Scandal And Miss Markham. Janice Preston

raised a brow but, again, followed her unquestioningly. Up the stairs this time and along the upper corridor to the long gallery, where the family portraits hung and where Thea and Daniel practised fencing manoeuvres. The physical exercise had helped Thea to exorcise some of her anger and guilt after Jasper Connor had betrayed her and near bankrupted both Stour Crystal and her family.

      Vernon headed straight for the portrait of Thea. ‘It is a good likeness.’

      For a second, admiration glowed in his eyes, but Thea ignored the answering tug deep in her core. She could not help but be aware of Vernon’s allure. She’d wager there were ladies galore in the ton who regularly swooned at his feet, given one look from those green eyes, or one of his smiles, brimming with charm, but she was not interested. Not in Lord Vernon Beauchamp nor in any man. Being jilted at the altar tended to have that effect.

      ‘That is not why we are here,’ she said and led the way to the portrait of Daniel.

      Apart from the portraits of Thea and Daniel, and an earlier one of Mama and Papa—painted before Papa had his stroke—there were only landscapes on the walls. Papa had harboured such grand dreams: dreams of building a dynasty, dreams of using his wealth to ensure his grandchildren might be accepted into the ranks of the upper classes, dreams of this gallery being filled with portraits of the generations to come. Now it might all come to naught. Thea would never give him grandchildren and, if Daniel... She choked off that thought, afraid her precarious control would shatter again if she followed her fears to their natural conclusion.

      ‘That is Daniel,’ she said, feeling another lump form in her throat as she looked up at his strong, dark features. ‘I thought it would help for you to know what he looks like.’

      Vernon examined the portrait in silence.

      ‘He has your eyes,’ he said, eventually, ‘but I see no further resemblance.’

      ‘He gets his colouring from Mama, but he is tall like Papa,’ Thea said. They headed for the door. ‘I get my red hair from Papa, but my height—or, rather, my lack of it—from Mama.’

      Back in the entrance hall, Vernon picked up the saddlebag by the front door.

      ‘I shall have to hope,’ he remarked, regarding his reflection in a mirror with a grimace, ‘that I do not meet anyone with whom I am acquainted. They will think I have run quite mad, dressed like this.’

      Thea bit back her scathing retort.

      ‘I shall write to let you know what I find out about your brother and how my cousin is connected to him.’ A frown creased his forehead. ‘I still find it hard to believe Henry has anything to do with your brother’s disappearance. I have every hope of discovering the two things are unconnected.’

      Which, again, proved Thea was right to follow him as she planned. If Henry Mannington was found to have no connection with Daniel’s disappearance, Vernon would go chasing off after Henry and what chance then would Thea have of finding Daniel?

      She followed Vernon down the front steps, where Bickling, his groom, held the reins of Warrior, one of Daniel’s favourite hunters. Vernon swung into the saddle, raised his hand in farewell and set off down the carriageway at a brisk trot.

      Thea watched until horse and rider disappeared from sight, then spun on her heel and raced up to her bedchamber. There was no time to lose. She had already told her mother she was going to visit a sick friend for a few days and Mama, as usual, showed little interest in Thea’s activities; she had never forgiven her daughter for the disaster that had befallen their family.

      Thea had also written to Charles Leyton, the manager at Stour Crystal, to warn him he would not be able to contact either her or Daniel for a week or so. She hoped she would not be away as long as that, but it was best to err on the side of caution.

      It was a relief to be taking action—she had been near paralysed with indecision until Lord Vernon’s visit, afraid of the consequences should Stour Crystal’s customers, or—God forbid—their rivals, learn that Daniel was missing. Uncertainty was bad for business. If she was responsible for spreading rumours and Daniel turned up unscathed, he would, rightly, be furious with her. She had caused enough trouble for the business six years ago. She could not bear to be the cause of more.

      She had slipped across to the stables earlier, whilst Vernon was eating, and taken Malky—the groom who had taught her and Daniel to ride—into her confidence about her plan. He had not been happy but, in the end, he had agreed to saddle Thea’s favourite mare, Star, with a conventional saddle so she could ride astride and to meet Thea, with Star, on the edge of the copse behind the walled kitchen garden, out of sight of both the house and the stables.

      She changed hastily into the clothes she had kept from Daniel’s boyhood, the ones she wore for their fencing bouts and for riding astride. She wondered whether or not she should take Malky with her. It would be the sensible thing to do, at least until she caught up with Vernon, but it would leave the estate short-handed at a busy time.

      She examined her appearance in the mirror. She had bound her breasts to flatten them and had dusted fine ash from the fireplace across her skin, dulling it. She was dressed the same as countless young lads around the country, in jacket, shirt, waistcoat, breeches and boots. Her hair...she leaned closer to her reflection. She could pass muster as a lad during one cross-country ride—with her hair plaited and pinned and bundled into a cap—but would that suffice for a longer masquerade?

      She reached for her scissors. It would grow again. She unpinned her hair and gathered it together. She swivelled her head from side to side as she gazed into the mirror, considering. Some lads had hair that grew to the nape of their necks, or even longer. She set her jaw. Time was wasting. She cut, hacking again and again at her thick hair until the bunch came free in her hand. She stared at it, lying limp across her palm, trying and failing to quash her distress.

      It cannot be helped.

      She pushed the hair under her mattress where it would not be discovered, and turned again to the mirror, biting back a cry at the sight that met her eyes. She pushed her fingers through her hair, fluffing it out—her curls more unruly than ever—then ruthlessly scraped it back and tied it with the length of twine she carried in her jacket pocket for emergencies. Her reins had snapped once, several miles from home, and since then she had always been prepared. Never had she envisioned using it for this purpose, however.

      It is just vanity. Who cares what you look like?

      Unbidden, Vernon’s face arose in her thoughts.

      Hmmph. She thrust his image aside. He is a means to an end: finding Daniel. Nothing more.

      It was time to go. Malky would have Star ready by now. Thea cast a last look around her bedchamber, sucked in a deep breath to quell her nerves and picked up her saddlebag. A quick visit to the gunroom for pistols, powder and shot and then she would be gone. As she crept down the back stairs she prayed none of the servants would see her. Her stomach roiled all the way to the gunroom and for the entire time it took her to load the smaller pistol she had decided to take with her.

      She slipped out of the side door and hurried along the path to the kitchen garden, following the outer stone wall around until she reached the far corner. Then she breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she was no longer visible from the house. She stood still, leaning back against the wall, feeling the sun’s warmth, stored in the stones, radiating through her twill jacket, and waited for her nerves to settle. They did not. Her stomach continued to churn until she felt sick and she realised, with a jolt, that it was not the adventure to come that frightened her so very much but the thought of Lord Vernon Beauchamp’s reaction when he discovered she had followed him. Contrarily, that thought irritated her, which then had the effect of finally grounding those butterflies fluttering around inside her stomach.

      It was not his place to dictate her movements and it was not incumbent upon her to obey him. She was her own woman. Seven-and-twenty years of age. Intelligent. She had no reputation to sully—it simply was not important to her. She would never marry and she was long past the days when she worried about how many partners she might attract at the assembly