The Earl's Runaway Governess, page 20
But Miss Bolton did not exist.
Or did she?
His tortured mind wavered between condemning her and wanting nothing more than to be with her again. It was easier to find refuge in anger than to handle the vulnerability of love.
Thankfully, he told himself, the notion that he loved her was now passing. The revelation that she was not the innocent miss he had thought her, that she had knowingly and deliberately deceived him about everything—not just her name and her past, but her very nature—had put an end to any deeper feelings.
Though his determination to bed her remained, the warmer feelings had vanished under a hail of anger—mainly anger at himself, for his own stupidity. She had made a fool of him, and he did not like it.
And yet part of him desperately wanted a different truth. He wanted to find that she was true, and innocent, and that there was some reasonable explanation for her departure with Henry Grant. How could he uncover the truth? For he must know.
‘Barny,’ he said casually, ‘where does Henry Grant play cards?’
* * *
Marianne fitted the small silver key into the lock. Her hand was trembling, and it took two or three tries before it went in properly. Her breath sounded loud in her ears as she strained to listen for the sound of footsteps in the hallway. She was terrified that someone would enter the library and catch her prying.
She turned the key and it gave with an audible click.
Now to see what Henry was hiding!
She slid the drawer open. It was stuffed full of papers—some heavy parchments, some small scraps with scribbled words on them. Cautiously, she began sifting through them. There were so many!
Stopping to think for a moment, she rose and swiftly walked to one of the bookshelves. Selecting a book at random—Ovid’s Metamorphoses—she set it on the desk, open as if she were reading. There! That might help if someone was to walk in.
The small bracket clock on the oak side table struck two, making her heart jump.
Keep a cool head! she told herself. This is your chance to learn something that might help you escape!
The first paper she picked up seemed insignificant—a bill from Henry’s tailor for a new coat. The next two were also bills—these from a dressmaker, Mrs James, and she recognised the description of some of the clothes she had ordered.
Her heart sank. These were ordinary, everyday documents. There was nothing special or secret or controversial about them. Was there to be nothing of significance among them? But then why would he lock the drawer?
Staying with her task, she persisted. The next two were vowels—IOUs to other young men. Gambling debts, she assumed. After that a bill for the rent on the townhouse, dating back four months.
Before long, a pattern emerged. Every document related to money owed. There were scores of unpaid bills and IOUs, some going back many months. There was no way that he could afford to pay all of them. Papa and Mama had lived comfortably, but never with this sort of extravagance.
Henry was in serious, pressing debt.
The extent of his debts—that was what he was trying to conceal from her. And that was clearly why he wanted to marry her off—so that he could lean on his future brother-in-law for funds. He had talked of trying to work out which of his friends he would find easier to squeeze—this was what he had been thinking of. She was to be sold to fund his future. And tomorrow night’s dinner with Hawkins and Eldon was part of his plan.
‘We shall see about that!’ she muttered to herself.
She rummaged through the rest of the drawer, checking that the remaining papers all looked similar to those she had already studied. At the bottom of the drawer was something different—a flat vellum wrapper, tied with leather cords. Carefully, holding her tongue between her teeth, she slid it out. Resting it on her lap, behind the cover of the desk, she opened it.
It contained three documents. The first was the Last Will and Testament of George Grant. Papa’s will!
She gasped. Although tempted to read it in detail immediately, she first looked at the other two documents. One was a letter, asking about the whereabouts of the daughter of Charles Bolton.
This was entirely unexpected. Charles Bolton was a part of who she was, yet someone she had never known. He had died of scarlet fever when she was a baby, and Mama had married George Grant two years later. Although she had been raised as Marianne Grant, she was also, in truth, Marianne Bolton. That was why she had chosen the name. It had made her lies a little easier to bear.
She frowned. Before succumbing to the temptation of reading Papa’s will, there was one final document.
Her heart froze as she glanced through the parchment. It was a legal draft, beginning, I, Marianne Agatha Bolton Grant, being of sound mind... It went on to award Henry George Grant all her goods and possessions as ‘a gift’. There was space at the bottom of the second page for Marianne to sign.
She almost laughed. The only items of value that she owned were Mama’s jewels. Henry had clearly discovered that she had taken them with her the night she had run away. Of course he would wish to have them. He would no doubt sell them instantly and waste the proceeds on his debts and his hedonistic lifestyle.
Suddenly everything was clear. Henry’s scheme was to coerce her into signing Mama’s jewels over to him before he married her off to a soft-willed husband who could be ‘squeezed’ in future. Her own opinions and wishes, and any sense of morality, were as nothing compared to his need to see himself on a better financial footing.
Strangely, having seen the mountain of debt contained within this one drawer, Marianne could almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But not enough to be a willing victim in his schemes.
Setting aside the unsigned parchment, she began to read the will.
* * *
Ash was filled with a new sense of purpose. Gone was the sadness, loss and lethargy of the past week. Everything had been transformed, and at last there was something for him to do. He knew where she was and he would see her again!
Having got Grant’s direction from Barny, he was now on his way to the man’s townhouse. He desperately hoped that Miss Bolton was not living there—that Grant had simply offered to take her to London via a chivalrous impulse.
He snorted. From what he had heard of Grant that was highly unlikely.
More plans were being formed in his head as his carriage moved swiftly through the streets. Oh, but it was good to be doing something! He could not shake the notion that she was in need of rescue, yet part of him was terrified that she was Grant’s willing paramour, and would laugh at him for his foolishness.
Tully pulled the horses up and jumped down. ‘This is the address, my lord.’
‘Thank you, Tully. Now, tell that urchin that I have a task for him.’ He indicated a young errand boy who was just then crossing the street.
‘Yes, my lord!’
A few moments later the boy, following Ash’s orders exactly, mounted the steps to Grant’s house and banged the knocker. The door opened, there was a pause, and then the boy turned on his heel and returned to the carriage.
‘My lord,’ he said breathlessly, ‘I did just as you said. I told the footman that the flowers were for Miss Bolton, from an admirer. The footman said there was no one there by that name, so I said the flowers were for the young lady as lived there. And he took them.’
Ash tossed him a coin. ‘Thank you. I do like a person smart enough to follow precise instructions.’
The boy grinned, bit the coin to check its authenticity, then sauntered off, whistling.
Ash stayed a moment longer, looking at the house. He frowned. He still did not know for sure if she was there. There could be another young lady—But, no. If there was a young lady living there it had to be Marianne.
She was there—inside that house. He just knew it.
Of course he was no nearer to knowing if she was Grant’s willing mistress or his captive. Even so, she would have retrieved the flowers and would be wondering who her admirer was.
He smiled to himself at the thought, conscious of a strange joy that she was not lost to him for ever. How he hoped she was well!
He tapped the roof of the carriage with his cane. ‘Let’s go, Tully!’
Now for the card party.
* * *
Engrossed as she was in the documents, Marianne was nevertheless still keeping her ears open for any sound from the hallway. And so it was that when the young footman who was on duty that afternoon knocked on the library door she was able to offer a near instant invitation for him to enter.
When he came in, he would see Miss Grant seated comfortably behind the desk, reading a book. Nothing untoward at all.
‘Miss—Cook says to let you know it’s after four and do you still want to meet her?’
He looked a little awkward, as he always did when he spoke to her. She often wondered if he was a little uncomfortable about Henry’s treatment of her.
‘Lord, is it that time already?’ Marianne glanced at the clock. ‘Please tell Cook I shall come directly.’
‘Yes, miss.’
He withdrew, and Marianne quickly opened the drawer again, checking that the folder of documents was in the right place, and that everything looked more or less the way it had when Henry had last locked it. She locked the drawer, returned the book to its shelf, and stepped out into the hallway.
As she did so the footman was just opening the front door. Marianne heard a child’s voice. She could not quite make out the words, but as she got closer she saw that a young boy was standing outside, a posy of flowers in his hand.
‘There’s no Miss Bolton living here,’ the footman replied, sounding genuinely confused.
Marianne froze.
‘Then I’m told to give them to the young lady as lives here,’ said the boy confidently.
‘I see,’ said the footman, and accepted the flowers.
The boy turned and left, and the footman closed the door.
Marianne started walking again. ‘Who was that?’
The footman turned towards her, a frown creasing his brow. ‘An errand boy,’ he said, holding out the flowers. ‘He says these are from an admirer.’
An admirer? Someone who knew the name Miss Bolton. Her heart leapt. Could it possibly be Ash? Immediately she discounted the idea. Why should Ash send her flowers? For a start, he had no idea where she was. Secondly, and more importantly, he despised her. And thirdly he was going to marry Lady Kingswood.
Could they be from Mrs Bailey? With a hidden message, perhaps?
Automatically she took the flowers, then ran lightly upstairs. There was a small ornamental vase in her room, so she filled it with water from her washing jug and arranged the flowers.
Though she searched carefully, there was no message. The flowers were beautiful, though. Whoever her ‘admirer’ was, and whether there had been some mistake or not, at least she now had some beautiful flowers to brighten up her well-decorated prison chamber.
And someone out there was trying to make contact with her. A feeling of warmth spread through her ches and tears pricked her eyes. Perhaps she was not quite as alone as she had feared.
On the way back downstairs, she carefully placed the silver key on one of the stairs—over to one side so that it would not be noticed, but obvious enough that when Henry realised it was gone and sent his valet to look for it the man would find it with no difficulty.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she continued down to the parlour and her meeting with Cook.
* * *
The hour was late. Ash dimly recalled hearing a clock strike three, but that had been some time ago, and there were now telltale shards of light knifing through at the edges of the heavy velvet curtains. One by one, the other players had given up, collecting their winnings or accepting their losses, until now, at dawn, only two remained.
Ash did not so much as glance at the pile of coins and vowels in front of him. Nor did he allude to the fact that Henry Grant, having won and lost substantial amounts during the course of the night, had now surrendered all his winnings and was on a persistent losing streak.
Their play was being observed by a small but dedicated group of onlookers, including the club’s host—there to record the debts and ensure fair play.
‘Damn it to hell!’ Grant threw down his cards as another round went in favour of Ash. ‘What devilment are you using against me?’
There were gasps among the onlookers. Was Grant accusing Ash of cheating?
‘Steady on, Grant!’ muttered one of his friends. ‘He’s winning fair and square and we all know it!’
Grant flushed and ran a finger under his neckcloth, as if finding it too tight. ‘I’m only saying my damned luck has to change some time!’
His friend disagreed. ‘Maybe call it a night, Grant, old chap. When the luck isn’t with you, it isn’t with you.’
‘When I wish for your opinion, Hyle, I shall ask for it!’ he snapped. ‘Play on!’
Ash remained unperturbed. ‘If you insist.’
It had little to do with luck, he knew. Grant had lost his ability to play cleverly, and desperation was causing him to make reckless choices in his play.
On they played. Occasionally Grant would win a hand, but over time the pile of scrawled IOUs he passed across to Ash increased. In the end Ash, calculating that he had done enough, gave a theatrical yawn and announced that he was done.
Grant paled. ‘Might I speak with you privately...?’
Immediately the onlookers began shuffling away, or pointedly began conversations. As everyone was aware, Grant’s request was code for a discussion about his gambling debts and when they might be paid.
‘Of course—but not now.’ Ash stood and stretched out his back. ‘If you will furnish me with your direction I shall call on you later today, if that is convenient?’
Grant wrote down the address of the townhouse—the house where at this very moment Marianne slept. Ash pocketed it with satisfaction. Tomorrow—later today—he would see her again. And he meant to find out once and for all what was going on.
Was she the innocent victim of a lecherous young man, forced to accept her lot? Or had she all along been deceiving Ash as to her true nature?
Chapter Twenty-Two
April the twentieth, the day of the ball, began with rain. No doubt Lady Annesley was cursing the bad fortune that had seen almost two weeks of dry weather lost to persistent drizzle interspersed with more determined showers. Nevertheless, most of the ton—England’s high society—looked forward to what would surely be the most glittering event of the season.
Marianne had spent the day in relative calm, intending to begin her preparations in the afternoon. She had tried very hard not to think too much about her situation, and avoided thoughts of Ash completely, since even the thought of him sent pangs of anguish through her.
Marianne’s sense of loss—akin to the grief she had experienced when Mama and Papa had died—was at the absence of his regard for her. His friendship.
Just a short time ago she had had everything—her home in Ledbury House, her friendships with the staff, her time with Cecily. And Ash.
Should she have told him the truth? She had continued to agonise over that question and had come to the conclusion that she had made a huge mistake in not being honest with him. Even if he had reacted badly her situation could not possibly be any worse than it was currently. And perhaps—maybe—he might even have believed her.
She set down the book that had been lying idle in her lap and pulled the bell in the library. ‘Please ask Cook to attend me here,’ she directed the footman who responded. ‘And send a maid to my room afterwards. I shall begin to dress for the evening shortly.’
‘Very good, miss.’
As he exited the library Marianne distinctly heard the front doorbell. Since deliveries, of course, all went to the servants’ entrance, this could only mean that one of Henry’s friends was calling.
Marianne’s heart sank. The last thing she needed was to encounter one of Henry’s lecherous friends—especially with the ordeal of the ball ahead. She opened the library door to listen, and sure enough she heard male voices. Too late to dash upstairs!
‘If you would be so good as to wait in this parlour, I shall inform the master of your arrival.’
Hopefully she would not be asked to entertain Henry’s guest until he came downstairs. Henry had not yet arisen, and the servants had informed her that it had been after dawn when he had arrived home. If he was the worse for having been drunk the night before he would not appreciate being awoken from his stupor earlier than he’d intended. He would probably take some time to appear.
Marianne hoped his friend did not mind kicking his heels in the parlour for a half-hour while Henry rose, shaved and dressed.
In fact it was a little over twenty minutes later when Henry descended the staircase and entered the parlour. Marianne knew this because the housekeeper arrived to join her and Cook in the library at much the same time. They had been discussing the dishes for tonight’s dinner, and now the housekeeper begged to know how many bedrooms to make up.
‘None, I should think,’ Marianne responded. ‘We are attending Lady Annesley’s ball afterwards, so I do not expect any overnight guests.’
The two servants had a fairly lengthy debate about the deployment of housemaids—apparently not one but two scullery maids were ill—and Cook did a masterful job of negotiating for one of them to assist her in the kitchen for the day.
Finally, to Marianne’s relief, they finished their discussion and left. Keen to avoid seeing Henry before she had to—particularly if he was the worse for wear—Marianne moved quickly through the hall towards the main staircase.
