The Silverton Scandal Read online

  Eleanor was taken into dinner by a pleasant young man named Mr Vernon.

  ‘It must have been alarming, having the coach stopped like that,’ he said, as he handed Eleanor to her place. ‘Enough to give a young lady a fit of the vapours.’

  Eleanor glanced at Lord Silverton, wondering how he would react to talk of the robbery. Would it unsettle him? Or would he be unconcerned?

  He appeared to be the latter. He was sitting at the table and seemed perfectly at ease, but even so she could feel a wave of tension emanating from him. Could anyone else feel it? she wondered. But a glance round the table showed her they could not.

  ‘I think it must have been wonderful!’ said Miss Oliver, going slightly pink. She looked at Eleanor shyly. ‘Was he very handsome?’

  ‘Handsome,’ snorted her mother, obviously annoyed that her daughter would dream of a highwayman when she had a perfectly good earl close at hand. ‘You’ve been reading too many novels, my girl. Highwaymen aren’t handsome. He was none too clean, as like as not, and had a mouth full of black teeth.’

  Eleanor instinctively glanced towards Lord Silverton, and saw him give a wicked smile. She was almost tempted to smile as well. Fortunately the sound of a carriage pulling up in front of the house saved her from such folly.

  ‘That must be Frederick now!’ exclaimed Lydia, turning towards the window. ‘Oh, good, I’m so glad he’s home.’

  A few minutes later, Frederick walked into the room. He greeted his guests warmly, apologising for his absence. He was a good-looking man of middle years, with an air of dignity about him that befit his role as the local magistrate. His black tailcoat had a conservative cut and his cravat was simply arranged, whilst his knee-breeches and stockings had a solid, if slightly old-fashioned, air.

  ‘And look, Frederick, here is Eleanor,’ said Lydia, drawing Eleanor to his notice as he took his place at the head of the table.

  Frederick was too polite to ask why Eleanor had suddenly appeared at his dinner table, and greeted her warmly. ‘It is a pleasure to see you here, Eleanor. You are very welcome.’

  ‘Eleanor will be staying with us overnight,’ Lydia explained. ‘She was on the stagecoach, going to London to visit the modiste’s, when it was held up, and very sensibly she decided to break her journey here. We would never have forgiven her if she had not called here on her way to London.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ said Frederick approvingly as the mulligatawny soup was brought in. ‘It was a nasty business, the hold-up,’ he said to Eleanor. ‘But it’s one I hope you will be able to help us clear up. Strangely enough, I’ve had my men out looking for you for the last hour without having any idea who I was looking for. The statements they took from the other passengers mentioned a young lady on the coach, but I never thought I’d discover her sitting at my own dinner table.’

  There was a ripple of laughter, and an exclamation from Mrs Oliver of, ‘Well I never!’

  ‘But do tell us, Miss Grantham,’ said Mrs Benson as the soup was served. ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Yes. Tell us, if you will,’ said Frederick. He settled his napkin on his knee. ‘It will be very useful to have your account. And then, if you don’t mind, one of my men can make a written record of it in the morning.’

  Eleanor felt her spirits sink. She had no wish to get involved, for the situation was extremely complicated, but she could hardly refuse to co-operate with Frederick.

  ‘What I want to know is, what was the highwayman like?’ asked Miss Oliver breathlessly.

  Mrs Benson paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth and said, with a sideways glance at Lord Silverton, ‘My guess is that he would look a lot like Silverton.’

  Eleanor was startled. Did Mrs Benson know something? she wondered.

  But no. Mrs Benson was simply being provocative, as her slanting glance in Lord Silverton’s direction showed.

  Lord Silverton seemed unconcerned, making no more reply than by giving a sardonic smile. In fact, if Eleanor’s gaze had not at that moment dropped to the table she would have believed that he was perfectly at ease. But her eyes happened to fall on his wine glass, and she saw that his knuckles, wrapped round the stem, were white.

  As if feeling her eyes on him he looked up and said challengingly, ‘Yes, tell us, Miss Grantham. What was the highwayman like?’

  There was a sudden silence. Everyone at the table turned towards Eleanor.

  He doesn’t know whether I have recognised him, she realized with a moment of sudden clarity, and he wants to be sure. She was aware of standing on a threshold. This was the moment when she must decide whether or not to reveal Lord Silverton’s identity. She must either declare that yes, there was a marked resemblance . . . that they were of the same height, they had the same eyes, the same hair . . . before revealing that Lord Silverton was the highwayman. Or hold her peace.

  She was torn. On the one hand she did not want to let him get away with his crime. But on the other hand she had no proof, and she was sure that no one would believe her. Besides, she was convinced there was more to the situation than met the eye.

  Eleanor looked straight ahead. ‘He was nothing like Lord Silverton,’ she said.

  She felt a twinge of conscience, but she must learn to live with it, for the die was now cast.

  In all this time Lord Silverton had not looked at her. But as she declared that the highwayman was nothing like him, he glanced at her and their eyes held. And then he looked away.

  She had been unable to read his expression. Relief? Perhaps. Satisfaction? She did not know him well enough to be sure. Even so, she felt his tension ebb, and saw the colour return to his knuckles.

  ‘What did he look like, then?’ asked Frederick as he finished his soup. ‘It would be helpful if you could give me a description. The ones I’ve heard so far aren’t much use. You’d think that seven people, all being held up by the same man, would give the same description, but not a bit of it! I would value your account.’

  ‘He was smaller than Lord Silverton,’ Eleanor began.

  ‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Mrs Benson. ‘I do so like the men I dream about to be tall.’ She glanced again at Lord Silverton.

  Lord Silverton’s mouth curved in a mocking smile.

  Eleanor took a deep breath. ‘And his eyes were green.’

  ‘Now that’s a useful snippet,’ said Frederick. ‘How exactly do you know? No one else was able to give us any clear details.’

  ‘I saw them when he . . . ’

  ‘Yes?’

  All eyes were fixed on her.

  ‘When he kissed my hand.’

  ‘He kissed your hand? Oh, how romantic,’ sighed Miss Oliver, clasping her hands together in a gesture of girlish delight.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, child,’ snorted her mother. ‘Romantic! Highwaymen aren’t romantic. Thieves and robbers, that’s what they are. No respect for other people’s property, and shoot you as soon as look at you, so don’t you forget it.’

  Miss Oliver, duly chastened, relapsed into silence, but the look on her face showed that she had not abandoned her dreams, whatever her mother might say.

  ‘And you, Miss Grantham? Did you find it romantic?’ asked Lord Silverton, shooting her a devilish look.

  A brief memory of the sparks that had flared between them when he had kissed her hand returned to disturb her, but she didn’t intend to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

  ‘No,’ she replied coolly, returning his gaze. ‘As Mrs Oliver says, highwaymen are nothing but common thieves.’

  His mouth gave a sardonic curl, but even so there was something annoyed in his glance and she had the satisfaction of knowing that she had given him a set-down.

  ‘Is there anything else you can remember about him?’ asked Frederick, as the plates were cleared away.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Hair colour?’

  She shook her head. ‘It was dark. I could not say for certain. Brownish.’

  ‘Any scars, or distinguishi
ng features?’

  ‘I didn’t see any.’

  ‘And how about his build? He was short, you said, but was he slim? Stocky? Fat?’

  Again Eleanor shook her head. ‘He was wearing a cloak. It was blowing around him in the wind. I really couldn’t say.’

  Frederick nodded. ‘Oh, well, it’s not much to go on, but it’s a help. And far better than any of the other descriptions we’ve been given. The clergyman on the coach said he looked like the devil.’

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t you, Silverton?’ interposed Mrs Benson. ‘You were nowhere to be found earlier in the afternoon.’

  ‘My estates are large enough to acquit me of the crime, I believe. A man of my fortune has no need to steal a few trinkets.’

  There was general laughter.

  ‘And a stout matron said he was definitely hunch-backed. There was another man in the coach, apparently, but we haven’t been able to trace him yet.’

  ‘I know who he was. He was a Mr Kendrick,’ said Eleanor.

  Lord Silverton shot her a sharp look.

  Now why should he mind me knowing Mr Kendrick’s name? she wondered. But she did not allow herself to wonder about it for long. The fact that Frederick was looking for Mr Kendrick was a matter of much more importance to her. If it turned out that Lord Silverton did not have the letters, then she would still need to find the blackmailer.

  On her own, it would be an almost impossible task. But if Frederick, in his capacity as the local magistrate, conducted a search, he would have a good chance of success. He had a lot of manpower at his disposal, and he could ask detailed questions as to Mr Kendrick’s whereabouts without anyone thinking it odd.

  Which meant that all Eleanor had to do was to wait until Frederick found him. It was an unexpected bonus.

  ‘Kendrick, you say?’ Frederick was thoughtful.

  ‘Yes.’

  Frederick drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I don’t know the name. He’s not one of our neighbours. A visitor, then, to these parts. But now that we know his name it shouldn’t be too difficult to track him down. Not that I suppose there’s anything he can tell us, but you never know.’

  ‘He climbed into a private carriage,’ went on Eleanor. ‘I saw him getting into it outside the inn,’ she explained. ‘I think he had recognised a friend or business associate.’

  ‘Well, that is useful. There are only a few families round here who keep their own carriages. It will give us somewhere to start.’

  ‘And now I suggest we let poor Eleanor eat her meal in peace,’ said Lydia as she saw that Eleanor had not had a chance to start the delicious turbot that had just been served. ‘She has hardly touched her food, and after all the excitement she must be starving.’

  Eleanor was glad of the respite. She had much to occupy her as the succeeding courses were brought in, and she was pleased to be able to relapse into silence and listen to the rest of the guests without having to make conversation herself.

  Uppermost in her mind was the problem of how she was going to be able to speak to Lord Silverton alone because she was longing to know if the letters had been in the case. If so, she might soon hold them in her hands.

  If not . . .

  If not, she thought reluctantly, she would just have to go ahead with her original plan of trying to buy them back from Mr Kendrick.

  Had she recognised him or hadn’t she?

  That was the thought that plagued Lucien as he sat over the port. The ladies had withdrawn, and the gentlemen were engaged in a heated discussion on politics, so that his silence would not be noticed. Which gave him time to think over the perplexing problem.

  It had been a bad moment for him when Lydia had announced Miss Grantham, and he had caught sight of her in a mirror. If not for the fact that he had had his back to her, he feared his shock would have shown. Fortunately, he had had time to school his features before greeting her, but there was no doubt about it, her arrival had come as a blow.

  As he looked into the wine glass that he held in his hand he saw, not the ruby liquid, but Miss Grantham’s image. He should have known better than to let her get so close to him when he held up the coach, but at the time there had seemed little risk. He had been masked, and swathed in an enveloping black cloak, and besides, he had not expected to see her again.

  Still, it had been careless of him.

  The worst of it was, that it had not been necessary. If he had been able to persuade himself that he had needed someone to collect the valuables in order to make the robbery seem convincing, and that he had chosen Miss Grantham because she had been the least frightened of all the passengers, he would not have reproached himself. But if he was honest, he knew that it was more than that.

  He remembered her as he had first seen her on the coach, looking shabby and worn in her old, dowdy clothes. He had taken her for a governess or a companion. But then his glance had wandered over her face and instead of dropping her eyes she had met his gaze. There had been strength in that look, and a calm, collected courage which had intrigued him.

  It was strange that she should have compelled his attention. She had an ordinary face, and he would not normally have given her a second glance. If he had he seen her at a ball or a soirée he would have scarcely noticed her, with her nondescript brown hair and ordinary brown eyes. She had nothing to mark her out as being unusual.

  And yet her eyes were not quite brown. They were closer to hazel, with a golden tinge that lightened the brown and brought it to life. He had noticed it particularly when he had grasped her hand . . . Which he should not have done. But, he reminded himself, she had been trying to take his pistol at the time.

  An unwilling smile lifted the corner of his mouth. She had certainly been audacious! It had been a bold move, and one which might have succeeded, if she had she been a little quicker and he had been a little less alert. His smile vanished. In which case the results could have been disastrous.

  He should have left it there, he told himself, and no harm would have been done. However, admiring her audacity, he had lifted her hand to his lips. His eyes smouldered as he thought of the effect his kiss had unleashed. It had been both intense and unexpected, and it had caught him off guard. He had not expected anything so overpowering. And yet even that might not have been so bad. But why, in the name of all sanity, when Lydia had introduced them, had he kissed her hand again? It had been little short of madness.

  He found his motives difficult to understand. Recklessness? He did not think so. A desire to see if she had recognised him? Possibly. By kissing her hand he had given her every opportunity of discovering that he and the highwayman were one and the same. It had been a rash act in one sense, and yet in another sense a necessary one, for if she had guessed his identity, then it was better that he should know it at once.

  But had she guessed it?

  For a moment he had thought so. He had tensed, waiting for her to denounce him. But she had not done so.

  Why not? Why had she not revealed his identity? he asked himself. It was a puzzle. And he didn’t like puzzles. Especially not when he was involved in a dangerous plot.

  Of course, it was possible that she had not recognised him, but he didn’t believe it. There had been something in the look she had given him that convinced him she knew. Why, then, had she not spoken?

  Miss Grantham, instead of growing easier to understand, was growing more intriguing with every passing hour.

  ‘ . . . do you think, Silverton?’ asked Sir Cedric Nugent.

  His attention was recalled to the conversation. He had no idea what he was being asked and threw off the rest of his port to give himself time to think.

  ‘The war with France won’t be over in a hurry, whatever you say, Nugent,’ said Mr Vernon, ‘especially not now that Napoleon’s divorced Josephine and married his new wife, Marie Louise. What a way to strengthen his position in Europe, by marrying an Austrian archduchess! Not bad for the son of a lawyer. You can say what you like about Napoleon, but he knows how
to think big.’

  ‘The Austrians didn’t like it,’ pointed out Sir Cedric. ‘They only went along with it because they had to, but all the same, they didn’t want to let him have Marie Louise.’

  ‘But they did have to let him have her, that’s the point, eh, Silverton?’ asked Mr Vernon.

  Lucien put down his glass and gave his full attention to his fellow guests. ‘The war’s far from over. We’ve still got a long battle on our hands,’ he agreed.

  ‘But we’ll beat him?’ asked Sir Cedric Nugent a trifle anxiously. He was a foppish gentleman, and the idea of losing the war evidently worried him.

  Lucien nodded. ‘I hope so. But Napoleon is going to be with us for a long time to come.’

  Sitting over coffee with the other ladies in the drawing-room, Eleanor was finding conversation something of a strain. The day had been tiring, and she was looking forward to an early night.

  ‘You look tired, Eleanor,’ said Lydia.

  ‘I am,’ Eleanor admitted. She put down her cup. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I will retire.’

  ‘Not at all. I think it’s a good idea. You must be exhausted after the journey, to say nothing of all the worry of the hold-up. I know I am always fatigued after travelling on the stagecoach.’

  Eleanor bid the other ladies goodnight and then, leaving them to their chatter, she left the room. She had just reached the top of the staircase when she saw one of the maids at the end of the corridor, followed by the housekeeper.

  ‘Hurry up, girl,’ Eleanor heard the housekeeper say. ‘As soon as you’ve turned down Lord Silverton’s bed I want you to help me with Miss Grantham’s room. It’s still not ready, and she’ll be retiring soon.’

  So that is Lord Silverton’s room, thought Eleanor. She realised at once that it was a golden opportunity for her to find out if the letters had been in Mr Kendrick’s case without anyone knowing, because Lord Silverton was still downstairs.