Free Love's Tangle by Isabelle Goddard Page A

no idea why that should be and it made him uneasy. For nigh on two years he had not wanted to be close to another and after yesterday’s unwise confidences, he’d drawn a silent line for himself which he’d vowed he would not again cross.
    And what had he just done? He’d presented her with a corsage for her dress. Flowers, for heaven’s sake! He’d seen her sitting quite alone amongst a crowd of people, her eyes lowered, her shoulders sad—little, grey mouse. No, a tall, grey mouse. And he’d wanted to brighten her, to lighten her, to light up her eyes. The roses had been to hand and he hadn’t thought twice. He should have done. It was beyond stupid to single out one servant for special treatment, and this servant in particular.
    He was still suspicious, convinced there was something smoky about her and that was an added reason, if he needed one, to keep away. He knew nothing of her references but presumed they were satisfactory; that was a matter for Jarvis and the butler seemed happy enough. Still, she had to be something more than the simple servant she claimed. Her manners, her voice, her education all told a different tale.
    Whatever her history, he seemed impelled to gravitate towards her and it could not continue. He must put her back where she belonged—in the dairy and at arms’ length. Within the next few days his house guests would bring their interminable stay to an end and he would go with them, back to Brighton, to the color and intemperance of that lively town. That should do the trick. There was nothing to keep him here since Joffey, despite his faults, was capable of managing the estate without assistance. Jonathan would have done it differently, he knew; Jonathan would have flourished as the master of Allingham.
    He remembered their childhood games when they had fashioned crowns from cardboard and robes from old curtains. Jonathan had always claimed the larger crown and the richer material and he had been content to let him. In his childish way he recognized Jonty was the important one, that one day his brother would be this person called a duke and that it was right he should practice. The practice never lasted long, of course, just until one of them tripped and fell on the over-long gown, a speedy invitation for the other to leap in and start an almighty tussle. The skirmish ended only when two small boys were trussed inextricably within the folds of curtain, rolled tight together, side by side, like sausages in a pan.
    But Jonathan was dead and he had survived. Except for a quirk of military strategy he should have been one of the five thousand slain on the battlefield of Vitoria. While his brother lay dying, he was pinned the other side of rugged mountains with only a narrow defile to allow a straggle of troops to reach the plain below. Jonathan had died alone and far from Allingham. His remains had been scooped up and lowered into a hasty grave—the heat of a Spanish summer made rapid burial essential. The war was over and the grave lost; Jonty would never come home.
    For his brother’s sake, he had tried to play the duke but his heart wasn’t in it. He needed to be elsewhere. He would return to Brighton, a town where masquerade was woven into the very texture of the air, and he would plunge into every last one of its dissipations. Until then he would keep out of Nell Milford’s way and this time really mean it. His guests, with one accord, had shunned this afternoon’s fair, complaining bitterly at his own forced attendance. Tomorrow he would proffer them compensation—a cross-country ride with a picnic as its goal. The outing would do double duty by ensuring his day was spent far from the Hall and far from temptation.
    ****
    Elinor awoke the next morning still unsettled by events at the fair. In particular, the clairvoyant loomed large in her mind and though she knew the duke was right when he said cryptic utterances were vital to the old woman’s business, she couldn’t quite