Read Online The Outcast's Redemption (The Infamous Arrandales) by Sarah Mallory - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Mallory
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knowledge that Mrs Braddenfield was not in want of company. The lady had told them herself that her neighbours were being very attentive during the absence of Claire Oswald, her excellent companion. No, Mrs Braddenfield did not need her visit and, in her present agitated state, Grace would be very poor company indeed.
* * *
Grace had reached Arrandale Moor when she saw someone galloping towards her. She recognised Mr Styles’s bay hunter immediately, but the rider was definitely not the elderly farmer. He was tall and bare-headed and she thought distractedly that he looked as good on horseback as he did chopping wood. Her mouth dried, she had a craven impulse to turn and flee, but she drew rein and waited for horse and rider to come up to her, steeling herself for the apology she must make to the man calling himself Mr Peregrine.
It took all her nerve to keep Bonnie still, for it looked at first as if horse and rider would charge into her, but at the last moment the bay came to a plunging halt, eyes wild and nostrils flaring. The rider controlled the powerful animal with ease, his unsmiling eyes fixed on Grace.
‘Sir, I must apologise—’
‘You said you want the truth,’ he interrupted her. ‘Very well. Follow me.’
Without waiting for her reply he wheeled about and set off back towards the village. Intrigued, Grace followed him. They passed the vicarage and took the narrow lane that bordered Arrandale Park until they came to a gap in the paling. As soon as both horses had both pushed through they set off again, galloping towards the Hall. The pace did not ease until they reached the weed-strewn carriage circle before the house itself. Grace saw her companion throw himself out of the saddle and she quickly dismounted before he could reach her. He looked to be in a fury and even as she slid to the ground she wondered if she had been wise to follow him.
‘Come along.’
He took her arm and escorted her up the steps, arriving at the door just as Robert Jones opened it. With a curt instruction to the servant to look after the horses, he almost dragged Grace inside.
She had never been inside the Hall before. She wanted to stop and allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the shuttered gloom, but her escort led her on inexorably, through what she could dimly see was a series of reception rooms to the narrow backstairs. Fear and curiosity warred within her, but for the moment curiosity had the upper hand.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You will soon see.’
He marched her up the narrow, twisting stairs to a long gallery that ran the length of the building. After the darkness of the shadowy stairwell, the light pouring in from the windows was almost dazzling.
‘Why have you brought me here?’
A prickling fear was already whispering the answer.
‘You will see.’ He strode along the gallery and stopped at one of the paintings. Only then did he release her. Grace resisted the urge to rub her arm where his fingers had held her in a vice-like grip.
They were standing beneath a picture. A family group, an older man with powdered hair in a dark frock coat and a tall crowned hat, a lady in an elegant muslin dress with a blue sash that matched her stylish turban. Between them, in informal pose, stood their children, a fair-haired schoolboy and beside him, his arm protectively resting on the boy’s shoulder, a tall young man dressed in the natural style that was so fashionable ten years ago, a black frock coat and tight breeches. But it was not the clothes that held her attention, it was the lean, handsome face and the coldly cynical gleam in the violet-blue eyes that stared out defiantly beneath a shock of thick, curling dark hair. She glanced at the man beside her and involuntarily stepped away.
‘Yes, that is me.’ There was a sneer in the deep, drawling voice. ‘Wolfgang Charles Everdene Arrandale. Not-so-beloved son and heir of Arrandale. This was painted to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Not that it was
* * *
Grace had reached Arrandale Moor when she saw someone galloping towards her. She recognised Mr Styles’s bay hunter immediately, but the rider was definitely not the elderly farmer. He was tall and bare-headed and she thought distractedly that he looked as good on horseback as he did chopping wood. Her mouth dried, she had a craven impulse to turn and flee, but she drew rein and waited for horse and rider to come up to her, steeling herself for the apology she must make to the man calling himself Mr Peregrine.
It took all her nerve to keep Bonnie still, for it looked at first as if horse and rider would charge into her, but at the last moment the bay came to a plunging halt, eyes wild and nostrils flaring. The rider controlled the powerful animal with ease, his unsmiling eyes fixed on Grace.
‘Sir, I must apologise—’
‘You said you want the truth,’ he interrupted her. ‘Very well. Follow me.’
Without waiting for her reply he wheeled about and set off back towards the village. Intrigued, Grace followed him. They passed the vicarage and took the narrow lane that bordered Arrandale Park until they came to a gap in the paling. As soon as both horses had both pushed through they set off again, galloping towards the Hall. The pace did not ease until they reached the weed-strewn carriage circle before the house itself. Grace saw her companion throw himself out of the saddle and she quickly dismounted before he could reach her. He looked to be in a fury and even as she slid to the ground she wondered if she had been wise to follow him.
‘Come along.’
He took her arm and escorted her up the steps, arriving at the door just as Robert Jones opened it. With a curt instruction to the servant to look after the horses, he almost dragged Grace inside.
She had never been inside the Hall before. She wanted to stop and allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the shuttered gloom, but her escort led her on inexorably, through what she could dimly see was a series of reception rooms to the narrow backstairs. Fear and curiosity warred within her, but for the moment curiosity had the upper hand.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You will soon see.’
He marched her up the narrow, twisting stairs to a long gallery that ran the length of the building. After the darkness of the shadowy stairwell, the light pouring in from the windows was almost dazzling.
‘Why have you brought me here?’
A prickling fear was already whispering the answer.
‘You will see.’ He strode along the gallery and stopped at one of the paintings. Only then did he release her. Grace resisted the urge to rub her arm where his fingers had held her in a vice-like grip.
They were standing beneath a picture. A family group, an older man with powdered hair in a dark frock coat and a tall crowned hat, a lady in an elegant muslin dress with a blue sash that matched her stylish turban. Between them, in informal pose, stood their children, a fair-haired schoolboy and beside him, his arm protectively resting on the boy’s shoulder, a tall young man dressed in the natural style that was so fashionable ten years ago, a black frock coat and tight breeches. But it was not the clothes that held her attention, it was the lean, handsome face and the coldly cynical gleam in the violet-blue eyes that stared out defiantly beneath a shock of thick, curling dark hair. She glanced at the man beside her and involuntarily stepped away.
‘Yes, that is me.’ There was a sneer in the deep, drawling voice. ‘Wolfgang Charles Everdene Arrandale. Not-so-beloved son and heir of Arrandale. This was painted to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Not that it was
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