Lady Farquhar's Butterfly

  Lady Farquhar’s Butterfly

  Also by Beverley Eikli

  Lady Sarah’s Redemption

  A Little Deception

  And writing as Beverley Oakley

  Rake’s Honour

  Lady Lovett’s Little Dilemma

  The Cavalier

  Saving Grace

  Her Gilded Prison

  Dangerous Gentlemen

  Lady Farquhar’s

  Butterfly

  Beverley Eikli

  Copyright © Beverley Eikli, 2013

  Smashwords Edition

  The right of Beverley Eikli to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  For my father, Ted Nettelton.

  Also to my wonderful husband, Eivind, and to Bernie, Frances and Linda for your patience and insight.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Other Books by Beverley Eikli

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  1816

  ‘YOUR REPUTATION IS in tatters, Olivia’ – Aunt Eunice looked up from adjusting the stirrups of the little grey mare upon which her niece sat nervously – ‘and you have lost everything! The time has come to take charge of your life.’

  Olivia gripped the pommel with whitened knuckles. Opening her mouth to mutter that the truth was of little account when opinion was against her, she gasped instead as the docile animal shifted beneath her.

  So much for the studied detachment she’d cultivated during seven years of marriage with Lucien. Her fear was as transparent as that of a frightened schoolgirl’s. Now she was on a madcap venture doomed to fail, showing as much backbone in the face of her aunt’s determination as she had when her late husband bent her to his will.

  Grey storm clouds scudded from the west and the icy wind stung her face.

  ‘An unfit mother, a faithless wife….’ She muttered the words imprinted on her brain; the words with which Lucien had condemned her in his will. Then, unable to conquer her terror of the placid beast, ‘Please, Aunt Eunice, must I do this?’

  ‘You must fight for justice, Olivia.’ The determined ‘brook-no-opposition’ expression that characterized Eunice Dingley’s plain, leathery face brought memory flooding back. Olivia was obedient now but how well she recalled the altercations they’d had when she had been a strong-willed child. How single minded had been her rebellion eight years ago as a headstrong debutante?

  She had paid the price; it was why she was here.

  Stepping back into soft mud that sucked at her boots, Aunt Eunice regarded her critically. ‘Well, child,’ she said with grudging admiration, ‘you look well enough. Don’t tear your riding habit when you fall off.’

  Olivia winced as her aunt raised her hand to slap her horse’s flank.

  ‘What if he’s like Lucien?’ she hedged, bringing her mount around.

  ‘Mr Atherton has already refused my request once. He must believe the stories—’

  ‘He is a man.’ Aunt Eunice said it as if that fact alone guaranteed Olivia’s success. ‘For goodness’ sake, Olivia, we’ve already agreed this is your best course, regardless of what Reverend Kirkman thinks.’

  The Reverend Kirkman. The knot of fear in Olivia’s stomach tightened. The reverend had his own ideas as to how Olivia should win back her son.

  This was not one of them.

  She closed her eyes. Yet surely this was the best way? If there was any justice in Max Atherton’s heart then truth and openness must triumph over the lies which had dogged her during her marriage and cost her the custody of her son?

  A great black crow settled on the dry stone wall behind her aunt.

  Like her aunt, it regarded her with tilted head, eyes bright.

  Her voice softening, Aunt Eunice laid her hand on Olivia’s knee.

  ‘Max Atherton came back from the Peninsular campaign a war hero. That, for a start, distinguishes him from his cousin. I’ve heard nothing to suggest he bears any resemblance to Lucien. Entrance him, Olivia, as you entranced that good-for-nothing husband of yours.’

  ‘Mr Atherton believes Lucien’s version of accounts. You read his reply to my letter.’ It was not the cold that now made her tremble.

  With a distracted frown Aunt Eunice smoothed Olivia’s russet skirts. ‘He has no other account to go by. He thinks he’s doing what’s best for the boy.’ Squeezing her knee, she said briskly, ‘Go, now! Take that tumble in his barley field so you can set the record straight.’

  *

  Max squinted through the blinding rain as he turned up the collar of his greatcoat.

  It was hard to be sure from this distance, but the little grey mare sheltering beneath the elm tree at the far end of the paddock appeared to be equipped with a side saddle.

  A lady’s mount … but where was the lady?

  His gaze raked the sodden field.

  ‘No bran mash until we find her, Odin,’ he murmured into his stallion’s ear, sensing its reluctance to proceed in the face of the rising storm.

  He’d been returning from his inspection of the new sheep he had been breeding in the northern paddock when his eye had been caught by a flash of scarlet. A female? Curious to make the acquaintance of any woman under forty in these sparsely populated parts, he’d watched the rider canter around the bend that separated his property from his neighbour’s hoping she’d cross his path later. Instead, he’d happened upon her horse.

  Lightning split the black sky and Odin snorted. Across the field, eerie in the strange light, the little grey mare gave a frightened whinny as it eyed them balefully.

  ‘Steady, boy,’ soothed Max, urging his mount forward.

  Thunder boomed like cannon fire. The rider-less mare bolted while Odin reared, forelegs pawing the air. Straining to keep his seat, Max scanned the field desperately for a sight of the woman, horror spearing through him as he caught a glimpse of russet beneath them; heard a faint female cry. Muscles knotted and straining, he hauled on the reins as he fought to control the terrified stallion.

  Another crack of thunder. Foam sprayed from the mouth of the maddened animal which bucked again.

  Before its four legs were on firm ground Max hurled himself from the saddle and ran to kneel at the woman’s side as Odin bolted. Pushing back the folds of his multi-tiered coat which whipped his face, he felt for a pulse at the side of her neck.

  She had cheated death but he feared the extent of her injuries. A bloody gash streaked the mud which caked her forehead; her body lay twisted. She did not stir as his hands checked the limbs beneath her skirts for breaks or other obvious injury.

  Raising his head, he assessed the distance to Elmwood. He could see the battlements above the froth of rain-lashed trees which gave his home its name. In fine weather with no burden it might be a fifteen minute walk. Now, with the ground a marsh and the wind and weight of sodden skirts it would be more than twice that, but he could not leave her to fetch help.

  She was still unconscious when he lifted her. Turning his head from the sharp, icy rain which lashed his face and knotted the grass about his legs, he pushed forwar
d, the wind keening like a banshee. His neck and shoulders ached and his breath rasped painfully. The heavens, it seemed, were using full force to hinder his efforts.

  Once, he’d carried an injured soldier to safety under enemy fire; but there had been no storm and the artillery barrage had left them unscathed.

  Now, the going was much harder. Glancing down, he was reassured at seeing the young woman’s eyelids flutter and wondered if she were beautiful beneath all that mud. It no longer mattered. He’d been struck with a sense of purpose he’d not felt since he’d volunteered to fight for King and country nearly eight years ago.

  Gradually the wind calmed and the rain became a gentle shower as the storm moved on. Reaching the tree-lined drive which led from the park to the formal gardens he tried to recall if Amelia had mentioned any newcomers to the neighbourhood. His sister’s efforts to find him a wife after he’d returned from the Peninsula too battle-crazed to care suggested she would have.

  ‘Max!’ shrieked Amelia as she stood on the top step having sent two footmen to relieve her brother of his burden. ‘Who is she? What has happened?’ She had seen him from the drawing-room window labouring up the drive amidst the steady rain.

  ‘Take her to my room,’ he directed, resting his aching back against the wainscoting in the downstairs entrance hall.

  ‘The blue room,’ Amelia countered, adding, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Max. What would she think to wake up in a gentleman’s bed?’

  ‘If she wakes,’ Max said, glowering, because he wanted to have her in his room where he could watch over her, and where he had the tools to dress her wounds and set her bones, if necessary.

  ‘Of course she’ll wake,’ Amelia said, sharply.

  Thick dust sheets were spread upon the large tester in preparation. Amelia had wanted to strip the linen, but Max had decried such inhospitable practicality, reminding her it was not her house.

  ‘And only yours, Max, for a few more years,’ his sister muttered, as she made the counter order of dust sheets to Mrs Watkins, the housekeeper.

  Ignoring her, Max also asked for a fresh nightgown, and a comb.

  ‘One would think you were in the habit of attending to the needs of a lady, Max,’ Amelia said, more archly than unkindly as her heels clicked across the boards to the window embrasure from where she regarded him with amusement.

  ‘And plenty of hot water.’ Rubbing his aching arms Max took a seat by the unconscious young woman’s side. ‘So you have no idea who she might be?’ he asked, pushing back his cowlick. ‘There’s been no talk of visitors to the neighbourhood?’

  Amelia shook her head. ‘Do you think she’s broken anything? Shall I check?’

  ‘Her limbs seem in fine form,’ Max replied, with a wry smile as he took up the sponge Mrs Watkins had just placed beside him. ‘As for her face, she has a nasty cut.’

  Amelia came up beside him. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she remarked, for it was true, and Amelia never minced the truth. Or kept her thoughts to herself. ‘But don’t get romantic ideas into your head, Max, for she’s probably spoken for, or is a widow with no money and six children, and you know very well you can’t possibly take a wife to suit you unless she has at least two thousand a year.’

  Gently, Max rubbed at a smudge of dirt along their visitor’s jawline.

  ‘I shall do whatever I please to suit myself, Amelia,’ he said, gazing at the perfection of the unknown young woman’s features: the gently curving mouth, the wide-set eyes beneath finely arched brows, the high, rounded cheekbones, ‘for I answer to no one, and certainly not to you.’

  The first suggestion that Olivia was nowhere familiar came from the scent of lavender. Without opening her eyes she sniffed appreciatively. Aunt Eunice was not fond of lavender but surely only she would have sprinkled it upon Olivia’s pillow in deference to Olivia’s partiality for it? Because Olivia was not well. Vaguely she acknowledged this, for the dull throbbing of her ankle and the sharper pain across her brow impinged upon the general comfort she felt nestled into what surely must be the softest mattress she had ever slept upon.

  She opened her eyes with a start and struggled on to her elbows, her heart pounding at the confusion of her last memories.

  Aunt Eunice had returned to their cottage. Wherever she was, Olivia was to fight this battle, alone.

  The day was well advanced. Sunlight slanted into a large and airy room, handsomely decorated in shades of blue. She noticed a book upon the chest beside the bed. A book of poems. Byron? She squinted to make out the author and her head began to ache. Touching her forehead she felt the bandage.

  ‘Good. You’re awake,’ came a voice from the doorway, and she twisted her head to see a young man advancing, his face obscured by the pile of books he carried. ‘I was beginning to grow concerned.’

  Bowing slightly, he introduced himself before taking a seat at her bedside and, to her astonishment, picking up her wrist.

  ‘Your pulse is a good deal stronger,’ he said. ‘You appear to have twisted your ankle quite badly, but only you can assess the extent of that injury. The wound above your eye looks worse than it is. It should heal with no scar. In the meantime I thought you might enjoy some poetry.’

  She was too taken aback to utter a word. Perhaps struck dumb with horror would describe it better, she thought, as she stared into eyes the colour of rain-washed slate. The dark, fathomless, unreadable eyes that had belonged to her late husband.

  She swallowed. Max Atherton, her late husband Lucien’s cousin: the man into whose keeping her son had been placed. With those eyes, confident and inscrutable beneath a high forehead, the straight nose and mouth she had once thought sensitive, it could be none other. He might be smiling but it was an act. Could only be one.

  She gathered her wits. He must not see her fear. He would take advantage of it. Make her do things against her will.

  Taking a deep breath she fought for control. She could not afford to make mistakes. Lucien was dead while Olivia had survived. She needed only the return of her son to make her happy, and she would fight for Julian to the death. He was the only reason she was here. She and Aunt Eunice had worked out every detail to prove her innocence, to make Max Atherton see the truth. Truth would be her ally, yet she felt the same cornered desperation she had when Lucien had confronted her.

  She sucked in another breath. The secret of her survival lay in her ability to act. She could be whoever she needed to be.

  ‘Mr Atherton.’ She repeated his name, gaining confidence from the unmasked admiration she saw in his eyes. ‘How very kind of you to come to my assistance’ – she swallowed again, desperate to keep the fear from her voice – ‘when I was so foolish as to take a tumble and thus put me in your debt.’

  ‘On the contrary, you have enlivened what promised to be a very dull week – now that I know you are not mortally wounded.’ His smile was open, but his eyes …

  She turned her head away. Any sign of vulnerability would put her in his power, but how could she banter with a man who looked so like Lucien it put the fear of God into her? How could she trust herself not to jeopardize everything for which she had worked so hard?

  ‘When I looked down to see you lying trapped beneath my horse’s hoofs, while he was rearing above you, maddened by the storm—’ The visions he conjured up were too close to her memories of being trapped beneath Lucien. His description could just as easily have been that of her husband’s mad eyes blazing, foam and spittle flying from lips which had just bruised and bitten her.

  She tried not to whimper.

  ‘Forgive me, my dear Mrs Templestowe,’ Mr Atherton said, his tone remorseful, his expression concerned as he bent over her. ‘I have a deplorable habit of not dressing up the truth when it may cause pain. Too long a bachelor, I suppose,’ he added with a smile.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ whispered Olivia.

  ‘I made investigations around the neighbourhood and learned you were lodging at the White Swan.’

  She had offered the
publican her maiden name, for how could she present herself as Lady Farquhar in these parts before she had convinced Mr Atherton that the name was not synonymous with sin and vice?

  The impulse to correct him died on her lips.

  Surely, the pleasantness of Mr Atherton’s smile was a calculated ploy to trick her into letting down her reserves?

  He was smiling at her, now, the corners of his eyes crinkling into well-worn lines as if good humour were his natural state. But didn’t grand manipulators have any number of ploys at their fingertips? Lucien had seemed the most charming of them all, and surely a man couldn’t sink to depths of depravity deeper than those he had gleefully dug using pain and threats, violence and humiliation?

  She had come here imagining his cousin was different and that the truth would answer.

  Hiding her trembling beneath the bedcovers, Olivia forced her mouth into another cool, arch smile. ‘Then you know you are harbouring a foolish, helpless widow.’

  She was satisfied by the candidness of his look. No veiled, hidden knowledge lurking in those dark depths. Lucien loved to gloat, murmuring his depraved suspicions for which he had already condemned her.

  He continued to smile. ‘One who is guilty of nothing more than misjudging the weather.’

  Shame welled up in her bosom but she kept silent. How could she possibly stare into those slate-grey eyes and tell him she was the shameless widow of his late cousin? Like as not he would punish her so that not even Reverend Kirkman’s plan, if that was ever put into play, would restore her son to her keeping.

  She closed her eyes and fought the tears.

  She’d wanted so much to tell her version of the truth and know the catharsis of exoneration.

  She slept. Strength banished her lethargy and now all her senses were aroused by the need to find Julian.

  So far there had been no sign of a child, anywhere. No childish laughter, no nursery-maid, no children’s toys. The drawing room where Mr Atherton carried her would be out of bounds to children, but there must be evidence of a two-and-a-half-year-old boy, somewhere.