The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(47)

Jared left Guinevere reacquainting herself with Porrett the butler and Mrs Mountjoy the housekeeper and assuring them that not only was her own maid with her but that one of the footmen from London had accompanied them to help ease the burden of her arrival with a guest and virtually no notice. ‘In fact it is Thomas, who you’ll remember, of course. It should make things easier as he knows the house and everyone so well,’ Jared heard her explaining as he walked off round the house.

He was looking for the terrace where the adder was placed in the sewing basket and found it soon enough. Three sets of long windows, with very low cills that could be stepped over, gave access to various rooms in the house from the rectangular area of flagstones. There was a small flowerbed and fountain in the centre of the terrace and paths approached it around the house from both sides. The shrubbery was only twenty or so yards away across the lawn. There was nothing here to give a clue about who might have interfered with the basket, but someone from inside the house seemed most likely, despite the cover given by the plantings.

Jared kept walking until he reached a fanciful corner turret added by someone with more romance on their mind than architectural good taste. The door at the base was unlocked and he went in and found a staircase with a carpet runner over stone steps and an elegant curving handrail rising to his right and another door, presumably into the house.

He took the stairs, counting to the point where Northam said Guinevere had fallen, then looked back. A healthy young woman would have to be very unlucky indeed to be seriously hurt from such a tumble. Bruises, perhaps a broken wrist or ankle, but that was all. He climbed higher until he reached a door. From that point a fall would be far more serious, potentially lethal.

The door opened onto a semi-circular room furnished as a lady’s retreat. There was a chaise, a bookcase with full shelves and a little writing desk. Both the shelves with their informal rows of books, some stacked up, one lying open, and the desk with several piles of paper, looked well-used. There were light, charming draperies and a tea table with two chairs. It was all very feminine without being frilly and he could picture Guinevere there.

As he was thinking it the door opened and she came in, closing it behind her with a click. ‘I thought you might have found your way here.’

Jared looked at the chaise, then back at her, cursing his imagination. Fuelled by last night’s encounter it was painting a vivid image of Guinevere on that chaise, only this time without any clothes and her hair unbound. It was so real that he could taste her, feel her, visualise exactly how it would be to lie between those pale, curved, soft-skinned thighs and –

‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked, inflaming things further by sitting on the chaise.

‘Last night.’ Then, when she blushed, rosy and delicious, he added, ‘But we are not going to talk about that.’ Not now. ‘Tell me about your first husband.’

That drove the blush away. ‘He married me believing I had money, quite a lot of money. I did not and my father, who had, made certain that I – and my husband – would get none of it. I thought Francis was genuinely interested in me for myself. I had no idea that Papa was generally thought to be a rich man locally because he was always careful with his money, never went for show or luxuries.’ Guinevere broke off, bit her lower lip. ‘Any affection Francis might have felt vanished like mist in the sunshine when he found there was no dowry. It all became my fault.’

‘And how was he paying his way in the world?’

Again she punished her lower lip. ‘Gaming, betting on horses. Doing favours for friends, although what those consisted of, I have no idea and I am not certain I wish to know.’

‘Living on his wits, in other words.’

‘Yes – on his wits and on moneylenders. My brother Henry thought he was the good friend of a most reputable acquaintance, the acquaintance believed he was a friend of Henry’s, he insinuated his way into house parties and soon he was a familiar face in local Society. My father, who was by nature more suspicious than Henry, made some enquiries, but it was too late by then. I had… he…’ She squared her shoulders and met his gaze, eyes dark with remembered pain and the effort of honesty. ‘I was foolish enough to be seduced. When Papa forbade the match I was even more foolish and admitted as much. Francis was certain that if we eloped Papa would relent, but he did not.’

‘So you had returned to Lancashire at that point?’

Guinevere nodded. ‘Then someone to whom Francis owed money sent some awful men to make him pay it back and we had to run. Francis kept drinking and every night he – It was unpleasant, but I discovered that if he drank a lot he became maudlin, not violent or amorous any more, so I encouraged him to drink. I thought that somehow I would find a way to earn some money, or Francis would have a relative who might help him. Or a miracle would happen, I suppose.

‘It was wrong of me not to try and keep him sober, of course. By the time we arrived at the Red Griffin in the village he was drinking gin heavily every evening. The inn has a very tall window on the stairs and it was open that night because it was so hot. I do not know exactly what happened because I hadn’t seen him since the middle of the afternoon and there were no witnesses, but apparently he stumbled out of the bar, very drunk, and was last seen at the foot of the stairs, starting to climb.’

‘A clear-cut matter for the Coroner, even though there was no actual witness to the fall,’ Jared said, keeping a tight hold on his temper. The man was dead, he couldn’t run him through as every instinct urged him to, and showing anger would only frighten Guinevere.