes. Luckhurst was probably just showing off to his friends. He said he’d marry me so I wasn’t left on the shelf. They all started laughing.’
‘You don’t go out alone in future.’
Deborah swivelled about to frown at him. No man had spoken to her with such curt authority since she was a teenager. And of course her father had had a right to dictate to her. She was a viscount’s daughter, an only child who had been reared to be confident and independent. Since her stepfather had died, and her mother had grown increasingly nervous and prone to her migraines, Deborah had taken over the reins at Woodville Place. She made decisions that affected the lives of her and her mother and their few servants. She was her own mistress. Who did Randolph Chadwicke think he was, ordering her about? But for a quirk of fate the hiatus in their acquaintance might not have been breached today … or any other day in the near future. They were now strangers to one another. She raised sparking sapphire eyes and drew a breath in readiness to forcefully remind him of all of it, but a grim smile told her he had no need to hear her lecture—he could guess the gist of it.
The stallion was prodded into action and the sudden motion threw her back against him. She felt his arm tighten, anticipating her rejection, but after a moment resting rigidly against him, she felt her body involuntarily relaxing. Soon she’d curved into him for warmth and lowered her bonnet against the wind whipping at her complexion.
By the time their ride was at an end Deborah was feeling very subdued and not a little guilty.
The horse ambled in a circle, once, twice, in front of rusting iron gates that stood ajar at the head of a leafy avenue that wound to Woodville Place. She realised Randolph was giving her an opportunity to invite him to take her right up to her door before he had to insist he do so.
‘Would you like to have a cup of tea and a bite to eat, sir, before you set on your way again?’ she asked in a small voice.
‘Why … thank you, Miss Cleveland, I should very much like that.’ Randolph’s answer was ironically formal and suited to a light dialogue conducted in a drawing room rather than one addressed to the back of her head as she perched, rather windswept, atop his trusty steed. Overhead, branches of a stout oak tree formed a canopy of drily rustling leaves. The breeze strengthened, causing a few scraps of curled russet foliage to drift down and settle on her skirt. In front of her Randolph’s hand brushed them idly off, then refastened on the reins. She stared, as one fascinated, at long brown fingers intertwined with leather, feeling suddenly shyly conscious of her hips snugly settled between his muscled thighs. She could feel her cheeks becoming warm from the intensity of his scrutiny; she knew his eyes were constantly on her. There was so much more to be said. She owed him an apology and her gratitude, for, without him … She dared not think what might have happened to her.
During the gallop home, safe in Randolph’s arms, she’d come to appreciate just how fortunate she’d been. But for his presence by her side today she might be lying beaten and abused in a ditch by the wayside. She felt deeply ashamed that earlier she’d implied that, if he visited her and her mother at Woodville Place, he’d be unwelcome.
‘You will say nothing to my mama of what went on, will you?’ Over a shoulder she slanted up an appealing look at him. It was the first time she had properly studied him for any length of time. Earlier her sliding glances had quickly darted away. But now she gazed and, whilst waiting for his answer, she realised that he wasn’t so very changed in looks from the man she’d thought she’d marry when a tender eighteen years old. The grooves bracketing his mouth and radiating from his feline eyes weren’t extremely ageing, she decided. His hair was now long and light and his visage far darker and leaner, but he still resembled the handsome gentleman she’d wanted to be her husband.
‘I’ll not tell your mother Seth Luckhurst has designs on your virtue.’ Randolph’s tone sounded quietly ironic.
‘His design is to keep me quiet,’ Deborah stressed on a blush. ‘He has no liking for me.’
‘He doesn’t need to have a liking for you, Deborah,’ Randolph returned as one explaining something that ought to be obvious. ‘Don’t ever go out again without a chaperon.’
Deborah limited her mutinous response to making a tight little pout of her mouth. Of course she knew his advice was sound and sensible. Still it rankled that, if she took it, her freedom and independence—things she cherished—would be lost to her. The lout who’d forced her to change her habits deserved no such victory.
‘Does your mother know that your driver was beaten today?’ Randolph asked abruptly.
A forceful shake of the head preceded her words. ‘I told Fred to avoid her and go straight away to his quarters and rest. If Mama finds out that Seth is threatening me, she will suffer very badly with her nerves.’
‘What did Luckhurst say about you that caused your driver to remonstrate with him?’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘I think you are,’ Randolph contradicted. ‘What did Luckhurst say?’
Deborah twisted her fingers in her lap. ‘Fred truly would not repeat it and, as he was in pain from his injury, I did not insist he tell me. I guessed from his embarrassment that it was something lewd.’
‘I imagine you’re right. So are you going to promise to heed my warning and only go out accompanied in future?’
Deborah looked up and, as their eyes held, she felt a sudden yearning to have him again put his arms about her and comfort her. For all her bold talk of standing up to the bullies, she felt a coil of fear unfurl in her belly. Soon Randolph would again be gone from the area and she would have no champion to scare off the likes of Luck-hurst for her. She sensed rather than saw his amber eyes drop to her softly parted mouth and her breath caught in her throat as she realised he need only incline forwards a little to lock together their lips.
‘Will you soon be gone from here?’ she whispered, her eyes riveted to the shady chin just a few inches away.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What business …?’
Her query was curtailed by the finger he put to her lips to silence her.
‘Promise you won’t go out alone,’ he demanded harshly.
She nodded.
‘Say it.’
‘Promise,’ she muttered with bad grace.
The finger that had hovered a fraction away from her lips returned to gentle a reward on her plump pink skin. Abruptly he took up the reins. A second later he’d urged the horse in to a sedate trot towards the house.

Chapter Four
‘I’ve brought a guest home today, Mama.’
Julia Woodville had been tackling a Gothic tale with some apathy so was happy to hear someone novel might brighten her mundane routine.
Usually she spent the mornings at her sewing and taking a constitutional in the garden. The weather was now too fresh to spend a lengthy time outdoors so today she’d limited her stroll to the paths on the southern side. The spare time till luncheon had been whiled away at her writing desk. She liked to keep in touch with her friends in London. She better liked having their replies to learn what was going on in the beau monde, although their gay news always made her sadly yearn to be a part of it.
The afternoons were customarily employed in reading. She enjoyed scanning the ladies’ journals and appreciated a good book. But the romance Deborah had got her from the circulating library this week was not one to hold her interest. Julia Woodville gladly let it drop to her lap. Myopically she squinted at her daughter and at the fellow stationed behind her.
Deborah approached her mother’s chair positioned close to the log fire. Having removed her straw bonnet, she tossed it to the sofa and combed a few fingers through her tangled flaxen locks to try to bring some order to them. She was conscious she probably looked unattractively dishevelled after the thundering pace Randolph had set on the short ride to Woodville Place. Her other chilly digits were held out to the glow in the grate. It was a gloriously bright yet invigorating day in mid-October. Draughts were stirring the curtains at the casements, making warmth from the flames very welcome within the parlour’s solid stone walls.
‘Who is it, dear?’ Julia hissed in an undertone. ‘Is the vicar again come for tea?’ Julia Woodville’s failing eyesight allowed her to see little more than a gentleman’s silhouette. Yet she could read the print in her books very well. She peered past her daughter again, feeling a mite deflated. The vicar was a nice enough chap, but his sister was better company and this fellow seemed to be alone.
‘No, it is not Gerard. It is an acquaintance from London. He is presently in Sussex on business.’
Julia’s interest re-ignited with the information. It was her constant wish that they might return to the metropolis and live a mean approximation of the wonderful life they’d once known. She’d accepted that they could never recapture the sumptuous existence her first husband had provided for them both, but a small neat villa on the fashionable outskirts would suffice, she’d told Deborah. Unfortunately their funds would not suffice, Deborah constantly told her, even for that modest dream to be realised.
Now that the visitor had come closer Julia could see that it was indeed not the vicar. Gerard Davenport was nowhere near as tall and broad as this gentleman seemed to be. But she couldn’t fathom his identity. His features were still indistinct, although he seemed to have a good head of light-coloured hair.
‘It is Mr Chadwicke. I expect you must remember him. He is a friend of the Earl of Gresham.’ Debbie introduced him rather breathily. ‘I expect you remember that when we lived in London with Papa he would sometimes visit us with Marcus.’ Deborah knew that mention of the Earl of Gresham was likely to disgruntle her mother. Julia Woodville had never quite come to terms with the fact that her daughter had spurned an earl. Even knowing that Marcus had been as keen as Deborah to end their betrothal had remained a minor setback to a grand match in Julia’s mind.
‘Yes, I do remember him,’ Julia whispered after a long pause. She picked up her book rather agitatedly, then put it back in her lap. It was opened once again.
Deborah turned and gave Randolph a rather apologetic smile. She knew her mother tended to suffer with her nerves depending on her mood, but that didn’t excuse this rather rude reception. When they’d lived in town Randolph had been a visitor to their Upper Brook Street mansion. At times he’d arrive alone, but more usually he’d call with his friend, Marcus. She could only recall her mother greeting Randolph charmingly in the past. Surely he could have done nothing in the interim to upset her?
‘How are you, Mrs Woodville?’ Seemingly unperturbed by her inhospitable welcome, Randolph approached Julia’s chair to courteously offer her a hand, ‘I’m well enough, thank you, sir.’ Having given a limp shake to his firm fingers, Julia drew her shawl closer about her. ‘You are back, then, from foreign lands.’
‘I am,’ Randolph concurred. ‘It is good to be home.’
‘And that brother of yours? Is he home too?’ Julia once more looked agitated and the book was picked at with fidgeting fingers.
‘Sebastian is dead, Mrs Woodville.’ The information was given tonelessly.
That news caused Julia to look thoughtful. ‘Must we remember to address you as Lord Buckland? Or did your brother get himself a son?’
‘I have a nephew and a niece,’ Randolph informed her in the same neutral, polite way.
‘So you ended up with nothing at all, then …’ Julia appeared not to require a response to that. She flicked pages in her book as though hunting for an interesting excerpt.
Deborah had listened to this exchange with her jaw dropping in astonishment. Her mother seemed to be acting very oddly this afternoon. But it was not just her mother’s unfathomably churlish attitude that had startled her. In just a few short minutes she’d learned a good deal about Randolph’s relations that had come as a shock.
When they had been close friends years ago, Randolph had been happier to speak about his sister than his brother. At the time Emilia Chadwicke had been a schoolgirl of about ten. Deborah guessed that she now would be about seventeen and preparing for her début. His father had long been deceased but, as far as she was aware, his mother was still alive and living in Suffolk with her daughter.
As for Randolph’s older brother, she’d heard rumours that Sebastian Chadwicke constantly caused trouble for his family. Randolph had confirmed his brother existed and was a nuisance, but Deborah had discovered very little else about him—Randolph had always seemed reluctant to discuss him. Deborah’s friend, Jemma, was married to Randolph’s friend, Marcus, so little snippets had come her way over the years to add to her suspicion that the fellow must be a very bad sort. In contrast to his errant sibling, Randolph had always been sought after in society and had been known as a personable gentleman. Debbie could recall feeling glad that Randolph had not been unfairly treated because of his brother’s notoriety. Yet now it seemed her mother was doing just that.
The news that Sebastian Chadwicke had died had not come her way, neither had she been aware that the fellow had at some time married and produced children. But then, after seven years apart, she no longer had any right or reason to make enquiries through their mutual friends about Randolph’s life or his kin. Neither had it been very right of her mother to pry. But having done so, at least she should have offered a brief condolence on learning of Randolph’s loss, no matter that the deceased was rumoured to have been a rogue. It was very out of character for her mother to overlook etiquette.
‘I bumped into Lottie in the vestibule and asked her to bring some tea, Mama,’ Deborah brightly announced to break the quiet. ‘And Mr Chadwicke has kindly agreed to stay and dine with us later.’
‘Yes, indeed he must,’ Julia agreed, as though feeling a little guilty over her previous lack of manners. In a quite sprightly manner she got up from her chair and smoothed her pearl-grey gown. ‘It is nice to see people from the old days. Sometimes I think I should love to have a chat with a friend about Almack’s or the latest rage drawing audiences at Drury Lane. Such wonderful parties we would attend! Vauxhall! Now there was a treat! Although it could be a little … scandalous.’ She gave a meaningful nod, her features momentarily animated by mischief. ‘Did you enjoy visiting the pleasure gardens, Mr Chadwicke?’
‘I did, Mrs Woodville. I remember having a very enjoyable evening there with you all.’
‘Indeed, we did have a good time!’ Julia corroborated. ‘Of course, your chum, Marcus, didn’t accompany us when he should have done. He was newly engaged to Deborah at the time,’ she remarked with a faraway smile at the fire. ‘But you were kind enough to take his place and escort us on that occasion.’
‘It was my pleasure to do so, ma’am,’ Randolph said, his eyes gliding to Deborah and lingering there.
‘It was bad of Marcus to stay away—’
‘You cannot blame him for that, Mama,’ Deborah interrupted on a constrained laugh. ‘At the time he was falling in love all over again with his future wife,’ she softly reminisced, very aware of a pair of predatory eyes on her.
‘At the time you were his future wife,’ Julia reminded her daughter pithily.
‘But I was glad that he didn’t want me!’ Deborah’s tone was sharpened by impatience, as usual, on hearing her mother snapping at her for having turned down the chance to be the Countess of Gresham. Her eyes darted to Randolph and for a moment were engulfed by a warm, honeyed look.
Lottie appeared, bearing the tea things. The young maid slid the tray on to polished mahogany and looked expectantly at Deborah. A small gesture from Deborah indicated that the girl was not needed to carry out the ritual of pouring.
‘Have you lately been in London, Mr Chadwicke?’ Julia asked, her tone bright with anticipation. She enjoyed hearing the newest on dits.
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Woodville,’ he answered.
‘Oh …’ Julia murmured with patent disappointment. ‘Well, never mind. After you have had tea you must take Mr Chadwicke to see the gardens, Deborah,’ she said. ‘We have a sunken garden, you know, sir. My late husband, Mr George Woodville, was a keen gardener. He knew the names of every shrub and there are acres of them to choose from. There is a pond, too, with a fountain and fish the size of pheasants.’
‘Are you not having tea, Mama?’ Deborah watched as her mother continued past her to the door.
‘I shan’t; I had some tea and seed cake not long before you arrived home and I don’t want to spoil my appetite. We must give our guest a good dinner this evening. I shall go and see what our Mrs Field has got in the still room.’ She paused. ‘I believe Basham was out shooting earlier this week. There should be plenty of game if the beef is all gone.’
Had Deborah cared to take a look into the corridor whence her mother had just disappeared, she would have seen the woman heading for the stairs rather than the kitchens. But she was too conscious of Randolph’s overpowering presence, and the apology owed to him for her mother’s bizarre behaviour, to follow her parent and find out what on earth was troubling her this afternoon.
‘I … I’m sorry my mother seemed a little unwelcoming at first,’ Deborah blurted as soon as the door had closed on Julia Woodville’s departing figure. ‘I assure you she doesn’t mean to give offence.’
A crooked smile acknowledged Deborah’s plea on behalf of her mother. Randolph had his own suspicions why the woman might not want him around without his friend, the Earl of Gresham, rendering him acceptable.
People of Julia Woodville’s age knew that the Chad-wickes had for generations regularly turned out a few reprobates. She knew, and no doubt her first husband, Viscount Cleveland, had also known, that a number of his paternal ancestors had been to blame for passing bad blood on to his brother, Sebastian. Had his great-great grandfather not been such a scoundrel, the barony, and the thousands of Suffolk acres that came with it, would have stayed with the crown.
‘You will have some tea, sir? Oh … and there are some cinnamon biscuits, too,’ Deborah said, spotting that Lottie had had the foresight to include them. Having received Randolph’s wordless assurance that her mother’s attitude had not bothered him, Deborah approached the tray and occupied her nervous hands with cups and saucers.
‘Thank you,’ Randolph said. He approached the fire and held out his palms.
‘Oh … please sit down if you would like to, Mr Chad-wicke.’ Deborah pointed a silver teaspoon at the twin fireside chairs. Once he had settled his large frame in one of them she handed him his steaming tea. Solicitously she moved a small circular table closer so she might put the plate of biscuits within his easy reach.
She took the chair that her mother had vacated opposite him, so that the fire was between them. Having taken a sip of her tea, and a nibble at a biscuit, she placed both down in a rattle of crockery. It was a good while until the hour to dine. Usually she and her mother would eat dinner at eight o’clock and it was not yet five. On those days they were not particularly hungry they might ask Mrs Field to simply prepare a buffet supper to be set out in the cosy parlour.
Deborah turned her face to the mellow autumnal light filtering through the glass, thus escaping a gaze that was as relentless as midsummer heat. ‘Would you like to take a stroll in the gardens after tea, sir?’ she asked politely whilst watching a blackbird on a branch cocking his head at her.
‘I’d like you to stop calling me sir and Mr Chadwicke,’ Randolph said softly. ‘Have you forgotten my name, Deborah?’
‘Indeed I have not, sir,’ Debbie returned coolly as she turned to look at him. ‘Neither have I forgotten that using it would imply a closeness that we no longer have. Many years have passed since we were friends.’
‘I’d like us to again be friends.’ When his gentle remark made Deborah appear to resume her interest in the garden, he continued suggestively, ‘I remember very well the last time we met. It was at Marcus and Jemma’s wedding.’
Deborah picked up her teacup and took a gulp from it. Oh, she knew very well what was on his mind. He was remembering how she’d shamelessly clung to his neck and had revelled in being kissed and caressed into insensibility behind a marble pillar. Perhaps he imagined that for old time’s sake she might again be persuaded to allow him to take a few liberties whilst he was in the vicinity.
To jerk her mind away from arousing memories she focused on the incident that had coupled them together far more recently. The business with the Luckhursts was in its own way equally disturbing to her peace of mind. Because of it there was much she still had to say to him. Her thanks and apologies were overdue. He had saved her from coming to harm, yet she had accepted his escort home, and his protection, with very bad grace.
She knew, too, that she ought to offer her condolences on his brother’s demise. But she would skirt about mentioning their past or when he would be leaving the area. She had been in his company for only an hour or so after many years spent apart yet, oddly, she knew how easy it might be for her to again feel his absence. That silly thought was chased away; in its place she firmly put a reasonable explanation for such mawkishness. Naturally his presence had thrust to the forefront of her mind her salad days when, as a débutante of eighteen, and believing herself in love with Randolph Chadwicke, she’d had a scintillating life as the pampered, popular daughter of Viscount Cleveland.
‘I have not properly thanked you for your assistance this afternoon,’ Debbie briskly rattled off. ‘I also must say sorry for having been rather … prickly towards you. It was a great surprise to see you and I … well … I did not intend to seem churlish. My mother, too, was probably similarly flustered by being confronted with a ghost from the past.’ It was a paltry effort and she inwardly winced on acknowledging it. Hastily she picked up her tea and took a sip.
‘Was the last impression I made on you so bad?’ Randolph asked huskily. ‘My understanding was that we parted on reasonably good terms.’
She could sense the smile in his words as he dared her to recall their exciting tryst in Marcus’s hallway. Reasonably good terms hardly did justice to describing the passion they’d shared away from prying eyes.
‘My understanding was that your absence abroad would be reasonably short.’ A languid hand attempted to make light of her spontaneous retort. Again she’d not managed to control her lingering hurt and anger over it all. ‘It seems at the time we both were under a misconception.’ Idly she twirled a flaxen curl about a finger. ‘It was a long time ago and is now unimportant.’ Before he could respond she fluidly changed the subject. ‘I must convey my condolences on the loss of your brother. Did he pass away recently? Had he been ill?’
‘It was a few months ago. He had been suffering a malaise for a considerable time,’ Randolph added carefully.
‘Did living in a hot climate contribute to his poor health?’ Debbie asked, her voice resonating with sympathy.
‘It did him no good at all to go there,’ Randolph answered bluntly. ‘Twice he suffered bouts of malaria.’
‘I’m very sorry he died. He must have been still quite a young man.’
‘He had just turned forty-one.’
‘Your poor mother; she must be very sad. I imagine she was worried about you, too, whilst you were in the Indies.’
‘I escaped any major illness,’ was Randolph’s succinct reply.
‘I know your brother was reputed to be a roguish character, but nevertheless he was a son and a brother. You have a nephew and niece, so his wife and children must be missing him too.’
‘I also must offer you my condolences.’ Smoothly Randolph altered the course of their conversation so it focused on her. ‘You mentioned earlier today that your fiancé was killed by the smugglers.’
Deborah nodded, a frown creasing her smooth, ivory brow. ‘It occurred more than two years ago. Edmund was on coast watch. There was an affray between the dragoons and a gang of smugglers in a lane leading to the coast.’
‘Was the culprit brought to justice?’
‘It was reported that a fellow nicknamed Snowy fired off the gun that fatally wounded Edmund.’ A glaze appeared in Deborah’s eyes as she recalled the awful time. ‘Snowy was later murdered,’ she resumed huskily. ‘The smugglers would sooner kill one of their own than have the dragoons snooping about in the villages looking for a suspect.’ She sighed. ‘There was no proper trial … save the one his colleagues put on. One cannot be sure that it was Snowy who was responsible for Edmund’s death.’
‘Did you meet your fiancé in London?’
Deborah shook her head. For a moment she remained silent, for she was tempted to tell him to mind his own business. But if she divulged a little of what had occurred to her in the intervening years, perhaps he might tell her what he had been doing; she knew she had a curiosity to know it. ‘My stepfather was a sociable sort of chap. When the militia were billeted close by he would offer hospitality. Occasionally he would hold small parties for neighbours and the officers. It was at such an event that Edmund and I were introduced.’ Her voice tailed away and she looked at him. ‘And you, sir?’ she asked with an admirably neutral tone. ‘Have you a fiancée or a wife and children?’
‘No …’ Randolph said quietly. ‘Once I thought I had met the right woman, but I was mistaken. Now I’m happy to remain a bachelor.’
‘I see,’ Deborah said in a stifled little voice. ‘How very sad for you.’
‘Indeed, I’m deserving of your pity … let’s talk about something more cheerful,’ he suggested silkily. ‘I had the impression that your mother would like to visit town.’ Randolph had placed down his cup and saucer. He relaxed back in to his chair and a booted foot was raised to rest atop a buff-breeched knee. Idly he splayed long brown fingers on a Hessian’s dusty leather. ‘Do you go to London very often?’
‘Unfortunately not. But you’re right; my mama would love to frequently visit town,’ Deborah answered him automatically, although her mind was in turmoil. She knew very well what he’d hinted at. Once he’d believed he’d wanted to marry her, but then he’d gone away and discovered that he’d found it easy to forget her. A burning indignation roared in her chest. Yet of what could she accuse him? He’d never told her he loved her, neither had he promised to marry her. And he certainly hadn’t forced her to kiss him. She’d been a very willing participant in that! The most she’d had from him were compliments and complaints that she was a seductive little miss who could drive him wild with desire. It was probable she’d had a lucky escape. Had he not gone away when he did she might have let him properly seduce her. The consequences of that didn’t bear thinking about. But she was determined not to let him know that any of it bothered her.
‘It is my mama’s greatest wish that we return to town to live.’ Her voice sounded shrill despite her attempt to keep it light and level.
‘Are you also keen to return there to live?’
‘I certainly miss the gaiety and the friends I had there,’ Deborah answered, more composed.
‘If you returned to London, you’d avoid the necessity of living amongst the likes of the Luckhursts.’
‘I shan’t allow them to drive us away,’ Deborah retorted with a defiance that made him cock a dark brow at her. Had he told her he found her attitude immature he could not have made his opinion plainer. ‘We have some friends here,’ she continued doggedly. ‘Harriet and her brother are nice people. So are Mr and Mrs Pattinson. Not everybody hereabouts is in league with the smugglers. Evil will triumph if good people are too cowardly to combat it.’
‘Certainly,’ he agreed drily. ‘But a lot of decent folk don’t consider contraband a bad thing, but a benefit.’
A defeated little grimace was Deborah’s acknowledgement of the truth in that statement. Her stepfather had been a good man, yet he had happily paid to have his cellars stocked illicitly.
‘Why do you not return to London to live?’ Randolph asked. A few brown fingers curled to rest close to his narrow mouth as he waited for her reply. After a silent moment he prodded, ‘Is there more to it than a battle of wills with the smugglers?’
Deborah got to her feet and collected the cups to put on the tray. She spun about to face him, feeling an odd unwillingness to admit that she—once an heiress with a magnificent dowry—now could not afford to live in London. Yet she had nothing to be ashamed of. She had not squandered her inheritance; it had been taken from her. Again she had an inclination to tell him that he had no right to ask. But then that would imply that she cared what he thought. And she didn’t.
‘When Papa died the whole estate was entailed on the next male heir. I have no brother, as you know. There was no close relative on the paternal side who might have felt morally obliged to treat us generously. A distant cousin—a gentleman we haven’t met who resides in a castle in Scotland—took the title and estate. Mama was very well provided for in my father’s will, and my inheritance was held in trust. Unfortunately it was one that could be breached.’ She shrugged, clattering crockery.
‘When your mother remarried her assets became Mr Woodville’s,’ Randolph guessed.
‘Indeed,’ Debbie muttered, her fingers tightening on the edge of the table until the knuckles showed bone. ‘And Mr Woodville had a son and a strong belief in primogeniture.’
A silence ensued and whilst Debbie stared fiercely through the window Randolph watched her.
‘You have enough to live on?’ he eventually asked quietly.
‘Oh, yes. Mr Woodville left Mama enough to carry on living here comfortably, if we are careful. When she has passed away the house and estate will go to his son, Norman. In order that I would not be left destitute, he also left me a bequest of a few thousand pounds to tempt a prospective husband. It is not quite the sixty that my father had wanted me to have.’ She turned with a smile on her lips. ‘Well, as we have finished tea, sir, shall we now take a stroll in the gardens?’

Chapter Five
Once in her chamber Julia went directly to the small anteroom where her writing desk was positioned close to a window. When seated in that spot she had a splendid view of the rosebeds and lawns that flowed in an undulating emerald swathe to a stream edging an area of deciduous woodland. The trees were a beautiful sight to behold, garmented in shades of gold and red. At present the charming view did not lure Julia’s interest, rather her desk did. She sat down before it and got from a pocket in her grey gown a key. She used it to open the bureau, then, having found the little spring with a finger, she put pressure on it until a secret compartment came open. Gravely she gazed at the contents within. An unsteady hand trembled forwards to withdraw a few letters tied with ribbon.
‘Oh … Gregory, he has come,’ she whispered. ‘He seems angry with her, too, despite his courtesy. But I think he still wants her. We should not have done it,’ she murmured to her beloved first husband. ‘Our Debbie did not make the excellent match she deserved. Nice Edmund Green is lost to her, too. She is a spinster … soon to be twenty-five. A beauty still, indeed she is, but past her prime.’ She pressed pale fingers to her watering eyes. ‘Now you are not here and I alone must decide what to do. What shall I say if she asks if letters arrived for her? Must I deny it all? Shall I burn them or hand them over with excuses?’ She dropped the unopened letters back whence they came. ‘Will they think the letters were innocently lost and accept it as fate’s way rather than our way of telling them their love was not to be?’
An hour or so later Julia woke from her fitful slumber with a start. A thought had been pricking at her semi-consciousness. Now it surfaced and made her gasp. She had forgotten to visit the kitchens and tell Cook they had a guest to dine. She used her elbows to get upright on the coverlet where she had been napping.
A woman’s musical chuckle was heard coming from outside and it drew Julia from the bed to the window. The sun was setting in the west, filtering through autumn-hued trees and turning the eastern boundary to a fiery panorama. A movement on the southern path caught her eye and she watched as the handsome couple strolled. With a woman’s eye she noticed straight away that her daughter had not taken Mr Chadwicke’s arm whilst promenading. They were side by side, and smiling, but a good space was between them. Despite their time alone, and their amiable appearance, no intimate conversation had taken place. Julia knew, to her shame, that she was glad their pride held them apart. She hoped he would leave and go about his business without making any mention of his letters.
Deborah had been a touch formal with him. Julia had sensed that immediately, in spite of her daughter’s attempt to conceal her emotions behind good manners. But Julia was sure that Mr Chadwicke still had a hankering for Deborah. She was not so shrivelled that she could not recognise when a man had a certain twinkle in his eye. She craned her neck as the couple began to disappear from sight in the direction of the walled garden. She imagined Deborah was intending to show him the parterre and the fishpond situated beyond the iron gate.
Drawing back with a sigh, Julia was about to turn away when a movement to the north of the plot caught her attention. Instinctively she shrank back in fear as though to conceal herself behind the heavy curtain. A fellow was lurking and appeared keen to secrete himself behind a huge yew whilst peeping in the direction that her daughter and Mr Chadwicke had taken. Julia knew the burly individual was one of the Luckhursts. He and his brother were alleged to be notorious criminals, although it seemed they always managed to escape arrest. When she’d been shopping with Deborah in Hastings Julia had seen them brazenly swaggering about with their cronies. She had never liked the way the younger one smirked at her daughter with a mixture of lechery and belligerence on his coarse face.
On moving to Sussex with her second husband Julia had initially felt an indifference to the fact that they lived amongst smugglers. But since her daughter’s fiancé had been killed, she had been thrust into awareness of the true price of contraband. Deborah loathed the smugglers and let everybody know it. On many occasions Julia had cautioned her daughter to guard her tongue. One never knew who might be listening.
Blood began to pump deafeningly in Julia’s ears. Why was Seth Luckhurst in the garden spying on Deborah? Had her daughter recently challenged him again over his wickedness? Again she peeked out. For a moment she was mesmerised by the brawny fellow who was glancing this way and that. He seemed to be checking if the coast were clear before making his move. Julia skittered backwards away from the window as she saw him look up. She was frightened he might have spotted her. She collapsed on the edge of the bed, her fingers threaded tightly together. A calming thought occurred to her: their guest might be the person drawing his interest. Randolph Chadwicke looked a well-to-do fellow with his handsome appearance and stylish apparel. Perhaps the miscreant had been following him. Was he watching for him to leave so he might ambush him and rob him of his valuables? A moment later Julia was again fretting for her own safety. Anybody could see that Mr Chadwicke had a lofty height and a fine pair of shoulders on him and would put up a good fight. It was more likely that Luckhurst was watching for their guest’s departure so he might burgle Woodville Place. A coil of fear tightened in Julia’s stomach and she sprang up and rushed to the door.
‘There is no one out there now, Mrs Woodville, you have my assurances on it.’
‘But are you sure, sir? They are a wily lot and know how to hide themselves away. He was loitering behind the yew hedge on the north perimeter.’
‘We have checked thoroughly,’ Randolph again reassured her. He took a look over his shoulder at Basham who, it seemed, had the position of general factotum in the household. ‘Your manservant will confirm that we have made a good search of the grounds.’
‘But the felon might return when it is dark,’ Julia insisted in a squeak. ‘It is almost dusk now.’
‘We intend to check again later,’ Randolph reiterated soothingly, ‘And take flares to light the way.’
‘I’ll get the flares prepared, m’m,’ Basham immediately offered. ‘Anybody out there up to no good, we’ll find them sure enough.’ He made a fist and shook it in a meaningful manner.
Julia looked unimpressed by her manservant’s brave statement. Basham was a trusted employee who had been in residence long before she had arrived at Woodville Place. Unfortunately his youth was now far behind him. At almost fifty-six years old, and with his stockiness due more to middle-aged spread than to muscle, Julia knew he was no match for the young thug who had been spying on them. Fred Cook, the coachman, was more of an age to be useful in a scuffle. ‘Is Fred in his quarters? Why was he not helping you in the search?’ Julia demanded peevishly.
A significant look passed between Randolph and Basham. Both knew that Fred Cook was indeed in his quarters…with a cold compress on his head. By the morning he was sure to be sporting two very black eyes.
When a bloodied Fred had crept in through the side door earlier, Basham had soon been apprised by the youth how he’d come such a cropper. He’d discovered, too, that Miss Woodville didn’t want her mother worried over it all. The few servants left at the house accepted that the daughter rather than the mother held sway at Woodville Place, and they were grateful for it. Since the master had passed on, his widow had grown increasingly unpredictable and nervous. Nevertheless, the worrying news that one of the Luckhursts was on the prowl had sent Basham directly to find out if his only male colleague was yet in a fit state to be of assistance. He’d found Fred still groaning in pain from his beating earlier that day, and more likely to be a hindrance than a help in a brawl.
In the event he’d not needed him. A gentleman had miraculously turned up who Basham reckoned could take on the Luckhursts single-handed if he chose to. Elegant and refined Mr Chadwicke might appear to be, but Basham sensed he was also an intensely dangerous fellow and the sort of cool character who was always needed in a crisis, but was rarely to be found.
When Mrs Woodville had flown down the stairs earlier in a high old state Basham had been on the point of exiting the drawing room, having just replenished the hearth with apple-scented logs. Miss Woodville and Mr Chadwicke had been entering the house, having returned from their walk. The ensuing clamour of crisscrossing demands and answers had been cut through by Mr Chad-wicke’s authoritative tone. Within a very short time the guest had got the gist of what ailed the hysterical woman. A moment later Basham had been sprinting after his tall figure as Mr Chadwicke went on the hunt for Luckhurst leaving Miss Woodville with the task of calming down her mother.
‘You must take another sip of your brandy, Mama. It will fortify you.’ Deborah had just returned to the parlour with a bottle of smelling salts that she’d fetched from upstairs. She hurried to where Julia was reclining on the day bed, held out the glass of cognac and urged her mother to take some. The other hand held the dark bottle in readiness to be thrust under her mother’s nose.
Having sipped her drink, and snorted strongly at the salts being waved below her nostrils, Julia coughed, then again collapsed back against the velvet upholstery. ‘That villain is going to try to break in and steal everything we own,’ she cried faintly. ‘He’ll overpower Basham and Fred and ravish the maids … and you.’
‘Hush, Mama,’ Deborah chided, her cheeks heating. ‘You are overwrought.’ She took one of her mother’s hands between her palms and chafed it. ‘Mr Chadwicke has checked everywhere with Basham. If it was Seth Luckhurst, he was probably just … curious about Mr Chadwicke.’ Deborah’s cornflower-blue eyes were angled upwards to tangle with Randolph’s narrowed, watchful gaze. An unspoken message passed between them. ‘We saw Seth Luckhurst earlier when I met Mr Chadwicke in town. You know how the locals are—they are suspicious of strangers. That oaf probably came to get a better look at him in case he’s a Revenue Officer in disguise,’ she gently teased her mother.
‘I did draw his attention, Mrs Woodville.’ Deborah’s innocent quip had caused Randolph’s sensual lips to slant sardonically. ‘Luckhurst seemed a suspicious sort. I expect it was inquisitiveness that brought him here.’
Julia seemed a little reassured by Randolph’s endorsement of her daughter’s theory. She put away her bottle of hartshorn and scrubbed her moist eyes with her handkerchief. A moment later she again looked agitated. ‘Oh … and I have forgotten to tell Mrs Field that you are to dine with us! How bad of me!’
‘It’s of no matter, ma’am,’ Randolph gently stressed. ‘I am staying at the Woolpack in Rye and they do a good roast—’
‘No … no!’ Julia interrupted, flapping a hand. ‘You must stay! You were invited to dine and you will. It is the least we can offer you for all the help you have given.’
‘Shall I …?’ Basham jerked his head in the direction of the exit, miming his willingness to run an errand.
‘Thank you, Basham,’ Julia said. ‘Please tell Mrs Field she must quickly stoke up the range. We shall have game and roasted vegetables and some fruit tartlets and cheeses. Are there pickles? Oh, I suppose I should go and see for myself what we have.’ Julia appeared to have recovered her composure and was soon determinedly heading, with Basham in tow, for the door.
Before she quit the room she turned and looked at the young couple. Her thankfulness for Randolph’s help had momentarily made her forget his intercepted letters. She’d forgotten, too, she’d wanted him soon to leave. His presence now seemed more of a benefit than a threat. ‘There is some brandy and whisky on the sideboard in the dining room, Mr Chadwicke,’ she announced magnanimously. ‘If you prefer, there is sherry or port in the cellar. Deborah will make sure you get whatever you fancy, you have only to ask her for it.’
There followed an excruciating silence during which Deborah’s complexion grew hotter and brighter because a pitilessly amused pair of eyes refused to budge from it. She rather thought she could guess at what it was he fancied and she had no intention of allowing him enough time to bring it to her notice.
‘I’m so sorry you have been embroiled in all this, sir,’ she fluidly said. ‘I’m sure you must dearly wish you’d never stopped to have your horse shod in Hastings today. You have had nothing but trouble ever since.’
‘I’m glad I stopped when I did,’ Randolph quietly contradicted her, a sultry humour still lurking far back in his eyes.
‘I can only imagine your horse was very lame for you to say so,’ Deborah weakly joked. ‘No sane gentleman would welcome being thrust unexpectedly in to the role of protector.’

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