The Regency Season: Blackmailed Brides. Sarah Mallory

that we abandoned the formality, at least in public.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘You cannot keep calling me “my lord”. I have a name, you know.’

      Lucy felt the tell-tale colour rising up again.

      ‘I do know,’ she managed, ‘but—’

      ‘No buts, Lucy. There, I have used your name, now you must call me Ralph. Come, try it.’

      She felt uncomfortably hot.

      ‘I—that is, surely we only need to do so when other people are near—’

      ‘And how unnatural do you think that would sound? We need to practise.’

      ‘Of course. R-Ralph.’

      He grinned. ‘Very demure, my dear, but you look woefully conscious.’

      ‘That is because I am,’ she snapped.

      ‘Which proves my point,’ he replied in a voice of reason that made her grind her teeth.

      Observing her frustration, he merely laughed and adjured her to keep up as he trotted out of the village.

      It was impossible to remain at odds. There was too much to see, too many questions to ask. The hours flew by and Lucy was almost disappointed when Adversane said they must turn for home.

      ‘We are on the far side of Ingleston,’ he told her. ‘It will take us an hour to ride back through the town, longer if we skirt around it. Which would you prefer?’

      ‘The longer route, if you please.’ Lucy recalled her meeting with the parson and had no wish to be stared at and pointed out as the future Lady Adversane.

      They kept to the lanes and picked up the road again at the toll just west of Ingleston. Lucy recognised it as the road she had travelled when Mrs Dean had taken her to the town. She recalled there was a narrow, steep-sided valley ahead, where the highway ran alongside the river. It had felt very confined in the closed carriage, with nothing but the green hillside rising steep and stark on each side, and Lucy was looking forward to seeing it from horseback. She turned to her companion to tell him so and found that his attention was fixed upon something ahead, high up on the hills. Following his gaze, she saw the moors rising above the trees, culminating in a ragged edifice of stone on the skyline.

      ‘Is that Druids Rock, my lord?’

      ‘Yes.’

      She stared up at the rocky outcrop. The sun had moved behind it, and the stone looked black and forbidding against the blue sky.

      ‘Your cousin told me that the old track to Adversane ran past there, before this carriageway was built.’

      ‘That is so.’

      ‘And can one still ride that way?’

      ‘Yes, but we will keep to the road.’

      She said no more. His wife had died at Druids Rock and it must be very painful to have such a constant and visible reminder of the tragedy. She longed to offer him some comfort, at least to tell him she understood, but he had urged Jupiter into a fast trot, and quite clearly did not wish to discuss the matter any further.

      By the time they arrived back at Adversane Hall Lucy felt that she had achieved a comfortable understanding with her host. Glancing up at the clock above the stable entrance, she wondered aloud if there would be time for her to bathe before dinner.

      ‘I have not ridden so far in a very long time,’ she explained.

      ‘You had probably forgotten, then, how dusty one can get.’

      ‘And sore,’ she added, laughing. ‘I have a lowering suspicion that this unaccustomed exercise will leave my joints aching most horribly!’

      ‘I shall tell Byrne to put dinner back an hour and have Mrs Green send up hot water for you.’ He helped her dismount and led her towards a small door at the back of the stable yard. ‘This is a quicker way,’ he explained. ‘A path leads directly from here to a side door of the house, which opens onto what we call the side hall, and from there we can ascend via a secondary staircase to the main bedchambers. It is much more convenient than appearing in all one’s dirt at the front door.’

      ‘I guessed there must be a way,’ she told him as she stepped into the house. ‘Only I had not yet found it. Does it lead to the guest wing, too?’

      ‘No. They have their own staircase, over there.’ He pointed across the side hall to a panelled corridor, where Lucy could see another flight of stairs rising at the far end. ‘My guests have perfect freedom to come and go as they wish.’

      There was something in his tone that made her look up quickly, but his face was a stony mask. She began to make her way up the oak staircase, conscious of his heavy tread behind her.

      ‘How useful to have one’s own staircase,’ she remarked, to break the uneasy silence. ‘Was it perhaps the original way to the upper floor? Mrs Dean did say that the grand staircase was added when the house was remodelled in the last century.’

      She knew her nerves were making her chatter, but when her companion did not reply she continued, glancing at the dark and rather obscure landscapes on the wall. ‘And of course it gives you somewhere to hang paintings that are not required elsewhere...’

      Her words trailed away as they reached the top of the stairs, and her wandering gaze fixed upon the large portrait hanging directly in front of her. But it was not its gilded frame, gleaming in the sunlight, nor the fresh, vibrant colours that made her stop and stare. It was the subject. She was looking at a painting of herself in the scarlet gown.

       Chapter Five

      ‘My wife.’

      It did not need Adversane’s curt words to tell her that. Only for an instant had Lucy thought she was looking at herself. A second, longer glance showed that the woman in the picture had golden curls piled up on her head, and eyes that were a deep, vivid blue.

      ‘I had forgotten it was here.’

      She dragged her eyes away from the painting to look at him.

      ‘Forgotten?’ she repeated, shocked. ‘How could you forget?’

      His shoulders lifted, the faintest shrug.

      ‘My cousin had it moved from the Long Gallery the day you arrived. She thought it would upset you. Personally I would not have done so. You were bound to see it at some time.’

      She found her gaze drawn back to the painting.

      ‘She is wearing the gown I saw in Mrs Sutton’s sketch.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And the diamonds.’ She swallowed. ‘My hair is a little darker but...there is a striking resemblance between us.’

      ‘Is there?’

      Anger replaced her initial astonishment.

      ‘Come now, my lord. Please do not insult my intelligence by saying you have not noticed it.’ She had a sudden flash of memory: the open door in Mrs Killinghurst’s office, the gilded picture frame on the wall of the inner sanctum. ‘Did you deliberately set out to find someone who looked like your wife?’

      ‘Pray, madam, do not be making more of this than there is.’

      He indicated that they should move on, but Lucy remained in front of the portrait. He had not denied the allegation, so she could only surmise that his reasons for hiring her were not quite as straightforward as he had said.

      ‘And your choice of gowns for me—are they all the same as those worn by your wife? Every one?’

      ‘If they are it need not concern you.’

      ‘My lord,