‘I want you to be honest with me, Terence,’ she said.
‘I’ve never been anything but honest,’ he claimed.
‘Where have you been?’
‘I had people to call on and places to visit.’
‘What people and which places?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I have a right to know.’
‘Then I can tell you that I had some dealings at a bank in Oxford and visited the man who’s arranged our passages to France. It’s taken him longer than expected to forge the passports. That accounts for the delay.’
‘When do we leave?’
‘We leave when everything is in order, my love. Don’t fret about it.’
‘You keep prevaricating, Terence. I’m bound to fret.’
He spread his arms. ‘I thought you trusted me.’
Imogen studied him. She had never trusted anyone so completely in her life. She struggled to recapture that trust. Terence Whiteside was the same tall, dashing soldier she’d first met in Christ Church Meadow. He had a weather-beaten look that only added to his appeal. What she’d loved about him was that he was essentially a man of action. His years in the army had taught him to make decisions quickly. His life had often depended on these decisions. Imogen was impressed by that. When he started to court her, he did so with almost chivalric attention. Urbane and educated, he’d taught her to love Shakespeare’s sonnets as much as he did, using quotations from them in his letters and drawing her ever closer to him.
She’d never seen him glower at her before but that was what he did now.
‘What is going on?’ he demanded.
‘I asked for an explanation, that’s all.’
‘There’s something behind your questions.’ He looked towards the next room. ‘Has that maid been whispering in your ear?’
‘Rhoda is as anxious as I am.’
‘She’s a servant. I’ll not have her upsetting my plans.’
‘But your plans keep changing, Terence,’ she said, emboldened by her anger. ‘And you do things without warning us beforehand. When Rhoda tried to open the trunk, she was chided by Sergeant Cullen. She later discovered why.’
‘Then she’s an interfering bitch!’
Imogen was shaken. ‘Don’t speak like that about her.’
‘I’ll speak as I choose.’
‘What did you do with my red dress?’ she challenged.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, you do. It was a favourite of mine and it was packed in the trunk. When Rhoda went through the contents, it was missing.’
‘Then she must have forgotten to bring it,’ he said, airily.
‘I watched her putting it in the trunk. Where is it now?’
Her eyes were so full of accusation that he saw no point in maintaining the romantic fiction that they were runaway lovers. During his absence, Imogen had finally started to realise that she and her maid had been grossly misled. Her great adventure was no more than a sham
‘From now on,’ he said, sharply, ‘you won’t be treated with the same kindness and consideration. You are our prisoners. Your maid will move in here to share with you and Sergeant Cullen will occupy her room. If you attempt to escape or raise the alarm, he will have orders to shoot you down. In a day or two, we will move from here to Cheshire.’
Imogen felt faint. ‘You told me that we’d be heading to Dover.’
‘That’s one of the many lies I had to use, my love. I have no estate in France nor do I have the wealth about which I spoke so grandiloquently. The second of those deficiencies is about to be repaired,’ he told her with a smirk. ‘You and your maid are no longer our travelling companions. You are the hostages who are set to earn me a veritable fortune from your father. Pray that he gives me what I ask,’ he continued, moving to the door, ‘or he’ll never see his beautiful daughter alive again!’
He went out. Hearing the key turn in the lock, Imogen collapsed to the floor.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There was a limit to the amount of time that George Vaughan could comfortably spend at Burnhope Manor. In earlier years, when his cousin was there, he would play happily with Imogen for hours on end and not even notice the slightly forbidding atmosphere of the house. In her absence, his only companions were his ailing aunt, his judgmental mother and his sister. After the receipt of a second ransom demand, Colbeck had gone off to Oxford and Sir Marcus had headed for London to visit his bank, leaving the artist at the mercy of the two older women and with the fluctuating support from Emma. Lady Burnside was less of a problem because she was still confined to her bed but Cassandra Vaughan insisted on keeping her younger son there. Though not fully aware of the rumours about his alleged profligacy in Chelsea, she still compared him unfavourably with his brother. Her constant reprimands wore George down.
He was in the drawing room with Emma and their mother. Torn between her love for her brother and her duty to obey her parents to the letter, his sister was in an awkward position. She watched the duel with growing unease.
‘Why can’t you be more like Percy?’ asked Cassandra.
‘I might ask why my brother can’t be more like me.’
‘You’re being facetious.’
‘No, I’m not, Mother,’ he said. ‘I’d be prepared to attend church on a more regular basis if Percy behaved less like a monk and more like a human being. If I take a step towards him, he should take one towards me. Wouldn’t that bring us closer?’
‘Yes, it would,’ said Emma, tentatively.
‘Of course it wouldn’t,’ said her mother. ‘I’m not having Percy dragged down to your level, George. I want you to rise up to his standards of behaviour.’
He laughed. ‘Holy orders are anathema to me. If I was hypocritical enough to climb into a pulpit, my London friends would storm the church and throw buns at me. I’m an artist, Mother,’ he stressed. ‘I follow my Muse.’
‘That’s arrant poppycock!’
‘Mother!’ exclaimed Emma.
‘You’ve only yourself to blame for the way I’ve turned out,’ he said.
Cassandra’s eyes flashed. ‘Don’t be insulting!’
‘Who taught me to draw when I was a child?’
‘You did the same for me when I was little, Mother,’ said Emma.
‘Who sat me on her knee and guided my hand as I splashed watercolours onto the paper? It was you, Mother. You set my artistic career in motion. Emma could draw pretty pictures but Percy had no creative instincts,’ he said. ‘He hated being made to paint. All that my brother was interested in was the church because he loved the sound of the organ. It was like a siren call to him.’
There was a sizeable grain of truth in the charge and it silenced his mother long enough for him to urge her to accept his waywardness as an expression of his dedication to his art. Before she could return to the attack, he took his leave with elaborate courtesy. Emma did her best to persuade him to stay but he would not. Cassandra had one more shock to absorb. As she waved him off from the door, her son didn’t climb into the landau to be driven to the railway station. Instead, with true egalitarian zeal, he clambered up beside the coachman. It was also an affirmation of friendship because he’d known and liked Vernon Tolley for many years. The coachman had only been a stable lad when George Vaughan and his siblings came to the house as children. Tolley let them feed the horses and play in the hayloft. They’d watched him grow to maturity and take on more important duties.
What the artist had wanted was the undemanding companionship of a decent man who’d done him favours over the years. Having at last escaped his mother’s interrogation, however, he was now closely questioned again, albeit in a much more deferential manner. Tolley was desperate for any morsel of information. His passenger talked freely to the coachman. Tolley had been present at the bungled exchange of the ransom so there was no need to hold anything back. George Vaughan explained that a second demand had arrived.