Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

J o awoke the next morning with a feeling of trepidation. Mama had been shocked when she learned of Jo's correspondence with Captain Delafield, and only partly mollified by learning that she had been given Papa's permission and it was the captain's suggestion that had led to her cure. Jo hoped that sleeping on the matter, and talking to Papa about it, might have made Mama less critical.

But that wasn't the main cause of her reluctance to face the day. She would have to speak to Alfred at some point, but she would rather it were after Papa had told him and his father that there would be no marriage. Most of the menfolk would be going shooting, and the rest of the guests would be driving up onto the downs for a picnic.

Once she was free of Alfred… She shook her head; it would not do to anticipate matters. Still, she felt a great relief at the prospect of being able to please herself rather than wondering what Alfred was thinking, and not having to be polite to the Bengroves.

Intent on avoiding him, she breakfasted in her room, and remained there until she saw the shooting party set off down the drive. Then she looped the train of her riding habit over her wrist and descended to the entrance hall. She intended to ride to the picnic—Lydia and the younger girls would fill the space in the carriage with Mama and Aunt Sarah, and she was not about to go in the Bengroves' vehicle.

Aunt Sarah was waiting near the front door with Mama, her mouth pursed and foot tapping. Beyond the open door, Lydia and the girls waited in the carriage, and George paced up and down beside it.

"I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting, Aunt!" she said, hurrying down the last few steps.

"Oh, you are not the latest, Jo. Lady Bengrove said she and Lady Misterton would be here directly, and they are not. I need to make sure the servants have set out the refreshments properly."

"Why don't you go? If the Bengroves' coachman doesn't know the way, one of your grooms can go with him."

Aunt Sarah glanced at Mama, then gave a decisive nod, then a smile. "That's a good idea. We can enjoy the view in peace for a while."

Jo followed them out to where a groom stood with two horses. George handed the ladies into the carriage, then helped Jo into her saddle before mounting himself.

"I'm surprised you're not with the shooting party, George," she said, settling her skirts before taking the reins from the groom.

"Mama insisted," he said with a grimace. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

"Miss Stretton!" The call came from the house as the carriage pulled away. Jo turned her horse to face the door. A maid hurried down the steps. "Oh, miss, I'm glad I caught you." She paused to breathe, one hand on her chest.

"What is it?"

"Mrs Bengrove wants to see you before you leave, miss. In her room, if you would be so good."

George swore as Jo slid down from the saddle.

"I'll see what Catherine wants. You go on, George. The spot Aunt Sarah has chosen is not far beyond the estate; I'll join you shortly."

He nodded, and trotted after the carriage. Jo turned to the maid. "What is wrong? "

"I was just told that Mrs Bengrove wants you, miss. She's in her room." She bobbed a curtsey and hurried back into the house. Jo asked the groom to wait with the horse and followed her. There was no sign of the maid in the entrance hall, so she went upstairs.

She knocked on Catherine's door, but got no response. She knocked again, harder, and finally called out, but still there was no response, or even any sound from beyond the door. There must be some mistake, although the maid's request had been clear enough.

Irritated, she strode back along the corridor and ran down the stairs. If she hurried, she might catch up with George.

"Joanna, my dear."

Jo stopped on the bottom step, one hand still on the banister. Alfred stood by the parlour door, with what she used to think of as his enticing smile. Papa must not yet have spoken to him or his father about ending the betrothal.

"Alfred. I thought you had already gone with the picnic party." He was not dressed for the outdoors, and had some kind of bandage on his right hand. What had he been doing?

He approached, holding his left hand towards her. "Why would I do that, when I could spend time alone with you here, instead? I missed you last night when you did not come down to dinner. Are you well?"

She ignored his outstretched hand. "Thank you, I am well. Excuse me, Alfred, but I am supposed to be joining my mother and aunt at their picnic." She walked towards the front door.

"Joanna, please!" Alfred hurried after her and put his hand on her arm. "I need to talk to you."

Conscious of the footman watching them from his post near the front door, Jo stopped and turned to face him.

"Alfred, I am late to the picnic. We can talk later, surely?" He appeared hurt, and she felt a momentary doubt. "Or why don't you ride with me? We can talk on the way."

"It won't take long. Please, my dear."

She suppressed a sigh, and unpinned her hat, leaving it on a table in the hall. "Very well. Let us go into the library. "

"This parlour will be better. We wouldn't want to disturb your father's reading." He held the door of the front parlour open for her.

Papa was with the shooting party, but Jo didn't bother to correct him. She left the door open behind her as she entered the front parlour. "What is it, Alfred?"

The gig carrying Rob, Chadwick, and Mr Stretton bumped to a halt in a field half a mile from the house, a few yards from the line of pigeon traps. A groom came to hold the horse and they descended, Rob staggering as his bad ankle sent a warning pain up his leg. Walking to the inn last night hadn't been the best of decisions, but it had been a relief to be away from Yelden Court with its unpleasant guests and uncomfortable undercurrents.

The Yelden landau drew up nearby, and Lord Yelden went to speak to his gamekeeper. Lord Bengrove and the elder Bengrove son followed him, leaving Mrs Bengrove still sitting in the vehicle. Rob didn't think it sporting to kill birds released within easy shooting distance, but he'd opted for the informal competition once he found that Alfred Bengrove was to go on the picnic. He didn't want to watch Bengrove dance attendance on Miss Stretton.

Lord Yelden organised his guests into two teams; to Rob's relief, he was teamed with Chadwick and Mr Stretton. As they were to shoot second, Rob and Mr Stretton strolled away from the shooting position, leaving Chadwick to watch.

"Damned waste of time," Mr Stretton muttered, as the first couple of shots sounded.

"I thought you usually spent your time in the library, sir?" Rob said, wishing he'd brought his stick.

"I do. But the house party was my idea, so I should help to entertain the guests. Still, I expect they'll be leaving soon."

"There's an announcement due, then?" Rob asked, a heavy feeling settling in his chest. If Miss Stretton were about to confirm her marriage to Bengrove, he would have to take himself off and try to forget about her.

"No. I'm anticipating that the Bengroves will agree to an amicable end to the arrangement. Publicly, at least." He glanced at Rob. "I hope you and Lieutenant Chadwick will stay a few days longer, though. Young George seems to enjoy your company, and there are one or two other investigations the pair of you may be able to help me with. If you wish to, of course."

Rob hardly heard anything beyond Stretton's first sentence, wondering if his wishes had affected his hearing. "There is to be no wedding?"

"No. Jo has decided against it."

Thank the heavens.

"Ah, my turn." Stretton nodded, and walked back to the shooting line.

But Rob's relief was tempered with caution; the Bengroves still needed money. Would they accept Miss Stretton's refusal without some attempt to make her change her mind?

The question nagged at him as he slowly followed Stretton; something didn't make sense. The only reason he could think of was that Stretton had done something with the marriage settlements to prevent them getting control of the money. Rob was hazy about such things, but an astute investor like Stretton could surely arrange things so Bengrove and the rest of his family couldn't waste Miss Stretton's dowry as they had their own wealth.

Rob closed his eyes, trying to recall that evening in Verdun when Bengrove had been complaining about a possible delay to his marriage. What had he said? Something about taking Miss Stretton to Gretna. And… and having his way with her to force her father to let them marry. Nothing he knew about Bengrove gave him any confidence that Miss Stretton would have had any say in either matter.

Where was Bengrove?

He hurried over to where Stretton was preparing to take another shot. "Sir, has Bengrove gone on the picnic with Miss Stretton? "

Stretton lowered the gun, brows rising in surprise. "I believe so. Why?"

"In Verdun, Bengrove was talking… wishing he'd got married before he was sent back to Spain. He said he should have taken her off to Scotland, or seduced her and then you'd have been forced to get a special licence. Moorven warned you, did he not?"

Stretton's eyes widened. "He did, but only in general terms. He said nothing of elopement or seduction—I would have ended things immediately had I known that." He looked towards the carriages, his expression a mixture of anger and anxiety. "George will see she comes to no harm, but I had better return to make sure."

"If Yelden is with them." The picnic party hadn't yet set out when Rob left the hall. And the Bengroves had had the best part of yesterday to decide on their next move. Mr Stretton set off towards the vehicles, but Rob thought that by the time he'd got back there and commandeered one, it would be quicker to return to the Court on foot. He set off as fast as his stiff ankle would let him, without waiting to see whether Stretton followed.

In the parlour, Alfred picked up a folded paper from a table, his expression still hurt. "This document sets out the settlements for our marriage. Do you know what's in it?"

"It doesn't matter, Alfred." She had to tell him now. "We are?—"

"It does matter." His words were terse—the wheedling tone was fading. "The arrangements your father proposes will not give us enough to live on." He dropped the paper on a nearby chair and came towards her, holding out his hands. "Joanna, my dear, you must persuade your father to change the terms. As it is, it is an insult—no man would agree to it." He smiled, almost managing the charming expression that had fooled her. Now it made her feel queasy, and foolish for ever having succumbed to it.

"Then don't agree!" She ignored his outstretched hands and set off towards the door. "I am late to the picnic. Excuse me. "

Alfred was faster, reaching the door before her and closing it. "Damn the picnic! That settlement gives me no money at all."

"We had better not marry, then."

"Not marry! Joanna, my dear, what can you mean?" The inveigling tone was back, but his narrowed eyes belied it. "Don't play games with me, Joanna, please. If you love me, you'll persuade your?—"

"I don't," she snapped. "Now get out of my way." She regretted her words as his face reddened and his lips became a thin line. "I do not wish to marry you, Alfred. You should find an heiress with a more persuadable father."

"After all the bloody effort we've put into you?" All pretence was gone now. "No. You'll marry me, and soon, or you'll marry no-one." He pulled a key from his pocket and locked the door, then started towards her, his expression ugly.

Jo's heart began to race, and she backed away. He wasn't just going to wait until they were found together in a locked room; he meant her harm.

She tried one more appeal, even though she knew it would be futile. "Let me out, Alfred, please."

"Oh, no. I'll have you now, and your father will pay."

What could she do? A scream might bring the footman in the hall, but would he venture to break the door down without being ordered to? The windows—no, Alfred would catch her before she could open one and shout.

A porcelain vase stood on a nearby table; she flung it at him. It narrowly missed, breaking as it fell to the carpet behind him but not making much noise.

"Bitch!" He came on, seemingly not in a hurry now he had her trapped. She circled around a sofa, praying her legs did not collapse beneath her, but that was little defence. An escritoire stood against the wall. Grabbing the ink bottle, she threw it as Alfred moved towards her; he deflected it with his right hand, wincing, and swore as the top came off and spattered ink on his coat and the carpet.

He moved again, faster this time. Jo tried to scream, but her breath was coming in short gasps and her call wasn't loud enough to be heard beyond the door.

Close enough to grab her now, one hand reached for her hair, but she wrenched herself away. It hurt, but all he gained were a few pins. She fumbled again on the escritoire for something else to use as a weapon.