The Decadent Countess Read online

  Leo appeared to consider his words. “‘Brute”, am I? Perhaps you are right. Perhaps, at heart, I am a brute. I find it strangely liberating being rude to you, Freddie. Beware we do not meet again, or I may liberate my fists as well as my tongue.’

  Frederick turned to mount the creaking stairs with as much dignity as he could muster.

  ‘Oh, and Harmon?’ Leo was smiling grimly up at him. ‘If you’re not gone in half an hour, I’ll come up and help you pack.’

  Leo’s smile became genuine as the footsteps quickened into a half-run before an upstairs door slammed. He felt an immense sense of self-satisfaction. He had seen off the dragon and rescued his lady love. Now all that remained was to sweep her up into his arms, kiss her, and live happily ever after.

  His smile faded, turned rueful.

  Unfortunately real life was not a fairytale. A happy ending was not obligatory, even for a duke.

  The note from Tina had arrived as dusk was blurring the landscape around The Grange. A bird called from the shadowy copse on the hill, a mournful cry that exactly suited Miranda’s mood.

  Since Mr Harmon had gone, she had tried to recapture the urgency she had once felt to make The Grange into a proper home, but it seemed to slip through her fingers. Like the mist in the hollows about the house where the moat had once been.

  Esme, as though sensing her mistress’s malaise, had brought a vase of flowers to place in the parlour.

  ‘There we are, ma’am,’ she had declared, her thin, young face full of pleasure. ‘That will cheer things up for you.’

  ‘It will indeed, Esme. Thank you.’ She hesitated, glancing to the door. ‘Is Pendle still here?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘He hasn’t packed and left then?’

  Esme shook her head.

  Pendle had persisted with his stubborn stance. He was here on the Duke’s instructions and could only leave if ordered to do so by the Duke. ‘And,’ he reminded her primly, ‘as I have been forbidden to allow his Grace into your house, madam, it is unlikely he will be able to give me those orders, even if he wishes to.’

  ‘Very good, Pendle,’ she had replied with more than a little exasperation. ‘You have it all worked out.’

  ‘I only do as I am told, madam.’

  ‘Do you, Pendle? I wonder.’

  With a smile and a bob, Esme left her, and the Pendle question was no further resolved. The scent of the flowers filled the room, heavy and sweet. The parlour had become very cosy, a refuge from the worries of the world. Miranda tended to retreat here when she needed to be alone, to think.

  Thus she had come here when she received Tina’s note.

  The sight of it had briefly lifted her spirits, but when she read it she found the contents kind and apologetic, but certainly not the inspiring message of hope she had wanted them to be.

  My dear Miranda,

  You will know now that I have told Leo the truth about you. I would come to make my apology in person, but I do not believe you will want to see me just yet. My reason for betraying your trust was my brother’s confusion and unhappiness. I hoped that once he knew you were not Adela the trouble between you would be resolved. I was wrong, and for that I apologise. Please see it in your heart to forgive me—and him. Leo feels as badly as I do about this matter. I know he will not rest until we are all comfortable again.

  Your friend, Tina

  Miranda sighed and laid the note aside. Leo was a gentleman who felt deeply his position as the Fifth Duke of Belford. Of course he would not feel comfortable until he had resolved their differences. Then, and only then, could he relegate her, and these last weeks, to the past where they belonged.

  An unpleasant episode to be forgotten.

  Probably he would give her a cool, courteous nod in passing, or, if absolutely necessary, exchange a few words with her if they met accidentally. But no more. She could not expect more.

  And yet, God help her, she did!

  Would they live so close, only a few miles apart, and yet be so far away? How could this hurdle be got over? How could she make him fall as in love with her as she was with him? He had been about to, she was sure of it. That day when he came to her here at The Grange, there had been something in his eyes.

  For some reason her mind kept circling back to the past, the long-ago past, when the first Fitzgibbon had been coerced by his king, and possibly his own greed, into marrying a woman he did not love. Was there a message for her in that story? Did those long-dead lovers look upon her now, and wish her to find a happiness to equal their own?

  Despite all the odds, their lives had worked out well.

  Why, oh, why could she and Leo not find a similar conclusion to their sorry tale?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The night was still, everything and everyone sleeping. Except one.

  A bulky figure crept around the side of The Grange, keeping to the deeper shadows against the house, ducking once or twice beneath the shelter of an overgrown bush. But there was no one to see or hear, and soon the intruder reached the side door and, with a brief manipulation of the lock, silently entered.

  The old house slept on.

  The bulky figure paused, but there was no sound, and soon it moved on hushed feet up the stairs, towards the family bedchambers. There was no hesitation in its steps, no confusion as to which direction to take—it was obvious that here was someone who knew the house very well.

  ‘She has no right.’ The words were a mere breath of sound. ‘If I can’t have The Grange, then no one will.’

  The intruder reached a door in the dark corridor and halted. It fumbled with something—a bundle of rags held fast under one arm—and then a spark flared. Smouldered. Caught. The acrid sting of smoke filled the air.

  A firm, determined wrench on the door latch and the portal swung open. There was no sound here, either, apart from the faint whisper of someone’s sleeping breath. The intruder came closer and stared at the bed. The curtains were drawn, but within them Miranda slept on, unknowing and unaware of the danger.

  The bulky figure gave a soft, triumphant laugh, and bent to place the smoking bundle of rags against the covers at the base of the bed. It waited briefly, watching the smoke increase, seeing the first bright flicker of hungry flame, and then backed out of the room as silently as it had come.

  Down the stairs the intruder went, on swift, sure feet, only to pause. A glance in the direction of the kitchen…the larder. Temptation there, and the sudden thought, Why not? ’Tis only right I take what should be mine.

  In a matter of moments the outside door had opened once more and the bulky figure slipped out and ran. There was a faint patter of footsteps across the lawn, a murmur of laughter, and then the heavy silence resumed.

  Miranda was the first to smell the smoke.

  She was dreaming of Leo and the night she had dined at Ormiston. Only this time the birds that were painted upon the domed ceiling had come to life and were flying about the room. Pendle appeared to inform them that dinner was served. And then Leo took her hand and they both soared into the air.

  She woke, disoriented, staring into the cave of her bed curtains. And coughed. For a moment she did not know what had woken her, only that there was a peculiar smell and her eyes and nostrils stung. An urgent drumming began in her skull.

  There was a strange light beyond the bedcurtains. A flickering, dancing light.

  As she stared, flames licked up the fabric at the end of her bed and, with a sudden, frightening ferocity, began to spread to the canopy.

  Smoke! Fire!

  At last realisation flooded her.

  With a loud shriek, Miranda hurled herself out of her bed, fighting through the curtains. The room was burning. Fire was consuming the base of her bed; smoke poured upward. And the fire had a voice; it seemed to roar.

  Avoiding the burning bedding, Miranda edged about the wall towards the door and found it ajar.

  The corridor was already hazy with smoke. More of it drifted over the
gallery railing and down into the well of the hall, where a lantern shone eerily through the gloom. In a moment her desperate cries had brought numerous servants, in various states of undress, stumbling to her rescue. They milled about aimlessly, until Pendle took charge. The fact that he was wearing a ridiculous nightcap whose drooping end kept falling over one eye, and a pair of scruffy bright green slippers, appeared to have no effect whatever upon his authority.

  Miranda had thought the flames too entrenched to put out, but Pendle soon dealt with them, ordering the servants as they went about smothering the fire and soaking the bedclothes with water. The conflagration resisted briefly, but it was no match for Pendle.

  When the flames had been extinguished to Pendle’s satisfaction, one of the servants was placed on guard, just in case a wayward spark reignited. The room looked blackened and singed, and smelt sickeningly of smoke, but apart from the destruction of the bed-curtains and bedcovers, no serious damage had been done.

  It could have been so much worse.

  If Miranda had not woken and smelled smoke, if the fire had burned more quickly, then the house could have been well alight before anyone realised, and with no possibility of its being saved.

  And not just the house.

  Miranda’s own life would have been lost.

  Oh, yes, she thought, it could have been much worse. She was grateful, really she was. And yet now she had this further burden weighing down her already burdened shoulders.

  It might have been the final straw, if she were not so angry.

  ‘How could it have begun?’ she asked, more to herself than Pendle, trying hard not to stare at his bizarre nightcap.

  ‘A stray spark, madam,’ he answered promptly. ‘I will question the servants, there is some simple explanation.’

  But Miranda did not believe that. Besides, there was something in the way he held his mouth which made her think he was keeping secrets from her. She fixed him with a hard look. ‘You think someone lit it deliberately, don’t you?’

  ‘I cannot say, madam.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t! If you are holding something back from me in the mistaken belief that I am a helpless female, Pendle, I will—I will never forgive you.’

  He paled, but his eyes did not waver. ‘I do not now, nor ever have, believed you to be a “helpless female”, madam.’

  There was obviously no more to be done with Pendle, or the house, until morning. The smell of smoke remained strong and rooms would need to be thoroughly aired out, but in all they had been very lucky. Miranda sent her household back to bed with unstinting thanks, and retired herself to one of the spare bedchambers. But she did not sleep. She could not.

  The mattress was comfortable enough, the bedding was fresh and aired, the room was clean and welcoming. None of those things was stopping her from sleeping. It was just that there were too many thoughts revolving in her head.

  Who could have attempted such a crime, and why would Pendle not share his suspicions with her? Was it possible that the perpetrator was someone Pendle wished to protect?

  An image fluttered into Miranda’s mind, but she dismissed it instantly. Leo would never stoop to such base behaviour. He was a gentleman, and although he occasionally lost his reason where she was concerned, that did not mean he would turn arsonist. No, the perpetrator must be someone with a grudge against her. A hatred so deep that he would stop at nothing in his quest to revenge himself upon her.

  Mr Harmon?

  It was unbelievable that Adela’s cousin should so resent what she had said to him. He had deserved it, after all, and there had been an expression in his eyes that told her he knew it. The game had been up, and he had left accordingly. She could not imagine him returning with such viciousness in his heart, intent on doing her harm.

  However, there was one other person who was a perfect fit for the picture she had just drawn. Nancy. For some reason Nancy Bennett believed The Grange was hers by right of her family’s long association with it. And Nancy was more than capable of viciousness, maybe even of harming Miranda.

  Yes, Miranda decided, with a yawn, she would speak to Pendle about Nancy in the morning.

  On the verge of sleep, Miranda jerked awake again.

  She had forgotten that tomorrow night was the Lethbridge party. Would Leo be there? After all that had happened between them, she was less than thrilled with the notion of coming face to face with him. And yet, despite Leo, and despite what had happened tonight—or perhaps because of those things—she had no intention of missing the party.

  Maybe he would not come. Maybe he had already returned to London and had resumed his life there. In a month or two she might read in the newspaper of his engagement, and think a little sadly of what may have been. But, of course, by then she would be over him and happy in her solitary life.

  The image she had created was unbearably depressing. Miranda closed her eyes and, finally, slept.

  ‘Pendle? What in God’s name are you doing here at this time of the night? Or is it morning?’

  Pendle straightened a little more, his voice lowered in respect for the sleeping household. ‘Your Grace, it was imperative I come, despite the hour. I apologise for waking you.’

  Leo shrugged. ‘I was not asleep,’ he said.

  Pendle paused, as if expecting some further explanation, but when there was none forthcoming he launched into his own story in regard to the events that had occurred at The Grange.

  ‘There has been a fire, sir. I came myself because I do not believe it was an accident. I believe it was deliberately lit.’

  Leo listened, his eyes narrowed, his face blank. But Pendle was not fooled. He knew his master well, and he knew when he was angry.

  At the moment he was very angry indeed.

  ‘I don’t think you have turned out at this hour to tell me something you could have informed me of in daylight, Pendle.’

  ‘No, sir. I admit to you that I am more than a little worried.’

  ‘No one was injured in this fire?’ Suddenly Leo was very much awake, sitting stiffly upright in his chair.

  ‘No, sir, everyone is well.’

  No doubt that was true—Pendle did not tell untruths—but there was something in the older man’s eyes that turned Leo’s heart to ice.

  ‘Miranda is not hurt?’ Leo’s question was sharp.

  Pendle shook his head, but again that anxious expression clouded his eyes.

  ‘Than what, man? In God’s name, what is it?’

  Leo felt odd. As if the world around him was receding behind a dark film. Pendle’s voice came from a distance, the tone soothing, but nothing could camouflage the damning nature of his words.

  ‘The fire was started in Mrs Fitzgibbon’s bedchamber, sir. The bed was alight and she escaped just in time. Some charred rags were found at the base of her bed. I believe a person set them alight in the hope that… I believe, sir, that whoever did this wished the lady ill.’

  ‘Wished her dead, you mean?’

  Pendle eyed him uneasily. ‘Yes, sir, that is what I mean.’

  Leo nodded. He felt damned strange. He swallowed. Miranda, dead? What would be left him then? The Duke of Belford with his large estates and pure-bred horses and twenty thousand pounds per annum. Suddenly the idea that that was all his life meant seemed unbearable. The knowledge pressed down upon him, crushing him, choking him.

  Miranda. He needed her, he wanted her, he could not live without her.

  And it had taken his nearly losing her to make him realise it.

  ‘Pendle?’ His voice was harsh and strange; he cleared his throat.

  ‘Yes, your Grace?’

  ‘Who did this?’

  Pendle shuffled slightly, then straightened his already ramrod-straight back. ‘Whoever did this deed knew their way about The Grange, which, as you are aware, is a veritable maze. In darkness a stranger could break his neck. I had thought it might be Mr Harmon, but…’

  Leo gave a faint grimace of reminiscence. ‘Mr Harmon left this aft
ernoon for London. I saw him off myself.’

  Pendle was not unduly surprised.

  ‘Was anything stolen, Pendle?’ Leo’s head seemed to be clearing. He was thinking again. The horrid moment had passed.

  Pendle moved to shake his head, and then hesitated. ‘Now that you mention it, sir, there were some items missing from the larder. I had a need to visit the kitchen after the upset with the fire—my stomach, you know—and I am almost certain there was a ham, and a cheese, which were no longer there. I can confer with Cook tomorrow.’

  ‘And what do you deduce from this midnight feast, Pendle?’ Leo asked quietly.

  ‘There is only one person, to my knowledge, who is familiar with The Grange and who would be unable to resist stealing food, your Grace.’

  ‘Exactly! I believe if I were to ask in the village tomorrow, I would find the entire Bennett family well provisioned.’ Leo’s eyes glittered. ‘Do nothing further in the matter. I will deal with Nancy.’

  ‘I would leave it to you, sir, but…’ Pendle shifted uneasily from his military stance. If he had been a lesser man, one might have said he wavered.

  Leo watched him curiously. ‘What is it, Pendle?’

  ‘Mrs Fitzgibbon is an intelligent woman, sir. By morning she will have concluded for herself that Nancy was the culprit.’

  ‘Very well, I will send her a note to the effect that I am handling the matter.’

  Pendle shifted again. ‘She may not take such a note in the spirit in which it is intended, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Leo frowned, eyeing his butler with malevolence. ‘I collect you are referring to my recent visit.’

  ‘Your Grace was rather…forceful.’

  ‘I was angry, Pendle! She has a powerful effect on me.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  Leo’s eyebrows rose. ‘You seem to have grown very protective of the lady, Pendle.’

  Pendle cleared his throat. ‘It has been a unique experience receiving orders from Mrs Fitzgibbon, sir. I can only say that returning here to Ormiston will be very tame indeed.’

  ‘Pendle, you ungrateful wretch! If I had known you would transfer your allegiance so easily I would not have sent you. What must I do to tempt you back, eh?’