"Have Sir Greville's family been in this part of Sussex for long?" Megan asked.
"Oh, yes, there were Setons here in Brighton before Prinny made it a la mode. Their seat was east of the town, but when Greville inherited a fine estate in Oxfordshire, he decided to sell up here. He still spends a great deal of time in Brighton, however, for he visits me a great deal." Evangeline smiled fondly. "Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, his feckless father. It all happened just before Christmas, which did not help at all, and as it is Christmas again now, I suppose it still doesn't help. At the time it was understandable enough that his mother wept so, for what woman does not feel sad for happiness lost? But Greville does not understand that this particular happiness was lost a long time before the companion entered the scene. So let that be the end of your anxiety, my dear, for the problem is his not yours. Now, then, I recall that at the Crown in Winchester you wore a green gown with a little chenille trimming at the throat and cuffs. It will do well enough here tonight."
"Yes, Lady Evangeline."
As the door closed, Megan sighed unhappily. Sir Greville Seton, fine clothes, and dining with the family were bad enough, but the presence of cousin Oliver in Brighton was even worse. He was an unscrupulous, heartless knave who would not wish to be faced with the relation he so cruelly abandoned, especially now he was dancing attendance upon Chloe Holcroft. Chloe sounded far too nice a person for him, maybe even nice enough to send him packing if she found out what he had done.
Megan knew it would be wise to keep out of his way if possible, although it would be too much to hope that she could avoid him entirely. With a heavy sigh, she took off her cloak, and began to look through her luggage for the green gown.
Meanwhile in the mauve chamber at the other end of the house, Greville and Rupert were discussing Megan. Rupert spread his hands. "Look, Greville, I can't believe Strickland. Miss Mortimer just isn't the sort to do what he claims."
"Because she looks as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth?"
"No, because Ralph Strickland wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the backside!"
Greville gave a cynical laugh. "It is clear you are taken in by Miss Mortimer's air of angelic innocence."
"And it is equally clear that you are guided by your preconceptions about companions. Aunt E isn't a fool, Greville. Do you imagine she would have engaged Miss Mortimer without first making inquiries of Lady Jane? No, of course not; so I dismiss Strickland's lies out of hand."
"I believe that on this occasion he was speaking the truth," Greville replied a little annoyedly.
"Well, with all due respect, that's because it suits you to believe him. You know him for a slippery toad who cannot be relied upon for the correct time of day, yet when he utters the dreaded word 'companion,' suddenly you credit him with absolute veracity!"
Greville didn't reply.
Rupert pressed his point home. "I prefer to place my faith in my own judgment, and in Aunt E's, for she would not employ anyone about whom there was a single doubt. So let's ask her, mm? That should settle the matter."
"It is clear to me that Aunt E knows nothing about this business. Besides, she clearly dotes upon the creature, so I will need more than Ralph Strickland's say-so anyway."
Rupert looked at him in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
"I intend to make further inquiries. I know someone who happens to reside only a door or two from Lady Jane, so I will send him a note posthaste. His servants will be thick with her servants, and what isn't known to them won't be worth knowing."
"And if you discover Miss Mortimer to be innocent?"
Greville smiled coolly. "She isn't."
Chapter 9
That night, after a truly awful dinner during which Greville had hardly said a word to her, and Rupert did his level best to make up for it by drawing her into the conversation, Megan retired to her bed in the certain knowledge she would never enjoy mulligatawny or roast pork again!
She lay with her arms folded behind her head, and gazed up at the canopy as she thought about Greville. The blue velvet hangings were burnished to rosy lilac by the soft glow from the fire, and the scent of roses filled the warm air from the open potpourri jar in the hearth. At the window the shutters and curtains were firmly closed to keep out the raw chill of the December night, and she wished she could similarly exclude Sir Greville Seton from her mind. Why, oh, why, had his wretched father had to choose a companion to run away with? Why couldn't it have been a governess, or even his son's nurse?
Sleep came gradually, but an hour or so later she awoke with a start to find moonlight flooding into the room. Someone had just flung open the shutters and curtains! There was a vague silvery shape outlined against the window, a tall middle-aged man in the clothes of Charles II’s time; at least, she thought that was what she saw, for he was ethereal, almost like gossamer, and the moon and stars shone through him. A faint floral scent other than roses seemed to hang in the still air, and for a moment she could not think what it was, but then she realized it was orange blossom.
She sat up slowly, and rubbed her eyes to make sure she was not dreaming, then she looked at the apparition again. Plumes curled from his wide-brimmed hat, and a periwig fell to his shoulders in row after row of regimented curls. He was clean-shaven except for wisps of mustache flanking the corners of his mouth, and he wore a short, unbuttoned jacket that was fastened with bows at the throat. There were more bows on his shirt, his baggy breeches were finished with deep lace ruffles at the knee, and his buckled shoes had high heels. He carried a cane that was almost as tall as himself, and there was a sword in a decorative baldric over his right shoulder. She knew she was looking at Rollo Witherspoon, but he might so easily have been Old Rowley himself, or the Sun King of Versailles.
He was staring at something in the distance, but then raised his eyes to the heavens, assumed a theatrical pose, and declared. " 'I have a good eye, Uncle: I can see a church by daylight.' "
Shakespeare again, Megan thought with commendable calm, possibly Much Ado About Nothing. She didn't quite know how to proceed. Should she speak to him, or just stay silent? But even as she deliberated he suddenly strode from the room, and the scent of orange blossom water wafted over her as he passed. Quickly she got out of bed, put on her cream woolen wrap, then followed him. He went downstairs to the theater, where he again uttered his interpretation of the Bard of Avon: As You Like It this time.
" 'All the world's a stage. And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances: And one man in his time plays many parts, and… And then…!' " The words eluded him once more. "Oh, fool, fool, to be able to recall quotations only to forget speeches!" The curtain was wrenched up, and he strode away into the recesses of the stage. Then silence descended.
Megan gazed across the darkened auditorium. Now, when it was too late, she wished she'd spoken to him. She returned to the staircase, but as she began to ascend, candlelight suddenly flickered at the top and Greville barred her way. His hair was tousled from sleep, and his maroon paisley dressing gown was tied loosely at the waist. "What have we here, Miss Mortimer? A little nocturnal perambulation for the good of your health?" he inquired coolly.
"Please let me pass, sir."
He didn't move. "Why are you wandering around the house in the middle of the night?"
"I heard something," she replied truthfully.
"What, exactly?"
"Footsteps. Didn't you hear them too?"