Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) (30 page)

“I didn’t think I would see you again, Miss Beauregard,” Edgar said in a low voice. “Mrs. Madely was very upset when your aunt left.” He put forward a hand and impudently felt at the soft folds of Harriet’s skirt. “I see you have found some money.”

Harriet stared at where his hand felt at her skirt and then, looking back at him, raised an eyebrow. He dropped his hand quickly. She had never cared for Edgar. He had always watched from a distance as she and James had climbed apple trees or scoured the beach. There was something a little sly about him, despite his dark good looks. Harriet sighed. If only he hadn’t been invited to the house party at Lord Anglethorpe’s house by Lady Colchester.

“Well,” he said brightly. “You must be relieved to know that James will be able to stay in Brambridge.”

Harriet frowned. “I’m sorry Edgar. I don’t quite understand.” 

“Oh you didn’t know?” Edgar threw ran a finger along the top of the fireplace. “When Uncle Stanton’s will was read six months ago, James found out that he had to marry a certain lady in order to keep Brambridge Manor. Poor man spent ages trying to find her.”

Good God. She hadn’t known.

“Brambridge Manor means an awful lot to James y’know. It’s in his blood.” Edgar giggled. “In more ways than one.”

“Did he find the lady?”

“Oh yes. That’s a story in itself. Would you believe she was right in the vicinity all the time?”

As Edgar’s head bobbed to the side, the door to the drawing room opened. James walked in through the door, escorted by Lord Anglethorpe. Harriet clenched her hands by her side. She had been waiting for him to arrive, even rehearsed what she wanted to say. But now she was unsure, couldn’t quite believe it. James needed to marry someone to keep Brambridge. A lady named in the old lord’s will.

“Who was the lady?” Harriet asked distractedly.

“Oh would you believe it was Melissa Sumner!” Edgar laughed. “As soon as James found out that she was Marie Mompesson he proposed to her like a shot.”

Harriet turned her head in horror to meet Edgar’s sneering gaze.

“She accepted with delight,” he said in a low voice. “How do you feel, Harriet, now you know that you’ll never have him?”

A shiver coursed its way down Harriet’s spine. A glint sparked in Edgar’s eyes and he tipped his head on one side.

“I…”

But Harriet was interrupted by a chinking of a spoon on a glass. Jerkily she turned her head to see her aunt stand by the piano, staring at her. She shook her head but Agatha merely smiled and clapped her hands.

“No, don’t,” Harriet mouthed. But it was too late.

“All, ahead of the secret Royal Academy exhibition that all of London is talking about, let me introduce you to its star, and owner of all the paintings that have already been sold for vast sums, Miss Marie Mompesson Beauregard, my niece, who some of you might know as Harriet.”

Another shiver worked its way down Harriet’s spine. She glanced around the room. Freddie smiled at her delightedly. Anthony gave her a small nod. A small cheer rang out, and some of the ladies gave a smattering of applause.

Harriet put her hand to her mouth and gulped. Drawing her fingers down to her cheeks, she turned to face Edgar.

His glass had dropped to the floor; his mouth gaped like a fish. “You. You are Marie Mompesson?” he said faintly.

Harriet could only nod. She could see James over his shoulder. His face showed nothing. A hard flatness had taken over his expression. He stared at her intently. She pushed her hands into her skirts and pinched at her legs. Wake up. This isn’t a dream. This isn’t a comedy. Harriet wanted to sob. This was a tragedy. She should have told him. That’s what he had been trying to tell her since the very beginning. It hadn’t been about her. None of it had. It had all been about that blasted house. 

And he’d chosen it over her.

She’d thought he’d been rejecting her because of who she was. That she would never be good enough. How she had floated with him on the dance floor, thinking that with her fortune and dresses he would be persuaded that she was what he needed, what he wanted. That after all he would sweep her off her feet.

Kean was right. Women were fools. Herself, Melissa. Harriet stared at her aunt, who was gazing intently at Lord Anglethorpe. Agatha even. All plums ripe for the picking by whatever method men chose.

Edgar bent to pick up his wine glass. He jumped slightly as the lunch gong sounded. Giving Harriet a sickly grin, he put out his arm. “May I escort you in to lunch?” he said with a smile.

But his smile didn’t touch his eyes.

Harriet looked over his shoulder. James was working his way across the room towards them. The hard, determined look remained on his handsome face.

Deliberately, Harriet laid her hand on Edgar’s arm. “I would be delighted,” she said.

Lunch was terrible. Not the food though. Harriet looked down at her soup plate. The food was excellent. She wouldn’t have expected anything less, given that the party was being hosted by Victoria, Lady Colchester. Lord Anglethorpe’s sister, Harriet amended in her mind. She glanced at Lord Anglethorpe, who sat at the end of the table, a pained expression on his face. Her aunt had her head down to her soup just as Harriet had. Harriet played idly with her spoon. Beauregards seemed to be monumentally unlucky in love. She didn’t look up again, she knew James was staring at her. He hadn’t stopped staring since he had walked into the drawing room.

Freddie put a hand lightly on hers, stilling her spoon as it clattered against the bowl. “Would you care for some more soup, Miss Beauregard?” he asked.

Harriet shook her head. Brandy fumes again.

“Will you meet me tonight?” he whispered as they both turned to allow a footman to take the plates away. “In the kitchen. I have something to ask you.”

Harriet looked down at his hand, which still rested on hers. He was going to ask her to marry him, she just knew it. The way he had acted, the keen companion, the champion escort, the attentiveness. She glanced tentatively in the direction of James and then whipped her head away again. His green eyes had taken on a piercing quality. It seemed as if he could see everything. Good. Let him.

“Yes. Yes, I’ll meet you, Lord Lassiter.”

Freddie took his hand away. “Good.”

The rest of lunch was a blur. Harriet stood with relief at the end of the meal, following the others onto the terrace. She wasn’t surprised when James moved to stand next to her.

“I must speak to you, Harriet,” he said, putting out his hand for hers. She swung her hand away and brought it up to her body. Turning slightly, she stepped to the edge of the terrace where the ground slipped away.

“What about, James? The fact that I am Marie Mompesson?” she paused. “Or about the fact that you need to marry Marie Mompesson to secure Brambridge Manor?”

James stopped just behind her. She swung round; the blackness of his hair highlighted the whiteness of his face. His broad shoulders blocked the weak sun that hovered low in the sky.

“Both,” he said shortly. “Harriet, you know that I’m attracted to you.”

Harriet laughed. It came out too high, loud enough to startle some crows on the grass below. They flew away, cawing. She put a hand to her mouth and leant on the stone balustrade of the terrace.

“As attracted as you are to Melissa Sumner? I imagine that is why you asked her to marry you.” Harriet paused and picked at the lichen that covered the stone. “Or was it because all you wanted was the house and its contents?
Nobody
else mattered?”

“I’ve broken it off with her.” James leant on the balustrade next to her. Harriet took a step away. She couldn’t bare his closeness. The warmth that he made her feel, the light headedness that struck her every time she was in his company. To think that she had thought that he had come after her because he
cared
.

“And just when did you do that? When you found out I was Marie Mompesson?”

James shook his head. “I didn’t know, Harry. I didn’t know until Agatha announced it in the drawing room. You must believe me.”

Harriet stared out across the parkland. “I don’t believe you,” she said flatly. What had Kean said? …w
ords are powerful, but ultimately they mean nothing unless accompanied by actions.

She had the consummate actor next to her. What had he said to her since he had been back—
what if it was true that I had killed a man, many men…of course you can call me James, that’s who I am…I don’t feel much like a Lord anyway…I am attracted to you, god knows why…Harriet you don’t know me, you don’t know what I need.

He’d played her like a marionette. Made her feel sorry for him, allowed her into his privileged world, let her call him James, fluffed up her ego by admitting that he was attracted to her, cut her down to size by letting her know she wasn’t what he needed which only made her want him more. Harriet choked. Yes, it had been in the back of her mind all the time she had been in London. How she would make the grand entrance back into Brambridge, how she would say look, here I am, I am everything you need.

But how could she compete with a house? Harriet grasped the balustrade. Her stomach lurched.

Gazing down at the floor, Harriet ran into the house and to her room.

Harriet spent the rest of the afternoon in her room. She only emerged when it was time for the other guests to arrive. In fact, she was not quite sure how she managed to get through the evening’s entertainments. She was lucky that James stayed away. Or at the very least, stayed out of her near radius. Lady Colchester had invited a very interesting group of people. People who didn’t seem to make Lord Anglethorpe very happy.

Harriet wrapped her gown around her more carefully and poked at the banked fire in the kitchen. The cooks were long gone for the evening. Lord Anglethorpe had given them the night off; an unusual move on a night of a house party. She toyed with a slice of bread she had found in the larder. It tasted stale. Propping it against the fire, she hoped it would toast gently. It was a just punishment for not eating lunch.

Freddie limped down the steps into the kitchen and, picking up the piece of bread, bit at it. “Nice of them to leave us something to eat,” he said cheerfully. “Could have done with some jam and butter.”

“The answer is no, Lord Lassiter,” Harriet said. She was tired of the diplomacy, the shilly shallying. She had no time now for higher sensibilities and bloody romance in the soul. That was part of her past.

“No what?” Freddie asked, surprised. He sat down at the table and took another bite out of the bread. “No I can’t eat the bread?”

“No.” Harriet thumped the table in frustration. Freddie put the bread down on the table carefully. Harriet shook her head. “Not that. No I won’t marry you.”

“Oh! Thank God.” Freddie picked the bread up and bit into it. “Not thank God that I can have the piece of bread,” he said hurriedly between chews. It didn’t make Harriet feel any better. “But thank God you won’t marry me. Was beginning to think you were going soft on me.”

Harriet frowned. “But you have escorted me everywhere.”

Freddie dropped the last piece of bread on the table with a grimace. “Hmm. Yes look, you see. You are a very good-looking woman.”

Harriet tried to feel better. After all she had never wanted Freddie anyway. But she had the distinct impression that if she hadn’t put her oar in first then Freddie would have done it for her.

“And you have been very useful to have around, especially as it is matchmaking season.”

“You mean to protect you from all those other women?”

Freddie nodded vigorously and, licking a finger, swept up the crumbs from the table. “It’s Mama, you see. She won’t let up, always harping on about finding a good woman. What do I need with one of those at this time of my life? I’m too busy having fun.”

“The Pink Canary Club,” Harriet said slowly, raising her eyebrows.

Freddie looked away at the fire. “They do a jolly good show,” he mumbled. He took a deep breath and looked back at her. “Besides, when I saw how much you enjoyed theatre I wanted to run a mile. I don’t need an emotional baggage cluttering up my life. God knows, Willson takes up too much room anyway.”

Harriet gave a choke of laughter. She had only met Willson the once. It was an ever lasting impression.

Freddie inhaled deeply and smiled. “I do, however, know someone that definitely needs some emotion in his life.”

“Lord Anglethorpe you mean?” Harriet shook her head. “I do hope he and my aunt see eye to eye at some point.”

“Hmm. I rather think they have a few more problems than just pure attraction,” Freddie said slowly. “No. I was referring to James.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Have you seen the way he looks at you intently when you are in the room, the way he can’t focus on anything else?”

No. She hadn’t. Her last impression of him was of the hard piercing quality of his green eyes.

“It doesn’t matter about that. He doesn’t want me. He just wants that bloody house.”

Freddie tapped a slim finger against the table and cocked his head slightly. “He
did.”

“He’s a fool,” Harriet snapped.

Freddie looked back into the fire. “Did you know his father?”

Harriet shook her head. “Not well. I always ran away when he was around. He was a… formidable man.” He’d also given Harriet the shivers.

“Have you asked James about his father?”

“No, of course not. Why should I?”

Freddie remained silent. Suddenly he stood, scraping his chair back. He held up a hand. “Hsst. Someone’s coming.”

Harriet froze.

The backdoor to the kitchen opened cautiously. The orange glow of the fire lit up a slim figure with absurdly large boots. Lifting up their feet, they attempted to tip toe into the room, but their boot landed with a thump on the stone tiles.

“Fiddlesticks.”

Harriet frowned. “Agatha?” she asked tentatively.

The figure came closer to reveal the shape of her aunt. “Oh hello, Harriet, Lord Lassiter.”

Freddie grunted. Agatha stood in front of the fire. Steam rose from her clothes. What on earth had she been doing?