His Lady Mistress. Elizabeth Rolls

the best, so…’

      Max headed him off at once. ‘Lord Faringdon, I wonder if you could give me any news of Miss Scott?’

      ‘Miss Scott?’ The brandy in Lord Faringdon’s glass slopped over.

      Max frowned at the reaction. Faringdon’s eyes flickered under his hard gaze. Fear.

      He pressed on, relentless. ‘Yes. I believe her to be a niece of Lady Faringdon and under your care. Her late father was my C.O. and I thought to enquire after her.’ He pretended to examine a painting.

      ‘Oh.’ Disdain came through clearly. ‘I’m afraid she is no longer with us.’

      Anger surged through Max and he swung back to stare at Faringdon. Just as he’d feared. Verity Scott had been bundled off God knew where. Somewhere her tragic story could not embarrass the socially ambitious Faringdons. He could see it now—packed off to be a companion to a cantankersome old hag, or immured in some foul girls’ school as a drudge. Well, he wouldn’t permit it!

      He saw with satisfaction that Faringdon had paled and forcibly relaxed his hands. Clenched fists were not the best way to draw information out of a reluctant man. Not discreetly, anyway.

      ‘Perhaps you could give me her direction, Faringdon. I should like to pay my respects.’ What had they done to her? Could he help her? Might Lady Arnsworth, his Aunt Almeria, employ her?

      Lord Faringdon said quickly, ‘I fear you misunderstand me, Blakehurst. When I said that Miss Scott was no longer with us, I meant that she has…that she is…’

      Cold horror, laced with shocking pain, shuddered through Max. ‘She’s dead.’ Statement, not question, and something inside him tore apart as Lord Faringdon inclined his head in assent.

      ‘Wh…when?’ He could not control the break in his voice. That poor, gallant child. Dead. It lacerated him.

      ‘Oh, quite soon after she came to us, you know.’ Lord Faringdon manufactured a sigh. ‘All very sad of course, but no doubt for the best. There was nothing much one could do for her after Scott’s disgraceful end, you know. Dare say she felt it.’

      Max remembered a fifteen-year-old girl crouched, weeping in the mud of her father’s grave, planting bluebells, and came close to strangling his host.

      ‘I’ve little doubt she did.’ He hardly recognised his own voice, hoarse and shaking.

      Faringdon glanced at him. ‘Sure you won’t have a drink, Blakehurst? You sound as though something’s caught in your throat.’

      Something was—bile. A drink wouldn’t answer the purpose. He’d be tempted to fling it in Faringdon’s face. Somehow he managed to say, ‘I take it she’s buried in the churchyard, then. I’ll pay my respects there.’ Bluebells. She’d liked bluebells. He’d beg some bulbs from the gardeners. A queer sound from Lord Faringdon brought him around. His jaw clenched, Max raised his brows questioningly.

      Lord Faringdon looked as though he might strangle on his cravat as he tugged at it. ‘Ah, well…um…as to that, Blakehurst…no marked grave, y’know. Sad, very sad. Weakness in the bloodline, no doubt. Only glad it bypassed my family.’

      Max’s stomach churned at the import of Faringdon’s words. No marked grave…

      Then she had…the memory of another suicide’s grave rose in accusation. He could feel the rain, smell the wet earth…and hear the awful blows… And he saw again a girl’s tear-streaked face, heard her breaking voice struggle to finish a psalm, felt the slight, trusting weight in his arms as he attempted to comfort her. Saw dark, shadowed eyes shining in the firelight with tears and gratitude for too little, too late.

      Blindly he turned and walked from the room without another word.

      Verity slipped away from the kitchens as soon as she had finished helping to count the silver. Swiftly she made her way along the upper corridors towards the back stairs that led up to her chamber.

      The sound of footsteps ascending the main stairs hurried her the more. Her aunt had made it quite plain that she was to remain out of sight of the guests. So far she had managed to get through the day without any serious trouble—a run of luck she had no intention of breaking.

      Reaching the back stairs, she caught up her skirts and took the steps two at a time, only to let out a shriek of fright as a shadow detached itself from the wall and grabbed for her. The familiar reek of stale brandy assailed her. ‘Let me go, Godfrey!’ She hit out at her slightly inebriated cousin and tried to dodge around him, but he caught her easily in the confined space.

      ‘Just a cousinly kiss, then.’ He leered at her. At least she assumed he was from the slur in his voice. He usually leered when his mother wasn’t looking.

      She was trapped between Godfrey above her and the footsteps below in the hall. ‘Stop it!’ she hissed, clawing at his eyes.

      He grabbed her wrists as he jerked his face away and dragged her close. ‘Not without my kiss,’ he muttered. Brandy and foul breath surrounded her.

      ‘No!’ Gagging, she kicked out at him and connected with his shin, stubbing her own toe. It was enough. Godfrey yelled in pain and shoved her away so that she stumbled backwards into the hall with a cry of fright.

      Her landing scared her even more. Instead of crashing to the floor, she found herself held safely in a strong grip. A very masculine grip that steadied her on her feet and released her. Dazed, she looked up into a dark, harsh face. Bright topaz eyes burned into her.

      ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’

      Dark brows lifted in mute question. ‘Have we met?’

      Her world tipped upside down as she stared up at the one person she must, above all others, avoid. ‘N…no,’ she lied. ‘You startled me. Thank you, sir. I…I didn’t know there was anyone here. I…I slipped.’

      ‘Did you?’ The deep voice took on a tone of lazy curiosity. ‘And did Faringdon slip, too?’

      Verity could not suppress a shudder. Suddenly her elbow was taken in a firm grip.

      ‘You may as well come out, Faringdon,’ continued her rescuer. ‘Let’s be quite sure we all understand each other.’

      Godfrey emerged from the stairwell and Verity saw with unchristian pleasure that her wild swipe at his face had drawn blood.

      ‘What’s it to do with you?’ blustered Godfrey. ‘This ain’t your house!’

      Lord Blakehurst smiled without the least vestige of humour. ‘The whims of a guest should always be indulged, Faringdon. It appears the wench is less than willing. You will oblige me by leaving her alone. Is that clear?’

      Wench? Verity only just choked back the explosion. Safer if he did think her one of the maids. So she swallowed her fury and lowered her eyes. Probably in this clothing she did look like a servant. She had already decided that it was too dangerous to let him know she was here.

      Godfrey smirked. ‘Unwilling? Oh, she’s always willing enough—’

      Blakehurst seemed to swell. ‘Go. Before I forget that your father is my host.’

      Godfrey backed away. ‘Suppose you think you’ll get a leg across, eh, Blakehurst?’ he jibed, settling his sleeves in an attempt to look unconcerned. Then he lifted his hand to his face and stared at the blood in apparent disbelief. The look he stabbed at Verity swore revenge.

      Cold fear dripped down Verity’s spine. If this came to her aunt’s ears—that she had landed in Lord Blakehurst’s arms—her situation would be even worse.

      ‘I suggest that you cease to judge others by your own dubious standards, Faringdon.’ His lordship’s voice descended to outright menace. ‘I have absolutely no need to force my attentions on unwilling maidservants. Now take yourself off!’

      Godfrey left, with