Fated Folly

Chapter One

The news was disheartening, and the butler spoke in apologetic tones. ‘Miss Wolverley is not yet returned, miss.’

‘Oh, drat,’ uttered the caller, all outward perturbation. ‘She said eleven.’

Brookland permitted himself a faint click of the tongue. ‘I fear you are in advance of the hour, Miss Carradale.’

The visitor gave an exaggerated start of surprise. ‘Am I indeed? What is the time then?’

As the butler went about the business of consulting his fob-watch, observed without interest by the page boy who accompanied Miss Carradale and who remained waiting patiently a little behind her under the ornate pillared portico, the young lady bit her lip on a reprehensible giggle.

She was not a very tall young lady, and the slim grace of her youthful form, coupled with a piquant little countenance surrounded by a frame of flaxen curls, gave her an angelic look that was singularly misleading. For under the chip hat, trimmed with blue ribbon and a wreath of satin rosebuds, her eyes sparkled with mischief. But she quickly schooled her features to solemnity as Brookland made his announcement.

‘It wants precisely sixteen minutes to the hour, miss.’

Clare Carradale succeeded in looking daunted for a moment. ‘Oh dear, Brookland, what is to be done? It is hardly worth my walking home again.’

In fact, the Carradale home in Hill Street ran only two roads parallel to Charles Street where the Wolverley town house was situated, but although it was unusually fine for April, there was a chill in the air.

‘No, miss,’ the butler agreed. ‘By the time you had arrived, you must turn back again.’

Clare waited expectantly, all innocence, a smile playing about her mouth, her lashes fluttering a little.

Brookland visibly succumbed. Adopting an avuncular tone, he held wide the front door. ‘Perhaps you would care to wait, miss?’

‘Thank you, Brookland,’ said Miss Carradale warmly, tripping into the hall. ‘How kind of you.’ She beckoned to the page boy hovering on the doorstep. ‘Come along, Dobbin.’

The boy hesitated, warily eyeing the butler. He was a raw youth of fifteen or so, possessed of a vacant stare that accurately mirrored the contents of his head. But his burly frame served admirably to deflect annoyances and Clare had appropriated him for her personal footman. She had, she insisted against her parents’ expressed doubts, a soft spot for poor Dobbin. After all, he was the son of her old nurse, Mrs Voy, now honourably retired, thank goodness. She had never been an easy target. Her son was much more malleable. And it was not to be denied that an obedient and docile manservant was a useful adjunct on an errand such as this.

But Dobbin’s experience of butlers—and, it must be said, many of his senior colleagues—was unhappy. They were all too often apt, in their impatience with his feeble wits, to fetch him a clip round the side of the head. His protectress was firm, however.

‘I am sure Mr Brookland will let you wait in the kitchens, will you not?’ She turned to flash another of those appealing looks at the butler and was rewarded at once.

‘Certainly, miss.’

His forefinger summoned the boy, who obeyed with alacrity, and he passed him along the hall, pointing to a door at the back. Dobbin ambled through it, and Brookland turned for the stairs.

‘I will take you up to the yellow saloon, Miss Carradale.’

‘Oh no, stay!’ Clare darted forward, glanced briefly up to the quiet of the floor above and then lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Could I not wait in the downstairs parlour, Brookland? I have no wish to encounter your master.’ She added, as the butler hesitated, ‘He is home, is he not?’

The man frowned very slightly, and his voice took on a note of austerity. ‘If you mean Sir Rupert, miss—’

‘Of course I mean Sir Rupert,’ Clare uttered in a distracted way. ‘Pippa—I mean, Miss Wolverley—has told me all, Brookland. So you need not fear to betray any secrets. Is he here?’

‘Why, yes, miss,’ admitted the servitor, plainly puzzled by her sudden agitation, ‘but I don’t see—’

‘Brookland, I don’t want to run into him,’ announced Miss Carradale in a dramatic whisper. ‘Only think how embarrassing.’

It was evident that the butler had no difficulty in interpreting this speech. Clare must suppose it to be common knowledge that the burgeoning romance between her brother Justin and her friend Philippa Wolverley had been unceremoniously nipped in the bud by Pippa’s guardian. Sir Rupert, arriving unexpectedly in London not two nights ago, in response to the rumours that had reached him of his youthful niece’s attachment to a younger son with no profession and few prospects, had summarily forbidden the banns. And, incidentally, thoroughly intimidated all parties concerned—his niece, her suitor and her duenna, too.

But Brookland, although he clearly understood the import of her words, equally clearly disapproved of her freedom in mentioning the matter. He drew himself up, but Clare intervened before he could deliver the reproof no doubt hovering on his lips.

‘Oh, don’t poker up, Brookland, pray. I would not have said anything, but for having to wait. Only assure me that Sir Rupert is safe in his study, or some such thing, and let me stay down here in the parlour, and I shall be satisfied.’

‘Sir Rupert is in the bookroom, miss,’ the butler told her, unbending a little as he retraced his steps and led the way into the small parlour by the front door. ‘It is across the hall abovestairs, so you will not be heard.’

‘What if he comes down?’ asked Clare with a creditable assumption of apprehension.

‘Unlikely, miss. When in town, Sir Rupert is usually busy at his desk until noon, when he repairs to his club.’

‘Then he will be fixed up there until after I’ve gone,’ Clare said, fetching a relieved sigh.

‘You will be quite safe here, miss,’ Brookland assured her, his tone, to her secret amusement, now soothing.

Seating herself demurely in a chair by the window, from where she said she might watch for Pippa’s arrival, Clare refused all offers of refreshment, and waited for Brookland to bow himself out of the room.

No sooner had the door closed than she jumped up and tiptoed across to it, setting her ear close to the wood and listening to the stately footsteps retreating down the hall. There was the sound of a door closing, and then silence.

Cautiously she turned the handle and stealthily opened the door. As she poked her head around it, she became conscious of the quickening of her heartbeat.

Come, she encouraged herself, he cannot be quite an ogre. Although Pippa was clearly afraid of him. Sir Rupert, so her orphaned friend had said, was himself a widower, which, she claimed, was why he was so bad-tempered and horridly strict.

‘As if it was my fault his beastly wife died.’

‘Why was she beastly?’

Pippa shrugged. ‘How in the world should I know? I don’t even remember her. But I’ve heard my cousin Flimwell say so, times out of mind. And she must know.’

Miss Flimwell was Pippa’s duenna, and a more ineffectual creature Clare could not imagine. It struck her as odd that a guardian as strict as Sir Rupert would not have provided his niece with more of a dragon to watch over her. Yet her brother’s testimony could not be ignored, for Justin had described the man as hateful and cold.

‘Anyone would think I was an ineligible fortune hunter,’ he complained.

‘Well, he can’t have thought that,’ Clare argued on a practical note, ‘for Pippa has no fortune. A respectable competence only.’

‘Yes, and so have I. And I love her. But he wouldn’t listen to a word I said. He wouldn’t even let me speak.’

‘Poor Justin.’ Clare gave him a sisterly hug. As she stood back, the light of mischief burgeoned in her breast. ‘Shall I charm him into submission for you?’

‘Don’t be childish, Clare,’ Justin snapped. ‘This is serious. It’s my life. It is not like asking for a—a pretty toy, or a new horse, you know. And Sir Rupert is not like papa.’

But Clare, once fired with the idea, would not readily relinquish it. Even as a little girl she had been aware of the subtle power of manipulation she possessed. At seventeen she was adept at using it. Middle-aged men, she knew, were particularly susceptible. Sir Rupert must be just of an age to succumb to her wiles.

Brookland had been easy prey, she told herself now, drawing a breath to steady her jumping nerves. Why should Sir Rupert Wolverley prove more difficult? So far her plan had gone like clockwork. Pippa would not put in an appearance before half past the hour, for Clare had deliberately appointed the later time. By then Clare would either have successfully completed her self-appointed mission, or, she thought with an irrepressible giggle, have been shown the door.

But she did not really think Sir Rupert would throw her out, she decided, as she sneaked across the hall and began swiftly to ascend the stairs, holding up the skirts of her sprigged muslin gown.

Nevertheless, excitement and apprehension mounted as she reached the first floor and turned towards the two doors down the side Brookland had indicated. She hesitated. Now which one was the library? She crept to the first door and listened intently. Nothing disturbed the stillness. Making no sound in her light kid slippers, she went to the second door towards the front of the house. A rustling of paper came to her ear as she bent it to the woodwork.

She felt sick suddenly, and had to swallow on a dry throat. Drat you, Clare Carradale, he can’t eat you!

Dropping to her haunches, she peeped through the keyhole. The limited view afforded a sight of part of a large desk, a pair of crossed legs below it, and above a dark bent head, its face, from this angle, concealed by a paper held in a strong hand.

Trepidation caught at Clare suddenly, and she rose hastily to her feet, her heart thumping heavily. She turned away to the railing above the hall, remembering all at once her brother’s words. He wouldn’t even let me speak. And he had positively thundered at his niece, Pippa had said, and rung a fine peal over Miss Flimwell for allowing matters between the lovers to proceed to this extreme.

She had been mad to come. Mad to think she might beard the ogre in his den. Justin was right. She was being childish. She had thought to cajole a complete stranger just as she twisted her papa around her little finger. And a hostile stranger at that.

Almost without conscious thought, she turned back and dropped down to have another sneaky look through the keyhole. The restricted picture this time encompassed the man’s face and Clare let out an audible gasp.

He was young!

Then the thought was blanketed out, for she saw him glance at the door and abruptly rise from his chair. He had heard her! Clare leapt up and, tripping over her own feet, half stumbled, catching at the railing.

Behind her the door opened, and a male voice demanded, ‘What the devil—?’

He broke off as Clare half turned towards him, still clutching the railing. He seemed to take in her situation in a single glance, for he stepped forward, and quickly grasped her elbow, saying on a warning note, ‘Steady!’

Clare stared up at him, mute with astonishment. Lush, dark hair flowed to the shoulders about a lean countenance, with strong features. One would not call him handsome, but his face, his very presence, gave off life and vigour.

‘But—but you can’t be Sir Rupert Wolverley,’ she muttered faintly, finding her tongue.

A smile crossed his face, lighting it up, and Clare experienced the most unaccountable jolt in her chest, as though her lungs had collapsed. She gasped as if for air, and the gentleman’s brows snapped together in a quick frown.

‘Are you unwell? Come and sit down.’

Before Clare well knew what had happened, she had been led into a spacious, sunny room, lined with filled bookshelves, where the gentleman obliged her to sit on the chair he had lately vacated by the desk. She watched him cross to a tray on a nearby table and pour some liquid from a decanter into a glass.

Her first amazement was abating. He was not, she realised, quite as young as she had at first supposed. But then again not, like Justin and his associates, little more than a boy. Here was a man. With a man’s strength to be seen even in his figure, despite the concealing buckskin breeches and the dark blue coat worn less tightly fitted than present fashion decreed. An unprecedented sensation she could not recognise tugged within Clare as she felt the power radiating from him.

A tinge of warmth crept into her cheeks as he turned back towards her, and she thrust the thoughts away.

Returning to her side, he handed her the glass, saying with another of those devastating smiles, ‘Brandy. An excellent remedy for shock.’

An involuntary giggle escaped Clare. ‘You did give me a shock. But I don’t want any brandy, thank you.’

She held out the glass and he took it back. ‘Then I shall drink it. I sustained something of a shock myself, you know, finding a strange young lady outside my door.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Clare said contritely, as he tossed off the liquor and set down the glass. ‘I dare say you will be vexed, but I was going away again. Only when I saw how young you looked—’

‘You saw?’ he interrupted, bending a rather severe frown upon her. ‘Meaning?’

Clare bit her lip, but she could not suppress the mischief. ‘I was looking through the keyhole, I’m afraid.’

His lips twitched. ‘I trust your curiosity was satisfied?’

‘Oh, it wasn’t curiosity,’ Clare told him earnestly, thinking how very much more approachable he was than she had anticipated. Her unease was evaporating fast. ‘I was trying to nerve myself to come in.’

He cast her another frowning glance. ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Yes, I did. That is if—if you are indeed Sir Rupert Wolverley, which, I must tell you, I find incredible.’

The frown vanished and his eyes softened into amusement. She was waiting expectantly, but he said nothing for a moment, looking her over in silence.

Sir Rupert was caught by the expressive animation in the pretty face, which was framed by pale gold curls just showing under the bonnet. She was eyeing him quite unselfconsciously, with an elusive naughty twinkle that kept appearing and vanishing again, as if she was not quite certain of its possible reception.

He was conscious of an impulse of sensual warmth as he eyed the soft lips upon which a smile hovered, and instantly snapped away from the thought. She was a child. The garb spoke her status—a debutante’s muslin gown with its fashionably high waist and a neat blue spencer atop, outlining that pert young bosom.

A stirring within made him stiffen in instant self-outrage. She evidently noted the change in his face, for the twinkle disappeared from her eyes and she gazed solemnly up at him.

‘I am indeed Sir Rupert Wolverley, ma’am,’ he said, more curtly than he had intended. ‘I am at a loss to imagine what you can possibly want of me, however.’

‘Oh, drat,’ uttered the girl softly, and with a faint grimace. ‘Now you do sound like an ogre.’

A short laugh was surprised out of him. ‘Have I that reputation then?’

She twinkled charmingly. ‘Only to Pippa and Justin.’

Quick wrath kindled, but the girl must have seen it in his face for she rose quickly and came towards him, a cajoling note in her voice.

‘Pray don’t look at me so. Why won’t you let them marry?’

Suspicion warred with the resurgence of unwarranted tenderness in his breast. He stared down into her face, beset by confusion.

‘Who are you?’

She smiled. ‘I’m Clare Carradale. Justin’s sister, you know.’

‘Are you indeed?’

Miss Carradale’s eyes registered dismay, and her hand rested lightly on his arm for a moment. ‘Pray don’t be angry. Not with them, in any event. It was all my own notion. Neither of them knew anything of the matter.’

‘You came here for this?’

‘I came to meet Pippa. We are to go to Bond Street together, you see.’ The mischief crept back into her face. ‘Well, that is paltering a little with the truth, for I had every intention of bearding you if I could, and so I came early on purpose.’

Amusement seized him, but he suppressed the impulse to laugh.

‘I am flattered, Miss Carradale.’

She grinned engagingly. ‘Don’t be. I assure you my vision of you was far from flattering.’

‘Indeed? I think I shall not enquire too particularly into that, then,’ he said, on a wry note, unable to prevent himself from smiling. Her nearness disturbed him and he moved away a little.

‘Ah, but that’s why I was so shocked, you know,’ she told him ingenuously, ‘so you may pique yourself upon that by all means.’

He glanced at her, and inclined his head. ‘You overwhelm me, Miss Carradale.’

‘I wish you will call me Clare,’ she invited, taking a step closer. ‘After all, we may well be related before too long.’

At that, a door closed in his mind. ‘Unlikely, I think.’

‘Now I have made you cross again.’ She dropped back. ‘What a pity you are not like your butler.’

He was startled. ‘Like my butler?’

The mischief sparked in her face. ‘Yes, poor Brookland was no match for me at all. I hoaxed him into thinking I was afraid to meet you, only so that I might be certain you were here.’

‘And your purpose in seeking me out,’ Rupert said flatly, ‘was to plead your brother’s cause?’

Miss Carradale wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, not plead precisely.’ She drew an audible breath. ‘To be frank with you, I had conceived the notion of—of cajoling you into such a charming humour that you could not help giving your consent.’

Rupert could not control a quivering lip and knew she saw it, for her tone became confiding.

‘But I am only certain of my success in that line with middle-aged men, and you are nothing of the sort.’

‘And you are—if you will forgive me?—a minx, Miss Carradale,’ he told her. He added as she gave a stifled giggle, ‘Is that what you expected to find?’

‘I thought you must be a good deal older. Not perhaps Papa’s age, for he is quite fifty, you know. But Pippa speaks of you in such terms as gave me the impression that you must be on the shady side of forty at least.’ Her eyes quizzed him. ‘So you see it is all your fault. I might have succeeded if only you had not been so different from my expectation.’

‘Accept my apologies,’ Rupert said drily. ‘Had I been apprised of your purpose, I would have assumed a suitable disguise.’

She burst into delightful giggles. ‘What, a grizzled wig and spectacles?’

‘Something of the sort.’

‘You could never look like Papa,’ she declared.

To his faint surprise, the animation died out of her face, to be replaced with a suddenly intent look.

‘But it’s most odd, you know, because even though you don’t resemble Pippa, I feel—I feel as if I know you.’

Now that she said it, Rupert was conscious of having experienced a similar sense of ease with the girl, as if they were not entirely unknown to each other. He hastened to quash the notion.

‘I believe that is readily explained. Relatives often give off an air of familiarity.’ He smiled. ‘I have met your brother, and that must explain why you do not seem quite a stranger to me.’

‘Then you feel it, too!’ Clare said wonderingly.

He did not answer, but his eyes passed over her face in a searching look as he moved closer. Clare felt her breath catch and was conscious of an irregularity in her heartbeat. He met her gaze and seemed to hold her with the sheer power of his eye. His fingers came up and lifted her chin. His touch set her trembling inside.

‘How old