The Outcast's Redemption. Sarah Mallory

up in ninety-five. There was a particularly bad outbreak of scarlet fever that spring and old Mr Arrandale and his wife died within weeks of one another.’

      ‘Is that what they say killed them?’ Wolf could hardly keep the bitterness from his voice.

      ‘It was indeed what killed them, my son.’ The parson turned his gentle gaze upon him. ‘Nothing else.’

      ‘There had been some trouble earlier that winter, had there not, Papa? At the end of ninety-four,’ remarked Grace. ‘I was at school then, but I remember there were reports in the newspapers. The older son killed his wife for her jewels and fled to France. It was a great scandal.’

      The old man shook his head. ‘Scandal has always followed the Arrandales, my love. Not all of it deserved.’

      ‘You say that because your living is in their gift,’ muttered Wolf.

      ‘No, I say it because I believe it.’

      ‘But, Papa,’ said Grace, ‘you believe the best of everyone.’

      Wolf did not look up, but felt sure her eyes were on him. Mr Duncombe merely chuckled.

      ‘I look for the best in everyone,’ he said mildly, ‘and I am rarely disappointed. Do pass me the fricassee of rabbit again, my dear, it really is quite excellent.’

      Wolf wanted to ask about the child, his daughter. Had the parson seen her, was she tall, like him, or small-boned like her mother? Was she dark, did she have his eyes? The questions went round and round in his head, but he knew he must let the matter drop. When Mr Duncombe began to talk of more general matters he followed suit, but his long exile had left him woefully ignorant.

      ‘You appear singularly ill informed of how matters stand in England,’ observed Grace, clearly suspicious.

      ‘I have been living in the north country, they have little interest in what goes on nearer London. That is why I have come south, to take up my life again.’

      She pounced on that.

      ‘Oh, are you a local man, then, Mr Peregrine? I do not recall any family with that name hereabouts.’

      ‘No, the Peregrines are not local,’ he replied truthfully.

      The parson shifted uncomfortably.

      ‘My dear, it grows late and I am sure Mr Peregrine would like to join me in a glass of brandy. I do not often indulge the habit, sir, but since you are here...’

      Grace rose immediately. ‘Of course, Papa.’

      ‘If you wish to retire, Grace, I am sure our guest will not mind if we do not send for the tea tray.’

      Wolf knew he should agree with his host. They could bid Miss Duncombe goodnight now and he would be free of her questions and suspicions, but some inner demon made him demur.

      ‘If it is no trouble, a cup of tea before I retire would be a luxury I have not enjoyed for a very long time.’

      Grace looked at him, eyes narrowed.

      ‘You seem to be inordinately fond of the drink, Mr Peregrine.’

      ‘I believe I am, Miss Duncombe.’ He met her gaze innocently enough and at length she inclined her head, every inch the gracious hostess.

      ‘Of course Mr Peregrine must have tea if he wishes it, Papa. I will await you in the drawing room.’

      With that she swept out of the room.

      * * *

      As soon as the door was closed Mr Duncombe said, ‘Was that wise, sir? My daughter is no fool.’

      ‘I am aware of that, but I was not funning when I said I have missed life’s little luxuries.’ The old man’s brows rose and Wolf’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Not tea-drinking, I admit, unless it was in the company of a pretty woman.’ Wolf saw the other man draw back and he hurried on. ‘Pray, sir, do not think I have any thoughts of that nature towards your daughter, I would not repay your hospitality so cruelly. No, I have no interest in anything save clearing my name.’ He looked around to check again that they were alone. ‘On that subject, sir, what do you know of my own daughter?’

      ‘Alas, my son, I cannot help you. She lives with Lord and Lady Davenport, I believe. Doctor Oswald was dining here the night your wife died and a servant came to fetch him. When we met again Oswald said it was a miracle the baby survived. Your wife never regained consciousness.’ In the candlelight Mr Duncombe’s naturally cheerful face was very grave. ‘He told me, in confidence, that if it had not been for the missing diamonds the magistrate would have recorded your wife’s death as a tragic accident. Alas, both the doctor and the magistrate are now dead.’

      ‘So you have a new Justice of the Peace?’

      ‘Yes, Sir Loftus Braddenfield of Hindlesham Manor,’ the parson informed him. ‘And that is another reason you might wish to avoid being in Grace’s company, my son. She is betrothed to him.’

       Chapter Three

      Grace blew out her candle and curled up beneath the bedcovers. She really could not make out Mr Peregrine. She turned restlessly. In general Papa was a very good judge of character, but he seemed to have fallen quite under this stranger’s spell.

      She had to admit that dinner had been very enjoyable, the man was well educated and there had been some lively discussions of philosophy, religion and the arts, but he lacked knowledge of what was happening in the country. Surely the north was not that backward. Fears of Bonaparte invading England were never far away, but she thought if the man was a spy he would be better informed. Had he been locked up somewhere, perhaps? She was more thankful than ever that he was in the groom’s accommodation and that she had reminded Truscott to check the outer doors were secure before he went to bed.

      Perhaps he had been in the Marshalsea. Many men of good birth were incarcerated there for debt, or fraud. With a huff of exasperation she sat up and thumped her pillow.

      Such conjecture is quite useless. You will only end up turning the man into a monster, when he is probably nothing more than penniless vagrant, for all his talk of having business in Arrandale.

      But would he be in any hurry to leave, if they continued to treat him like an honoured guest? She settled down in her bed again. The man had clearly enjoyed his dinner and he had been eager to take tea with her after. A knot of fluttering excitement twisted her stomach as she remembered his glinting look across the dining table. It was almost as if he was flirting with her.

      Yet he barely spoke two words to her in the drawing room. Once the tea tray appeared he lost no time in emptying his cup and saying goodnight. She tried to be charitable and think that he was fatigued. Sleep crept up on Grace. No doubt matters would look much less mysterious in the daylight.

      * * *

      ‘Good morning, Mrs Truscott.’ Grace looked about the kitchen. ‘Is our visitor still abed?’

      ‘Nay, Miss Grace, he went out an hour ago.’

      ‘Goodness, what can he be up to?’

      Mrs Truscott smiled. ‘Well, you know what your father always says, miss. Only those who rise early will ever do any good.’

      Grace laughed.

      ‘It is quite clear you approve of Mr Peregrine! But never mind that. I have come down to fetch tea for Papa. We are taking breakfast together and then I am going to visit Mrs Owlet. Perhaps you would pack a basket for me to take to her.’

      ‘I will, Miss Grace, but it goes against the grain to be helping those that won’t help themselves.’

      ‘Mrs Truscott! The poor woman has broken her leg.’

      ‘That’s as may be, but if she hadn’t been drinking strong beer she wouldn’t have tumbled off