An Unusual Bequest by Mary Nichols

to deny it, but changed his mind. It was too soon to tell her the truth, that he was there because of what John Hardacre had told him, that he had at first been curious, which had turned to a surge of compassion when he arrived and had seen what was happening to her, and now wanted to protect her. She would laugh in his face if she knew. He wondered at it himself. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I do not wish to find fault. I appreciate your difficulties.’

    ‘Oh, I do not think you do,’ she said. ‘Or you would not have told my brother-in-law about seeing me and the children playing on the beach. You may have thought it a fine joke, but he used it to taunt me.’

    ‘I did nothing of the sort,’ he said sharply. ‘If Lord Hobart knew of it, it was not I who told him. There are others in the house, you know, and he could have seen you for himself.’

    She realised he was right and her sense of fairness demanded an apology. ‘I am sorry, my lord. I should not have jumped to conclusions.’

    ‘No, things are not always what they seem, are they? I concluded you were a schoolteacher and I was wrong about that.’

    ‘Not entirely, my lord. I do teach at the school in the village. It is something I like to do.’ She stood up. ‘If you come with me, I will find more wine for you, and, rest assured, I do know Bordeaux from mead.’

    He put down his cup and followed her from the room, down the hall beside the main staircase, along a narrow corridor that led to the kitchens, pantries, dairy, laundry room and cellar. She stopped to light a candle standing on a small table and, opening a door, carried it down the cellar steps, sure-footed from years of practice. She knew every inch and cranny of the old house and could find her way about easily, even in the dark. At the bottom of the steps, she lit a lantern from the flame of the candle and handed it to him. ‘Come, let us see what there is.’

    He watched her precede him, tall, elegant, self-assured. She had a good figure, he noted, and the candle held before her added a soft glow to her hair, making a halo of it. He did not know how old she was, guessing she must be about thirty, but she was far from matronly. Without the unrelieved black she wore, she could easily be taken for a much younger woman. She stopped suddenly and he almost collided with her. He put out a hand to steady her and found himself touching the bare flesh of her arm. It was soft and warm. He felt her flinch and knew she had suddenly realised how dangerous it could be down here, alone with a man, a man she did not trust.

    He took a step backwards, though the temptation was great to move forward and enfold her in his arms, to soothe her with soft words, to caress her. Even try the taste of her lips. He pulled himself up sharply—whatever had put that idea into his head? She was not a lightskirt, not like Lady Grey, who would undoubtedly allow him into her bed if he were to suggest it, but a gentlewoman. He guessed she was probably the daughter of a man of business, or a sea captain, genteel but undistinguished, which was why she saw no harm in teaching poor children. No doubt she had been elevated by her marriage to a baronet.

    She pretended not to notice his touch, though it had sent shivers down the back of her spine, but pointed to rows of shelves where bottles of wine were stored. ‘There is hardly any left. Last week that rack was full. I wonder you can play cards at all with the amount of wine and brandy you put away.’ ‘Me?’

    ‘You and the others. I do not think there is much to choose between you.’

    He did not like being lumped with Cecil’s cronies, but, as he had done nothing to make her think any differently of him, he let it go. ‘One becomes used to it,’ he said. ‘Especially abroad in the army when it is often unsafe to drink the local water.’

    ‘You were in the army?’ She picked up two bottles and handed them to him.

    ‘For many years I was a professional