Blanchland Secret Page 8

  The journey progressed uneventfully until they neared the Old Down crossroads, where a sudden downpour took them by surprise and set the road awash. Within moments the horses had lost their footing and the carriage lurched off the road and into the ditch.

  ‘No harm done, ma’am,’ the coachman reported cheerfully as he helped Amelia and Sarah down on to the road, ‘but it might be better if you took shelter in the inn whilst we haul it out. A nice dish of tea should help you over the shock!’

  The Old Down Inn was accustomed to passing trade and soon put a private parlour at the disposal of its unexpected guests. Amelia regarded her dripping figure with deep displeasure, whilst outside the rain splattered against the window and emphasised the sudden decline in the good weather.

  ‘Oh, I look hideous,’ Amelia declared, wringing water from her cloak into a bucket helpfully provided by the landlady. ‘This bonnet is quite ruined, and I have only worn it twice! A fine pair of figures we will cut, arriving at Blanchland in such a state!’

  She glanced critically over Sarah, whose hair was drying in corkscrew curls about her face. ‘Humph! Well, at least you look the part, Sarah, with your wild hair and soaking dress! Oh, this is too bad!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sarah said drily. ‘It is comforting to know that I already look like a demi-rep and I have not even set foot in the house yet! Do you care for tea and cakes, Milly? It might improve your temper!’

  Amelia looked rueful. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah, I know I am like a bear with a sore head! Truth to tell, I was feeling nervous before, but now I just feel downright unpresentable! Oh, to arrive in so undignified a state when we do not even know what we will find…’ She took a cup of tea and moved over to the window. ‘I had better not sit down or I shall cause a puddle! I wonder when this storm will cease—’ She broke off with an exclamation and Sarah looked up from the fire, which she had been trying to coax into reluctant life with the poker.

  ‘Whatever is the matter, Milly? You look as though you have seen a ghost!’

  ‘It is Greville!’ Amelia whispered, looking as though she was about to rush from the room. ‘Greville and Lord Renshaw! Sarah, they are here!’

  Sarah felt her heart leap into her throat. ‘Oh, no, it cannot be! You must be mistaken, Milly!’

  ‘I tell you, they were right outside the window—’

  Amelia broke off at the sound of voices in the passageway outside. The parlour door opened.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ Greville Baynham said affably, as though he were meeting them in Milsom Street. ‘An inclement day! I am glad to see that you appear to have suffered no injury when your coach left the road!’

  Neither Sarah nor her cousin were up to answering him in kind. Sarah met Guy Renshaw’s quizzical gaze, blushed crimson and looked hastily away. As he came towards her, she backed away from the fire, still holding the poker, and took refuge behind the parlour table. Amelia, obviously viewing attack as the best form of defence, burst into speech.

  ‘You!’ she said, in tones of ringing outrage. ‘Whatever are you doing here, Sir Greville?’

  ‘Came to find you,’ Greville said imperturbably. He crossed to the fire and kicked it into a blaze, warming his hands. ‘Heard you’d gone off on some mad start and thought that you might need some help—’

  Amelia drew herself up to her full—tiny—height. ‘Well, we do not, sir! Not from you, at any rate! We can manage perfectly well on our own!’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Greville said coolly. ‘You have only been on the road for a few hours and already you are in a scrape! And as for your destination—well, that proves you have not the least notion of how to carry on! Good God, two gently bred ladies visiting a house of ill fame! Fit for Bedlam, both of you!’

  Amelia’s stormy gaze swept from Greville to Guy Renshaw and rested there for a moment. ‘Do not preach to me, sir, when you keep such poor company!’

  Sarah winced. Amelia seldom lost her temper properly, but when she did so the results could be spectacular. This promised to be one of those occasions. She caught Guy Renshaw’s eye and saw that he was looking rather amused. A slow smile was curling the corners of his mouth and Sarah felt an answering gleam and stifled it at once. The last thing she wanted at that moment was to experience any kind of kindred feeling for Guy. He had humiliated her and insulted her, she reminded herself severely, and his charm was of the most superficial kind.

  ‘It ill becomes you to speak of bad company when you are planning so rash an escapade, madam!’ Greville said to Amelia, more coldly than Sarah had ever heard him. ‘Do you forget that this will ruin your reputation forever? And yet you disparage those who seek to offer you their aid—’

  ‘Offer their aid!’ Two spots of colour were burning on Amelia’s cheeks now. ‘Forgive me, sir, but it seems to me that you came to censure rather than to support! My cousin and I can do very well without such dubious assistance!’

  ‘You may claim so, but you have as much idea of how to go on as a pair of schoolgirls! Less! At least a schoolroom miss knows her manners!’

  Sarah caught her breath sharply as Amelia made a noise like an enraged kitten. The combatants faced each other fiercely across the table, Amelia with her fists clenched and Greville with a singularly unyielding look on his face.

  Sarah could feel Guy watching her across the room and she found herself looking around for a means of escape. Guy was between her and the door, the window was too small and she could scarcely scramble up the chimney. A strange panic took hold of her as he came towards her.

  As Amelia drew breath for another salvo, Guy reached Sarah’s side and took her arm.

  ‘I believe that we may safely leave these two to settle their differences, Miss Sheridan. May I beg a word in private?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Amelia snapped, before Sarah could speak. She flashed Guy a look of contempt. ‘Stand aside from my cousin, Lord Renshaw! You have done her enough harm!’

  Guy looked from Amelia to Greville. ‘My dear Lady Amelia, pray confine your quarrel to Sir Greville and leave Miss Sheridan to deal with me!’ He removed the poker from Sarah’s hand. ‘I should feel safer if you were without this!’

  Sarah had forgotten that she had been stirring the fire when they had arrived. She relinquished her weapon and edged away from Guy towards the door.

  ‘A moment, Miss Sheridan.’ Guy had turned back to her with exquisite courtesy. ‘Pray do not leave just yet! It is still raining and your carriage is not fit for use! Will you grant my request of a private interview?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘My cousin is in the right of it, sir. I do not care to have my business discussed in a wayside inn!’

  Guy inclined his head. ‘Then come back with us to Woodallan and discuss it there!’

  ‘Impossible!’ Amelia retorted, her colour still high. ‘We must reach Blanchland before nightfall—’

  ‘Must you?’ Guy strolled into the middle of the room and turned back to smile at Sarah. ‘Had you thought what might happen if you arrive at dinner time?’ he asked conversationally, looking from her to Amelia. ‘Why, Sir Ralph may well be indulging in one of his famous orgies and you would walk right into the middle of it! Time enough for that once you have been there a little while! But if you leave it to the morning, you will find them all still abed. Not ideal, of course, but less…active, perhaps, than the night before!’

  ‘Outrageous!’ Amelia declared.

  ‘But true,’ Greville said coolly.

  ‘I fear Lord Renshaw may be right, Milly,’ Sarah said after a moment. ‘Perhaps we should bespeak rooms here for the night—’

  ‘Out of the question,’ Guy said briskly. ‘You could not so offend my parents’ hospitality, Miss Sheridan, as to take rooms within two miles of their house!’

  Sarah flushed. ‘If you were not to tell them we were here—’

  ‘Alas, I would find it quite impossible to keep the truth from them! Their own goddaughter preferring the dubious comforts of an alehouse to Woodallan! I am sure my mo
ther would be quite distraught!’

  Sarah reached for her cloak. Somehow they had been outmanoeuvred. ‘Very well, my lord. Since I do not trust you to spare your mother’s feelings, we will come with you. However—’ she glared at him ‘—do not think to dissuade us from our errand, nor to enlist the support of your parents in such an enterprise!’

  Guy’s dark gaze mocked her. ‘Miss Sheridan! I could not possibly tell my parents that you intended to visit Blanchland! The shock might kill them!’

  He held the door open for her. ‘You look very pretty, Miss Sheridan,’ he added, in tones low enough that only Sarah could hear. ‘To see you with your hair like that gives me ideas—’

  ‘I thank you,’ Sarah snapped. ‘I heard enough of your ideas last night, sir! I wonder that you dare to speak to me of them again!’

  Guy detained her with a hand on her arm. ‘In point of fact, Miss Sheridan, that is what I wished to discuss with you. I wished to apologise, but I will save it until we have gained the privacy of Woodallan!’

  Sarah’s lips tightened angrily. ‘It may be that I do not wish to hear any of your excuses, Lord Renshaw!’

  ‘You will hear me out, however,’ Guy said, with what seemed to Sarah to be breathtaking arrogance. He offered her his arm, and laughed when she swept past him, ignoring it. Behind her, Sarah could hear Greville and Amelia starting to bicker again as they all went out into the yard.

  ‘You realise that you will have to marry me now!’ Greville was saying, in an exasperated undertone, to which Amelia retorted,

  ‘I would rather walk across hot coals, sir!’

  They journeyed to Woodallan in bad-tempered silence.

  Woodallan lay two miles from the turnpike road, in a hollow beside a stream, sheltered by the hills behind and with a glorious vista of rolling country before it. The rain had cleared as quickly as it had come, and the house’s golden Bath stone gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight. Next to Blanchland, it had always been one of Sarah’s favourite places, and now she felt a lump in her throat as the years rolled back. She remembered walking up the long lime avenue as a child, clutching her father’s hand, remembered playing hide-and-seek in the topiary garden, remembered tickling trout in the stream during the hot summers…

  The Blanchland and Woodallan estates had marched together and the families been friends since the first Baron Woodallan and Sir Edmund Sheridan had sailed the seas together as privateers under Queen Elizabeth. It had always been a family joke that Frank Sheridan had inherited his wanderlust from his ancestors.

  The carriage drew up in front of the main door and Guy jumped down to help her descend.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he said, and for a moment it seemed that he had invested the words with a greater significance.

  Sarah shrugged the thought aside. It was too dangerous for her to start to feel at home in her childhood haunts, for in a week’s time—two at the most—she would have to return to Bath and the life she was accustomed to. Time spent at Blanchland and Woodallan could only be a passing phase, but when she had planned her journey she had not spared a thought for the way in which old memories would be stirred up. She looked at Guy, who was looking up at the house with a half-smile on his lips.

  ‘It must be a great pleasure for you to be home again, my lord, after so long abroad,’ she said spontaneously, and he smiled down at her, and for a split second Sarah was happy.

  ‘Oh, it is, Miss Sheridan, for here I have all the things I most care for.’

  Again, Sarah tried not to read too much significance into his words. She turned aside and followed Amelia and Greville up the steps, reminding herself that she was vulnerable to him and must be always on her guard.

  The Countess of Woodallan was in the hall to welcome her son home, and, as word of Guy’s arrival spread, it seemed that the house was full of beaming servants all wishing to greet him. Sarah and the others hung back until the crush had lessened a little, when the Countess turned and caught sight of her.

  ‘Sarah! Good gracious, what a wonderful surprise! Forgive me for not welcoming you sooner, my dear!’ She enveloped Sarah in a warm hug. ‘And Greville! Guy…’ she swung round accusingly on her son ‘…you should have told us you were bringing a party!’

  Guy, who had been conversing quietly with his father’s steward, came forward. ‘I’m sorry for giving you no warning, Mama, but it was a spur-of-the-minute decision. Miss Sheridan and her cousin are travelling on in the morning, but I persuaded them to break their journey here tonight.’

  The Countess swallowed her disappointment well. ‘I am sorry to hear you will be leaving so soon. But perhaps—’ she smiled at Sarah ‘—you will consider visiting us again on your journey back? You could stay for Christmas! That would be most pleasant, for we have so much news to catch up on!’

  Sarah smiled a little stiffly. In the warmth of her welcome she had almost forgotten the reason for her visit, and the fact that she would be travelling on to Blanchland almost immediately. The Countess, suddenly aware of an air of constraint about her guests, turned her warm smile on Amelia. Greville stepped forward to make the introductions.

  ‘Lady Woodallan, may I present my fiancée, Lady Amelia Fenton. Lady Amelia is Miss Sheridan’s cousin.’

  ‘I am not!’ Amelia said hotly, then catching the look of amazement on her hostess’ face, stammered, ‘That is, I am Sarah’s cousin, but I am not Sir Greville’s fiancée!’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘I am afraid that Lady Amelia has not quite become accustomed to the idea yet, ma’am,’ Greville said easily, ignoring Amelia’s fearsome glare. ‘I must apologise for imposing on your hospitality like this, particularly when you must be wishing to have Guy to yourselves!’

  ‘You are very welcome for as long as you wish to stay,’ the Countess murmured, trying not to stare at Amelia as though she had a lunatic in the house. ‘But you look as though you were caught in the storm, my dears! I will show you to your rooms so that you may change, and send word to Cook to increase the covers for dinner. Guy, your father should have returned by then. He has driven over to Home Farm to talk to Benton about the milk yield, but I expect him back at any time!’

  ‘Before you carry Miss Sheridan away, Mama, I should like to speak with her in private,’ Guy said firmly. ‘There is a matter to be settled between us that cannot wait.’

  Sarah blushed scarlet and the Countess frowned. ‘But, Guy, Miss Sheridan will be tired from her journey, and is drenched by the rain besides! Surely it can wait a little—’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed, ma’am,’ Sarah added hurriedly, ‘there is no urgency!’

  ‘I am desolate to contradict you, Miss Sheridan,’ Guy said smoothly, ‘but it is imperative that we speak now. I do not wish there to be any further misunderstandings!’

  ‘It seems to me that we have two ardent suitors here and two reluctant ladies!’ a voice said, from behind them, and Sarah swung round to see her godfather in the doorway.

  The Earl of Woodallan was leaning heavily on his stout ash stick and looked a lot older than Sarah remembered, but the expressive dark eyes, so like his son’s, were as sharp as ever. ‘Lady Amelia…’ he gave as courtly a bow as ever his son could achieve ‘…and Sarah, my dear! What a delightful surprise! And Sir Greville, too! Well, Guy—’ he turned to his son, the sardonic gleam in his eye belied by a smile ‘—good to see you back again, boy!’

  ‘Sir!’ Guy hurried forward to shake his father’s hand, and Sarah took advantage of the moment to step back, throwing her godmother a pleading glance.

  ‘If we could be permitted to change our clothes, ma’am—’

  ‘Of course, my love.’ The Countess swept up her goddaughter and Amelia, and shepherded them towards the stairs. ‘Come along with me! The gentlemen are quite preoccupied and will not notice—’

  The Earl’s voice stayed them as they reached the half-landing.

  ‘Charlotte, be sure to deliver Miss Sheridan to the blue drawing-room just as soon as she
is ready! Guy will be waiting for her!’

  ‘Like father, like son,’ the Countess murmured under her breath. ‘I fear that an autocratic nature is in the Woodallan blood!’

  It was three-quarters of an hour later that Sarah descended the stairs again. She was clean and dry, dressed in a becoming russet gown belonging to the younger of Lady Woodallan’s daughters and with her hair neatly braided into a bun on the top of her head.

  ‘Too austere, Miss Sheridan,’ was Guy’s comment as he ushered her into the blue drawing-room. ‘You are too soft and sweet to pretend to such severity!’

  He, too, had changed into clean buckskins, polished boots and an olive green jacket that fitted his broad shoulders to perfection. Sarah, experiencing a traitorous rush of feeling on seeing him, immediately went on the attack.

  ‘By what right do you criticise my appearance, sir? Kindly refrain from becoming too personal!’

  Guy grinned, unabashed, and gestured her to a chair before the fire. ‘That was precisely the matter I wished to discuss with you, Miss Sheridan—Sarah. May I call you Sarah?’

  ‘I am surprised you trouble to ask, sir!’ Sarah said hotly. ‘No, you may not!’

  ‘Very well then, Miss Sheridan, I will not provoke you!’ Guy sat down opposite her. Sarah, who was feeling quite on edge, resented his assumption of ease. ‘I am grateful to you for granting me a hearing. I feared you would not. My behaviour in Bath—’ He stopped, and started again. ‘After the things I said, I could not blame you if you choose to deny me the chance to apologise.’

  ‘I have promised to hear you out, my lord,’ Sarah said coldly. ‘Beyond that, I promise nothing.’

  Guy grimaced. ‘You are not making this easy for me, Miss Sheridan! I wished to apologise to you, both for my actions and my words last night—’