“Your twin occupies none of my thoughts,” she declared hotly, now struggling to free herself. “Which is as well, an he has grown to be anything like you.”
He chuckled and pulled her closer. “But he has neither my looks nor my address, poor fellow. As you should recollect if—” The words were cut off by a pained yowl as Naomi ground her heel into his toe, then ran back several paces.
Newby sank into the nearest chair and clutched his foot. “You damnable little shrew!”
“For shame, Mr. Rossiter! I am a guest in your house. Your behaviour is insupportable. When my father learns—”
“You’d best not tell him, my lady Prim! He’d likely spank you for setting foot on this estate. And if he feels obliged to call me out—well, I would really dislike to take advantage of an old man!”
“The earl is far from old, and an excellent shot. Furthermore, sir, do not judge yourself safe because I have no brothers. I have cousins a’plenty, and good friends to whom I may turn for protection.”
Knowing this to be true, he suffered a momentary qualm, then laughed sneeringly. “Such as your good friend the Mandarin?”
With her hand on the door Naomi checked and said with regal hauteur, “There are far more despicable things than to have mixed blood, Mr. Rossiter. I give you joy of your tea. Good day.”
She slammed the door before she was obliged to listen to his rageful response, and hurried down the chilly hall. In the kitchens she found Maggie, flushed and angry, and tea still not made. Naomi issued commands. In short order they were in the stables, where Roger Coachman and the guard had replaced the damaged wheel and were preparing to adjourn to the house for the promised refreshments. They looked disappointed when Naomi said curtly that there would be no further delays.
“Anything wrong, ma’am?” asked the sturdy coachman, eyeing his beautiful charge narrowly.
“Only that you were perfectly right,” said Naomi, the slightest tremor in her voice. “We should never have come here.”
His rugged features even more formidable, he scowled at the house. “I thought as you were flying your colours! Do but say the word, milady, and—”
Grateful for his loyalty, she put a hand on his sleeve and said fondly, “No, Roger, you dare not touch the wretch! Let us leave at once, and pray do not mention this episode to my father, for ’twould certainly lead to trouble!”
In the coach, she leaned back, still flushed with wrath. She had not cared for Newby as a boy, but what a despicable creature he had become! Her hands were so cold. She gripped them tightly, furious with herself because she had been so stupid as to come here, and unable to shut out the silly thought that would not seem to leave her mind: ‘So there was a child…’
CHAPTER TWO
It was raining again by the time the coach rolled up the Collington drivepath. Gideon had never admired the long sprawl of the two-storeyed mansion, which could boast of neither bays, conservatory, nor the shallowest of projecting wings to alleviate its plain front. The unrelieved grey of stone and trim, he found depressing, and the balustrades above the cornices too heavy, adding to an overall impression of frowning gloom. The chilly veil of the rain did nothing to improve his memory of this birthplace of his betrothed, and as the postboys drew the horses to a halt, he was beginning to regret the impulse that had led him to travel west towards Tonbridge, instead of north to Promontory Point.
Collington offered no porte-cochère or porch to shelter its visitors, but the large front door was flung open as the carriage approached, and a lackey under an open umbrella came to usher the caller inside.
The entrance hall was vastly ostentatious with its painted ceilings, thick carpets, and a great quantity of red velvet and gilt furniture. Rossiter presented his card to the tall and stately butler and desired that it be conveyed to the earl.
The butler’s gaze lingered on the calling card, then lifted to scan the gaunt-faced young officer. “His lordship,” he said, in a voice as dreary as the persistent rain, “is not at home.”
“In which case,” said Rossiter, “you may tell the Lady Naomi that I am here.”
“Lady Lutonville is not at home either, sir. Nor,” added the butler loftily, “is she expected.”
There came a burst of laughter from somewhere in the house.
The butler exchanged a sly grin with the footman who waited nearby. “In point of fact,” said the butler, “there is—ah, no one at home. At all. Sir.”
Rossiter smiled and moved a step closer. “Do you know,” he said, “I really believe you have made a mistake. Take my card to Lady Lutonville. Without delay.”
The captain had not raised his voice, but for an instant the butler had the distinct impression that he had been transfixed by a steel lance. Shocked, he looked away from the icy glare in what he was later to describe as the nastiest pair of eyes he ever had beheld. In a far more respectful tone, he bowed, desired the captain to wait, and trod with rare speed across the hall.
He returned in a few minutes, rather pale, and followed by a sturdy lackey. “My regrets, Captain Rossiter,” he said uneasily. “But—’tis as I told you. There is—er, no one—er, at home.”
Rossiter heard soft footsteps behind him. ‘The reserves,’ he thought, ‘have been called in.’ Rage blazed through him, but there was nothing to be gained by losing his temper. The servants were merely obeying orders. And however incomprehensible this treatment of a prospective family member, Collington had a perfect right to refuse to see anyone.
He nodded, said a brusque “I see,” and turned on his heel.
Two footmen and the lackey with the umbrella moved hurriedly from his path as he strode to the door.
Someone murmured, “You reckon as he really does?”
