Secrets in the Regency Ballroom. Joanna Fulford
were left to a succession of tutors before being packed off to school. They had seen little of their parent. It was Greville that he looked to for advice and guidance, not his father. Their last words together had been spoken in anger and yet, paradoxically, the old man might have been pleased with his son’s performance since. India suited Marcus down to the ground; it provided a disciplined environment but also enough scope for an adventurous spirit. He had loved its diversity, its colour, its vibrant life. Once he had thought to see out his days there. Now fate had decreed otherwise. He had responsibilities and he must fulfil them. It was time to face down the ghosts of the past and go home.
Having come to that decision, he imparted it to his friend when they met a little later. Greystoke heard him in silence and then nodded.
‘If that is what you wish to do then I will support you in any way I can.’
‘Thank you. There is one more thing, George. Before I go, your sister and Miss Davenport must be told of my real identity.’
‘If that is what you want.’
‘I owe them that much.’
‘Ellen will never breathe a word, and I believe that Miss Davenport is both sensible and discreet.’
Marcus nodded. ‘It has sat ill with me to dissemble to those who have done so much towards my recovery. It’s time they knew the truth.’
‘Do you wish me to speak to Ellen?’
‘Yes, as soon as may be. I will see Miss Davenport myself.’
He was waiting by the garden gate when Claire returned from her afternoon walk. At first she did not notice him, her attention on the steep track that led down off the hill, and her heart leapt to see the tall figure standing there. Suddenly she was conscious of her rumpled gown and windblown hair and of the fact that she was carrying her bonnet, not wearing it.
However, if he found anything amiss it was not apparent in his expression. He opened the gate to let her pass and then, offering her his arm, led her across the garden.
‘Will you spare me five minutes of your time?’ he asked. ‘I should like to speak to you.’
‘Of course.’
He found a convenient bench for them to sit on and, having seen her comfortably ensconced, favoured her with an explanation of recent events and of his identity. Claire heard him without interruption. More than anything else she was conscious of things falling into place: so many questions about this man had just been answered. Listening now, she wondered how she could have mistaken Marcus Edenbridge for anything other than the aristocrat he was. Everything about that tall commanding presence proclaimed it, from his physical appearance to his gentlemanly behaviour in championing her cause against Jed Stone and his cronies. It came as no surprise that he should seek out the men who killed his brother, even at the risk of his own life.
‘I apologise for the deception,’ he went on, ‘and I ask for your discretion now. The true identity of Mark Eden must not become generally known.’
‘You may be assured of my silence, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
She paused, dreading to ask the next question, but needing to know the answer. ‘May I ask when you intend to leave for London?’
‘In three days’ time.’
‘I see.’ Her spirits sank. It was hard to visualise this place without him somehow and she knew that his absence would leave a yawning gap.
‘It is a necessary stage in my plans.’
‘So you can announce the return of Viscount Destermere?’
‘Exactly. London will be thin of company at present, but word will get round all the same.’
‘Will you remain there, sir?’
‘No. I shall travel into Essex and collect my ward before returning to Yorkshire.’
Her hand clenched around the ribbons of her bonnet. He was coming back! Then she registered the remainder of what he had just said.
‘Your ward?’
‘Yes, my brother’s child, Lucy. She is six or thereabouts.’
‘Have you never seen her before, then?’
‘No, though, of course, I knew of her existence from Greville’s letters.’
‘Of course.’
‘Her mother died when Lucy was born.’
‘Poor little girl. She has lost a great deal in her short life. Six is too young to be orphaned.’
For a moment he regarded her shrewdly. ‘Yes, you are right.’
‘There is never a right time to lose one’s parents, but children are so vulnerable.’
‘Indeed they are.’
‘I am sure she will welcome some stability after all the disruption she has endured.’
‘In any event, I shall give her a home for as long as she needs it.’ He smiled and for a moment the grey eyes warmed. ‘When I return to Netherclough Hall I hope to have the honour of receiving you there, Miss Davenport, along with Dr and Miss Greystoke.’
At those words, Claire felt her heart miss a beat. She would see him again after all. Almost immediately she told herself not to be so foolish as to refine upon it. He was merely being polite. He owed the Greystokes such an invitation. If she was included, it was because good manners demanded that he did not slight their friend. Once honour was satisfied they would have nothing more to do with each other. The man she had known as Mark Eden was gone, replaced by Viscount Destermere, one who was so far her social superior as to make even the thought of such a connection truly laughable. That was reality. He belonged to another world, a world of wealth, position and power. One day in the not-too-distant future he would marry—a young woman of his own class who would provide the heirs to continue his line. That too was reality and she acknowledged it. All that had happened here would one day be relegated to the back of his memory and she with it. It was an oddly dispiriting thought.
Lying in bed later that night, Claire found herself unable to sleep for her mind was racing, turning over all she had learnt. It turned too on her situation. This interlude with the Greystokes had been a welcome respite from trouble but, having been here nearly a month, she did not deceive herself that it could continue. They had been more than kind, but she could not impose on them much longer. Besides which, the uneasy thought persisted that her aunt might have kept Ellen’s letters and might remember them now. Her uncle had been made to look a fool, a situation that would not long endure if he so much as suspected there was a remedy. She must find a secure position and soon, a place her uncle would never think of looking.
And then the germ of an idea occurred to her. An idea that was both wild and wonderful together. Could it work? Would she dare suggest it? And if she did, what would be the response? Almost she could see the Viscount’s expression, the cold reserve returning to those grey eyes. He could be an intimidating figure when he chose. Would he consider it the greatest piece of presumption? Would he even listen? Claire bit her lip. There was only one way to find out: she must seek an opportunity to speak with him alone and then ask him.
The first part of her plan proved quite easy; the following morning Dr Greystoke went out on his rounds at ten and Ellen left to call on someone in the town. Their noble guest was ensconced in the parlour, perusing the newspaper. Hearing the door open, he glanced up and, perceiving Claire, rose from his chair and made her an elegant bow.
‘Miss Davenport.’ His gaze swept her from head to toe. ‘No need to ask if you are well.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Not knowing