He indulged himself with memories of her delicate face and curvaceous figure, before he suddenly frowned. It was strange, but somehow she reminded him of someone. He thought of her ebony locks, her white skin and her ruby lips, and his mind lingered for a moment on the memory. But then he shook his head. No. She could not remind him of anyone. He knew no one with such striking colouring. And yet there had been something. Something about her determined manner and the shape of her chin...
No. It was gone. He could not catch it.
Oh, well, she had provided him with an interesting interlude in his journey down to London, but it was probably a good thing she had not accepted his offer of sharing his bed, because it was serious business that had brought him back to England, and he had no time for distractions.
However charming those distractions might be.
Thank goodness! thought Rebecca as her coach rolled out of the inn yard the following morning. Her journey so far had been fraught with difficulties and she was relieved to be on her way. Her coach joined the London road and she turned her attention to the beautiful scene outside the window. Although the weather was icy the sky was a brilliant blue, and the snow was a lovely sight.
She snuggled down beneath her travelling rug, settled her booted feet more comfortably on her stone hot water bottle and gave herself up to an enjoyment of the view.
Towns and villages passed by, until at last, just before lunch, she entered the capital, and from there it was but a short journey to her aunt and uncle's house in Sloane Street.
As the coach finally rolled to a halt she gave a smile as she saw how pretty the house looked under its winter coating. The small-paned windows were covered in frost, the window sills were piled high with snow, and icicles hung from the portico.
Shaking out her travelling cloak she climbed out of the carriage and stretched her stiff legs before going up the stone steps to the front door.
“Welcome back, Miss Fossington,” said Canning, the butler, as he opened the door.
“Thank you, Canning.” She smiled, pleased to see his familiar face.
At that moment her aunt, having heard the coach, hurried into the hall to greet her.
Mrs Hetty Marsden was an elegant woman of some five-and-thirty years of age. She was dressed in a fashionable high-waisted gown of dark green silk, with a Cashmere shawl thrown over her shoulders to keep out the winter chill. She greeted Rebecca warmly, taking her hands and then embracing her.
“Rebecca! We thought you would never arrive! But let's not stand here talking in the hall. You must be frozen. Come in!”
Rebecca returned her aunt's affectionate hug, then accompanied her into the drawing-room. She looked round the familiar room with affection. It was elegantly proportioned, and was furnished with taste and style. Hepplewhite chairs and damasked sofas were arranged in satisfying groups; small tables inlaid with rosewood and satinwood were dotted conveniently about; and a collection of paintings depicting classical scenes adorned the walls. A large marble fireplace dominated the far end of the room, and a welcome fire burned in the grate.
With stiff fingers Rebecca removed her bonnet and cloak as her aunt rang for tea.
“You look tired,” said Hetty, having ordered some refreshment. She took in Rebecca with an affectionate eye.
“I am,” Rebecca admitted. “The journey was long and difficult. I am pleased to be finally here.”
“When you did not arrive last night I couldn't help being worried,” said Hetty. She sat down beside Rebecca on the gold-damasked sofa. “But your Uncle Charles was far more sensible. He said you must have been delayed by of the weather.”
“The weather was dreadful,” agreed Rebecca. “The roads were slippery and in several places the coachmen had to dig a way through the snow. But the worst part was when Biddy was taken ill. In the end, she was too poorly to continue. I had to leave her behind, in the care of a local apothecary.”
“Oh, poor Miss Biddulph. Still, you did the right thing. The journey would only have made her worse. A draughty coach is no place for someone who is ill. She is to join us here when she is better, I hope?”
“Yes. She will travel on by the mail.”
“Quite right,” said Hetty approvingly. “It is the quickest way of travelling, and if she is recovering from an ague she will not want to be too long on the road.”
The door opened and tea was brought in. Revived by a hot drink and a piece of seed cake, Rebecca told her aunt about the rest of her journey.
“Where did you stay last night?” asked Hetty, pouring Rebecca a second cup of tea. “It was a good hostelry, I hope? The food tolerable, and the sheets properly aired?”
“I stayed at The Nag's Head,” said Rebecca, sipping her tea.
“The Nag's Head?” Her aunt frowned. “I don't know it. How was your room?”
A sudden memory of her room, complete with partially-dressed gentleman, flashed into Rebecca's mind. She almost choked on her tea. Quickly she put down the cup. “Unfortunately the inn was so full I had to spend the night in the attic with Susan.”
She mentioned nothing of her encounter with the leonine gentleman. She was uncomfortably aware that she had not behaved in the most ladylike of fashions. She should have roused Susan and then, accompanied by her maid, demanded to see the landlord, leaving him to sort out the problem of the disputed room. Instead of which she had, unchaperoned, bandied words with a partially-clad gentleman! Behaviour which, whilst being unexceptionable in terms of courage, would be likely to draw her aunt's disapproval down on her head.
“How awful!' said Hetty, knowing nothing of what was going through her mind. “Well, never mind, you are here now, and that is what matters. And you have still managed to arrive in time for the reading of your grandfather's will.”
The two ladies both thought of the reading of Jebadiah's will, which was the reason for Rebecca's journey to London. It was to take place that afternoon.
“That is why I pressed on with the journey, instead of staying with Biddy,” said Rebecca. “I knew it would be both difficult and frustrating for Charles to have to rearrange the reading, and besides, I'm sure you both must be wanting to know how things have been left.”
“It will certainly make life easier,” remarked Hetty. “Particularly as the will was missing for so long. It was only by the greatest good fortune it was ever found.”
“It was typical of Grandfather to keep it himself, instead of entrusting it to his lawyers,” said Rebecca. “ "They're rogues, Becky," he used to say to me,” she remembered with a smile. “ "Lawyers... bankers... they're all the same. Rogues and rascals, Becky — every man.”
“Typical indeed!” agreed Hetty. “And it was just as typical of him not tell anyone where he had put it. He always liked to keep his own counsel where business matters were concerned.”
Jebadiah Marsden — Rebecca's grandfather and her uncle Charles's father — had died some time before, but his will had only recently been found, tucked away in a copy of Shakespeare's plays.
“It's hard to believe he was the son of a cobbler,” said Rebecca, looking round the room. She took in the elegant furnishings, the expensive paintings and the superb marble fireplace. She thought of her dearly beloved grandfather, whose drive and energy had led him to take advantage of the opportunities the new manufacturing industries were offering, and which had resulted in him making a fortune. “Our family has come a long way.”
Hetty nodded. “Jeb was an extraordinary man. But now, I mustn't tire you. You will need all your energy for this afternoon.” She stood up. “I will show you to your room. I'm sure you'd like to refresh yourself after your journey.”
Rebecca, too, stood up and followed Hetty out of the drawing-room.
“We will be taking luncheon in an hour,” said Hetty. She led Rebecca upstairs, to the pretty guest room that had been made ready for her. “And then we will be setting out for the lawyer's office.”