Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPhee
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of friendship for me, when in truth your concern is because you’re afraid of my brother.’
‘Everyone’s afraid of your brother!’ Weir took a gulp of whisky.
Guy smiled and refilled the two glasses. ‘Still got your feeling of impending doom?’ he teased
‘Don’t laugh at me. The blasted thing’s lodged in my gullet and showing no signs of shifting. I’m serious, Varington, take care where that woman’s concerned.’
‘No need to be so worried, Weir. I mean to pay very close attention to Mrs McLelland for the entirety of our journey together.’
Weir’s eyes became small and beady with suspicion. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. Just what are you up to?’
One corner of Guy’s mouth tugged upwards. ‘We wish to know the truth of the woman who is at present your guest, and by the time we reach London I tell you I will have it.’
Weir leaned back in his chair and gave a weary sigh. ‘And just how do you intend to do that? She’ll just feed you more lies as she’s done so far. I wish you’d let me send for the constable.’
‘Not at all, my dear Weir. You see, it’s really quite simple.’ Guy smiled. ‘I mean to seduce the truth from her.’
A groan sounded from Weir. ‘I beg you will reconsider. You can have women aplenty once you’re back in London. And if musts, then even in the coaching inns on your way down, though the Lord knows I must counsel you against it.’
‘Alas, my friend, you know that I have a penchant for widows with red hair.’ Guy was smiling as if not quite in earnest. ‘And it will be an easy enough and rather pleasant distraction from the tedium of the journey. By the time I’m home I shall know the truth of her, just in time to kiss her goodbye and set her on her way.’ He loosened his neckcloth and made himself more comfortable in the chair.
‘I have a bad feeling over this.’
‘Relax, Weir. I’ve had plenty of practice in the art of seduction. I’ll have Mrs McLelland spilling her secrets before we’re anywhere near the capital.’
‘I only hope you know what you’re doing, Varington.’
Guy raised his whisky glass and made a toast. ‘To Mary McLelland.’
‘Mary McLelland,’ repeated Weir. ‘And an end to the whole unsettling episode.’
At half past seven the next morning a murky grey light was dawning across the skyline. The noise of horses and wheels crunched upon gravel and gulls sounded overhead. Helena inhaled deeply, dragging in the scent of the place, trying to impress it upon her memory. Salt and seaweed and damp sand. It was a clean smell and one that she had known all her life. After today she did not know when, or indeed if, she would ever smell it again. Mercifully the weather seemed to have gentled. Only a breath of a sea breeze ruffled the ribbons of her borrowed bonnet and whispered its freshness against her cheeks. Despite the early hour Mrs Weir was up, wrapped in the largest, thickest shawl that Helena had seen.
‘I simply could not let you go without saying goodbye, my dear Mary.’ Mrs Weir linked an impulsive hand through Helena’s arm. ‘You will write to me, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will.’ Helena smiled, hiding the sadness that tugged at her heart. Once Mrs Weir knew the truth she would not want letters. In short she would not want anything to do with ‘Mary McLelland’.
Mrs Weir pulled her aside and lowered her voice in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Mary, there is something I must say to you before you leave.’ She patted her hand. ‘There is no need to look so worried. It is just that…’ She bit at her lip. ‘Promise me that you will not heed any rumours that you may come to hear concerning Lord Varington or his brother while you are in London.’
‘Rumours?’ Helena stared at her, puzzled.
‘Promise me,’ said Mrs Weir determinedly. ‘Guy is a good man.’ Mrs Weir smiled and let her voice return to its normal volume.
‘I do not let gossip influence my opinion of people,’ said Helena.
‘You must come back and visit me soon. London is such a long way and John is most reticent to leave his lands, else I would visit you myself.’
John Weir could not quite manage to force a smile to his face. ‘Come now, Annabel, we must let Lord Varington and Mrs McLelland be on their way. They have a considerable distance to travel today.’ So saying, he moved forward and drew his wife’s hand into his own. The message was very clear.
Helena made her curtsy, thanked Mr and Mrs Weir again for all their kindness and finally allowed herself to look round at Lord Varington.
He was watching her while fondling the muzzle of one of the four grey horses that stood ready to pull the carriage. ‘Mrs McLelland, allow me to assist you, ma’am.’ He moved towards her, took her hand in his and helped her up the steps into the carriage.
Helena gave a polite little inclination of the head, ignored the awareness that his proximity brought and quelled quite admirably the fear of being enclosed within a carriage for two days with the man by her side. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said stiffly.
Only once she was comfortably seated with a travelling rug wrapped most firmly around her knees and a hot brick beneath her feet, all fussed over personally by Lord Varington himself, did the carriage make ready to depart. The door slammed shut. Lord Varington flashed her a most handsome smile.
Helena experienced a moment of panic and struggled out from beneath the blanket, which in her haste seemed to be practically binding her to the carriage seat. But Lord Varington had already thumped the roof with his cane.
She heard Mrs Weir’s voice through the open window. ‘Goodbye, Mary. Take care.’
The carriage moved off with a lurch, the horses’ hooves crunching against the gravel.
‘No, wait!’ she gasped.
Varington smiled again. ‘Have you changed your mind about visiting your aunt, Mrs McLelland? Perhaps you wish to remain here at Seamill Hall. Shall I stop the carriage?’
She looked into those ice blue eyes, and wondered if he would do it. Leave her here, to wait for the next mail, to travel half the country by stage, all the while looking over her shoulder for Stephen. She was being foolish, letting her fears get the better of her. Lord Varington might well know that she was not being honest, but he could know nothing of the truth. Quite simply, she would not be sitting here now with him if he did. He might be flirtatious. He might be a little too curious for comfort, asking too many questions, tricking her into revealing things that she did not want to reveal, but Helena McGregor was no innocent when it came to the devices that men used for their own ends. At seven-and-twenty she had seen more of the dark side of life than most women could bear. But Helena had survived, because Helena was strong.
Lord Varington might well ask the questions. It did not mean that he would receive the answers that he wanted. Quite deliberately she closed herself off to her emotions, resuming the mantle of calm poise that she knew from years of experience would protect her…and deflect any attempt to come close to the real Helena. Her only aim in life was to escape Stephen. Nothing else mattered. She would do whatever she had to, just as she had always done. She hardened her heart and her resolve. She could weather whatever Lord Varington would throw at her.
‘Mrs McLelland?’ he prompted, recalling her from her thoughts.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said calmly, ‘but that will not be necessary.’ She turned her face away to the open window and raised her hand in response to Mrs Weir’s waving. She waved until the carriage reached the bottom of the driveway and turned out on to the road, and the couple standing before the front door of the big house were no longer visible. Then the horses got into their rhythm, their hooves clipping against the stones and mud of the road surface.
Helena was sitting bolt