A Wayward Woman

In the space of five seconds, all these memories collided head on with the reality of what had happened on the road. And something else. The scent the thief wore—the faint smell of his cologne when he had stood directly behind her to remove the necklace—was the same scent that had assailed her earlier, when she had been dancing with Lance Bingham.

Flinging herself out of bed in a tempestuous fury, she paced the carpet, unable to believe what she was thinking, unable to contain it. She remembered the moment when he had stood behind her and caressed her neck, when she had thought … What? What had she thought? That he wanted to touch her, that he desired her?

Oh, fool, fool that she was. Why, that arrogant lord had merely been checking the clasp on the necklace, familiarising himself with it, to make it easier for him to remove. He had set out to use her to get the necklace. Why he should want to eluded her for the moment, but she would find out.

The blackguard! The audacity and the gentlemanly courtesy with which he had demanded that she part with her valuables was astounding. There was no doubt in her mind that he was the thief. The man she had met at Carlton House had turned into the Devil when determination to steal the necklace had removed all semblance of civility from him, frightening her half to death. But he wouldn’t get away with it. Oh, no. She would see to that.

Every nerve in her body clenched against the onslaught of bitter rage. She continued to pace restlessly. After allowing the tide of emotion to carry her to the limit, nature took command of her again and she was strengthened, something of the old courage and force returning. She stewed. She seethed. Never had she been this angry before in her life. She had to decide on what course of action to take, ways she could make him pay for this outrage, how she could retrieve the stolen necklace before her grandmother returned—and she would, even if she expired in the attempt. Nothing could stop her doing anything once her mind was made up.

But beneath it all was the hurt when she remembered the tender words Lord Bingham had spoken to her on their parting at Carlton House, words she now knew to be empty, without meaning. How could he have said all those things to her and then do what he did—terrify and threaten her at the point of a gun?

The man was cold and heartless and without a shred of decency. She wanted to hurt him, to hurt him badly, and she would find a way to do it without letting him see how much he had hurt her—without letting him see how much she cared.

But why had he taken the necklace? She was utterly bewildered by his actions. And why did bad feeling exist between the Ainsleys and the Binghams? Whatever it was, she suspected it had something to do with the past.

Belle had always been self-willed, energetic and passionate, with a fierce and undisciplined temper, but her charm, her wit and her beauty had more than made up for the deficiencies in her character. She hadn’t a bad bone in her body, was just proud and spirited, so determined to have her own way that she had always been prepared to plough straight through any hurdle that stood in her path—just as she was about to do now.

But what was she to say to her grandmother?

As it turned out she was granted a welcome reprieve. The following morning a note was delivered to the house from Lady Channing, informing her that the countess had taken a turn for the worse and that the doctor advised her it would be unwise for her to leave her bed to make the journey to Hampstead until she was feeling better.

Later that day, with a groom in attendance, Belle rode from Hampstead to visit her grandmother. She did indeed look very ill when Lady Channing showed her to her room—too ill to be told about the theft of the necklace. Before returning to Hampstead, she joined a large gathering of fashionable people riding in Hyde Park, struck forcibly by the noise and colour and movement and wanting to feel a part of it. It was a glorious day, hot and sunny. Roses bloomed profusely and she could hear a band playing a jolly tune.

Serene and elegant atop her horse, she looked striking and stood out in her scarlet riding habit. Daisy had brushed her hair up on her head in an intricate arrangement of glossy curls, upon which a matching hat sat at a jaunty angle. She was greeted and stopped to speak to those who recognised her, who expressed their distress when told the dowager countess was unwell.

Suddenly she felt a small frisson of alarm as all her senses became heightened. Ahead of her a man atop a dark brown stallion had stopped to speak to an acquaintance. She did not need to see his face to know his identity. He was dressed in a tan jacket and buff-coloured breeches. He sported a tall hat and a snowy white cravat fitted snug about his throat.

As he turned slightly, and not wanting to be found looking at him, Belle averted her gaze, but not before she had seen a world of feelings flash across his set face—surprise, disbelief, admiration—but only for an instant.

Lance nudged his horse forwards, eager to introduce Rowland to this vision in scarlet.

Watching them ride towards her through the press of people, Belle braced herself for the encounter.

Lance bowed very coolly before her, his gaze calmly searching her face. ‘Miss Ainsley. I had hoped to have the pleasure of seeing you, but I did not think to find you here. Allow me to compliment you. You are exquisite.’

Aware that every person in the park seemed to be watching them, Belle straightened her back and lifted her head, unaware that she had been holding herself stiffly, her shoulders slightly hunched, as though to defend something vulnerable. She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Why—I—thank you,’ she said, having decided to be tact and patience personified. She had also decided to play him at his own game and give him no reason to suspect she had identified him as her highwayman of the night before. ‘For myself, your presence took me wholly by surprise. I did not expect to see you again so soon.’

Belle studied his features, looking for something that would give her some hint of what had happened on her way back to Hampstead last night, but there was nothing to suggest he had been the thief. But there was something different in him today. His manner was subdued and his tone of voice made her look more closely at him. She detected some indefinable, underlying emotion in it as his brilliant blue eyes gleamed beneath the well-defined brows. Belle was not shaken from her resolve that he was the one, and before she had finished she would prove it.

‘May I introduce you to this gentleman?’ Lance gestured to his companion. ‘This is Sir Rowland Gibbon, an old and valued friend of mine. Rowland, this is Miss Ainsley—the Dowager Countess of Harworth’s granddaughter. Rowland wanted to meet you, Miss Ainsley, having recently returned from America, where he travelled extensively.’

‘You exaggerate, Lance.’ Rowland bowed to her. ‘Although I did find the country interesting and exciting and hope very much to return there one day. I believe you are from America, Miss Ainsley.’

‘Indeed,’ she answered, liking his easy manner and trying not to look at Lord Bingham. Sir Rowland was not a handsome man by any means, but he had obviously spent a goodly amount of coin on his attire, for, completely devoid of prudence, he was garbed in a flamboyant fashion in dark-green velvet coat with a high stiff collar, frothing neck linen and skintight white trouser that clung to the line of his long legs above his black riding boots. He sat his horse with an easy swagger and the dashing air of a romantic highwayman.

Highwayman? Belle sighed. Highwaymen were very much at the forefront of her mind just now. ‘I was born there—in Charleston. And you are right to say it is exciting. I too wish to return there one day, but I can’t see that happening in the foreseeable future.’

At that moment someone caught Rowland’s eye and he excused himself to go and speak to them.

Lance’s unfathomable eyes locked on to Belle’s. ‘Ride with me a while, will you, Belle? I should like to hear more about America,’ he said, reverting to a quiet informality.

Belle hesitated. She was aware of the curious stares and of a hushed expectancy from those around them.

‘Is it my imagination, or is everyone watching us?’

‘It is not your imagination. In the light of the bad feeling that exists between our two families, it is hardly surprising. Ride with me and I will show you just how inflamed the gossip is.’

‘You are extremely impertinent and I do not think I should. The last thing I want to do is to create a scandal that will upset my grandmother.’

Lance’s eyes darkened and his gaze was challenging. ‘What’s the matter, Belle? Afraid of a little gossip? Your grandmother isn’t here to see—and by the time she hears of it it will be too late.’

Something of the man she had met at Carlton House resurrected itself when he suddenly grinned wickedly, and despite Belle’s resolve to remain unaffected by him, she could not quell the small shiver of delight that ran through her. His teasing eyes were so lovely and blue, so blissfully familiar and admiring.

‘Very well,’ she murmured, forcing an uninterested politeness into her voice. ‘But instead of riding in the park, perhaps you would care to ride with me a little way back to Hampstead.’

‘Gladly.’

Together they rode out of the park, her groom following at a discreet distance. Belle could feel the fascinated stares of everyone in the park as they left. As they rode up Park Lane, the steady pace of their mounts eased their tensions and they began to unbend, each filled with the other’s presence.

Just like the night before when they had danced together, they drew attention from passers-by. Isabelle’s beauty and Lord Bingham’s tall, lean handsomeness made them unique. And he was handsome, perhaps the most handsome man Belle had ever seen, so there was little wonder he attracted attention, she thought, smiling to herself as she quietly admired her partner. In his broadcloth jacket, which fit his wide shoulders perfectly, his dark hair beneath his hat shimmering in the sunlight, he was devastating. She had to keep her eyes away from his, or at least she tried to, because it was so easy to get lost in his gaze and forget what he had done.

Lance turned his head and looked at Belle. She was like a magnet to his eyes, and now he felt an odd kind of possessiveness. Not the kind one felt on owning material things, but something else. There were different types of possessiveness, and he didn’t even want to think of the more common form, which had no place in his emotions.

‘I see you’ve dispensed with your military attire, my lord,’ Belle commented airily at length, the cut and seam of his coat evidence of the tailoring only noblemen could afford. ‘Your tailor must delight in the opportunity to clothe such an illustrious hero of the wars with Napoleon. Why, a gentleman with such expensive and stylish apparel will be the envy of every roué in London.’

Lance met her cool stare. From all indications it seemed she was none too pleased with him, which did much to heighten his curiosity. ‘I count myself fortunate in my tailor, who has made my wardrobe for a good many years—military uniforms, mainly. Now I have retired from army life he is delighted at the opportunity to finally outfit me with all the clothes of a gentleman.’

‘Indeed, I think even that master of style and fashion Mr Brummell will have to sit up and take notice.’

‘My tailor is a man of sober tastes and it would go against the grain to kit me out in garish garb—and I have no desire to emulate the overdressed Beau Brummell. Besides, that particular gentleman has fallen out of favour with Prince George and it is rumoured that he is heavily in debt and no longer as stylishly garbed as he once was.’ He frowned across at her. ‘Was your comment about my attire because you find it flawed in some way?’

‘Not in the slightest. In fact, I must commend your tailor’s abilities, although I imagine you must feel strange in civilian attire after wearing a uniform for so long.’

‘It will be something I shall have to get used to—even to tying my own cravat. Thankfully my valet is a master.’ After falling silent while they negotiated a congested part of the thoroughfare, he said, ‘Your grandmother is well?’

Belle glanced at him, wondering what had prompted the question. Was he curious as to how she had reacted on being told about the theft of the necklace? She answered carefully. ‘No—as a matter of fact my grandmother is not feeling herself.’

He glanced at her sharply. ‘She is ill?’

‘Indisposed,’ Belle provided, not wishing to divulge too much. If he thought her grandmother was so distressed over the loss of the diamonds that she had taken to her bed, so much the better—although if a man as cunning as he could rob people at gunpoint and scare them witless, then she doubted he would be moved over the plight of an old woman grieving her loss.

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ he sympathised, his gaze searching. ‘I hope she will soon recover.’

‘I doubt it—that she will recover soon, I mean. She really is quite distraught over the loss of something that was close to her heart.’ Apart from a narrowing of his eyes, Lord Bingham’s expression did not change.

‘She is? And was this item—valuable?’

‘You might say that—but then—’ she smiled, tossing her head and urging her mount to a faster pace ‘—it is a family matter and I am sure it will be resolved very soon.’

Although she hadn’t objected to riding with him, Lance was a little taken aback by the courteous, but impersonal smiles she was giving him. He decided it prudent to let the matter of her grandmother drop.

‘I am giving a supper party tonight. There will be a large gathering. I would very much like you to come, but I realise you would encounter difficulties with your grandmother.’

‘Yes, I would. You know she would never allow it—but I thank you for the invitation all the same.’ They had been riding for some time and on reaching the place where she had been accosted last night, she drew her horse to a halt and faced him. If he thought there was any significance in her stopping in the exact spot, he didn’t show it. ‘I can manage quite well from here. I’m sure you have more important things to do than play escort to me, Lord Bingham. I shall be quite safe with my groom.’

Lance frowned across at her. ‘What’s wrong, Belle? You weren’t like this when you almost melted in my arms before we parted at Carlton House last night. ‘

Belle’s green eyes widened in apparent bewilderment. ‘Did I really almost do that? Goodness, I must have imbibed more champagne than I thought. I danced so many dances with so many different beaux, I forget. I recall dancing with you and you were hardly the soul of amiability—unlike my other partners—and some of them were much more desirable than you.’

‘Really?’ he said frostily. ‘In what way?’

‘For one thing, they were younger than you,’ she replied, trying to seem cool and unemotional. She longed to slap this insufferable, arrogant lord down to size. ‘I have decided that you are much too old for me.’

Lance’s eyes darkened very nearly to black. ‘What the hell are you saying?’ he hissed. ‘Don’t play games with me, Belle, because you’ll find you are well out of your league.’

She looked at him in all innocence and said breezily, ‘Games, my lord? I don’t play games. If I said anything to mislead you, then I apologise most sincerely.’

Lance’s eyes hardened and his jaw tightened ominously. When he spoke it was with a cold savage contempt, his voice dangerously low. ‘You’re nothing but a common little flirt. Take care how you try to bait me,’ he murmured softly. ‘I’m not one of the besotted fools who dance attendance on you night after night. I might want more from you than you are ready to grant—and when I want something, I do not give up until I have it.’

Drawing her horse away from him slightly, reminding herself not to let him annoy her and that she must carry out the charade to the end, Belle feigned innocence. ‘But—surely you have what you wanted?’

She saw something move behind his eyes and for a split second his gaze went to her unadorned neck before rising to her face. She waited, her eyes holding his, challenging him, aware of the sudden tension inside him, the stirring of suspicion behind his gaze.

‘I have?’ he answered, not without caution. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Why, you asked me to ride with you—and here I am.’ She tilted her head to one side and smiled, her eyes questioning. ‘Why, were you referring to something else?’

He studied her carefully before saying coldly, ‘I think this unpleasant encounter has gone on long enough. I bid you good day.’ With that he rode away.

Without a backward glance, Belle headed for home, a sense of triumphant jubilation in her heart, for Lord Bingham’s invitation to his supper party had given her an excellent idea as to how she might recover the diamonds.

At nine o’clock Belle, dressed in breeches and a jacket and a low-brimmed hat, with no time to lose and with much chiding from Daisy, who knew all about the missing necklace and what her mistress had in mind, left the house and climbed into the waiting coach.

The driver knew it was not his place to ask questions—although he did look startled at Miss Isabelle’s male form of attire. She gave him the address of Lord Bingham’s London residence, which had not been too difficult to procure, since he was so well known that the servants had been able to provide her with the address. Settling into the upholstery, in an attempt to still her wildly beating heart she took a deep breath. There was so much depending on this night. She could not expect everything to go well and doubt thwarted her attempt at calm.

By the time she reached her destination—a fine Palladian mansion located close to Hyde Park on Park Lane—she had worked herself up into such a knot of anticipation and foreboding that she was tempted to tell the driver to return to Hampstead. Quickly she recollected herself and, sternly determined, fought to bring her rioting panic under control, thinking of the immense satisfaction and triumph she would feel if her plan succeeded, which would have very little to do with retrieving the necklace, and everything to do with outwitting Lord Bingham.

Belle left the coach some distance from the house, telling the driver to wait, that she hoped not to be long. She avoided the front of the house, where several smart equipages were lined up. Quickly becoming lost in the dark, she found her way to the back of the house and into a yard with buildings that housed Lord Bingham’s carriages and horses. Standing in the shadows she carefully surveyed his town residence.

Lights shone from the windows and people could be seen strolling about the rooms and sitting about. Thankfully several of the upstairs rooms were in darkness and it seemed quiet enough. Suddenly she was overcome with a sense of urgency, for there was a need for haste if she was to find what she was looking for without being seen. Letting herself in by a door that led into a passageway, she paused and listened. Sounds of domesticity and cook issuing orders to the kitchenmaids could be heard from a room on her right—the kitchen, she thought. Fortunately the door was only slightly ajar and she managed to creep by. A narrow staircase rose from the passageway and gingerly she made her way upwards. With a stroke of luck she found herself on a landing, on the top floor of the house, off which were several rooms.

With her ears attuned to every sound—conversation and laughter from Lord Bingham’s guests and the clink of glasses—she went from door to door, pressing her ear to it before opening it a crack and peering inside. They were bedrooms mostly—though not one of them gave the impression of belonging to the master of the house. Undeterred, she crept along another landing, peering into each room until eventually she found it. Looking through the slightly open door she waited, afraid Lord Bingham’s valet might be in an adjacent room. After a few moments when nothing happened she stepped inside and closed the door.

Only one lamp was lit, giving off a dim light. She could have done with more, but decided she would have to manage. She set to work, starting on a tall bureau beside the door. Thankfully the drawers slid open soundlessly. After rummaging inside and being careful to leave things as she found them, she went on to the next piece of furniture, working quietly, admiring the expensive quality of everything her fingers touched.

She glanced at a rather ornate clock on the mantelpiece as it delicately chimed ten o’clock. Wondering where the time had flown and disappointed that her search had produced nothing as yet, she knew she would have to hurry. Looking about her, she saw a door that she assumed must lead into a dressing room. Slipping inside, she searched the chests of drawers and among racks of clothing, but all to no avail.

Feeling crushed and extremely disappointed, she emerged into the bedroom once more. She was about to admit defeat when her eyes lighted on the bedside tables. She paused to listen. Had she heard a noise on the landing, or was it the noise of the wind that had risen? Whatever it might have been, she decided to get on with it. She had no wish to be caught red-handed.

With one last desperate attempt to locate the jewels, she looked inside the first bedside table, almost shouting out in triumph when, on opening a small velvet pouch and seeing its sparkling contents, she realised she had found what she was looking for.

‘Got you, you thieving rogue,’ she whispered, pocketing the pouch. Quickly she closed the drawer and then halted abruptly. This time she could not mistake the footfall on the landing as someone came towards the bedroom. Her heart thumping wildly in her chest, Belle flew to the lamp and blew out the flame, placing it on the floor so it could not be lit in a hurry—although there were others in the room to light, so she needn’t have bothered. The room was now in almost total darkness. Belle stood in the middle, turning about indecisively. She had to find a place to hide. Her eyes lit on the dressing screen and she flew behind it just as the door handle turned.

Lance came in, uttering an oath under his breath when he found his room in darkness, and an even louder oath when his foot made contact with the lamp and it toppled over.

‘What the devil has happened to the light?’ His voice bore an edge of sharpness that bespoke of vexation. Without more ado he picked up the lamp and, striking a sulphur match, soon had it lit. He stood for a moment in puzzlement. His eyes did a quick sweep of the room. Seeing that everything appeared to be in place, he removed his jacket and threw it on to the bed.

From behind the screen Belle listened to him moving about, wondering why he had come to his room and how she was going to get out without being seen. Her heart racing in confused fright, she took a deep breath, trying to calm her rapid pulse and to peer through a crack in the screen. She saw him loosen his neck linen and remove his waistcoat—and what was that dark stain? It looked like wine. So that was it. He’d clearly spilled some on his clothes and come up to change. Hopefully he would do it quickly and go. Seeing him disappear into his dressing room, she waited in trembling disquiet, horrified when, having changed his clothes, he came back into the bedroom and approached the screen.

Lance was just reaching to fold it back when it was shoved towards him by a decisive force. He was almost toppled over by its weight and was momentarily stunned as a shape leapt past him and ran towards the door, pausing for a split second to blow out the lamp. Angrily Lance tossed the screen aside and with quick long strides reached the intruder before he could escape, snatching a handful of his coat and pulling him back.

A rending tear preceded a startled cry and then a booted foot kicked at his shins.

‘Dammit, who the hell are you, and what do you think you’re doing in my house?’ Lance ignored the hands that flailed the air, hitting out at him, and jerked the figure around roughly.