Page 4 of A Sense of Misgiving
‘Please yourself. You always do.’
*
Luke Beranger, Earl of Swindon, leaned back in a comfortable chair in front of a roaring fire and savoured the fine cognac that slipped down his throat like nectar.
‘Meet with your approval, does it?’ Archie Hardwick asked from the chair facing Luke’s.
‘It will serve,’ Luke answered his old friend.
He still found it hard to believe that Archie, whom he had thought long since dead and buried—he had helped to carry his coffin into the church, after all—was still alive, if not exactly well. Archie had fallen from his mistress’s bedroom window during their final year at Oxford whilst attempting to evade the lady’s husband, who had arrived home unexpectedly.
Luke had only discovered this past spring that he’d survived the fall and had been living in France ever since. He was severely crippled, walked with the aid of a stick and could no longer sit astride a horse. He could no longer do most things, but at least he was back on English soil. He was going by the name of Pascal Hardwick, but he was still the same old Archie—attractive to the ladies despite his disability, or perhaps because of it, irreverent, intelligent and endlessly entertaining.
His father, the Marquess of Felsham, was old and infirm, and not expected to last much longer, necessitating Archie’s return to assume some of his future responsibilities. Posing as his father’s nephew, it was ironic that he would eventually become the marquess—a position that as an only son he had been trained since the cradle to one day assume.
When Archie defied the doctors’ dire predictions and recovered, after a fashion, from his injuries, the deception regarding his true identity had been necessary to settle the demands of a wronged husband. Only seeing Archie buried had prevented that husband from demanding satisfaction and publicly dragging the Felsham title through the mud. Even now after so much time had passed, if the truth emerged and despite the fact that the husband in question was now six feet under himself, it was still wise to remain discreet.
The wife for whom Archie had risked his all was still very much alive, and had recently tried to cause problems for Luke. Problems that he had resolved with aid from the most unlikely quarter—his grandmother’s paid companion. Magda Simpson had been driven from Swindon, but Luke was under no illusions. If she discovered that Archie was still alive and on the point of inheriting, she would return in attempt to again get her hooks into Archie and create yet more scandal.
‘You enjoyed the shoot?’ Luke asked. He had taken Archie with him to Scotland. His friend had been in excellent form; the life and soul of the party. It was at Archie’s urging that Luke had extended his stay beyond his intended two weeks.
‘I can still hold a shotgun,’ Archie replied cheerfully, ‘and give you able-bodied chaps a run for your money.’
‘And our host’s wife the odd tumble, unless I miss my guess.’
Archie’s infectious smile widened. ‘What can I say, old chap?’ He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘The lady felt neglected. Bad form to neglect one’s wife. Had to do the right thing by her.’
‘I should have thought you’d have learned your lesson after your last dalliance with another man’s property.’
‘Ah well, I never was a diligent student, as I’m sure you remember.’
‘So it wasn’t the quality of the sport that made you want to linger?’
Archie chuckled. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’
Luke shook his head. ‘You enjoy dicing with death, I’ll say that for you.’
‘When you’ve looked it in the eye the way I have, it’s continuing threat becomes addictive.’
‘If you’re hoping for my sympathy, you’ll have a long wait. We all warned you about Magda. It was always going to end badly.’
‘Yes, well, it’s all history now. I’m sorry if my insistence upon remaining in Scotland made problems for you.’ He laughed again. ‘Lady Eleanor became obsessed with attracting your interest. Damned annoying, I should think. Mind you, she’d do as well as anyone. Pretty face, decent dowry, good family…what more could you ask? I overheard her mother making plans to visit friends near Swindon.’
Luke groaned. ‘It will be good to get home,’ he said.
They had travelled to Scotland and back in Luke’s luxurious carriage, taking the journey in easy stages. Even sitting in a carriage for too long took its toll on Archie. But now they were back at Felsham Hall, Archie’s family seat, just thirty miles from Swindon. Luke would be back on home territory tomorrow, having stopped at his married sister’s abode to collect Mary, his younger sister, and take her home with him.
‘Looking forward to seeing that sweet little companion of your grandmother’s, I have no doubt.’
Luke’s head jerked up. ‘Flora? Good heavens, why would you think that?’
‘It’s me you’re talking to, old chap, and I know you better than just about anyone. I’ve seen the way you look at her. Can’t blame you either. Trim little figure and lively wit. Unusual, especially given her circumstances.’
‘She’s a commoner, and my grandmother’s companion,’ Luke said irritably, annoyed with Archie because the prospect of seeing Flora again had been playing on his mind. Far too frequently. ‘Even if my thoughts were veering in that direction, which they are not, then she wouldn’t suit.’
‘Since when did you care about all that bunk? She’s the daughter of a high-flying clergyman. She’s entirely respectable.’
‘We’re not at Oxford anymore, Archie. We have responsibilities, standards which we are expected to maintain and can no longer ignore.’
