The Outcast's Redemption (The Infamous Arrandales) Page 6

  Those piercing violet-blue eyes were fixed upon her, but he waited until Mrs Truscott had bustled out of the room before he spoke.

  ‘You wish to see me alone?’

  She flushed, but remained resolute.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Is that not a little...forward of you, Miss Duncombe?’

  Her flush deepened, but this time with anger.

  ‘Necessity demands that I speak to you in private.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He picked up his coffee cup. ‘Give me ten minutes and I will be with you.’

  Grace glared at him. Mrs Truscott had come back into the kitchen so she could not utter the blistering set-down that came to her lips. Instead she turned on her heel and left the room. How dare he treat her thus, as if she had been the servant! If he thought that would save him from an uncomfortable interrogation, he was sadly mistaken.

  * * *

  Wolf drained his cup. The summons was not unexpected. It was unfortunate that Grace had seen him last night and it was his own fault. A carriage rattling through the main street at any time was a rare occurrence in Arrandale and he should have realised that it was most likely to be the Duncombes returning from Hindlesham. If only he had kept his head down, remained in the shadows, instead of staring into the coach window like a fool. Even now he remembered the look of shocked recognition on Grace’s face. Well, he would have to brazen it out.

  He made his way to the morning room where Grace was waiting for him, her hands locked together and a faint crease between her brows. She was biting her lip, as if she did not know quite how to begin. He decided to make it easy for her.

  ‘You want to know what I was doing at the Horse Shoe Inn last night.’

  ‘Yes. You are, of course, quite at liberty to go wherever you wish,’ she added quickly. ‘It was rather your appearance that puzzled me.’

  ‘My appearance, Miss Duncombe?’

  She waved one hand towards him. ‘Today you are dressed neatly, with propriety. Last night you looked like a, like a...’ He waited, one brow raised, and at last she burst out, ‘Like a ne’er-do-well.’

  He shrugged. ‘I have always found it expedient to adapt to my surroundings. I had a sudden fancy for a tankard of home brewed and I did not want to make the other customers uncomfortable.’

  It was not a complete lie. It had been a risk to go into the taproom at all, but the parson had told him the landlord was not a local man and would not know him. Wolf had hoped that with his untidy clothes and the ragged muffler about his neck no one would associate him with the Arrandale family.

  Grace looked sceptical.

  ‘Since the inn supplies us with our small beer I can only assume you had a sudden fancy for low company, too,’ she said coldly. ‘Forgive me if I appear uncharitable, but I think you have imposed upon our hospitality long enough.’

  The door opened and the parson’s soft voice was heard.

  ‘Ah, Mr Peregrine, there you are.’ Mr Duncombe came into the room, looking from one to the other. ‘Forgive me, am I interrupting?’

  Wolf met Grace’s stormy eyes. ‘Your daughter thinks it is time I took my leave.’

  ‘No, no, my dear sir, there is no need for that, not before you have finished your business in Arrandale.’

  Wolf waited for Grace to protest, but although her disapproval was tangible, she remained silent.

  ‘Miss Duncombe is afraid I am importuning you, sir.’

  ‘Bless my soul, no, indeed. I am very pleased to have you here, my boy.’

  ‘But your daughter is not.’ His words fell into a heavy silence.

  ‘Perhaps, my son, you would allow me to speak to my daughter alone.’

  ‘Of course.’ As Wolf turned to go the old man caught his arm.

  ‘Mark me, sir, I am not asking you to quit this house. In fact, I strongly urge you to stay, for as long as you need. You are safe here.’

  ‘But if Miss Duncombe is not happy about it—’

  ‘Let me talk with Grace alone, if you please. We will resolve this matter.’

  * * *

  Grace frowned. She did not understand the look that passed between the two men, but the stranger went out and she was alone with her father.

  ‘Now, Grace, tell me what is troubling you. Is it merely that you think Mr Peregrine is imposing upon me?’

  ‘I do not trust him, Papa.’ She saw his look of alarm and said quickly, ‘Oh, he has not acted improperly towards me, but—’ She broke off, searching for the right words to express herself. ‘Yesterday, when I was coming home after visiting Mrs Owlet, I came upon him in the Arrandale Chapel, and I saw him again last night, outside the Horse Shoe Inn when we drove past at midnight.’

  ‘Ah.’ The parson smiled. ‘These are not such great crimes, my dear.’

  ‘But you must admit it is not the behaviour of an honest man.’

  ‘It may well be the behaviour of a troubled one.’

  ‘I do not understand you.’

  ‘No, I am aware of that. I am asking you to trust me in this, Grace.’

  ‘Papa!’ She caught his hands. ‘Papa, there is something you are not telling me. Do you not trust me?’

  He shook his head at her.

  ‘My love, I beg you will not question me further on this matter. One day, I hope I shall be able to explain everything, but for now you must trust me. It is my wish that Mr Peregrine should remain here for as long as it is necessary.’

  He spoke with his usual gentle dignity, but with a firmness that told her it would be useless to argue.

  ‘Very well, Papa. If that is your wish.’

  ‘It is, my child. Now, if you will forgive me, I am off to visit the Brownlows. They sent word that the old man has taken a turn for the worse and is not expected to last the day.’

  ‘Of course. I must not keep you from your work.’

  ‘Thank you. And, Grace, when you next see Mr Peregrine I want you to make it plain to him that we want him to stay.’

  With that he was gone. Grace began to pace up and down the room. Every instinct cried out against her father’s dictum. The man was dangerous, she knew it, to her very core. So why was her father unable to see it? Grace stopped and pressed her hands to her cheeks. The image of Mr Peregrine filled her mind, as he had been that day by the pump, droplets of water sparkling on his naked chest like diamonds. That danger was not something she could share with her father!

  There was a faint knock on the door. She schooled her face to look composed as Truscott came in with a letter for her. The handwriting told her it was from Aunt Eliza, but her thoughts were too confused to enjoy it now. She would saddle Bonnie and go for a ride. Perhaps that would help her to see things more clearly.

  * * *

  Wolf heaved the axe high and brought it down with more force than was really necessary. The log split with satisfying ease and even as the pieces bounced on the cobbles he put another log on the chopping block and repeated the action. It was a relief to be active and he was in some measure repaying his host’s kindness. The vision of Grace’s stormy countenance floated before him and he pushed it away. He wanted to tell her the truth, but Mr Duncombe had advised against it. He must respect that, of course, but there was something so good, so honest about Grace that made the deception all the more abhorrent.

  The axe came down again, so heavily that it cleaved the log and embedded itself in the block. He left it there while he eased his shoulders. He had discarded his coat and waistcoat, but the soft linen of his shirt was sticking to his skin. It would need washing again. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips as he recalled Grace tripping out into the garden and seeing him, half-naked, by the pump. He remembered her look, the way her eyes had widened. She had not found his body unattractive, whatever else she might think of him.

  T
he smile died. There was no place in his life for a woman, especially one so young. Why, he was her senior by ten years, and her innocence made the difference feel more like a hundred. No, Grace Duncombe was not for him.

  There was a clatter of hoofs and the object of his reverie approached from the stable yard. Her face was solemn, troubled, but the mare had no inhibitions, stretching her neck and nudging his arm, as if remembering their last meeting. Idly Wolf put a hand up and rubbed the mare’s forehead while Grace surveyed the logs covering the cobbles outside the woodshed.

  ‘My father wishes me to make it clear that you are welcome to remain here as long as you wish.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Duncombe.’

  She looked at him then.

  ‘Do not thank me. You know I would rather you were not here.’

  She went to turn the mare, but Wolf gripped the leather cheek-piece.

  ‘Grace, I—’

  The riding crop slashed at his hand.

  ‘How dare you use my name?’

  He released the bridle and stepped back. Fury sparkled in her eyes as she jerked the horse about and cantered away.

  ‘Hell and damnation!’ Wolf rubbed his hand and looked down at the red mark that was already appearing across the knuckles.

  ‘Is everything all right, sir?’ Truscott appeared, looking at him anxiously. ‘I just seen Miss Grace riding out o’ here as if all the hounds of hell were after her.’

  Wolf’s eyes narrowed. ‘I need a horse. A fast one.’

  Chapter Four

  The frantic gallop did much to calm Grace’s agitation, but it could not last. She had already ridden Bonnie hard for a couple of hours that morning and the mare needed to rest. She had returned to the stables, determined to carry out her father’s instructions and speak to their guest. She thought that, perched high on Bonnie’s back, she would be able to remain calm and aloof, but the sight of the man had caught her off-guard. The white shirt billowing about him accentuated his broad shoulders and sent her pulse racing. And when he fixed her with those eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul, she panicked. Her reaction to his presence frightened her and his hand on the bridle was the last straw for her frayed nerves. She had thought only of getting away. But now, as she slowed Bonnie to a walk, she was filled with remorse. She hated violence and was ashamed to think she had struck out so blindly. She would have to apologise.

  With a shock Grace realised she was on the outskirts of Hindlesham. Having come this far she should carry on to the Manor and give her thanks for last night’s dinner. Loftus might well be out on business but his mother would be there. The very thought had Grace turning and cantering back towards Arrandale. Mrs Braddenfield frequently urged Grace to look upon her as a parent, since her own dear mother was dead, but Grace could no more confide in her than a stranger. Besides, Mrs Braddenfield would agree that Papa was far too trusting, that this ‘Mr Peregrine’ should be sent away immediately and perversely Grace did not want to hear that. Oh, heavens, she did not know what she did want!

  She eased her conscience with the knowledge that Mrs Braddenfield was not in want of company. The lady had told them herself that her neighbours were being very attentive during the absence of Claire Oswald, her excellent companion. No, Mrs Braddenfield did not need her visit and, in her present agitated state, Grace would be very poor company indeed.

  * * *

  Grace had reached Arrandale Moor when she saw someone galloping towards her. She recognised Mr Styles’s bay hunter immediately, but the rider was definitely not the elderly farmer. He was tall and bare-headed and she thought distractedly that he looked as good on horseback as he did chopping wood. Her mouth dried, she had a craven impulse to turn and flee, but she drew rein and waited for horse and rider to come up to her, steeling herself for the apology she must make to the man calling himself Mr Peregrine.

  It took all her nerve to keep Bonnie still, for it looked at first as if horse and rider would charge into her, but at the last moment the bay came to a plunging halt, eyes wild and nostrils flaring. The rider controlled the powerful animal with ease, his unsmiling eyes fixed on Grace.

  ‘Sir, I must apologise—’

  ‘You said you want the truth,’ he interrupted her. ‘Very well. Follow me.’

  Without waiting for her reply he wheeled about and set off back towards the village. Intrigued, Grace followed him. They passed the vicarage and took the narrow lane that bordered Arrandale Park until they came to a gap in the paling. As soon as both horses had both pushed through they set off again, galloping towards the Hall. The pace did not ease until they reached the weed-strewn carriage circle before the house itself. Grace saw her companion throw himself out of the saddle and she quickly dismounted before he could reach her. He looked to be in a fury and even as she slid to the ground she wondered if she had been wise to follow him.

  ‘Come along.’

  He took her arm and escorted her up the steps, arriving at the door just as Robert Jones opened it. With a curt instruction to the servant to look after the horses, he almost dragged Grace inside.

  She had never been inside the Hall before. She wanted to stop and allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the shuttered gloom, but her escort led her on inexorably, through what she could dimly see was a series of reception rooms to the narrow backstairs. Fear and curiosity warred within her, but for the moment curiosity had the upper hand.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You will soon see.’

  He marched her up the narrow, twisting stairs to a long gallery that ran the length of the building. After the darkness of the shadowy stairwell, the light pouring in from the windows was almost dazzling.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  A prickling fear was already whispering the answer.

  ‘You will see.’ He strode along the gallery and stopped at one of the paintings. Only then did he release her. Grace resisted the urge to rub her arm where his fingers had held her in a vice-like grip.

  They were standing beneath a picture. A family group, an older man with powdered hair in a dark frock coat and a tall crowned hat, a lady in an elegant muslin dress with a blue sash that matched her stylish turban. Between them, in informal pose, stood their children, a fair-haired schoolboy and beside him, his arm protectively resting on the boy’s shoulder, a tall young man dressed in the natural style that was so fashionable ten years ago, a black frock coat and tight breeches. But it was not the clothes that held her attention, it was the lean, handsome face and the coldly cynical gleam in the violet-blue eyes that stared out defiantly beneath a shock of thick, curling dark hair. She glanced at the man beside her and involuntarily stepped away.

  ‘Yes, that is me.’ There was a sneer in the deep, drawling voice. ‘Wolfgang Charles Everdene Arrandale. Not-so-beloved son and heir of Arrandale. This was painted to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Not that it was much of a celebration, I was a rakehell even then, in true Arrandale tradition. Is it any wonder my father thought me capable of murder?’

  ‘And the boy?’ It was all she could think of to say.

  ‘My brother Richard, seven years my junior. He could have inherited Arrandale. When I left England I deliberately cut myself off from the family, ignored letters and messages, even the news that my parents were dead. I wanted everyone to think I had died, too, but it seems Richard would not accept that. Consequently the miserly lawyers have held the purse strings at Arrandale and my foolish brother has dipped into his own pocket to pay for necessary maintenance work here.’

  Surely a murderer would not say such things.

  Grace needed to think, so she moved along the gallery, studying the portraits. There were signs of Wolfgang Arrandale in many of them, in the shape of the eye, the strong chin and in most of the men she saw that same world-weary look, but the lines of dissipation were etched de
eper. Reason told her she should be frightened of this man, but she felt only an overwhelming sadness and an irrational, dangerous wish to comfort him.

  At the end of the gallery she turned.

  ‘Why have you come back now?’

  ‘I learned I have a daughter.’

  ‘You did not know?’

  ‘No. I thought when I left England I had no commitments, no responsibilities. I had brought enough shame on the family and thought it best if I disappeared. Now, for my daughter’s sake, I need to prove my innocence.’

  She forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘Are you a murderer?’

  ‘I have killed men, yes, in duels and in war. But I did not kill my wife.’

  He held her gaze. Grace desperately wanted to believe him, but she could not ignore the portraits staring down at her from the walls, generations of rogues, rakes and murderers going back to the time of good King Hal. Everyone in the parish knew the history of the family. Why should this Arrandale be any different to his ancestors?

  Her legs felt weak and she sank down on to a chair, regardless of the dust. She should have known who he was. It made such sense, she should have known.

  He began to pace the floor, his boots echoing on the bare boards.

  ‘There is a warrant for my arrest and a price on my head. If I am caught, your father could be charged with harbouring a criminal. He did not want you to have that on your conscience, too. But he was afraid you might guess.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’ She was answering herself as much as him. ‘I was at school when your wife died. By the time I came home to look after Papa it was old news and the Arrandales were rarely mentioned.’

  ‘Except to curse the name for bringing hardship and poverty to the village.’

  She heard the bitterness in his voice and said quietly, ‘Will you tell me what happened?’

  He stared out of the window.

  ‘I do not know. We argued, I rode out to cool my heels and when I came back I found her lying at the bottom of the stairs.’

  ‘Could she have fallen?’

  He looked at her then. ‘Judge for yourself.’