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The Outcast's Redemption
Sarah Mallory
'I have come back to prove my innocence, if I can.'Ten years ago, Wolfgang Arrandale was discovered standing over the body of his wife. Forced to run, he has lived as a fugitive ever since, doing anything to survive. But now the revelation that he’s a father compels him to prove his innocence!Parson's daughter, Grace Duncombe, is intrigued by the wild stranger who arrives one night seeking refuge. It’s clear Wolf hides many secrets, but she’s drawn to him like no other. And soon she must defend this honourable outcast whatever the cost!



The Infamous Arrandales
Scandal is their destiny!
Meet the Arrandale family—dissolute, disreputable and defiant! This infamous family have scandal in their blood, and wherever they go their reputation will always precede them!
Don’t miss any of the fabulous books in Sarah Mallory’s dazzling new quartet!
The Chaperon’sSeductionTemptation of a GovernessReturn of the RunawayThe Outcast’s Redemption
All available now!

Author Note (#ulink_3a19c957-b445-56df-b612-3152d9c7e5f5)
This is the fourth in The Infamous Arrandales mini-series, and Wolfgang’s story is the one that started everything off for me. The Arrandales are a wild family, but Wolfgang Arrandale has always been the worst of them all—a rake and a rogue who fled to France after murdering his wife. His story is like a cloud on the horizon of the other stories, faint but always there, and finally in this book I have the chance to bring Wolf home.
In The Outcast’s Redemption Wolf returns to England to clear his name, and in the process falls in love with a good woman. A very good woman—because Grace is the daughter of a clergyman. She has lived a blameless life, a world away from Wolf’s own experiences. Grace has suffered heartache, but her belief in justice and goodness have never yet let her down. However, saving Wolfgang Arrandale proves to be her greatest challenge.
I do hope you enjoy Grace and Wolf’s adventure. In the process of discovering the truth of what happened at Arrandale Hall ten years ago they discover each other, and if they can overcome all the obstacles in their way they might even find their happy ending.
Enjoy!

The Outcast’s
Redemption
Sarah Mallory


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SARAH MALLORY was born in the West Country and now lives on the beautiful Yorkshire moors. She has been writing for more than three decades—mainly historical romances set in the Georgian and Regency period. She has won several awards for her writing, most recently the Romantic Novelists’ Association RoNA Rose Award in 2012, for The Dangerous Lord Darrington, and 2013, for Beneath the Major’s Scars.
For TGH.
Thank you.
Contents
Cover (#uae545ac9-641b-56d0-8ab4-d78f9b65061c)
Introduction (#u04b065da-3e08-5225-af4f-337b19e0e89d)
Author Note (#u0f3bc776-f656-5621-8263-cf21c614bca9)
Title Page (#u139db9ab-1da1-5191-80fa-5065e67d92b2)
About the Author (#u2a4a0b9f-d768-5f9d-b226-38d4eeede69f)
Dedication (#uee402566-6c26-5dcb-87fc-c89c311cb289)
Chapter One (#u1a0b02e8-9e2a-5942-a614-33a8997e5ada)
Chapter Two (#u6a4034a5-1848-533b-9cdc-fb53bd144487)
Chapter Three (#u74d33148-738d-59da-a404-a2162f5d239e)
Chapter Four (#ufce97ad3-3321-53bf-bfe9-0871c0e5fe94)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_77af6ed2-6a36-5d31-a47b-4dc7b12bdd6b)
March 1804
The village of Arrandale was bathed in frosty moonlight. Nothing stirred and most windows were shuttered or in darkness. Except the house standing within the shadow of the church. It was a stone building, square and sturdy, and lamps shone brightly in the two ground-floor windows that flanked the door. It was the home of Mr Titus Duncombe, the local parson, and the lights promised a welcome for any soul in need.
Just as they had always done, thought the man walking up the steps to the front door. Just as they had done ten years ago, when he had ridden through the village with the devil on his heels. Then he had not stopped. Now he was older, wiser and in need of help.
He grasped the knocker and rapped, not hard, but in the silence of the night the sound reverberated hollowly through the hall. A stooping, grey-haired manservant opened the door.
‘I would like to see the parson.’
The servant peered out, but the stranger kept his head dipped so the wide brim of his hat shadowed his face.
‘Who shall I say is here?’
‘Tell him it is a weary traveller. A poor vagabond who needs his assistance.’
The servant hesitated.
‘Nay, ’tis late,’ he said at last. ‘Come back in the morning.’
He made to shut the door but the stranger placed a dirty boot on the step.
‘Your master will know me,’ he stated. ‘Pray, take me to him.’
The old man gave in and shuffled off to speak to the parson, leaving the stranger to wait in the hall. From the study came a calm, well-remembered voice and as he entered, an elderly gentleman rose from a desk cluttered with books and papers. Once he had passed the manservant and only the parson could see his face, the stranger straightened and removed his hat.
‘I bid you good evening, Mr Duncombe.’
The parson’s eyes widened, but his tone did not change.
‘Welcome, my son. Truscott, bring wine for our guest.’ Only when the servant had closed the door upon them did the old man allow himself to smile. ‘Bless my soul. Mr Wolfgang Arrandale! You are returned to us at last.’
Wolfgang breathed a sigh of relief. He bowed.
‘Your servant, sir. I am pleased you remember me—that I have not changed out of all recognition.’
The parson waved a hand. ‘You are a little older, and if I may say so, a little more careworn, but I should know you anywhere. Sit down, my boy, sit down.’ He shepherded his guest to a chair. ‘I shall not ask you any questions until we have our wine, then we may talk uninterrupted.’
‘Thank you. I should warn you, sir, there is still a price on my head. When your man opened the door I was afraid he would recognise me.’
‘Truscott’s eyesight is grown very poor, but he prefers to answer the door after dark, rather than leave it to his wife. But even if he had remembered you, Truscott is very discreet. It is something my servants have learned over the years.’ He stopped as the object of their conversation returned with a tray. ‘Ah, here we are. Thank you, Truscott. But what is this, no cake? Not even a little bread?’
‘Mrs Truscott’s gone to bed, master.’
Mr Duncombe looked surprised. ‘At nine o’clock?’
‘She had one of her turns, sir.’
‘Pray do not worry on my account,’ put in Wolfgang quickly. ‘A glass of wine is all I require.’ When they were alone again he added drily, ‘Your man does not want to encourage dubious fellows such as I to be calling upon you.’
‘If they knew who you are—’
‘They would have me locked up.’
‘No, no, my boy, you wrong them. Not everyone in Arrandale believes you killed your wife.’
‘Are you quite sure of that, sir?’ asked Wolfgang, unable to keep a note of bitterness from his voice. ‘I was found kneeling over her body and I ran away rather than explain myself.’
‘I am sure you thought it was for the best, at the time,’ murmured the parson, topping up their glasses.
‘My father thought it best. He was never in any doubt of my guilt. If only I had called here. I am sure you would have counselled me to stay and defend myself. I was damned the moment I fled the country.’
‘We cannot change the past, my son. But tell me where you have been, what you have done for the past ten years.’
Wolfgang stretched his long legs towards the fire.
‘I have been in France, sir, but as for what I did there—let us just say whatever was necessary to survive.’
‘And may one ask why you have returned?’
For a long moment Wolf stared into the flames. ‘I have come back to prove my innocence, if I can.’
Was it possible, after so long, to solve the mystery of his wife’s death? When the parson said nothing he continued, giving voice to the thoughts that had been going round in his head ever since he decided to leave France.
‘I know it will not be easy. My wife’s parents, the Sawstons, would see me hanged as soon as look at me. I know they have put up the reward for my capture. Florence’s death might have been a tragic accident, but the fact that the Sawston diamonds went missing at the same time makes it far more suspicious. I cannot help feeling that someone must know the truth.’
The parson sighed. ‘It is so long ago. The magistrate is dead, as are your parents, and Arrandale Hall has been empty for years, with only a caretaker there now.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘I understand the lawyers wanted to close it up completely, but your brother insisted that Robert Jones should remain. He and his wife keep the house up together as best they can.’
‘Jones who was footman in my day?’ asked Wolf.
Mr Duncombe nodded. ‘Yes, that is he. I am afraid your lawyers will not release money for maintaining the property. Your brother does what he can to keep the building watertight, at least.’
‘Richard? But his income will not cover that.’
‘I fear it has been a struggle, although I understand he has now married a woman of...er...comfortable means.’
‘Ah, yes. I believe he is now step-papa to an heiress,’ said Wolf. ‘Quite a come-about for an Arrandale! Ah, you are surprised I know this. I met Lady Cassandra in France last year and she gave me news of the family. She also told me I have a daughter. You will remember, sir, that Florence was with child and very near her time when she died. I thought the babe had died with her but apparently not.’ He gazed into the fire, remembering his shock when Cassie had told him he was a father. ‘The child is the reason I must clear my name. I do not want her to grow up with my guilt hanging over her.’
‘An admirable sentiment, but how do you begin?’
‘By talking to anyone who might know something about that night, ten years ago.’
The old man shook his head.
‘That will not be easy. The staff are gone, moved away and some of the older ones have died. However, Brent, the old butler, still lives in the village.’
He stopped as a soft, musical voice was heard from the doorway.
‘Papa, am I so very late? Old Mrs Owlet has broken her leg and I did not like to leave her until her son came—oh, I beg your pardon, I did not know you had a visitor.’
Wolf had risen from his chair and turned to face the newcomer, a tall young woman in a pale-blue pelisse and a matching bonnet, the strings of which she was untying as she spoke to reveal an abundance of silky fair hair, neatly pulled into a knot at the back of her head.
‘Ah, Grace, my love. This is Mr...er...Mr Peregrine. My daughter, sir.’
‘Miss Duncombe.’ Wolf found himself being scrutinised by a pair of dark eyes.
‘But how did you come here, sir?’ she asked. ‘I saw no carriage on the street.’
‘I walked from Hindlesham.’
She looked wary and he could not blame her. He had been travelling for over a week, his clothes were rumpled and he had not shaved since yesterday. There was no doubt he presented a very dubious appearance.
The parson coughed. ‘Mr Peregrine will be staying in Arrandale for a few days, my love.’
‘Really?’ she murmured, unbuttoning her pelisse. ‘I understand the Horse Shoe Inn is very comfortable.’
‘Ah, you misunderstand.’ Mr Duncombe cleared his throat again. ‘I thought we might find Mr Peregrine a bed here for a few nights.’
* * *
Grace sighed inwardly. Why did Papa think it necessary to play the Good Samaritan to every stranger who appeared? She regarded the two men as they stood side by side before the fire, the guest towering over his host. She turned her attention to the stranger. The dust of the road clung to his boots, his clothes were positively shabby and as for his linen—the housewife in her was shocked to see anything so grey. Grace was not used to looking up at anyone, indeed she had often heard herself described as a beanpole, but this man topped her by several inches. His dark curling hair was as rumpled as the rest of him and at least a day’s growth of black stubble covered his cheeks. She met his eyes and although the candlelight was not sufficient to discern their colour they held a most distracting glint. She looked away, flustered.
‘I do not think...’ she began, but Papa was not listening.
‘And we have been very remiss in our refreshments, my love. Mrs Truscott is unwell, but I am sure you will be able to find our guest a little supper?’
‘Why, of course,’ she answered immediately, glad of the opportunity to get this man away from her father, who was far too kind-hearted for his own good. ‘Perhaps Mr Peregrine would like to accompany me to the kitchen?’
‘The kitchen?’ her father exclaimed, surprised. ‘My dear—’
‘It will be much easier for me to feed Mr Peregrine there, sir, since he will be on hand to tell me just what he would like.’ She managed a smile. ‘I came in that way and noted a good fire in the range, so it is very comfortable. And you may finish your sermon in peace, Papa.’
Her father made another faint protest, but the stranger said, ‘Pray do not be anxious for me, sir. If you have work to finish, then I must disturb you no longer.’ He picked up his battered portmanteau and turned to Grace. ‘Lead on, Miss Duncombe. I am at your service.’
It was most gallantly said, but Grace was not fooled. She merely inclined her head and moved towards the door.
‘Oh, Grace, send Truscott to me, when you see him, if you please. I need to apprise him of the situation.’
She looked back in surprise. ‘There is no need, Papa, I can do that.’
‘It is no trouble, my love. I want to see him on other matters, too, so you had best send him up. As soon as you can.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Her eyes flickered towards the stranger. ‘Come along.’
She crossed the hall and descended the stairs to the basement with the man following meekly behind. No, she amended that. There was nothing meek about Mr Peregrine. Hah, she almost laughed out loud. That was no more the man’s name than it was hers. Clearly Papa had made it up on the spur of the moment to give him some semblance of respectability. It was the sort of thing her father would do. Papa was a scholar and Grace’s own education was sufficient for her to know that the name meant traveller in Latin. No doubt Papa thought that a good joke.
She went quickly to the kitchen, despatched Truscott upstairs to see his master and turned to face the man.
‘Very well, you may sit at the table and I will see what we have in the larder.’
‘A mere trifle will do,’ he murmured, easing his long legs over the bench. ‘A little bread and butter, perhaps.’
She pursed her lips. Even sitting down he dominated the kitchen.
‘I do not think a mere trifle will do for you at all,’ she retorted, reaching for an apron. ‘You look the sort of man who eats heartily.’
‘You have it right there, mistress, but with your cook indisposed I would be happy to have a little bread and cheese, if you know where to find it. Perhaps your man Truscott will help us, when he returns.’
Grace had been thinking that she would serve him just that, but his words flicked her on the raw. She drew herself up and fixed him with an icy look.
‘I am quite capable of producing a meal for you. It is a bad housewife who has to depend upon her servants for every little thing!’
* * *
Wolfgang rested his arms on the table as he watched Grace Duncombe bustling in and out of the kitchen. She must be what, twenty-three, twenty-four? He couldn’t remember seeing her, when he had lived at Arrandale, but ten years ago he had taken very little notice of what went on in the village. He had been four-and-twenty, reluctantly preparing to settle down with his wife. He thought of Florence, lying cold and broken on the stone floor, and her daughter—their daughter. The baby he had always believed had died with her. He rubbed his temples. He would consider that tomorrow. For now he was bone-tired from travelling and ravenously hungry. From the delicious smells coming from the frying pan his hostess was rising admirably to the challenge of feeding him.
When Truscott returned, Wolf knew he had been informed of their guest’s identity. The man was bemused and not a little embarrassed to find Arrandale of Arrandale sitting in the kitchen. Miss Duncombe was absent at that moment and the manservant stood irresolute, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
‘Sir, I—’
Wolfgang stopped him. ‘Hush, your mistress is returning.’
She came in from the yard.
‘Truscott, pray fetch a bottle of wine for our visitor.’
‘Nay, not just for me,’ said Wolf quickly. ‘Bring a glass for your mistress, too.’
He thought for a moment she would object, but she merely frowned and went back to her cooking. The kitchen was warm and comfortable and Wolfgang felt himself relaxing as he watched her work. She was well named, he thought, there was a gracefulness to her movements, and an assurance unusual in one so young.
When Truscott went out again, Wolf said, ‘Are you only preparing a meal for me?’
‘Father and I dined earlier,’ she replied, dropping pieces of lamb into the pan. ‘Papa will take nothing more than a biscuit or two until the morning.’ She finished cooking the meat and arranged it neatly on the plate. ‘There,’ she said with a hint of defiance. ‘Your dinner.’
Wolf regarded the meal she had set before him. Besides the collops of mutton there was a dish of fried potato as well as cold potted hare and a parsnip pie.
‘A meal fit for a lord,’ he declared. ‘Will you not join me?’
‘No, thank you. I told you I have already dined.’
‘Then at least stay and drink a glass of wine with me.’ When she shook her head he murmured, ‘“Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.”’
She glared at him, but at least she stayed. She slid on to the end of the bench opposite. ‘What an odd thing to say. I do not hate you, Mr Peregrine.’
He poured wine into the glasses and pushed one across the table towards her. She cradled it in her hands before sipping the contents.
‘Then what do you think of me?’ he asked.
‘To begin with,’ she said slowly, looking down at her wineglass, ‘I do not think you are deserving of Papa’s best claret.’
‘The best, is it?’ Wolf murmured. ‘Perhaps your man made a mistake.’
‘Truscott does not make mistakes.’
No, thought Wolf, but it would be his undoing if the man showed him too much respect. For all that he could not help teasing her.
‘Then clearly he sees the worth of the man beneath these sorry clothes.’
She put her glass down with a snap. ‘Who are you?’
‘What you see, a humble pilgrim.’
‘Yes, I know that is what you would like me to think, Mr Peregrine, but I will tell you to your face that I find nothing humble about you!’
‘Humility comes hard for a gentleman fallen on hard times.’
She was silent and Wolf gave his attention to the food. It was really very good, but it troubled him that she had been obliged to cook it.
‘You have only the two servants?’ he asked her. She bridled at his question and he went on quickly. ‘You have a large, fine church here and this area is a prosperous one, I believe.’
‘It was used to be,’ she told him. ‘There has been no one living at the Hall for several years now and that has had an effect. Without a family in residence our shopkeepers cannot sell their goods to them, the farmers do not supply them with milk and meat.’
‘But the estate is very large, it must provide a good living for many local families.’
‘With an absentee landlord the farms do not thrive and there is no money to maintain the houses. Many families worked at the Hall, when it closed they lost their positions. Some moved away and took up new posts, others found what work they could locally.’ She looked across the table at him. ‘There is much poverty here now. My father does what he can to relieve it, but his own funds are limited. We have very little of value in this house.’
Wolf understood her, but the fact she thought he might be a thief did not matter at that moment, what concerned him was that the people—his people—were suffering. Duncombe had told him the lawyers were being parsimonious with his money, but clearly they did not realise the effect of that. Richard should have started proceedings to declare him dead. Instead he preferred to put his own money into Arrandale.
He closed his eyes for a moment, as the weight of responsibility pressed down on him. He had thought himself unfairly punished, exiled in France for a crime he had not committed, but he saw now that he was not the only one to suffer.
‘How long do you intend to stay in Arrandale?’ Grace asked him.
‘A few days, no more.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘It is growing late and I should indeed be grateful for a bed, Miss Duncombe, if you can spare one.’
‘My father does not turn away anyone in need.’
‘Thank you.’ He pushed aside his empty plate. ‘Then with your permission I will retire now.’
‘Of course.’ She rose as the elderly manservant shuffled back into the room. ‘Ah, Truscott, Mr Peregrine is to be our guest for a few days. Perhaps you would show him to his room. Above the stable.’
She took a large iron key from a peg beside the door.
‘The...the groom’s quarters, mistress?’ The servant goggled at her.
‘Why, yes.’ She turned her bright, no-nonsense smile on Wolf. ‘We have no stable hands now, so the garret is free. I have already made up the bed for you. Truscott will show you the pump in the yard and where to find the privy. I am sure you will be very comfortable.’
And I will be safely out of the house overnight, thought Wolf, appreciatively.
‘I am sure I shall, Miss Duncombe, thank you.’
Truscott was still goggling, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Wolf clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Come, my friend, let us find a lamp and you can show me to my quarters.’
* * *
The servant led him across the yard to the stable block, but when they reached the outer stairs that led to the garret, Truscott could contain himself no longer.
‘Mr Arrandale, sir,’ he said, almost wringing his hands in despair. ‘Miss Duncombe’s as kind as can be, but she don’t know, see. I pray you’ll forgive her for treating you like this.’
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ said Wolf, taking the key from the old man’s hands. ‘Your mistress is very wise to be cautious. I should not like to think of her letting any stranger sleep in the house. Now, go back indoors and look after her. And remember, tomorrow you must treat me as a poor stranger, no serving me any more of your best wines!’
* * *
Wolf climbed the stairs to the groom’s quarters and made a quick inspection. Everything was clean and orderly. One room contained a bed, an old chest of drawers and a washstand, the other a table and a couple of chairs. Wolf guessed the furniture had been consigned there when it was no longer of any use in the house. However, it was serviceable and the bed was made up with sheets, blankets and pillows upon a horsehair mattress. He lost no time in shedding his clothes and slipping between the sheets. He could not help a sigh of satisfaction as he felt the soft linen against his skin. After a journey of twenty hours aboard the French fishing boat that had put him ashore near Eastbourne, he had travelled on foot and by common stage to reach Arrandale. The most comfortable bed on his journey had been a straw mattress, so by comparison this was sheer heaven.
He stretched out and put his hands behind his head. He could not fault Miss Grace Duncombe as a housekeeper. A smile tugged at his mouth as he recalled her shock when the parson said he was to stay with them. She had come into the room like a breath of fresh air. Doubtless because she brought the chill of the spring evening in with her. She said she had been visiting a Mrs Owlet. He frowned, dragging back old memories. The Owlets had worked at the great house for generations. It was a timely reminder that he would have to take care in the village, there were many such families who might well recognise his lanky frame. Grace Duncombe had no idea of his true identity, but she clearly thought him a rogue, set upon taking advantage of her kindly father, which was why she was housing him in this garret. That did not matter. He was here to find out the truth, but he must go carefully, one false move could cost him his life.
* * *
It was Grace’s habit to rise early, but this morning she was aware of an added urgency. There was a stranger in the garret. She was quite accustomed to taking in needy vagrants at the vicarage, giving them a good meal and a bed for the night, but Mr Peregrine disturbed her peace. She was afraid her father would invite the man to breakfast with him.
As soon as it was light Grace slipped out of bed and dressed herself, determined to make sure that if their guest appeared he would not progress further than the kitchen. When she descended to the basement she could hear the murmur of voices from the scullery and looked in to find Mrs Truscott standing over the maid as she worked at the stone sink in the corner. They stopped talking when Grace appeared in the doorway.
‘Ah, good morning, Miss Grace.’ Mrs Truscott looked a little flustered as she came forward, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I was just getting Betty to wash out Mr—that is—the gentleman’s shirt. So dirty it was, as if he had been travelling in it for a week. We didn’t heat up the copper, not just for one shirt, Miss, oh, no, a couple of kettles was all that was needed and look—hold it up, Betty—you can see it has come up clean as anything. All it needs now is a good blow out of doors and it will be as good as new.’
‘Did Mr Peregrine ask you to do this?’ asked Grace, astounded at the nerve of the man.
‘Oh, no, Miss Grace, but I could see it needed washing, so I told Truscott to fetch it off the gentleman at first light, saying I would find him a shirt from the charity box to tide him over if need be, but he said he had another to wear today, so all we have to do now is get this one dry.’
Betty had been nodding in agreement, but she stopped, putting up her nose to sniff the air like a hound.
‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Truscott, but ain’t that the bacon I can smell?’
‘Oh, Lordy yes.’ The housekeeper snatched the wet shirt from the maid’s hands and dropped it into the basket. ‘Quick, girl, it will be burned to a crisp and then what will the master say? Oh, and there’s the bread in the oven, too!’
Grace stepped aside and the maid rushed past her.
‘Give me the shirt, Mrs Truscott, I will peg it out while you attend to Father’s breakfast.’
‘Oh, Miss Grace, if you are sure?’
‘I am perfectly capable of doing it, so off you go now.’ Smiling, she watched the housekeeper hurry back to the kitchen then, putting a handful of pegs in the basket on top of the shirt, she made her way outside. The sun was shining now and a steady breeze was blowing. Grace took a deep breath. She loved spring days like this, when there was warmth in the sun and a promise of summer to come. It was a joy to be out of doors.
A clothes line was fixed up in the kitchen gardens, which were directly behind the stable block. As she crossed the yard Grace heard the noise of the pump being worked and assumed it was Truscott fetching more water for the house, but when she turned the corner she stopped, her mouth opening in surprise to see their guest, stripped to the waist and washing himself.
Her first reaction was to run away, but it was too late for that, he had spotted her. She should not look at him, but could not drag her eyes away from the sight of his half-naked body. The buckskins covering his thighs could not have been tighter, but although he was so tall there was nothing spindly about his long legs. They were perfectly proportioned. He had the physique of an athlete, the flat stomach and lean hips placing no strain on those snugly fitting breeches, but above the narrow waist the body widened into a broad chest and muscled shoulders, still wet and glinting in the morning sun. He bent to pick up his towel, his movements lithe, the muscles rippling beneath the skin. As he straightened she noted the black beard on his cheeks and watched as he flicked the thick dark hair away from his face. Droplets of water flew off the tendrils, catching the light. Like a halo, she thought wildly. A halo for a dark angel.
‘Good morning, Miss Duncombe.’
Her throat had dried. She knew if she tried to speak it would be nothing more than a croak so instead she inclined her head, frowning in an effort not to blush. She forced her legs to move and walked on, feeling very much like one passing a strange dog and not knowing if it was going to attack. The line was only yards away from the pump and, keeping her back to him, she concentrated on pegging out his shirt. Her fingers felt stiff, awkward and her spine tingled at the thought of the man behind her. She had noticed faint scars on his body, signs that he had not lived a peaceful life.
* * *
It was very quiet, perhaps he had gone, after all he had finished washing himself and it must be cold, standing in this chill wind, naked...
‘Thank you for going to so much trouble for me.’
She jumped at the sound of his deep voice. She turned to find he was very close, towering over her. He was towelling his wet hair and with his arms raised he looked bigger and broader than ever. The skin beneath his ribcage was drawn in, accentuating his deep chest with its shadow of dark hair. What would it be like to touch him, to run her hands over his skin and feel those crisp, dark hairs curling over her fingers?
Shocked, Grace stepped back and hastily picked up the washing basket, holding it before her like a shield while she tried to gather her scattered wits. She must answer him.
‘It was nothing. We c-cannot have you going about the village like a beggar.’ She began to move backwards, as if she was afraid to turn her back on him. ‘Once you are dressed Mrs Truscott will serve you breakfast in the kitchen.’
He kept his eyes on her, his look dark, unfathomable. She felt like a wild animal, in thrall to a predator.
‘Then I had best make myself presentable.’
She swallowed.
Pull yourself together, Grace!
‘Yes. Please do. And do not take too long about it. My servants have a great deal to do today.’
From somewhere she found the strength to turn and walk away. She wanted to run, she could feel his eyes boring into her and a shiver ran the length of her spine. She had never met anyone who made her feel so ill at ease. Or so deliciously alive.
* * *
When Grace went down to the kitchen later she found their guest sitting at the table, enjoying a hearty breakfast. Mrs Truscott was also there, but Grace’s relief at finding that she was not alone with the man was tempered by the housekeeper’s behaviour. She was standing at one end of the table, watching the stranger with a look of motherly satisfaction while he addressed his plate of bacon and eggs. It was understandable, thought Grace, fair-mindedly, for the stranger had clearly made an effort to clean himself up. His hair was still damp but the dark curls were now brushed and gleaming and his lean cheeks were free of stubble, making him look much younger.
And much more attractive.
He looked up at that moment and she blushed.
‘Good morning again, Miss Duncombe.’
He rose, but Grace quickly gestured to him to sit back down. He was so tall she did not want him towering over her. Again.
‘Pray, go on with your breakfast,’ she told him, not meeting his eyes. ‘I came to fetch tea. My father and I always enjoy a cup at this time, before he goes to his study to work.’
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Grace. I’ve been that busy I forgot all about it. I will make it now, just as soon as I have cut some more bread for Master...er...Mr...um...’
‘Peregrine,’ said Wolf, as the housekeeper stumbled over how to address him. He gave her a reassuring smile, which would have included Grace, if she had been attending, but she was already busy at the range, preparing tea. He had noted the tell-tale flush on her cheeks when she saw him and thought how well the extra colour suited her. She was a long Meg, no doubt about it, but not thin. He watched her now as she bustled about gathering cups, milk and sugar. Her movements were actually very pleasing to the eye.
Wolf told himself this was no time to be considering a flirtation. But he could not resist one more small tease.
He said, ‘I would very much like some tea, ma’am, if you can spare it.’
She was pouring tea into the two fine porcelain cups as he spoke and he saw her hand shake a little.
‘You may have what is left in the pot.’ Still she would not look at him. ‘Mrs Truscott shall pour more water on the leaves for you, but if you will excuse me I must take these upstairs. Papa will be waiting.’
And with that she whisked herself out of the kitchen. The housekeeper let out a whistling breath.
‘Well now, I’ve never known the mistress so curt before. I’ll make fresh tea for you, master, don’t you fret.’
‘No, no, you heard Miss Duncombe. The remains of this pot will do well enough for me. And do you sit down and join me.’
‘Nay, Master Wolf, that wouldn’t be fitting, me being a servant and all.’
He pushed his plate away. ‘I have sat at table with much worse company than honest servants, Mrs Truscott, believe me. And I pray you will stop treating me like some great gentleman.’
‘But you are master of Arrandale, sir. How else am I to treat you?’
‘Like the scrubby schoolboy that used to creep into the parson’s garden and steal the best plums from the tree! Lord, how you used to scold me in those days. What a rogue I was.’
‘Aye, a rogue, sir, but never a villain,’ replied the old woman, her eyes unnaturally bright. ‘That I will never believe.’
But could he ever prove it? thought Wolf. He saw the housekeeper surreptitiously wiping her eyes and he continued cheerfully, ‘Now let us have that tea while it is still drinkable.’
‘It will serve several times yet,’ she told him, fetching more cups. ‘I shall use the leaves again for Truscott and me, and then dry them and give them to the poor.’
‘Times are hard here?’
‘Times are hard everywhere, Master Wolf, what with the war and everything, but there’s no doubt that since your parents died, life has become much more difficult in Arrandale. The steward was carried off in the same epidemic and that made matters even worse, for there was no one to run the estate. These London lawyers don’t understand, you see. They expect their rents every Quarter Day and make no allowances for bad harvests, or sickness. What charity there is in the village comes from Mr Duncombe and his daughter.’ She hesitated. ‘There is some hereabouts that blames you for the troubles, Master Wolfgang.’
‘And with good cause. If I had not been so wild no one would have believed me capable of murdering my wife, I would not have fled the country and my parents would not have died.’
‘You don’t know that, sir.’
‘No, but it is what many believe, is it not?’
‘Aye, sir, it is. Which is why you must take care. There’s some in the village as would give up their own mothers for a shilling.’
‘I am aware of that, but I must talk to Brent, our old butler. Where will I find him?’
‘He lives with his niece and her husband in the house beneath the elm trees, at the far end of the village. His sight is very poor now and he rarely goes out.’
‘I need to see him alone, if possible.’
‘Then this morning would be a good time, the others will be off to market.’
‘Then I will go now.’
He rose and began to pack up the dishes, but Mrs Truscott stopped him.
‘You be on your way, Master Wolf, but be careful. There’s plenty hereabouts with long memories, and though you ain’t dressed like your old self there’s no disguising that tall frame of yours.’
‘I have been disguising this frame of mine for years, Mrs T., but don’t worry, I’ll take the lanes and skirt the village.’
‘Shall I tell Mr Duncombe you will join him for dinner?’ she asked. ‘He’d like that, I’m sure.’
Wolf paused at the door. ‘I would, too,’ he admitted. ‘But what of his daughter?’
The housekeeper gave him an enigmatic look.
‘Miss Grace will come round when she knows you better, sir, you’ll see. You could always charm the birds from the trees and that’s a fact!’
Chapter Two (#ulink_6119ccd9-18c0-579b-ad51-6e72ce450c0c)
Grace was in the morning room with her father when Truscott informed him that Mr Peregrine had gone out, but would join him for dinner. Mr Duncombe received the news with equanimity, but not so Grace.
‘Mr Peregrine is very sure of his welcome,’ she remarked, when they were alone again.
‘And why not?’ replied her father mildly. ‘We have offered him hospitality, as we would any of God’s creatures.’
‘But we know nothing about the man.’
‘He has a good heart.’
Grace shook her head. ‘You are too kind, Papa, too trusting. I have put him over the stables.’
‘Yes, so I understand.’ Her father chuckled. ‘I am sure he has slept in worse places.’
‘But you will have him sit down to dinner with us.’
‘Yes, dear, and I would remind you of what the Bible says: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.” Hebrews, my love, Chapter Thirteen.’
She smiled. ‘Somehow I do not think Mr Peregrine is an angel in disguise, Papa.’
‘Perhaps not, but I can assure you he is a gentleman and, I think, a man worthy of our help.’
More than that he would not say and soon retired to his study to work on his sermon. Grace tried not to think that he was running away from her, but she was left with the uneasy suspicion that Papa knew more about this stranger than he would tell her. She glanced out of the window. It was a fine day, if she hurried through her household duties there might be time for a ride before dinner.
* * *
Wolf found the little house under the elms without much difficulty. He had taken the back lanes around the village, his hat pulled low on his brow, and he adopted a slouching, shambling gait so that anyone seeing him would not think him a gentleman, let alone Arrandale of Arrandale. The house appeared to be deserted, but Wolf kept his distance for a while, watching and waiting. It was no hardship, for the sun was high and it was a warm spring day. At length the door opened and an old man limped out. Wolf recognised him immediately. The butler looked no older than he had done when Wolf had last seen him ten years ago. The old man sat down on a bench against the wall of the house and turned his face up to the sun. Wolf approached him.
‘Good day to you, Brent.’
‘Who is that?’ The butler peered up short-sightedly.
‘Do you not know me?’ Wolf dropped down until his face was level with the old man’s. He smiled. ‘Do not say you have forgotten me.’
‘I know the voice, but...’ The faded eyes stared into Wolf’s face. ‘Is it really you, Mr Wolfgang, after all these years?’
Wolf grasped the frail, outstretched hands. There was no doubt of the old man’s delight. He said gently, ‘Yes, Brent, I am come back.’
‘Lord bless you, sir, I never thought to see the day! Not that I can see very much, for my eyes ain’t what they was.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘But ’tis not safe to be out here. Pray, step inside, sir.’
‘Let me help you up.’ Wolf took his arm and accompanied him into the house.
‘Forgive me if I sit in your presence, Master Wolfgang, but I’ve got a leg ulcer that pains me if I stand for too long.’
‘I think you have earned the right to sit down,’ replied Wolf, helping him to a chair and pulling up one for himself. ‘You served my family faithfully for many years.’
‘Aye, I did, sir, and very sorry I was when the old master and mistress died and the house was shut up for the last time. Very sorry indeed.’ He brightened. ‘Are you come back to stay, master?’
‘Not quite yet. First I have to prove my innocence. That is the reason I am here, Brent, I want you to tell me what you remember, the night my wife died.’
‘I remember it as clear as day, sir, but I told it all to the magistrate and he said there was nothing in it to help you.’
‘I would like you to tell me, if you will. Starting with the argument I had with my wife before dinner.’ Wolf’s mouth twisted. ‘I am sure you heard that.’
The old man sighed. ‘Aye, the whole household heard it, but if you will excuse my saying so, sir, we was accustomed to you and your lady’s disagreements, so fiery as you both were. You went out and Mrs Wolfgang ordered a tray to be sent up to her room. That left only the master and mistress and Sir Charles to sit down to dinner.’
‘Ah yes, Urmston, my wife’s cousin.’ Wolf sat back. Sir Charles Urmston had always been received warmly at Arrandale. Personally, he had never liked the man. Wolf and Florence had never needed much excuse to hurl insults at one another and on this occasion she had accused him of hating Charles because he was the man Wolf’s parents would have liked for a son, rather than the wild reprobate Wolf had become. The idea still tortured him.
‘I went out for a ride to cool my temper,’ he said now. ‘What happened while I was gone?’
‘We served dinner and Meesden, Mrs Wolfgang’s dresser, took up a tray for her mistress. Mrs Wolfgang did not come downstairs again. About eleven the mistress prepared tea in the drawing room, just as she always did, to be served with cakes and bread as a light supper. Then, shortly after midnight, I was coming upstairs to the hall when I heard a shriek, well, a scream, more like.’ The old man stopped, twisting his hands together. ‘If only there’d been a footman at the door, he’d have seen what happened, but it was late and they was all in the servants’ hall.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Wolf. ‘Just tell me what you saw.’
‘Mrs Wolfgang’s body at the bottom of the grand staircase, her head all bloody and broken and you kneeling over her. I remember it so well. White as a sheet, you was. The master and mistress came running out from the drawing room and you said, in a queer sort of voice, “She’s dead. She’s dead.”
‘Such a to-do as there was then. Mrs Arrandale fell into hysterics and we was all in a bustle. The doctor was sent for and the master sent word that your horse was to be brought round, as quick as possible.’
‘How incriminating must that have looked,’ Wolf declared. ‘If only I had waited, stayed and explained myself.’
‘Ah but your father was anxious for you. Even if Sir Charles hadn’t been pressing him I think he would have insisted—’
‘Charles? You mean Urmston urged him to send me away?’
‘Aye, sir. As soon as Sir Charles came in from the garden he told your father to send you off out of harm’s way until they could find out what really happened. But they never did find out, sir. Instead...’
‘Instead they found the Sawston diamonds were missing and I was doubly damned.’ Wolf finished for him. ‘Who discovered the necklace was gone?’
‘Meesden, sir. She had been fetched down to her mistress, when it was found Mrs Wolfgang was still alive. The poor lady was carried to the morning room and Meesden stayed with her ’til Dr Oswald arrived. Fortunately he was dining at the vicarage and was soon fetched. Meesden went up to Mrs Wolfgang’s bedchamber for something and came down screaming that the lady’s jewel case was open and the necklace was gone.’
‘And everyone thought I had taken it,’ muttered Wolf.
‘I never believed that, sir. Even though the evidence...’ The butler’s words trailed away.
‘Aye,’ growled Wolf. ‘My wife always kept the key hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace.’ He was suddenly aware of his neckcloth, tight around his throat like a noose. ‘To my knowledge only three people knew of that hiding place. Florence, her dresser and myself.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I have no doubt Meesden told everyone that fact.’ The distress in the old man’s face confirmed it. Wolf reached out and touched his arm. ‘Think, Brent. Are you sure there was no one else in the house that night?’
‘Well, ’tis only a feeling...’
‘Tell me.’
Brent paused, his wrinkled brow even more furrowed as he struggled to remember.
‘I told the magistrate at the time, sir, but he made nothing of it. You see, once I had taken the tea tray into the drawing room for the mistress I prepared the bedroom candles. I was bringing them up to the staircase hall when I heard a noise upstairs. Voices.’ The old man sat up straight. ‘I thought it was Mrs Wolfgang talking to someone.’
Wolf’s lip curled. ‘Some would say it was me. That I returned and pushed Florence from the balcony.’
Brent shook his head. ‘When I saw you kneeling beside Mrs Wolfgang’s body I could tell you’d just come in. It was bitter cold that day and we had the first heavy frost of the winter. There was still a touch of it on the skirts of your coat, as there would be if you’d been out o’ doors for a length of time. I told the magistrate, but he paid no heed to me. He thought I was just trying to protect you.’
‘And no one else in the house saw or heard anything?’
Brent shook his head slowly.
‘No, sir. Your father and the magistrate gathered everyone in the servants’ hall and asked them that very question, but ’twere bitter cold that night, so those servants who had not gone to bed was doing their best to stay by the fire in the servants’ hall.’
‘But the voices you heard upstairs, could it have been my wife’s dresser? Surely Meesden might have been with her mistress.’
‘No, sir. When Meesden brought her mistress’s tray downstairs after dinner she said she was going to bed and she passed on Mrs Wolfgang’s instructions that on no account was she to be disturbed again until the morning. Quite adamant about it, she was, and then she went to her room. The maid who sleeps next door heard Meesden pottering about there, until she was sent for, when it was known her mistress was still alive.’
Wolf frowned, wondering if there was some little detail he was missing. He said, ‘I must visit the house. Jones is living there, I believe.’
‘Aye, Master Wolfgang, he is, and he would be willing to talk to you, I am sure, but take care who else in the village you approach, sir. There’s many who lost their livelihoods when Arrandale Hall was shut up and they would not look too kindly upon you.’
‘That is understandable, but if I do not try I shall not make any progress at all.’ Wolf rose. ‘I must go. Thank you, Brent.’ He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘No, don’t get up. I will see myself out.’
‘You’ll come again, sir. You’ll let me know how you get on?’
‘I shall, you may be sure of it.’
* * *
Wolf walked back through the lanes, going over all the old man had told him. He would not risk going through the village in daylight but he would make his way to Arrandale Hall later, and perhaps, once it was dark, he might call upon one or two of the families that he knew had worked at the house, the ones he felt sure would not denounce him. The pity of it was there were precious few of those. He had spent very little of his adult life at Arrandale. Some of the old retainers would remember him as a boy, but most of the newer staff would have little loyalty to him, especially if they believed he was the reason Arrandale was closed up.
The thud of hoofs caught his attention and he looked round to see Grace Duncombe riding towards him on a rangy strawberry roan. She sat tall and straight in the saddle, made taller by the very mannish beaver hat she wore, its wispy veil flying behind her like a pennant. Wolf straightened up and waited for her. She checked slightly, as if uncertain whether to acknowledge him, then brought her horse to a stand.
He touched his hat. ‘That is a fine mare. Is she yours?’
‘Yes.’ Her response was cool, but not unfriendly. ‘Bonnie is my indulgence. I have a small annuity from my mother that I use for her upkeep.’
He reached out and scratched the mare’s head.
‘You need not excuse yourself to me, Miss Duncombe.’
She flushed and her chin went up. ‘I do not. But people wonder that I should keep my own horse when we have had to make savings everywhere else.’
‘I imagine she is useful for visiting your father’s parishioners.’
Her reserve fled and she laughed. ‘With a basket of food hanging on my arm? I cannot claim that as my reason for keeping her.’ She smoothed the mare’s neck with one dainty gloved hand. ‘I have had Bonnie since she was a foal and cannot bear to part with her.’
‘I understand that. I had such a horse once. A black stallion. The very devil to control.’
‘Oh? What happened to him?’
‘He died. I am on my way back to your father’s house now. Shall we walk?’
Grace used the gentle pressure of her heel to set Bonnie moving.
Perhaps he is a highwayman and his horse was shot from under him. That might also account for the scars on his body.
She quickly curbed her wayward imagination. She had seen a shadow cross the lean face and guessed he had been very fond of his black horse, so it was no wonder he did not wish to talk about it. She must follow her father’s example and be charitable.
‘You would find it quicker to cut through the village,’ she said, waving her crop towards a narrow path that wound its way towards the distant houses.
‘Not much quicker.’
‘Ah. You are familiar with Arrandale?’
‘I can see the church from here, Miss Duncombe, and it is clear this way will bring us to it almost as quickly as cutting back to the village.’
‘And you would rather avoid the villagers,’ she said shrewdly.
He shrugged. ‘You know how these little places gossip about strangers.’
Grace pursed her lips. He frustrated every attempt to learn more about him.
She said now, ‘That should not worry you, if you have nothing to hide.’
‘I am merely a weary traveller, taking advantage of your father’s hospitality to rest for a few days.’
‘I fear taking advantage is just what you are doing,’ she retorted, nettled.
‘I mean no harm, Miss Duncombe, trust me.’
‘Impossible, since I know nothing about you.’
‘You could ask your father.’
‘I have done so, but he will tell me nothing.’ She paused. ‘I understand you are dining with us this evening.’
‘Yes. Do you object?’
She stopped her horse.
‘I would worry less if I knew something about you.’
He looked up and she had her first clear view of his eyes. They were blue, shot through with violet, and the intensity of his gaze was almost a physical force. Her insides fluttered like a host of butterflies.
‘One day I will tell you everything about me,’ he promised. ‘For the present I would urge you to trust your father’s judgement.’
‘He seems to have fallen completely under your spell,’ she snapped, seriously discomposed by the sensations he roused in her. ‘You might be an out-and-out villain for all we know.’
Grace inadvertently jerked the reins and Bonnie sidled. Immediately he caught the bridle, murmuring softly to the mare before looking up again.
‘Your father knows I am no villain, Miss Duncombe.’
He placed his hand on her knee as if in reassurance, but it had quite the opposite effect on Grace. Her linen skirt and several layers of petticoats separated them, but the gesture was shockingly intimate. Waves of heat flooded her, pooling low in her body. Her alarm must have shown in her countenance, because his hands dropped and he stepped away.
‘Perhaps you should ride on, if you are afraid of me.’
Afraid? Grace’s head was full of chaotic thoughts and feelings. He unsettled her, roused emotions she had thought long dead, but, no, she was not afraid of him. Quite the opposite.
‘I should,’ she said, gathering her reins and her disordered senses at the same time. ‘I shall!’
And with that she set Bonnie cantering away.
* * *
Wolf watched her go, the skirts of her russet riding habit billowing and accentuating the tiny waist beneath her tight-fitting riding jacket. He had to admit it was a fine image. He had thought when he first saw her that her hair was the colour of pale honey, but out of doors, with the sun glinting on her soft curls, it reminded him more of ripe corn. And those eyes. They were a rich, deep blue. Dark as sapphires.
With a hiss of exasperation he took off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. Bah, what was this, was he turning into some foppish poet? And, confound it, what had come over him to talk to her like that? He had said he was a lowly traveller, he should have touched his cap and kept a respectful silence.
It might be wiser to eat in the kitchen this evening, but Wolf knew Mr Duncombe would be able to tell him more about his family. Ten years was a long time and Wolf wished now that he had kept in touch, but it had been his decision to cut himself off. He had thought he would never return to England, but that was changed now. He had a daughter, a responsibility. Settling his hat more firmly on his head, he set off once more for the vicarage. As the good parson said, the past was gone. He must look to the future.
* * *
Grace was determined to wear her most sober gown for dinner that night, but when Betty came up to help her dress, she rejected every one pulled out for her as too tight, too low at the neck, or too dull. In the end she settled for a round gown of deep-blue silk gauze with turban sleeves. Its severity was relieved with a trim of white silk at the neck and ankles and a run of seed pearl buttons down the front. She found a white shawl with blue embroidery to keep off the chill and, throwing this around her shoulders, she made her way downstairs to the drawing room.
‘Oh.’
Grace stopped in the doorway when she saw their guest was alone. She had deliberately left her entrance as late as possible to avoid just such a situation.
‘Do come in, Miss Duncombe. Your father has gone to his study to find a book for me. He will be back immediately, I am sure,’ he said, as she came slowly into the room. ‘I hope you will forgive me dining with you in my riding dress, but I am...travelling light. And I had not noticed, until I changed for dinner, that this shirt is missing a button.’ Again that dark, intense look that did such strange things to her insides. ‘I hope you will forgive me. It hardly shows beneath the cravat, and at least, thanks to your housekeeper’s services, it is clean.’
Her training as a vicar’s daughter came to her aid.
‘If you will give it to Truscott when you retire this evening I will see that it is repaired. I will have your other shirt laundered, too.’
‘Thank you, ma’am, but Mrs T. is already dealing with that.’
Mrs T.! She bridled at his familiarity with her servants, but decided it was best to ignore it. She turned thankfully to her father as he came back into the room.
‘Here you are, my son.’
He held out a book and Grace’s brows rose in surprise. ‘The Mysteries of Udolpho?’
‘Mr Peregrine wanted something to amuse him if he cannot sleep,’ explained her father. ‘And he is unfamiliar with Mrs Radcliffe’s novel.’
‘I do not see how you could have failed to hear of it. It was a huge success a few years ago,’ remarked Grace.
‘I was out of the country, a few years ago.’
Heavens, thought Grace. It gets worse and worse. Are we harbouring a spy in our midst?
‘Ah,’ cried Papa. ‘Here is Truscott come to tell us dinner is ready. Perhaps, Mr Peregrine, you would escort my daughter?’
Grace hesitated as their guest proffered his arm, staring at the worn shabbiness of the sleeve.
Oh, do not be so uncharitable, Grace. You have never before judged a man by his coat.
And in her heart she knew she was not doing so now, but there was something about this man that disturbed her peace.
‘Do not worry,’ he murmured as she reluctantly rested her fingers on his arm. ‘I shall not be here long enough to read more than the first volume of Udolpho.’
‘I am relieved to hear it,’ she retorted, flustered by his apparent ability to read her mind.
His soft laugh made her spine tingle, as if he had brushed her skin with his fingers. When they reached the dining room and he held her chair for her the tiny hairs at the back of her neck rose. He would not dare to touch her. Would he?
No. He was walking away to take his seat on her father’s right hand.
* * *
Wolf wanted to ask questions. Coming back here had roused his interest in Arrandale. His eyes drifted towards Grace, sitting at the far end of the table. It would be safest to wait until he and the parson were alone, but after ten years of resolutely shutting out everything to do with his family, suddenly he was desperate for news.
‘So Arrandale Hall is shut up,’ he said.
‘But it is not empty,’ said Grace. ‘A servant and his wife are in residence.’
Wolf’s mouth tightened at her swift intervention and the inference that he wanted to rob the place. He kept his eyes on the parson.
‘Do you hear anything of the family, sir?’
‘Alas, no, my son. I hear very little of the Arrandales now.’
‘There was something in the newspapers only last week,’ put in Grace. ‘About the Dowager Marchioness of Hune’s granddaughter, Lady Cassandra. She was married in Bath. To a foreign gentleman, I believe.’
Wolf laughed. ‘Was she indeed? Good for her.’
Grace was looking at him with a question in her eyes, but it was her father who spoke.
‘Ah, yes, you are right, my love, but that can hardly interest our guest.’
‘No, no, of course I am interested.’ Wolf hoped he sounded politely indifferent, as befitted a stranger. ‘I take it there are no Arrandales living in the area now?’
‘No. The house was closed up in ninety-five. There was a particularly bad outbreak of scarlet fever that spring and old Mr Arrandale and his wife died within weeks of one another.’
‘Is that what they say killed them?’ Wolf could hardly keep the bitterness from his voice.
‘It was indeed what killed them, my son.’ The parson turned his gentle gaze upon him. ‘Nothing else.’
‘There had been some trouble earlier that winter, had there not, Papa? At the end of ninety-four,’ remarked Grace. ‘I was at school then, but I remember there were reports in the newspapers. The older son killed his wife for her jewels and fled to France. It was a great scandal.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Scandal has always followed the Arrandales, my love. Not all of it deserved.’
‘You say that because your living is in their gift,’ muttered Wolf.
‘No, I say it because I believe it.’
‘But, Papa,’ said Grace, ‘you believe the best of everyone.’
Wolf did not look up, but felt sure her eyes were on him. Mr Duncombe merely chuckled.
‘I look for the best in everyone,’ he said mildly, ‘and I am rarely disappointed. Do pass me the fricassee of rabbit again, my dear, it really is quite excellent.’
Wolf wanted to ask about the child, his daughter. Had the parson seen her, was she tall, like him, or small-boned like her mother? Was she dark, did she have his eyes? The questions went round and round in his head, but he knew he must let the matter drop. When Mr Duncombe began to talk of more general matters he followed suit, but his long exile had left him woefully ignorant.
‘You appear singularly ill informed of how matters stand in England,’ observed Grace, clearly suspicious.
‘I have been living in the north country, they have little interest in what goes on nearer London. That is why I have come south, to take up my life again.’
She pounced on that.
‘Oh, are you a local man, then, Mr Peregrine? I do not recall any family with that name hereabouts.’
‘No, the Peregrines are not local,’ he replied truthfully.
The parson shifted uncomfortably.
‘My dear, it grows late and I am sure Mr Peregrine would like to join me in a glass of brandy. I do not often indulge the habit, sir, but since you are here...’
Grace rose immediately. ‘Of course, Papa.’
‘If you wish to retire, Grace, I am sure our guest will not mind if we do not send for the tea tray.’
Wolf knew he should agree with his host. They could bid Miss Duncombe goodnight now and he would be free of her questions and suspicions, but some inner demon made him demur.
‘If it is no trouble, a cup of tea before I retire would be a luxury I have not enjoyed for a very long time.’
Grace looked at him, eyes narrowed.
‘You seem to be inordinately fond of the drink, Mr Peregrine.’
‘I believe I am, Miss Duncombe.’ He met her gaze innocently enough and at length she inclined her head, every inch the gracious hostess.
‘Of course Mr Peregrine must have tea if he wishes it, Papa. I will await you in the drawing room.’
With that she swept out of the room.
* * *
As soon as the door was closed Mr Duncombe said, ‘Was that wise, sir? My daughter is no fool.’
‘I am aware of that, but I was not funning when I said I have missed life’s little luxuries.’ The old man’s brows rose and Wolf’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Not tea-drinking, I admit, unless it was in the company of a pretty woman.’ Wolf saw the other man draw back and he hurried on. ‘Pray, sir, do not think I have any thoughts of that nature towards your daughter, I would not repay your hospitality so cruelly. No, I have no interest in anything save clearing my name.’ He looked around to check again that they were alone. ‘On that subject, sir, what do you know of my own daughter?’
‘Alas, my son, I cannot help you. She lives with Lord and Lady Davenport, I believe. Doctor Oswald was dining here the night your wife died and a servant came to fetch him. When we met again Oswald said it was a miracle the baby survived. Your wife never regained consciousness.’ In the candlelight Mr Duncombe’s naturally cheerful face was very grave. ‘He told me, in confidence, that if it had not been for the missing diamonds the magistrate would have recorded your wife’s death as a tragic accident. Alas, both the doctor and the magistrate are now dead.’
‘So you have a new Justice of the Peace?’
‘Yes, Sir Loftus Braddenfield of Hindlesham Manor,’ the parson informed him. ‘And that is another reason you might wish to avoid being in Grace’s company, my son. She is betrothed to him.’
Chapter Three (#ulink_4b29e37e-7cd7-59f2-ba89-9ac6baa4a793)
Grace blew out her candle and curled up beneath the bedcovers. She really could not make out Mr Peregrine. She turned restlessly. In general Papa was a very good judge of character, but he seemed to have fallen quite under this stranger’s spell.
She had to admit that dinner had been very enjoyable, the man was well educated and there had been some lively discussions of philosophy, religion and the arts, but he lacked knowledge of what was happening in the country. Surely the north was not that backward. Fears of Bonaparte invading England were never far away, but she thought if the man was a spy he would be better informed. Had he been locked up somewhere, perhaps? She was more thankful than ever that he was in the groom’s accommodation and that she had reminded Truscott to check the outer doors were secure before he went to bed.
Perhaps he had been in the Marshalsea. Many men of good birth were incarcerated there for debt, or fraud. With a huff of exasperation she sat up and thumped her pillow.
Such conjecture is quite useless. You will only end up turning the man into a monster, when he is probably nothing more than penniless vagrant, for all his talk of having business in Arrandale.
But would he be in any hurry to leave, if they continued to treat him like an honoured guest? She settled down in her bed again. The man had clearly enjoyed his dinner and he had been eager to take tea with her after. A knot of fluttering excitement twisted her stomach as she remembered his glinting look across the dining table. It was almost as if he was flirting with her.
Yet he barely spoke two words to her in the drawing room. Once the tea tray appeared he lost no time in emptying his cup and saying goodnight. She tried to be charitable and think that he was fatigued. Sleep crept up on Grace. No doubt matters would look much less mysterious in the daylight.
* * *
‘Good morning, Mrs Truscott.’ Grace looked about the kitchen. ‘Is our visitor still abed?’
‘Nay, Miss Grace, he went out an hour ago.’
‘Goodness, what can he be up to?’
Mrs Truscott smiled. ‘Well, you know what your father always says, miss. Only those who rise early will ever do any good.’
Grace laughed.
‘It is quite clear you approve of Mr Peregrine! But never mind that. I have come down to fetch tea for Papa. We are taking breakfast together and then I am going to visit Mrs Owlet. Perhaps you would pack a basket for me to take to her.’
‘I will, Miss Grace, but it goes against the grain to be helping those that won’t help themselves.’
‘Mrs Truscott! The poor woman has broken her leg.’
‘That’s as may be, but if she hadn’t been drinking strong beer she wouldn’t have tumbled off the road and down the bank, now would she? And that feckless son of hers is no better. I doubt he’s done an honest day’s work in his life, not since the hall closed and he lost his job there.’ The older woman scowled. ‘It’s said there’s always rabbit in the pot at the Owlets’ place, courtesy of Arrandale woods.’
‘I am sure young Tom isn’t the only one to go poaching in the woods and there is more than enough game to go round, since the woods are so neglected.’
‘That’s not the point, Miss Grace. It’s breaking the law.’
‘Well, if the law says a man cannot feed his family when there is such an abundance of rabbits on hand, then it is a bad law.’
‘Tsk, and you betrothed to a magistrate, too!’ Mrs Truscott waved a large spoon in her direction. ‘Don’t you go letting your man hear you saying such things, Miss Grace.’
‘Sir Loftus knows my sentiments on these things and I know he has some sympathy with the poorer villagers, although it would never do for him to say so, of course, and I suppose I should not have said as much to you.’
‘Don’t you worry about me, Miss Grace, there’s many a secret I’ve kept over the years. Now, let’s say no more about it, for the kettle’s boiling and the master will be waiting for his tea.’
* * *
Later, when she had seen her father comfortably ensconced in his study, Grace set off with her basket. Mrs Owlet lived at the furthest extremity of the village, at the end of a small lane backing on to Arrandale Park. Grace stayed for some time, trying to make conversation, although she found the widow’s embittered manner and caustic tongue very trying. The sun was at its height when Grace eventually emerged from the ill-kept cottage and she stood for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Having spent the past hour sympathising with Mrs Owlet, Grace was not inclined to walk back through the village and listen to anyone else’s woes. Instead she carried on up the lane into the park. There was a good path through the woods that bounded the park itself, and from there she could walk past the hall and on to the vicarage. It was a well-worn path that cut off the long curve of the High Street.
It was a fine spring morning and the woods were full of birdsong. Grace’s sunny nature revived and she began to feel more charitable towards Mrs Owlet. She had fallen on hard times when Arrandale House had been closed up. Now she lived a frugal existence with her son in what was little more than a hovel. It was no wonder that she was bitter, but Grace could not help thinking that less indulgence in strong beer and more effort with a broom would have improved her condition. Seeing her now, with her grubby linen and dirty clothes, it was difficult to think that she had once been laundress in a great house.
Grace recalled Mrs Truscott’s dark mutterings about young Tom Owlet poaching in these very woods and she looked around her. Not that anyone could mistake her tall form in its blue pelisse for a rabbit, but she strode on briskly and soon reached what had once been the deer park. Arrandale Hall was ahead of her, but her path veered away from the formal gardens and joined an impressive avenue of elms that lined the main approach to the house and would bring her out very close to the vicarage.
She had walked this way many times and always thought it regrettable that such a fine old house should stand empty. It was looking very grand today in the sunshine, but there was something different about the building that made her stop. She frowned at the little chapel beside the main house: the wide oak door was open.
Grace hurried across to the chapel. It was most likely Mr Jones had gone in there for some reason, but it could be children from the village, up to mischief, and the sooner they were sent on their way the better. She stepped inside and stood for a moment, while her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Someone was standing by the opposite wall, but it was definitely not a child.
‘Mr Peregrine! What on earth are you doing here?’
* * *
Wolf turned. Grace Duncombe stood in the entrance, a black outline against the sunshine.
‘The door was open and I was curious to see inside.’ He saw the frowning suspicion in her eyes. ‘I have not been stealing the church silver, Miss Duncombe, if that is your concern.’
‘There is nothing of that sort left in here now,’ she replied. ‘But what business can you have at the Hall?’
‘Curiosity,’ he repeated. ‘After what your father said last night I was interested to see the house, but you may be easy. The caretaker knows better than to let strangers into the house.’
Aye, thought Wolf, Jones would turn a stranger away, but the man had been happy enough to let Wolf wander through the familiar rooms. If Grace had arrived ten minutes earlier she would have found him in the entrance hall of the house itself. That would have been more difficult to explain away.
‘It was remiss of Mr Jones to leave the chapel open,’ she said now. ‘I must remind him of his duties.’
‘Must you?’
‘Why, yes. While the family are absent we must respect their property.’
‘Very commendable, Miss Duncombe, but since we are here, would you object if I took a moment to look around? You may stay, if you like, and make sure I do no damage.’
‘I shall certainly do so.’
Silently he turned to study an ornately carved edifice with its stone effigies. A curious stranger would ask whose tomb this was, so he did.
‘That is the tomb of Roland Arrandale and his wife,’ said Grace, stepping up beside him. ‘He was the first Earl of Davenport. The second and third earls are buried here, but the Hall was not grand enough for James, the fourth earl. He built himself a new principal seat and bequeathed Arrandale Hall to his younger son, John. His descendants are buried in the vault below us and you can see the carved memorials on the walls.’
‘Including these,’ murmured Wolf, looking up at two gleaming marble tablets.
‘They are recent additions. For the late Mr and Mrs Arrandale, and Florence, the poor wife of Mr Wolfgang Arrandale. I believe the younger son arranged for these to be installed at his own expense when the trustees refused to pay.’
Wolf kept his face impassive. What were those cheese-paring lawyers about to deny money for such things? And Richard—confound it, his little brother should not be bearing the cost. This was his fault. All of it.
‘It was fortunate there were no children,’ he said, keeping his voice indifferent.
‘Oh, but there was,’ she corrected him, as he had hoped she would. ‘There was a little girl. She was adopted by an Arrandale cousin, I believe.’
‘I am surprised her maternal grandparents did not bring up the child.’ He glanced at Grace, hoping she might answer the question he dare not ask. She did not disappoint him.
‘The Sawstons moved away from the area after their daughter’s death. They wanted nothing more to do with the Arrandale family, nor their granddaughter.’ Disapproval flickered over her serene countenance. ‘It was cruel of them to abandon the baby at such a time. The poor child had done nothing to warrant it, except to be born.’
And that was his fault, too. A shudder ran through Wolf and he turned away, saying curtly, ‘There is little of interest here.’
‘Unless you appreciate craftsmanship,’ she told him. ‘The font cover is by Grinling Gibbons.’
‘Is it now?’ Wolf went to the back of the church where the stone font stood behind the last box pew. He ran a careful hand over the elaborately carved wooden cover. ‘What a pity I did not know that earlier, I might have carried it off to sell in the nearest town.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Is that not what you think of me, Miss Duncombe, that I am a thief?’
‘I do not know what you are.’
‘Your father trusts me.’
‘Father trusts everyone.’
‘True. He is a saint and I will not deny that I am a sinner. But I am not here to steal from the chapel.’ Her darkling look was sceptical. He shrugged. ‘I have seen enough here now. Shall we go?’
She indicated that he should precede her out of the church, then she carefully locked the door. She stood on the path, as if waiting for him to walk away.
He said, ‘If you are going to the vicarage, I will escort you.’
‘Thank you, but before I leave I am going to take the key back to Mr Jones.’
‘Very well, I will wait for you.’
She looked dissatisfied with his answer, but she turned on her heel and hurried away to the house. Wolf followed more slowly. He could only hope that Jones would not give him away.
A few minutes later she returned and he was relieved by her exasperation when she saw him. Clearly she had no idea of his real identity.
‘Yes, I am still here,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I shall escort you back to the vicarage. It is not at all seemly for a young lady to walk these grounds alone.’
‘I have done so many times without mishap.’
‘So you are an unrepentant trespasser.’
‘Not at all, there is a right of way through the park.’
‘And you walk here for pleasure?’ he asked her.
‘Not today. I have been visiting an old lady. It is much quicker to walk home this way than through the village.’
‘It would be quicker still to ride. And having seen you in the saddle I know you ride very well, Miss Duncombe.’
‘One cannot live within twenty miles of Newmarket without riding.’ He detected the first signs of a thaw in her response. ‘However, riding today would not have been so convenient. You see, I came through the village and carried out several errands. I passed on Mrs Truscott’s recipe for a restorative broth to one family, called in upon a mother with a newborn baby to see how they go on and took a pot of comfrey ointment to old Mr Brent, for his leg. That would have been much more difficult if I had been riding Bonnie. I would have been forever looking for a mounting block to climb back into the saddle.’
‘I quite see that. But do you never ride here, in the park?’
‘I would not presume to do so without the owner’s permission.’
‘Are you always so law-abiding?’
‘I am the parson’s daughter and betrothed to Sir Loftus Braddenfield. I am obliged to set an example.’
‘Of course.’
She looked up. ‘I think you are laughing at me.’
‘Now why should I do that?’ He saw her hesitate and added, ‘Come, madam, do not spare my feelings, tell me!’
‘I think...’ she drew a breath ‘...I think that you have very little respect for the law!’
His lip curled. ‘You are wrong, ma’am. I have a very healthy respect for it.’
Grace did not miss the sudden bitterness in his voice. A convict, then. She should be afraid, he might be dangerous.
Not to me.
A strange thought and one she was reluctant to pursue. Instead she looked about her as they made their way through the avenue of majestic elms that led to the main gates and the High Street.
‘It is such a pity that the park is now turned over to cattle,’ she remarked. ‘It was a deer park, you know. I used to love watching them roaming here.’
‘You remember the house as it was? You remember the family?’
‘Of course, I grew up here. At least, until I was eleven years old. Then I was sent off to school. As for knowing the family, my father may be a saint, as you call him, but he was careful to keep me away from the Arrandales. The old gentleman’s reputation as a rake was very bad, but I believe his two sons surpassed him. Thankfully for Papa’s peace of mind, by the time I came back the Hall was shut up.’
‘And just when did you return?’
‘When I was seventeen. Seven years ago.’
His brows went up. ‘And you are still unmarried?’
She felt the colour stealing into her cheeks.
‘I came home to look after my father, not to find a husband.’
‘The local gentlemen are slowcoaches indeed if they made no move to court you.’
He is flirting with you. There is no need to say anything. You owe him no explanation.
But for some inexplicable reason she felt she must speak.
‘I was engaged to be married. To Papa’s curate, but he died.’
‘I am very sorry.’
For the first time in years she felt the tears welling up for what might have been. She said quickly, ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘And now you have a new fiancé,’ he said.
‘Yes. I am very happy.’
* * *
There was a touch of defiance in her words, but Wolf also heard the note of reproof. He had been over-familiar. She was the parson’s daughter and not one to engage in flirtatious chatter, but he had been curious to know why she was still unmarried. She was very tall, of course—why, her head was level with his chin!—and she had no dowry. Either of those things might deter a suitor. But they should not, he thought angrily. She was handsome and well educated and would make any man an excellent wife. Any respectable man, that is.
When they reached the park gates he saw they were chained, but there was a stile built to one side. Wolf sprang over it and, having helped Grace across, he pulled her fingers on to his arm. Silently she disengaged herself. Understandable, but he could not deny the tiny pinprick of disappointment.
* * *
Grace was relieved to be back on the High Street and with the vicarage just ahead of them. This man was far too forward and the tug of attraction made her feel a little breathless whenever she was in his company.
You are very foolish, she told herself sternly. His only advantage is his height. He is the only man in Arrandale taller than you and that is hardly a recommendation!
‘You are frowning, Miss Duncombe. Is anything amiss?’
‘No, not at all.’ Hastily she summoned a smile. ‘Here we are back at the vicarage. It will be quicker if we walk up the drive rather than going around to the front door and summoning Truscott to let us in.’
Grace pressed her lips together to prevent any further inane babbling.
* * *
She is uneasy, thought Wolf. But how much worse would she feel if she knew I was a wanted man?
A large hunter was standing in the stable yard and Mr Duncombe was beside it, talking to the rider, but seeing them approach he smiled.
‘So there you are, Grace, and in good time.’
The rider jumped down. ‘My dear, I am glad I did not miss you altogether.’
Wolf watched as the man caught Grace’s hand and raised it to his lips. He looked to be on the shady side of forty, stocky and thick-set, with a ruddy complexion and more than a touch of grey in his hair. His brown coat was cut well, but not in the height of fashion, and he greeted Grace with an easy familiarity. Even before they were introduced Wolf had guessed his identity.
‘Sir Loftus Braddenfield is our local Justice of the Peace.’
It did not need the warning note in the parson’s mild words to put Wolf on his guard. Some spirit of devilry urged him to tug his forelock, but he suppressed it; Sir Loftus Braddenfield did not look like a fool. The man was coolly assessing him as Wolf made a polite greeting.
‘So you are on your way to London, eh? Where are you from, sir?’
‘I have been travelling in the north for some time,’ Wolf replied calmly.
‘And you thought you’d break your journey in Arrandale. Friend of Mr Duncombe’s, are you?’
‘I knew the family,’ explained Mr Duncombe. ‘A long time ago.’
Sir Loftus was still holding Grace’s hand and it occurred to Wolf that he did not like seeing his fiancée escorted by a stranger. Wolf excused himself and as he walked away he heard Sir Loftus addressing Grace.
‘I wish I could stay longer, my dear, but I have business in Hindlesham. I merely called to invite you and your father to dinner this evening. But if you have visitors...’
Grace’s reply floated across the yard to Wolf as he ran lightly up the garret stairs.
‘Mr Peregrine is not a visitor, Loftus. More one of Papa’s charitable cases.’
He winced. That cool description should allay any jealous suspicions Braddenfield might have. Clearly the lady had a very low opinion of ‘Mr Peregrine’. He went inside, but as he crossed the room he could not resist glancing out of the window, which overlooked the yard. The little party was still there, but the parson and Braddenfield appeared to have finished their discussion, for the magistrate was taking his leave of Grace, raising her hand to his lips. Wolf scowled. She was smiling at Braddenfield more warmly than she had ever smiled at him.
Kicking off his boots, he threw himself down on the bed. It did not matter what Miss Grace Duncombe thought of him. There were more pressing matters requiring his attention. Putting his hands behind his head, he thought of all he had heard from old Brent and from Jones, the caretaker at Arrandale Hall. He closed his eyes and conjured his own memories of the tragedy. He remembered the servants coming up to the hall while he knelt beside Florence’s almost-lifeless form. Jones had added one small detail that Wolf had forgotten. It had been Charles Urmston who pulled Wolf to his feet, saying as he did so, ‘You have done it this time, Arrandale. Your temper has got the better of you.’
Everyone would think Florence had met him on the landing, ready to continue their argument, and he had pushed her away so that she had fallen to her death. There were witnesses enough to their frequent quarrels. And the theft of the necklace was also laid squarely at his door.
He sat up abruptly. Whoever stole the diamonds knew the truth about Florence’s death, he was sure of it. Wolf glanced out of the window again. The stable yard was empty now. Mr Duncombe and his daughter were invited to dine with Sir Loftus, so he was free to patronise the local inn this evening.
* * *
‘Well, well, that was a pleasant dinner.’
Grace wished she could agree with her father, but if she were truthful, she had found the evening spent with Sir Loftus and his elderly mother a trifle dull. Mrs Braddenfield was a kindly soul, but her interests were narrow and her son, although well educated, lacked humour. Grace supposed that was partly to do with his being Justice of the Peace, a position he took very seriously. They did not even have the company of Claire Oswald, Mrs Braddenfield’s young companion, to lighten the mix, for she was away visiting relatives.
The conversation over dinner ranged from local matters to the weather and the ongoing war with France, but it had all been very serious. Grace compared the evening to the previous one spent in the company of their mysterious guest. They had discussed a whole range of topics and her own contributions had been received without the condescension she often detected in her fiancé’s manner. Berating herself for being so ungrateful, she sought for something cheerful to say.
‘It was very kind of Loftus to put his carriage at our disposal.’
‘It was indeed. It would have been a chilly ride in the gig.’
She heard the sigh in her father’s voice. At times like these Papa felt the change in their circumstances. The tithes that provided a large proportion of his income as rector of the parish had diminished considerably since Arrandale Hall had been shut up and when their ancient coachman had become too old to work they had pensioned him off. Grace had persuaded her father that a carriage was not a necessity; they could manage very well with the gig and the old cob. And so they could, although she could not deny there were benefits to riding in a closed carriage during the colder months of the year.
Sir Loftus owned the manor house in the market town of Hindlesham. It was only a few miles, but Grace was thankful when they reached Arrandale village, for they would be home very soon. It was nearing midnight and most of the buildings were in darkness, no more than black shapes against the night sky, but light spilled out from the Horse Shoe Inn, just ahead of them. With her head against the glass Grace watched a couple of figures stagger on to the road without any heed for the approaching vehicle. The carriage slowed to a walk, the coachman shouting angrily at the men to get out of the way. From the loud and abusive response she was sure they had not come to harm beneath the horses’ hoofs.
Grace was relieved her father was sleeping peacefully in his corner of the carriage, for he did not like her to hear such uncouth language. Dear Papa, he was apt to think her such a child! Smiling, she turned her gaze back to the window. They were level with the inn now and there was someone else in the doorway. As the carriage drove by, the figure turned and she saw it was Mr Peregrine.
There was no mistaking him, the image was embedded in her mind even as the carriage picked up speed. He was hunched, his coat unbuttoned and he was wearing a muffler around his throat rather than the clean linen she had taken the trouble to provide for him. His hat was pulled low over his face and it was the merest chance that he had looked up at just that moment, so that the light from the inn’s window illuminated his face.
Why should he be skulking around a common inn at midnight? And had he recognised her? Grace drew herself up. She was not at fault. If he had seen her, then she was sure he would be at pains to explain himself. She was more than ever relieved that he was not sleeping in the house. When they reached the vicarage she gently roused her father and accompanied him indoors. She decided not to say anything to him about their guest tonight, but unless the man had a satisfactory explanation for his activities she would urge her father to tell him to leave.
* * *
The following morning she found their guest breaking his fast in the kitchen, freshly shaved, a clean neckcloth at his throat and looking altogether so at ease that for a moment her resolve wavered. But only for a moment.
‘Mr Peregrine. When you have finished your breakfast I would be obliged if you would attend me in the morning room.’
Those piercing violet-blue eyes were fixed upon her, but he waited until Mrs Truscott had bustled out of the room before he spoke.
‘You wish to see me alone?’
She flushed, but remained resolute.
‘I do.’
‘Is that not a little...forward of you, Miss Duncombe?’
Her flush deepened, but this time with anger.
‘Necessity demands that I speak to you in private.’
‘As you wish.’ He picked up his coffee cup. ‘Give me ten minutes and I will be with you.’
Grace glared at him. Mrs Truscott had come back into the kitchen so she could not utter the blistering set-down that came to her lips. Instead she turned on her heel and left the room. How dare he treat her thus, as if she had been the servant! If he thought that would save him from an uncomfortable interrogation, he was sadly mistaken.
* * *
Wolf drained his cup. The summons was not unexpected. It was unfortunate that Grace had seen him last night and it was his own fault. A carriage rattling through the main street at any time was a rare occurrence in Arrandale and he should have realised that it was most likely to be the Duncombes returning from Hindlesham. If only he had kept his head down, remained in the shadows, instead of staring into the coach window like a fool. Even now he remembered the look of shocked recognition on Grace’s face. Well, he would have to brazen it out.
He made his way to the morning room where Grace was waiting for him, her hands locked together and a faint crease between her brows. She was biting her lip, as if she did not know quite how to begin. He decided to make it easy for her.
‘You want to know what I was doing at the Horse Shoe Inn last night.’
‘Yes. You are, of course, quite at liberty to go wherever you wish,’ she added quickly. ‘It was rather your appearance that puzzled me.’
‘My appearance, Miss Duncombe?’
She waved one hand towards him. ‘Today you are dressed neatly, with propriety. Last night you looked like a, like a...’ He waited, one brow raised, and at last she burst out, ‘Like a ne’er-do-well.’
He shrugged. ‘I have always found it expedient to adapt to my surroundings. I had a sudden fancy for a tankard of home brewed and I did not want to make the other customers uncomfortable.’
It was not a complete lie. It had been a risk to go into the taproom at all, but the parson had told him the landlord was not a local man and would not know him. Wolf had hoped that with his untidy clothes and the ragged muffler about his neck no one would associate him with the Arrandale family.
Grace looked sceptical.
‘Since the inn supplies us with our small beer I can only assume you had a sudden fancy for low company, too,’ she said coldly. ‘Forgive me if I appear uncharitable, but I think you have imposed upon our hospitality long enough.’
The door opened and the parson’s soft voice was heard.
‘Ah, Mr Peregrine, there you are.’ Mr Duncombe came into the room, looking from one to the other. ‘Forgive me, am I interrupting?’
Wolf met Grace’s stormy eyes. ‘Your daughter thinks it is time I took my leave.’
‘No, no, my dear sir, there is no need for that, not before you have finished your business in Arrandale.’
Wolf waited for Grace to protest, but although her disapproval was tangible, she remained silent.
‘Miss Duncombe is afraid I am importuning you, sir.’
‘Bless my soul, no, indeed. I am very pleased to have you here, my boy.’
‘But your daughter is not.’ His words fell into a heavy silence.
‘Perhaps, my son, you would allow me to speak to my daughter alone.’
‘Of course.’ As Wolf turned to go the old man caught his arm.
‘Mark me, sir, I am not asking you to quit this house. In fact, I strongly urge you to stay, for as long as you need. You are safe here.’
‘But if Miss Duncombe is not happy about it—’
‘Let me talk with Grace alone, if you please. We will resolve this matter.’
* * *
Grace frowned. She did not understand the look that passed between the two men, but the stranger went out and she was alone with her father.
‘Now, Grace, tell me what is troubling you. Is it merely that you think Mr Peregrine is imposing upon me?’
‘I do not trust him, Papa.’ She saw his look of alarm and said quickly, ‘Oh, he has not acted improperly towards me, but—’ She broke off, searching for the right words to express herself. ‘Yesterday, when I was coming home after visiting Mrs Owlet, I came upon him in the Arrandale Chapel, and I saw him again last night, outside the Horse Shoe Inn when we drove past at midnight.’
‘Ah.’ The parson smiled. ‘These are not such great crimes, my dear.’
‘But you must admit it is not the behaviour of an honest man.’
‘It may well be the behaviour of a troubled one.’
‘I do not understand you.’
‘No, I am aware of that. I am asking you to trust me in this, Grace.’
‘Papa!’ She caught his hands. ‘Papa, there is something you are not telling me. Do you not trust me?’
He shook his head at her.
‘My love, I beg you will not question me further on this matter. One day, I hope I shall be able to explain everything, but for now you must trust me. It is my wish that Mr Peregrine should remain here for as long as it is necessary.’
He spoke with his usual gentle dignity, but with a firmness that told her it would be useless to argue.
‘Very well, Papa. If that is your wish.’
‘It is, my child. Now, if you will forgive me, I am off to visit the Brownlows. They sent word that the old man has taken a turn for the worse and is not expected to last the day.’
‘Of course. I must not keep you from your work.’
‘Thank you. And, Grace, when you next see Mr Peregrine I want you to make it plain to him that we want him to stay.’
With that he was gone. Grace began to pace up and down the room. Every instinct cried out against her father’s dictum. The man was dangerous, she knew it, to her very core. So why was her father unable to see it? Grace stopped and pressed her hands to her cheeks. The image of Mr Peregrine filled her mind, as he had been that day by the pump, droplets of water sparkling on his naked chest like diamonds. That danger was not something she could share with her father!
There was a faint knock on the door. She schooled her face to look composed as Truscott came in with a letter for her. The handwriting told her it was from Aunt Eliza, but her thoughts were too confused to enjoy it now. She would saddle Bonnie and go for a ride. Perhaps that would help her to see things more clearly.
* * *
Wolf heaved the axe high and brought it down with more force than was really necessary. The log split with satisfying ease and even as the pieces bounced on the cobbles he put another log on the chopping block and repeated the action. It was a relief to be active and he was in some measure repaying his host’s kindness. The vision of Grace’s stormy countenance floated before him and he pushed it away. He wanted to tell her the truth, but Mr Duncombe had advised against it. He must respect that, of course, but there was something so good, so honest about Grace that made the deception all the more abhorrent.
The axe came down again, so heavily that it cleaved the log and embedded itself in the block. He left it there while he eased his shoulders. He had discarded his coat and waistcoat, but the soft linen of his shirt was sticking to his skin. It would need washing again. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips as he recalled Grace tripping out into the garden and seeing him, half-naked, by the pump. He remembered her look, the way her eyes had widened. She had not found his body unattractive, whatever else she might think of him.
The smile died. There was no place in his life for a woman, especially one so young. Why, he was her senior by ten years, and her innocence made the difference feel more like a hundred. No, Grace Duncombe was not for him.
There was a clatter of hoofs and the object of his reverie approached from the stable yard. Her face was solemn, troubled, but the mare had no inhibitions, stretching her neck and nudging his arm, as if remembering their last meeting. Idly Wolf put a hand up and rubbed the mare’s forehead while Grace surveyed the logs covering the cobbles outside the woodshed.
‘My father wishes me to make it clear that you are welcome to remain here as long as you wish.’
‘Thank you, Miss Duncombe.’
She looked at him then.
‘Do not thank me. You know I would rather you were not here.’
She went to turn the mare, but Wolf gripped the leather cheek-piece.
‘Grace, I—’
The riding crop slashed at his hand.
‘How dare you use my name?’
He released the bridle and stepped back. Fury sparkled in her eyes as she jerked the horse about and cantered away.
‘Hell and damnation!’ Wolf rubbed his hand and looked down at the red mark that was already appearing across the knuckles.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ Truscott appeared, looking at him anxiously. ‘I just seen Miss Grace riding out o’ here as if all the hounds of hell were after her.’
Wolf’s eyes narrowed. ‘I need a horse. A fast one.’
Chapter Four (#ulink_5d39cf86-6ab4-5c3d-a454-2b889cab0cca)
The frantic gallop did much to calm Grace’s agitation, but it could not last. She had already ridden Bonnie hard for a couple of hours that morning and the mare needed to rest. She had returned to the stables, determined to carry out her father’s instructions and speak to their guest. She thought that, perched high on Bonnie’s back, she would be able to remain calm and aloof, but the sight of the man had caught her off-guard. The white shirt billowing about him accentuated his broad shoulders and sent her pulse racing. And when he fixed her with those eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul, she panicked. Her reaction to his presence frightened her and his hand on the bridle was the last straw for her frayed nerves. She had thought only of getting away. But now, as she slowed Bonnie to a walk, she was filled with remorse. She hated violence and was ashamed to think she had struck out so blindly. She would have to apologise.
With a shock Grace realised she was on the outskirts of Hindlesham. Having come this far she should carry on to the Manor and give her thanks for last night’s dinner. Loftus might well be out on business but his mother would be there. The very thought had Grace turning and cantering back towards Arrandale. Mrs Braddenfield frequently urged Grace to look upon her as a parent, since her own dear mother was dead, but Grace could no more confide in her than a stranger. Besides, Mrs Braddenfield would agree that Papa was far too trusting, that this ‘Mr Peregrine’ should be sent away immediately and perversely Grace did not want to hear that. Oh, heavens, she did not know what she did want!
She eased her conscience with the knowledge that Mrs Braddenfield was not in want of company. The lady had told them herself that her neighbours were being very attentive during the absence of Claire Oswald, her excellent companion. No, Mrs Braddenfield did not need her visit and, in her present agitated state, Grace would be very poor company indeed.
* * *
Grace had reached Arrandale Moor when she saw someone galloping towards her. She recognised Mr Styles’s bay hunter immediately, but the rider was definitely not the elderly farmer. He was tall and bare-headed and she thought distractedly that he looked as good on horseback as he did chopping wood. Her mouth dried, she had a craven impulse to turn and flee, but she drew rein and waited for horse and rider to come up to her, steeling herself for the apology she must make to the man calling himself Mr Peregrine.
It took all her nerve to keep Bonnie still, for it looked at first as if horse and rider would charge into her, but at the last moment the bay came to a plunging halt, eyes wild and nostrils flaring. The rider controlled the powerful animal with ease, his unsmiling eyes fixed on Grace.
‘Sir, I must apologise—’
‘You said you want the truth,’ he interrupted her. ‘Very well. Follow me.’
Without waiting for her reply he wheeled about and set off back towards the village. Intrigued, Grace followed him. They passed the vicarage and took the narrow lane that bordered Arrandale Park until they came to a gap in the paling. As soon as both horses had both pushed through they set off again, galloping towards the Hall. The pace did not ease until they reached the weed-strewn carriage circle before the house itself. Grace saw her companion throw himself out of the saddle and she quickly dismounted before he could reach her. He looked to be in a fury and even as she slid to the ground she wondered if she had been wise to follow him.
‘Come along.’
He took her arm and escorted her up the steps, arriving at the door just as Robert Jones opened it. With a curt instruction to the servant to look after the horses, he almost dragged Grace inside.
She had never been inside the Hall before. She wanted to stop and allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the shuttered gloom, but her escort led her on inexorably, through what she could dimly see was a series of reception rooms to the narrow backstairs. Fear and curiosity warred within her, but for the moment curiosity had the upper hand.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You will soon see.’
He marched her up the narrow, twisting stairs to a long gallery that ran the length of the building. After the darkness of the shadowy stairwell, the light pouring in from the windows was almost dazzling.
‘Why have you brought me here?’
A prickling fear was already whispering the answer.
‘You will see.’ He strode along the gallery and stopped at one of the paintings. Only then did he release her. Grace resisted the urge to rub her arm where his fingers had held her in a vice-like grip.
They were standing beneath a picture. A family group, an older man with powdered hair in a dark frock coat and a tall crowned hat, a lady in an elegant muslin dress with a blue sash that matched her stylish turban. Between them, in informal pose, stood their children, a fair-haired schoolboy and beside him, his arm protectively resting on the boy’s shoulder, a tall young man dressed in the natural style that was so fashionable ten years ago, a black frock coat and tight breeches. But it was not the clothes that held her attention, it was the lean, handsome face and the coldly cynical gleam in the violet-blue eyes that stared out defiantly beneath a shock of thick, curling dark hair. She glanced at the man beside her and involuntarily stepped away.
‘Yes, that is me.’ There was a sneer in the deep, drawling voice. ‘Wolfgang Charles Everdene Arrandale. Not-so-beloved son and heir of Arrandale. This was painted to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Not that it was much of a celebration, I was a rakehell even then, in true Arrandale tradition. Is it any wonder my father thought me capable of murder?’
‘And the boy?’ It was all she could think of to say.
‘My brother Richard, seven years my junior. He could have inherited Arrandale. When I left England I deliberately cut myself off from the family, ignored letters and messages, even the news that my parents were dead. I wanted everyone to think I had died, too, but it seems Richard would not accept that. Consequently the miserly lawyers have held the purse strings at Arrandale and my foolish brother has dipped into his own pocket to pay for necessary maintenance work here.’
Surely a murderer would not say such things.
Grace needed to think, so she moved along the gallery, studying the portraits. There were signs of Wolfgang Arrandale in many of them, in the shape of the eye, the strong chin and in most of the men she saw that same world-weary look, but the lines of dissipation were etched deeper. Reason told her she should be frightened of this man, but she felt only an overwhelming sadness and an irrational, dangerous wish to comfort him.
At the end of the gallery she turned.
‘Why have you come back now?’
‘I learned I have a daughter.’
‘You did not know?’
‘No. I thought when I left England I had no commitments, no responsibilities. I had brought enough shame on the family and thought it best if I disappeared. Now, for my daughter’s sake, I need to prove my innocence.’
She forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘Are you a murderer?’
‘I have killed men, yes, in duels and in war. But I did not kill my wife.’
He held her gaze. Grace desperately wanted to believe him, but she could not ignore the portraits staring down at her from the walls, generations of rogues, rakes and murderers going back to the time of good King Hal. Everyone in the parish knew the history of the family. Why should this Arrandale be any different to his ancestors?
Her legs felt weak and she sank down on to a chair, regardless of the dust. She should have known who he was. It made such sense, she should have known.
He began to pace the floor, his boots echoing on the bare boards.
‘There is a warrant for my arrest and a price on my head. If I am caught, your father could be charged with harbouring a criminal. He did not want you to have that on your conscience, too. But he was afraid you might guess.’
‘Why should I do that?’ She was answering herself as much as him. ‘I was at school when your wife died. By the time I came home to look after Papa it was old news and the Arrandales were rarely mentioned.’
‘Except to curse the name for bringing hardship and poverty to the village.’
She heard the bitterness in his voice and said quietly, ‘Will you tell me what happened?’
He stared out of the window.
‘I do not know. We argued, I rode out to cool my heels and when I came back I found her lying at the bottom of the stairs.’
‘Could she have fallen?’
He looked at her then. ‘Judge for yourself.’
He strode off towards a door at the far end of the gallery. Grace knew this was her chance. She could go back the way they had come, escape from the house and from Wolfgang Arrandale. That would be the safe, sensible thing to do.

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