He had obviously come in from riding, for he was wearing top-boots, leather breeches, a black coat, and a ruffled shirt. His hair was unpowdered and was indeed very red, a rich dark red, worn long, and confined at the nape of his neck with a black silk ribbon. He looked somehow more formidable than he had in evening dress.
He sat down at the table and ordered cold pheasant and small beer.
He said a polite good-morning. Belinda replied shyly and then he began to eat. Belinda had often heard it said that gentlemen were averse to conversation at the breakfast table, and so she ate in steady silence. She finally looked across at him, her eyes widening slightly, for he was staring at her in a way she could not fathom. It was a hard, calculating, almost predatory stare, the distillation of a long line of aristocrats who took what they wanted.
Belinda flushed slightly and looked down at her plate.
To the marquess, Belinda had become suddenly available. Any young woman who ran off with a footman could hardly be a virgin. She was not beautiful, but that mouth of hers was definitely disturbing.
‘Where is Miss Pym?’ asked Belinda, feeling the silence must be broken.
‘I found her exploring the barbican and demanding to see the old torture chamber. What an indefatigable lady she is.’
‘Why do you keep such a thing as a torture chamber?’ demanded Belinda.
‘For historical interest. I do not torture anyone, I assure you. There is also the dungeon, one of the towers which is said to be haunted …’
‘By whom?’
‘By the ghost of a Miss Dalrymple, a Scotch lady, governess to the children of the second earl. It was said the second earl was too interested in the lady, and so Miss Dalrymple was found murdered in the top room of the tower. Rumour had it that the countess had stabbed her to death. Another rumour had it she had rejected the advances of his lordship’s valet de chambre.’
‘And have you seen this ghost?’ asked Belinda.
‘I have not the necessary sensibility to see ghosts, Miss Earle.’ His eyes teased her. ‘Would you like me to show you the tower?’
‘Yes, my lord, and perhaps Miss Pym would like to come as well.’
‘But I do not know where Miss Pym is at present,’ replied the marquess, ignoring the fact that he had only to summon his servants and ask them to look for her. ‘We shall go now, as you have finished your breakfast.’
Belinda nodded and rose but she felt uneasy. The marquess, although his manner towards her had not particularly changed, seemed to exude a strong air of sexuality. She glanced uneasily at his flaming hair and wondered if he had a temper to match.
Hannah Pym saw them enter the courtyard together and withdrew behind a buttress. She had no wish to intrude. The marquess appeared to be chatting amiably to Belinda. She was pleased to note that Belinda was keeping quiet and obviously not treating the marquess to any of her frank disclosures of the night before. It was as well Hannah could not hear their conversation.
‘None of the rooms in the walls are used now,’ the marquess was saying. ‘As I explained, they are merely kept in order for historical interest. Would you like to see the torture chamber first? We have a very fine rack.’
‘No, I thank you,’ said Belinda with a shudder, blissfully unaware that she was the first lady who had not demanded enthusiastically to see it. ‘I am not the type of lady who enjoys public hangings, nor do I get a thrill from viewing antique instruments of torture. Nor do I see medieval castles as symbols of an age of chivalry and glory, but instead relics of an age of oppression.’
The curtain walls of the castle that enclosed the castle houses had four massive towers. There was a gatehouse and barbican, chapel, dungeon and torture chamber. The castle houses where the marquess lived were set in the courtyard inside the walls, rather like the buildings of Oxford College.
The marquess led the way to the tallest of the towers. Snow was falling gently, and Belinda shivered with cold. She was wearing heelless silk slippers, considered de rigueur for the fashionable lady, and she could feel the damp from the snow seeping through their thin soles.
‘This is Robert’s Tower,’ said the marquess. ‘Robert, Earl of Jesper, built it with the prize money he gained at Poitiers. They were great fighters, the Jespers, and when they weren’t going on Crusades, or fighting the wars of various kings, they were claiming to find infidels on the Welsh and Scotch borders and murdering them as well in the name of Christianity. There are five storeys in the tower: a dungeon, three vaulted chambers, and an upper guard chamber with a store-room underneath.’
He stood back to let Belinda mount first. Suddenly self-conscious, she dropped the skirt of her gown instead of looping it over her arm to show that one leg.
She paused on the first landing until he joined her. He pushed open the door. Belinda entered.
She found herself in a large chamber, vaulted in two bays, and lit on two sides by tall, single-light ogee windows. Two grooms were sitting by the fire and rose at their entrance.
The marquess waited patiently while Belinda looked quickly around. The remains of breakfast lay on a deal table.
Then she walked out of the room. The marquess followed her and closed the door behind them.
‘I thought you said the rooms were unoccupied,’ whispered Belinda.
‘They are,’ said the marquess, surprised. ‘They are only used by the outdoor servants.’
‘And are not servants people?’
‘My radical Miss Earle, when I said they were no longer used, I meant by either myself or my guests.’
‘You are reputed to be a recluse.’
‘Not I. Merely fastidious.’
Belinda climbed up the next flight of stairs. ‘Now this,’ said the marquess, joining her on the landing, ‘is the haunted chamber.’
He was interested to see Belinda’s reaction. In an age when gothic novels were in vogue, most young ladies, on being shown the tower room, would pretend to have seen the ghost; a few took the opportunity to faint into the marriageable marquess’s arms. The thing about this Miss Earle, thought the marquess, was that although she was by no means beautiful, he found her large eyes and that passionate mouth immensely attractive. And her directness was refreshing. It was not a pity she was Haymarket ware; it was a definite asset as his intentions were rapidly becoming dishonourable.
Belinda stood in the middle of the room and looked slowly around. This room was not even used by the servants. It was bleak and cold, with the wind howling mournfully in the chimney.
‘Was this Miss Dalrymple’s room?’ asked Belinda.
The marquess nodded.
There was a small chamber off the main room, a garderobe, a medieval lavatory with a stone seat over a hole, which gave a clear view downwards of the former moat, now drained. She returned to the main room, which had a scrubbed table and two massive carved chairs.
Perhaps it had not been so grim when the unfortunate governess was in residence, thought Belinda. She would surely have had some of her own possessions about her.
‘I did not think they had governesses in medieval times,’ said Belinda.
The marquess shrugged. He was disappointed in Belinda’s lack of reaction. ‘She was not called a governess. She was merely a female of fairly good birth who was there to educate the very young children. Do you sense her presence?’
Belinda shook her head. ‘I sense desolation, that is all. What a cruel time to live!’
‘I sometimes think no more cruel than our own,’ said the marquess. ‘Look from the window.’