The footman opened the door and, having let down the steps, handed Claire and Lucy out onto the street. The Viscount nodded farewell and the vehicle moved on. For a moment or two Claire watched it depart and then took Lucy by the hand.

‘Come. Let us see what this place has to offer.’

In fact, their investigation of the town’s shops was enjoyable and rewarding. Moreover, she and Lucy were the objects of almost fawning attention by the traders they met for the mode of their arrival had been noted. Such a handsome equipage could only belong to a wealthy man and the crest on the door left people in no doubt as to his identity. Two elegantly dressed females attended by a footman were certain of the warmest welcome everywhere they went. Claire was torn between amusement and alarm. It had not occurred to her that they would attract such notice. On the other hand, it was a novelty to be afforded the undivided attention of every shopkeeper they encountered. The latter almost fell over themselves to offer help and advice.

The first stop was the draper’s shop recommended by Mrs Hughes, where bolt after bolt of fine cloth was displayed for her inspection. Eventually she settled on two lengths of figured muslin, in blue and jonquil respectively. They were totally unexceptionable, perfect for her newfound role. Along with them she chose a soft lilac mull. It was simple and plain, but it would make an elegant dress for the forthcoming dinner party with the Greystokes. The fabrics were relatively inexpensive, too, which meant that she could save the remainder of her money in case of need.

When it came to the matter of riding habits Lucy had decided ideas of her own. Rejecting the draper’s suggestion of a dependable brown serge, she chose a deep blue velvet instead. Claire didn’t argue. It was a pretty colour and it enhanced the child’s blue eyes. She chose the brown fabric for herself.

Having purchased the cloth, they went next to the seamstress where they were ushered into an immaculate parlour and served tea while dress patterns were discussed at length. Delighted to have the custom of such exalted clients, the seamstress went into raptures over their chosen materials and assured them both of her ability to contrive the most stylish and elegant gowns imaginable. The conversation about styles and trimmings and measurements went on at such length that eventually Lucy grew bored and plumped herself down in a chair to play with her doll.

At last all the arrangements were complete and they escaped from that establishment to move on to the milliner and thence to the bootmaker. After two hours they had spent what seemed to Claire to be a truly prodigal sum of money. At the same time she had to acknowledge that it was very pleasant to have the means to do it and to be free to choose what she liked rather than what her aunt considered suitable for a young lady. That thought produced others less welcome and, as they walked along the street, she prayed that her uncle would never think to look for her in Yorkshire. In a momentary fit of panic she wished she were safely at Netherclough again, concealed from the public gaze. Then she took a deep breath and told herself not to be so foolish. It couldn’t possibly hurt to enjoy one simple shopping trip.

While Claire and Lucy were thus engaged, Marcus had gone to call upon Sir Alan Weatherby, the local magistrate. He had sent a letter some days earlier, announcing his intention. The missive aroused both curiosity and surprise in the recipient, but he received the visitor with considerable pleasure. The news of Marcus Edenbridge’s return from India had aroused considerable interest in the town, and, with his assumption of the Destermere title, made him a personage of some importance in the neighbourhood. However, in this case the matter was more personal: Weatherby had been a friend of the late Lord Richard Destermere, and had stood as godfather to his sons.

‘Welcome back, Marcus,’ he said, taking the other’s hand in a hearty grip.

‘Thank you, sir. It’s good to be back.’

For a moment the two men were silent, regarding each other in mutual appraisal. Then Weatherby smiled.

‘I see that India agreed with you, my boy.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come, let us go into the study and celebrate your return with a glass of wine.’

Once the niceties had been observed, the older man set down his glass and regarded the other with a shrewd gaze.

‘I sense there is more to this than just a social call.’

‘Yes, good though it is to see you.’ Marcus paused. ‘It is about my brother I would speak.’

‘A sad business, Marcus. A bad business in every way.’

‘You saw Greville before he died.’

‘Yes, he paid me an unofficial visit in the guise of David Gifford. He told me about his mission here—as a magistrate it was my job to lend him whatever assistance I could. I was glad to do it, too. The Luddite crew have stopped at nothing in the pursuit of their evil ends.’ Weatherby paused. ‘Your brother paid a heavy price for trying to stop them.’

‘Yes, he did, but I intend to bring his killers to justice.’

‘You can count on my full support.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Someone found out what he was doing and silenced him. The killing had all the hallmarks of an execution.’

‘You saw his body?’

‘Yes.’ Weatherby’s hand clenched on the arm of his chair. ‘As soon as I heard the name David Gifford I knew who it was. Later I visited the scene of the crime—a deserted barn on the edge of the moor. My guess is he was somehow lured to the spot and then killed.’

‘Have you any idea whom he might have met that evening?’

‘No, but he must have thought it important to be there.’

‘Was he following a lead, perhaps?’

‘Who knows? At any rate he must have been getting close if someone felt the need to silence him.’

‘Who else knew about his mission here?’

‘Only Sir James Wraxall. He’s also a magistrate and he owns several mills.’

‘So he would also have an interest in helping to catch the wreckers.’

‘Absolutely. He was most keen to help. It was he who provided Greville’s cover by hiring him as a wagon driver at the Gartside mill.’

‘Did he know David Gifford’s real identity?’

‘No, only that his task was to find and destroy the Luddite group.’

‘I see.’ Marcus drank the rest of his wine and set down the glass. ‘Well, this has been a most helpful conversation, sir.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know yet. First I need to find out who my brother’s associates were, and who he was due to meet the night he died.’

‘I’ll make some discreet inquiries. If I find out anything at all, I’ll send word.’

‘I’d appreciate it.’

‘In the meantime I trust you’re settling back to life in England.’

‘Yes, though I little thought I’d ever return.’ Marcus smiled. ‘It has been good to see Netherclough again. And it’s not just my home now—my niece lives there, too.’

‘Ah, yes, Greville’s child. I have not seen her since she was a baby.’

‘Lucy is six now.’

‘Good Lord! Is she really? At all events, it’s too young to be cast adrift in the world. Lucky for her she has you, my boy.’

‘I’ll try to live up to expectation.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ The older man eyed him keenly. ‘Meanwhile, you need to think about the future. As Viscount Destermere it is incumbent on you to marry and get heirs to carry on the family name. Find a good woman, my boy. I did and I’ve never regretted it.’

Marcus grinned. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

Having taken his leave, he returned to town to collect Claire and Lucy. Both looked to be in good spirits so he assumed the shopping expedition had been a success. On enquiry he was proved right.

‘It was most satisfactory, sir,’ replied Claire. ‘I hope your business was concluded equally well.’

‘Indeed it was, Miss Davenport.’

His expression was enigmatic and not for the first time she found herself wondering at the thoughts behind those cool grey eyes. However, he seemed disinclined to talk after that and, as Lucy was busy with her doll, Claire occupied herself agreeably by admiring the view from the window. Thus the rest of the return journey passed in companionable silence.

In the days following, Claire’s time was spent in the schoolroom or in the grounds where she and Lucy walked when the weather was fine. The estate was beautiful, for some of the trees were changing colour and the rolling green acres of park and woodland were tinted with gold and russet hues. Sometimes they walked along the banks of the river and looked for a kingfisher or watched the brown trout finning against the current. At others they walked in the woods and collected handfuls of burnished conkers from the horse chestnut trees, and listened to the songs of the wild birds.

When it rained and they were compelled to remain indoors, Claire used the long gallery for exercise, thinking up games to play. It was during one of these that Lucy’s gaze came to rest on one of the portraits.

‘Papa,’ she said then.

Claire came to stand beside her. ‘Your papa?’

‘Yes. Aunt Margaret said he’s with the angels now, like Mama.’

‘I’m sure she’s right.’

‘She said he wasn’t coming back.’

‘Do you miss him, Lucy?’

‘I suppose so. Only I never saw him much. He was always very busy, you see.’

Claire did see, all too well. She put her arm round the child’s shoulders and drew her closer.

‘You have your Uncle Marcus, though, and you have me.’

Lucy nodded. ‘I like Uncle Marcus. He makes me laugh.’ She paused. ‘I like you too, much better than Great-Aunt Margaret. She was old and cross.’

‘Was she?’

‘Yes. I was glad when Uncle Marcus came for me.’

Although the words were said matter-of-factly, Claire felt her heart go out to the little girl who had never known what it meant to be part of a loving family.

‘Are you happy here, Lucy?’

The child looked up at her with solemn eyes that were somehow much older than their six years. Then she nodded. Claire breathed a sigh of relief. It was often hard to know whether children were happy, but at last Lucy seemed to be adjusting to her new environment and to the people in it. She pointed toward the next picture. It was of two young men in sporting costume. Both carried guns under their arms and were accompanied by several dogs. A brace of pheasant lay at their feet.

‘See, there’s your papa with Uncle Marcus.’

‘How old were they?’

‘About seventeen, I’d say.’

‘That’s quite old, isn’t it?’

Claire supposed it was when you were six. She smiled. ‘Yes, quite old.’

Pleased to have the thought confirmed, Lucy turned back to the portraits.

‘Who is that lady there?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘That is your mother,’ said a voice behind them.

They turned in surprise to see Marcus there. Neither of them had heard him approach. Claire wondered how long he had been there and how much of the conversation he might have overheard. He came to join them in front of the painting.

‘She’s very pretty,’ said Lucy.

‘Yes, she is,’ he replied. ‘You look like her.’

‘Do I?’

‘I think so.’

Lucy surveyed the portrait with wistful eyes. ‘I wish she was here.’

‘If she were, I think she would be very proud of you.’

That drew a faint smile. Claire, looking over the child’s head, met his eye and smiled, too. Then she turned back to the pictures and by tacit consent they strolled on a little way, eventually coming to a halt before another canvas. This time a haughty nobleman stared down at them out of the frame.

‘My father,’ said Marcus, by way of explanation.

Looking at the cold, aloof expression on that face, Claire remembered what the housekeeper had told her earlier.

‘I can see the family likeness,’ she observed.

‘There is a physical likeness,’ he acknowledged. ‘Otherwise we were chalk and cheese, and it wasn’t a case of opposites attracting.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

‘He did have a lot to put up with admittedly. Greville and I were no saints. We sowed some wild oats between us. The old man was glad to see the back of me in the end.’

‘Was that why you went to India?’

‘I was sent to India in consequence of a scandal,’ he replied. ‘At the time I fancied myself in love with a most ineligible young lady. We planned an elopement to Gretna Green, but my father found out and scotched the scheme just in time.’

‘Just in time?’

‘Yes. He was right in that instance. The marriage would have been an unmitigated disaster. Of course, I only realised that with the wisdom of hindsight.’

‘And so you found solace with the East India Company.’

‘Very much so. The place suited me very well and the Company offered the possibility of an exciting and varied career.’

‘And you never looked back?’

‘At first, but less and less as time went on. Eventually I came to see that what I’d believed to be love was merely boyish infatuation.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you think me fickle?’

She shook her head. ‘No, just young—and perhaps a little foolish.’

‘I was certainly young, and very foolish. However, India changed that. You might say I grew up there.’

‘It must have been exciting.’

‘It was, some of the time.’

‘I should like to hear about it.’

‘Some time perhaps,’ he replied.

The tone was courteous enough and the words accompanied with a smile, yet she knew that there had been an indefinable shift, as if an invisible barrier had come down between them. Clearly there were things about those years in India that he did not wish to discuss, and she had no right to trespass there. Was the mysterious Lakshmi among them? What had happened? Clearly he had been very deeply in love with her. In that case, why had he returned to England without her? Surely a man like Marcus Edenbridge wouldn’t give a snap of his fingers for social convention. In his position he didn’t need to. Perhaps the boot was on the other foot and the lady had not cared enough for him. Perhaps she had loved someone else and jilted him.

Before further contemplation was possible a maidservant arrived to inform them that some parcels had arrived. Marcus excused himself and she and Lucy took themselves off to investigate. The parcels in question proved to be from the seamstress. The next hour was spent trying on the finished garments. Claire could not but admire the workmanship. It was very fine indeed and far better than she could have done herself. The new muslin dresses were neat and functional, but the lilac evening gown was a more elegant creation, fitting close at the bust and then falling in graceful folds to her feet. The bodice, though modest, revealed her figure to advantage. In comparison to London fashion she supposed it to be unremarkable, but it was, nevertheless, a more fashionable gown than any she had owned before and she knew full well she would enjoy wearing it. The riding habit was neat and elegant, the severe lines of the military-style jacket relieved by gold frog fastenings. It fitted like a glove to the waist before falling away into the full skirt. A jaunty little hat trimmed with ostrich feathers completed the ensemble. The shade and style were well suited to her figure and colouring, and at a stroke transformed her from girl to woman of fashion. The thought was both welcome and disturbing. It occurred to her to wonder what her employer would think of the transformation. Then she told herself not to be foolish. He probably wouldn’t even notice. Uncle Hector never seemed to notice such things. At the very most a new gown had called forth a grunt from that quarter. Fortunately no one else was likely to see it, so it would not attract undue attention.

Meanwhile, Lucy had been parading up and down in front of the mirror, admiring her new riding habit from every possible angle. The colour was a perfect foil for her brown curls and blue eyes. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she stuck out a toe to see the effect of the fabric against the polished leather of a new boot. Then she smiled as her gaze met Claire’s in the glass.

‘Now Uncle Marcus can teach me to ride,’ she announced.

Chapter Seven

The first lesson was duly arranged for the following afternoon. Claire accompanied her young charge to the stable yard where Marcus was already waiting. He smiled to see Lucy’s new costume and bade her turn around so he could view it from every angle.

‘Very pretty,’ he said then.

‘I chose the material,’ she confided.

‘You chose well.’ He tweaked one of her curls and then turned to Claire. ‘I’ll take her out for an hour or so and let her get used to the saddle.’ He glanced at her muslin frock. ‘I take it you’re not accompanying us today.’

‘No, sir. I thought it best if I did not.’ Seeing him raise an eyebrow, she hurried on. ‘This being the first time Lucy has ridden. The fewer distractions she has the better.’

The grey gaze met and held hers in a long and level stare. Recalling an earlier conversation, she felt her heart begin to beat a little faster. Was he annoyed? However, to her relief he merely nodded.

‘Well, you may be right on this occasion. However, in future I shall expect you to come along, Miss Davenport.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

‘I do wish it.’

Conscious of that penetrating gaze, Claire tried to appear unconcerned. However, it wasn’t easy when he was standing so close. With no little relief she watched him turn his attention to his niece, lifting her easily onto the pony’s back. She listened as he showed the child how to sit and how to hold her reins. Lucy hung on his every word.

Once she was ready he swung onto his own horse. He looked as if he belonged there, she thought, a born horseman. There was an elegance about the tall, lithe figure, and a suggestion of contained strength. She watched him take the pony’s leading rein and touch his horse with his heels. Then they set off, followed at a respectful distance by Trubshaw. Claire watched until they were out of sight and then retraced her steps to the house.

Lucy took to the experience of riding like a duck to water and the following day saw her and Claire in the stable yard again. This time, both were dressed to ride. The Viscount made no comment on Claire’s appearance and merely greeted her with his customary courtesy.

In fact, he had noted the habit with approval, his critical gaze taking in every detail. It was elegant and quietly stylish and, he thought, it became her very well indeed, showing off her figure to perfection. And what a figure! A man could span that waist with his hands. Even the sober colour looked good on her too, he thought, complementing her dark curls and enhancing those wonderful hazel eyes. He smiled wryly. It remained to be seen whether she could ride. He had selected a pretty bay mare for her, a willing creature but well mannered withal.

Whatever doubts he might have had on that score were soon allayed. She had an excellent seat and a light hand on the reins. Moreover, she looked very much at home in the saddle. He found himself wishing they were alone so that she might really put the mare through her paces. For some time they rode at Lucy’s pace, but then, feeling the need for something more challenging, he reined in and told Trubshaw to go on ahead.

‘We’ll catch up in a minute.’ He looked across at Claire. ‘These horses need to stretch their legs.’

At the thought of a gallop her eyes brightened. Part of her suspected he was also testing her, but she didn’t care. Once again she was aware of his regard and felt rising warmth along her neck and face. To hide her confusion she kept her eyes on the departing figures. When she judged they were far enough away she threw him a quizzical glance. He met and held it.

‘Well, Miss Davenport?’

For answer she touched the mare with her heel. The horse sprang forwards into a canter. Out of the corner of her eye Claire saw the Viscount’s chestnut drawing level. She grinned. So he wanted to test her, did he? She leaned forwards a little and gave the horse its head. The mare accelerated into a gallop, her neat hooves flying across the turf. Exhilarated by the pace and the rushing air Claire laughed out loud. Behind her she could hear the thudding hoofbeats of the other horse and then a moment later saw it draw level. A sideways glance revealed a grin on its rider’s face. In that second she knew he was deliberately keeping pace and had no intention of being outrun. The two horses swept on up the slope to where Lucy and Trubshaw were waiting. Claire reined in and then leaned down to pat the mare’s neck. Lucy was agog.

‘It was a draw, Miss Davenport. I was watching.’

Claire laughed. ‘I think you’re right.’

‘I’m going to ride like that one day,’ the child continued.

‘Yes, but not just yet,’ said Claire.

‘Certainly not,’ agreed the Viscount. Then, seeing Lucy’s crestfallen expression, he softened the blow. ‘You’ll learn soon enough.’

As they set off again he reined his mount alongside Claire.

‘How do you like the mare?’

‘I like her very well.’

‘I thought you might. She was a lady’s horse before, and is of a sweet temperament.’

‘Her owner must have been sad to part with her.’

‘I imagine so. However, I could hardly have mounted you on one of my hunters.’

Claire threw him a swift sideways glance in which dismay was clearly registered. Surely he hadn’t bought the horse on her account? That was ridiculous. He must have had the animal for some time. Yet she couldn’t recall having seen her when she and Lucy visited the stables before. Furthermore, the mare was no more than fifteen hands and finely made, certainly not up to a man’s weight. As the implications dawned she felt a strange sensation in her breast. It was a feeling compounded of gratitude and alarm. He had already shown her a great deal of consideration. More than she had any right to expect.

Although he could not follow her train of thought he could not mistake the expression of dismay on her face and he mentally rebuked himself for his clumsiness. He had meant to let her think the horse had been part of his stable.

‘I purchased her along with Lucy’s pony,’ he said. ‘As I told you, I shall require you to accompany my niece when I cannot.’

The tone was cool and firm and precluded argument. Claire avoided his eye and kept her gaze straight ahead between the horse’s ears.

‘Yes, sir.’

It was the only reply she felt able to give. He was her employer and his wishes prevailed. More than that, she had enjoyed herself too much today to want to forfeit the chance of riding in future. Now that she was on a horse again she realised how much she had missed it.

Somewhat to her disappointment, business occupied him for the next few days so she and Lucy had to go out without him. Trubshaw was in attendance as usual but the Viscount was conspicuous by his absence. Claire tried hard not to miss him but, though it was undoubtedly a pleasure to ride, it wasn’t the same somehow. She was annoyed with herself for feeling the lack. For goodness’ sake, she was too old for what amounted to a schoolgirl crush! He certainly wouldn’t be giving her a moment’s thought. Why should he? He had hired her to do a job. If he showed her any additional courtesy it was on account of what had gone before and, perhaps, because of her connection with the Greystokes.

That last proved a calming thought. The Viscount valued Dr Greystoke’s friendship very highly and was also beholden to Ellen for her previous care of him. He would not risk offending either by his treatment of Claire. Having got a new perspective on the situation, she cringed inwardly when she remembered her response to his kindness. What a vain little fool she must appear. As if a man like Marcus Edenbridge would look twice at a governess! Why should he? He could have his pick of all the eligible young women in the land. Mortified now, Claire resolved to demonstrate a different kind of behaviour when next they met.

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