The Viscount's Scandalous Return

‘Nonsense, child!’ he countered, when she made to rise. ‘Sit and finish your wine. As I mentioned before, I’m quite at leisure.’

She was forced silently to admit that he looked it too. Sitting there, with his long, muscular legs stretched out before him, and his eyes fully closed now, he appeared totally relaxed, completely at ease with himself. Had she needed more proof that he could never have committed that terrible crime all those years ago, she was being given it now. Surely no man who had carried out such a dreadful deed could look so at peace with himself?

Yet the murders did take place, she reminded herself, once more taking stock of her surroundings. There was no refuting that fact. Could the grisly events have taken place here, in this very room? She couldn’t help wondering.

‘Something appears to be troubling you, Miss Mortimer,’ he remarked, his eyes once again fully open and as acutely assessing as her own had been only a short time before. ‘I trust you are not concerned about being in here alone with me. You are in no danger, I assure you. And if, for any reason, I should experience an overwhelming desire to lay violent hands upon you, I’m sure your trusty hound, here, would come to your rescue.’

‘Ha! I’m not so very sure he would!’ Isabel returned, quite without rancour. She was more amazed than anything else that Beau had taken such an instant liking to someone. It had never happened before. Which just went to substantiate her belief that his lordship was not the black-hearted demon he had sometimes been painted.

‘So, what were you thinking about a few minutes ago that brought such a troubled expression to your face?’

Lord! Isabel mused. Was he always so observant? ‘Well, since you ask, I was experiencing a surge of morbid curiosity,’ she finally admitted. ‘I was wondering whether your father and brother were killed in this room.’

‘No, in the drawing room, as it happens. Should you like to visit the scene of the crime?’

Had she not witnessed it with her own eyes she would never have supposed for a moment that those icy-blue orbs could dance with wicked amusement. He really was a most attractive and engaging gentleman when he chose to be. And, she didn’t doubt for a second, a damnably dangerous one, to boot, to any female weak enough not to resist his charm! Was she mad even to consider remaining with him a moment longer?

‘Well, yes, I would, as it happens,’ she answered, curiosity having rapidly overridden sound common sense.

Rising smoothly to his feet, Lord Blackwood escorted her and his new-found friend across the woodpanelled hall and into the large room situated at the back of the house. Of all the ground-floor rooms, the drawing room boasted the most commanding view of the formal gardens at the rear of the house, which could be reached by means of tall French windows leading out on to a wide, stone terrace.

His lordship recalled vividly the many large parties held in the drawing room when his mother had been alive. It had once been, without doubt, the most elegant salon in the entire house. Sadly this was no longer the case. It smelt musty through lack of use, the wallpaper and curtains were tired and faded, and what few bits of furniture remained scattered about the floor were sadly worn and heralding from an age long gone by.

As she moved about, noting the dark, intricately patterned carpet and the elegance of the marble fireplace, Isabel didn’t experience, strangely enough, any sense of disquiet because of what had taken place in the room. If anything, she felt saddened by its neglect. Undoubtedly the carpet, the wallpaper and the curtains had been expensive. All the same, they were far too dark and oppressive, an ill choice for such a room as this in her opinion.

His lordship, easily detecting the tiny sigh of discontent, smiled ruefully. ‘No, not the most pleasant of atmospheres, is it, Miss Mortimer? Such a dark, depressing place!’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ she returned at her most candid. ‘But it has little to do with what took place here. I do not know who might have chosen the décor, my lord, but whoever it was betrayed a sad want of taste, if you’ll forgive me saying so. The wall-coverings are far too dark, and totally at odds with the patterned carpet. And as for the crimson curtains …’

Isabel went over to the French windows, where the offending articles hung. Once it must have been a wonderful view. Now even the gardens were showing clear signs of neglect. As the windows were securely bolted, both top and bottom, denying access to the terrace, she wandered over to the windows in the east-facing wall, and was instantly reminded of how windy it was outside.

‘Great heavens! Little wonder it strikes so cold in here. This window, here, is very ill fitting, my lord.’

He came to stand beside her, and tested the catch himself. ‘That is something that must be put right without delay,’ he remarked. ‘The Lord only knows how long it has been like that. I’ve seldom set foot in here since my father had it redecorated some eighteen years ago.’ He looked about him with distaste. ‘You’re quite right, the room is damnably depressing. I dislike it intensely!’

No one could have mistaken the disdain in his voice, which she felt was a great pity, because it could have been made into such a lovely bright and airy room without too much effort.

Conscious of his nearness, and the fact that he was staring at her in that intensely disturbing way once more, she put some distance between them by wandering about again, noting what items of furniture were left in the room and, perhaps, more importantly, those that were quite obviously missing. Maybe the furniture had not been to his taste either. Or perhaps certain items still bore the evidence of what had taken place. After all, the old butler had told her once that it had been nothing short of a bloodbath.

Something in her expression must have betrayed her train of thought, for when she happened to glance in his lordship’s direction once more, she caught him staring back at her, that cynical curl to his lips very much in evidence.

‘My father, by all accounts, was found over there in his favourite chair.’ He pointed in the general direction of the impressive fireplace. ‘My brother somewhere over here, so I understand, on one of the sofas.’

She frowned. ‘So you never …?’

‘Saw for myself?’ he finished for her. ‘No. As soon as the bodies were discovered, Bunting, I believe, sent immediately for the local Justice of the Peace, Sir Montague Cameron, and the constable. I was still sound asleep when they arrived, covered in blood, with a bloodstained sabre on the floor by my bed.’ The cynical smile was suddenly more pronounced. ‘Pretty damning evidence, wouldn’t you say? Had it not been for your intervention, and the help of some good friends, I might still be living in obscurity across the Channel. But when one has none other than Wellington as a staunch ally, other influential people begin to take notice.’

Isabel’s ears pricked up at this. ‘You know the Duke personally?’

‘I was with him throughout most of the Peninsular Campaign,’ he revealed so casually that one might have supposed he had found the whole experience quite uneventful and dull. ‘I was on his staff, as it happens, one of his Exploring Officers. As you might already be aware, my mother was a Frenchwoman. She taught me to speak her native tongue so well that I could pass for one of her fellow countrymen. Which, as I’m sure you can appreciate, proved most useful when I was obliged to ride deep into enemy territory.’

It took Isabel a moment only to assimilate what she was being told. Then a feeling of bewilderment, not to mention irritation, gripped her. ‘You were a spy, you mean. You spied for Wellington. You put your life at risk attempting to discover things he needed to know?’

His faintly ironic bow confirming this only served to irritate her further. ‘Then why—for heaven’s sake!—with all your experience, have you never attempted to discover who tried to frame you for the murder of your father and brother? Your name has been cleared, yes. But mud sticks,’ she reminded him bluntly. ‘There will always be those who will wonder.

‘No, you might not care, my lord,’ she continued when all he did was to raise his broad shoulders in a shrug of complete indifference. ‘But your wife might, should you ever choose to marry. More importantly, so would any children you might one day be blessed to have. Do you suppose they would ever wish to hear their father called a murderer?’

He stared at her for so long in silence, his expression, yet again, totally unreadable, that she was convinced her words had fallen on deaf ears. Then he astonished her by asking, ‘So, where do you suggest we begin? The events, may I remind you, took place almost nine years ago. All the old servants were discharged soon afterwards, and found new positions, I know not where.’

‘With one exception,’ she reminded him.

‘Bunting was questioned at the time by Sir Montague. He neither saw nor heard anything,’ he responded.

Isabel, knowing this to be true, acknowledged it before adding, ‘I’m certain what he did reveal was the absolute truth. But I should still like to know how the murderer managed to get into the house without using force, and left it again, without anyone being any the wiser.’

‘In that case, Miss Mortimer, we’d best go and ask him.’ Leading the way back into the hall, his lordship gave orders for the carriage to be brought round to the door as soon as possible, before he turned to discover an expression of doubt flicker over a finely boned face. He guessed at once the reason behind the troubled look. ‘Had you come here alone, ma’am, I wouldn’t have hesitated to consider the proprieties. However, as you have your own four-legged duenna to hand, I think we might dispense with the services of a maidservant for the short journey to Bunting’s cottage, don’t you?’

Chapter Four

The journey to the old butler’s cottage on the edge of the estate was conducted almost in silence. His lordship couldn’t quite make up his mind whether this was because his fellow passenger felt uneasy at being in the close confines of a carriage alone with him, or she was merely not garrulous by nature. Whatever the reason, he considered her a restful young woman for the most part. For instance, he could never envisage her getting into a state over trifles. Or ever succumbing to a fit of the vapours, come to that. None the less, he could well imagine she could be a managing little madam on occasions, if not sufficiently bridled.

He couldn’t resist smiling to himself. Few in his life had ever exerted sufficient influence over him to bestir him into doing something he had no real desire to do, or to persuade him to look at something from a totally different viewpoint. Miss Isabel Mortimer had succeeded in doing just that, however. No mean feat!

he was silently obliged to concede. Whether he would thank her for it in the long run was another matter entirely. But he had embarked, now, on this quest to solve the mystery of who had killed his father and brother, and he had no intention of changing his mind.

‘You may relax now, Miss Mortimer, we’ve arrived at our destination,’ he teased gently, as the carriage drew up before a double-fronted cottage at the end of a row of newly limewashed dwellings. ‘You’ll not be obliged to suffer my baneful presence alone any longer.’

The implication was clear. ‘I do not feel in the least ill at ease in your company, sir,’ Isabel assured him. ‘Why should I? You’ve never given me any reason to mistrust you. I apologise, though, if I seemed a little distant. It’s merely that I’ve never travelled in such a comfortable carriage before, and I’ve been enjoying the experience hugely, not to mention travelling across part of the estate where I’ve never ventured before.’

As he threw wide the door to allow Beau to jump out, his lordship felt something within him stir. It wasn’t pity, he felt sure. What she had revealed was the simple truth, not an attempt to arouse compassion. Yet it had moved him none the less.

He let down the steps himself, and as he helped her to alight, and she placed her hand briefly in his own, he could feel the calluses in the palm. His old butler had revealed that, for a gentleman’s daughter, she hadn’t enjoyed the most favourable existence. The elderly retainer clearly had not lied.

Yet again something within him stirred.

Making use of his silver-handled walking stick, the

Viscount made their presence known, and it wasn’t long before Bunting answered the summons.

‘Why, your lordship!’ he declared, clearly astonished. ‘This is a most unexpected pleasure! And Miss Isabel, too! Oh, do come in, please!’

‘Don’t wait for Beau,’ Isabel advised the old man as she stepped over the threshold. ‘He’s obviously picked up the scent of a rat, or something or other. He’ll come and find me when he’s ready.’

‘So long as he doesn’t present any vermin he does happen to locate to me on his return,’ his lordship remarked drily, which resulted in Isabel gurgling with mirth.

The Viscount’s immediate smile in response held the old butler transfixed for a second or two before he turned to close the door. Not since his lordship had been a boy had he seen him smile so naturally or so warmly.

His astonishment was no less marked than Isabel’s when she stepped into the low-ceilinged front parlour and first glimpsed the elegant furnishings. She had a fairly shrewd idea from where they had come. At least his lordship had put some of the old drawing-room furniture up at the Manor to good use, and no doubt Bunting had been most appreciative. Undeniably it was a deal more respectable than hers at the farmhouse, and she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy.