Felicity and the Damaged Reputation: A witty, sweet Regency Romance

by Alicia Cameron

  ‘Much as ever. You should have learnt from my way of going on with him. Just say yes and do nothing. It works for me.’

  ‘Well, yes, God. But marriage is a rather serious business to say yes to. And there was the young lady to be considered. I couldn’t have just put off the event indefinitely.’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ said his brother negligently, ‘I would have. Especially as it would have saved me being tossed out with only the shirt on my back. I did not know of that, Mallory. I would have sent your baggage on to you.’

  ‘And have you in the suds with the old gentleman?’ smiled Mallory. ‘Not for the world.’

  ‘Oh, I’m the heir, he doesn’t bother me much. Except making me ride the estate and meet the dashed tenants and so on. I just hide in London as often as.’

  ‘You say that, but I am sure you will make a wonderful master when the time comes.’

  His brother laughed. ‘Perhaps. But for the moment it is another’s responsibility.’

  ‘Is Herriot in town?’ Mallory asked, referring to the brother between them both in age.

  ‘No. He’s in Yorkshire with his affianced. Miss Henrietta Stavely.’ Royston Joyce looked a little carefully at his brother, for any sign of annoyance.

  Mallory raised an eyebrow, in recognition of the lady whom his father had picked out for himself. ‘Really? I am very pleased.’

  ‘Pour us a brandy, old fellow.’ When his brother had so done, he looked him over once more as he sat on the opposite chair by the fire and said. ‘It is wonderful to have you, of course, my boy, but what has winkled you out of your safe parish life to this den of iniquity?’

  ‘Do you mind if I do not say quite yet, Godfrey? I’m not sure of my mission exactly. Only that the conveyance cost me all but my last sou and I’m hopeful of leeching off you if you’ll have me.’

  ‘While Papa is not here, this is your home, old fellow. But you really cannot be seen around town in that coat—’ The curate opened his mouth to argue, and his brother said, with a bit of a miff, ‘Don’t bother arguing, Mall. You look too much like me for my reputation not to be tainted by the disgrace. You can make do by borrowing one of my coats for now, although you are so thin, they’ll hang. But your pantalons are hopeless, because you have five inches on me.’

  ‘None of that matters, God. I am not about to be attending balls.’

  ‘Well,’ said his brother, as close to anger as his apathy allowed, ‘it matters to me. What will you be doing in town, anyway?’

  ‘I’m not sure. First, I suppose, I want to know about the Viscount of Durant.’

  ‘Sebastian Fortescue? You knew him, surely?’

  ‘A little, to nod to in a club or so on. But we were both very young then. I want to know what he has become now—’

  ‘There’s a woman in this,’ said Mallory. When his brother frowned, he sighed. ‘Well, Durant, eh? Let’s see what I can tell you…’

  As they walked to Lady Jersey’s coach, Durant was keen to talk to Anne — but she brushed him off, saying she had business with her sister.

  ‘Your mother is dead, then?’ he whispered.

  ‘Two months ago.’

  ‘You did not tell me.’

  ‘And you did not enquire.’ He frowned, and she added, with a smile. ‘Do not think I blame you. I just mean that it is our custom to communicate intermittently.’

  ‘I should have written.’ He said, with guilt.

  ‘Bastian. We need to talk, perhaps, but not today.’

  ‘Anne—’ he called, but she had turned from him and went into the coach.

  Mr Mallory Joyce, wearing a coat of his brother’s that was a trifle too large around the chest for him, regarded himself in the mirror. It would have been foolish to have objected to it, or even to the presence of a tailor, who was at present measuring him for some pantalons, his own being a trifle worn at the knee, which he had scarcely noted before. But, he thought resignedly, one day in the evil metropolis had him once more caught up in the vanities. He could blame Godfrey all he wanted, he knew that slightly as it had bothered him at Little Clarence, he did not choose to meet with Miss Clarence in town (and he was not sure that he was resolved to do so yet) wearing such disreputable clothes. To his earlier objections, his brother had told him not to be an insufferable prig. So here he was looking at himself in a long glass for the first time in years.

  His brother’s valet had brushed his hair forward from the crown to frame his face, a slight change, but a powerful one. He honestly looked like a fashionable man, his broad shoulders and good figure more evident than usual. The sturdy linen shirt had been replaced by a fine one too, and a snowy white starched muslin cravat held his shirt points at the correct angle. His humorous grey eyes looked back at himself ironically. Vanity? At least he would not wear his poverty for all to see.

  What was he doing here? He had discovered that Durant’s latest intrigue was with the Duchess of Telford, a beautiful woman that Mallory remembered as a debutante, somehow always looking sophisticated even as a young girl. He was doing his best not to judge his lordship for this and the other liaisons his brother had alleged, but he was not doing a very good job of it. He realised that, though he might say to himself that he was here to ensure himself that his friend was committing herself to a good man, he had no rights in this regard and that maybe that his intentions were not at all clear to him. He had merely followed her, as though she held a string wrapped around some part of him, a string he swore he would cut, must cut, as soon as ever he knew she was safe in the life she had chosen.

  He had no intention, as yet, of visiting her. But perhaps he would seek out Durant. He hardly knew him well enough to visit the viscount, but his brother had agreed to take him to White’s this afternoon, a club in Brooke Street where his lordship might be sought in the afternoons.

  Godfrey Joyce had asked him what business he had with the Viscount, but was too lazy to pursue the subject when Mallory had fobbed him off.

  Mallory Joyce was surprised how natural all this felt to him, though so far away from his life in Little Clarence village. He worried a little about his duties in the parish, but reflected that it would do the Reverend Bigelow good to become reacquainted with his own parishioners.

  Off to White’s with his brother.

  The Duchess of Telford was asked by her friend, Lady Devlin, about the intrigue surrounding the Viscount. After the ball, the Duchess had let it be understood to a few fast friends, Lady Devlin included, that she had cast off her lover some weeks ago. Fortunately, she had been pursued for some time by young Mr Chalmondey, and she suggested that their present relationship was rather closer than she had actually thus far permitted. She had sealed the deal two nights ago, allowing the handsome, rich young man entry to her bedchamber when her husband was away, knowing that Chalmondey’s new demeanour would let the world know that he had replaced the Viscount. It was too humiliating to have anyone suggest that Durant had been the one to walk away. As well as the humiliation, she was angrier than she had been in years. She had cared for Bastian, and thought he had cared for her. They had been seen together, shared a love of music and horses and the theatre. He was witty and amusing, and he had declared himself struck by her beauty. He had certainly desired her, though he had never said anything more tender, as others did. Had he married, she would have understood and continued the liaison, for one must think of the family. But he had simply tired of her, and this was hardly to be borne. She was the most ravishing and fascinating woman in town — was she not?

  She did not seek out Miss Oldfield. The world might then put two and two together and see the duchess as a woman scorned, set aside for a green girl. No, she did not attend Almacks on the night after her ball, did not see the shoulders turn from the little strumpet, but she had made mischief from a distance, and had struck up a friendship with Miss Jane Friel, taking her up in the park, and inviting her to Telford House, so that the girl’s story of what had occurred at the ball was given more credence.
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  The Fenton’s method of dealing with the scandal was novel. And Durant’s support, stopping short of an offer of marriage, was still placing doubt on the tale. But the Duchess mentioned to one or two friends that someone from Shropshire had said Miss Oldfield had come to London to be a governess, so how she had arrived so well dressed was a mystery — and in mentioning this, the Duchess shook her head. She would not stoop to lie, but there was a great deal she could do with innuendo.

  Felicity, meanwhile, had taken her list of schools, added some from today’s periodicals, and begun to write letters to those establishments situated far from town. Surely her disgrace could not have spread beyond London? The difficulty was in providing references. Previously, she’d enclosed a letter from Lady Crosswell of her own district, which had been instrumental in obtaining the position with Mrs Hennessey. Could she go and ask Mrs Hennessey for the letter to be given back to her? Lady Crosswell might furnish another, if only her disgrace had not reached home, for her ladyship, though kind, had been full of the dangers of London. Felicity could not face that lady’s disappointment in her. She shook to think of it. Asking Mrs Hennessey for the letter back did not seem to be an option. Not after the park incident. And anyway, it seemed likely that she would have destroyed it. For the moment, she would offer no references. Lady Aurora, or even Lady Sumner would have supplied a recommendation, but she was sure that neither would consent at first, since they would have wished to dissuade her. How had she gotten herself into this situation? Hanging off the sleeve of complete strangers, who had not only welcomed her into their home but had festooned her with gifts. It was only because she thought her legendarily rich aunt, Lady Ellingham, was footing the bill that she had embarked on this lovely season.

  There were many tears shed over these letters. As she was addressing a third, Lady Aurora entered her room and she thrust the letters beneath a sheet of blotting paper.

  ‘Darling girl, are you crying?’ she said running to her. She took her to sit on the elegant sofa, putting an arm around her. ‘I know that being in society just now requires such courage of you. But it is working, Felicity. I am sure of it!’

  ‘I know. I am just so very sorry about the trouble I have brought to your door.’ Felicity, burdened with the knowledge of how indebted to this lady she was, and yet still wishing to cast a head upon her shoulder.

  ‘But what you cannot know my dear, is how much joy you have brought with you. We have had a late but very happy marriage, my dear, but thus have had no children. As I had no children from my first marriage, I believe it is some lack in me. But since you came here, Mr Fenton and I have had a space in our hearts filled.’ Felicity gave in and threw herself into her ladyship’s perfumed embrace. ‘As for the trouble as you call it, it is hardly anything, Mr Fenton and I have swum through many worse scandals in our lives, you know. He was saying just the other day that it is quite like old times, negotiating the tides once more. It simply makes me angry, for you do not deserve it, and it makes one reflect on all the other young ladies who have been treated so by society for as false a reason as this. Promise, my dear, that you won’t let it beat you.’

  That, at least, Felicity could promise.

  Durant stopped by the gracious home of Lord Stanford. The address was so good that the Viscount knew it must be part of an entail, for it was well known that his lordship was ducking the duns on a regular basis. This thought was confirmed by looking at the individual who let him in, a stooped old man wearing ancient brown livery with an unpleasant demeanour who croaked, ‘What do you want?’ Not an old family retainer then.

  ‘Stanford.’ Said Durant walking in without awaiting an invitation, and handing his hat to the old man with hardly a glance.

  ‘He’s in there. Don’t suppose you’re a dun.’

  Durant didn’t spare this piece of impertinence so much as a look, but walked across the dusty hall to the room indicated and opened the door without being announced.

  It was a library. More dust was everywhere, as well as other signs of disorder, including plates with the remains of meat and cheese, perhaps days or weeks old. One plate, with some rotting piece of peach, was surrounded by flies. By a small fire sat Lord Stanford, a table with wine on it at his elbow. Over the fire, Durant noted a lighter square on the wallpaper over the mantle where once a painting had hung. Since he had been here before, Durant knew it had been a handsome portrait of the previous Lord Stanford on his favourite hunter. Such paintings were in demand these days by rich cits or nabobs, who used them to decorate their large homes, suggesting a rather finer family history than they had. Things must be bad. But looking at his lordship, Durant felt that getting rid of his father’s eye on him might also have been a motive. The old man, friend of Durant’s father, would be turning in his grave.

  ‘Durant. You here,’ said Stanford, helping himself to another glass of wine.

  ‘I suppose you were expecting me.’

  ‘I was not. Always welcome,’ he added with bravado.

  ‘You know why I am here?’ Durant moved a pile of dusty periodicals from a seat at the other side of the fire, and sat. He thought he saw a little panic in Stanford’s eyes.

  ‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ Stanford’s long legs crossed to indicate his ease.

  ‘Your behaviour with Miss Oldfield at the library.’

  He thought he saw something like relief pass over Stanford’s face, but he would think about that later. His lordship, affecting even more boredom said, ‘What — offering a lady and her companion a lift? Are you here to thank me?’

  ‘What I am here to say to you, Stanford, is to leave Miss Oldfield alone. She can be of no good to you in repairing your fortunes.’

  Stanford flushed. ‘I was merely standing her friend. Or would you rather I turn a shoulder from her like others in the ton?

  Durant grasped the arm of his chair. ‘Your attentions can give her no countenance.’

  ‘No, only you can do that, Durant. You have the remedy to her problem, and you have the gall to come here and upbraid me for standing her friend.’

  The justice of this, warped though it was, inflamed Durant’s already heightened temper. He rose. ‘I wish to be clear. Do not seek to be alone with Miss Oldfield again, do not mention her name. Or you will answer to me.’

  Stanford met his cold eye for a brief second, then curled his lip. ‘Yes, my lord Durant. And do you have any other orders for me?’

  Durant opened his purse and flipped a coin onto the table beside Stanford, which clinked against the decanter. ‘Yes. Use this to pay a girl to at least dust this place.’ He turned and walked to the library door.

  Stanford had jumped up, all suavity gone. ‘You’ll rue this day, my lord.’

  Durant did not bother to reply.

  He found the retainer lurking near the door on his way out. It did not surprise Durant that the man may have been eavesdropping.

  He took his hat and left.

  The next morning, Stanford’s barouche was halted by a gentleman on horseback, which his lordship recognised, too late, as Mr Wilbert Fenton.

  ‘I wanted a word, Stanford.’

  The young man, whose manner had always aped the leisurely drawl of Fenton, tried it now. ‘Don’t bother, Fenton. Durant has already been to see me.’ He saw Mr Fenton’s brows cross briefly, ‘I have engaged to stay away from Miss Oldfield, since my friendly attempt to aid her has been so misinterpreted.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I am to expect dire consequences if I do not.’ His lordship looked at Mr Fenton, attempting humour. ‘I’m surprised that you do not understand me, Fenton. You were once a ladies’ man yourself.’

  ‘Oh, but I do understand you, Stanford.’ Fenton countered smoothly, ‘That is why you must understand that Lord Durant’s consequences are not the only ones you face if you approach Miss Oldfied again. And the difference between the viscount and I is that he has rather more scruples in dealing with his enemies than I do.’

  Stanford paled. There were rumours from Wilbert
Fenton’s past about people who had crossed him. Rumours about illegal duels and worse. He tried for a laugh, ‘I meant no harm.’

  ‘And no harm done. Yet.’ Fenton did not smile, just rode on.

  Stanford slapped the reins, furious at the threats and at his own fear. Both Miss Oldfield’s charms and her lack of interest had inflamed his passions, and she had, moreover, seemed reasonably easy prey. She was staying with the Fentons, but they were well known as not the strictest household. She had an aristocratic aunt, but she showed little to no interest in her, and her reputation was damaged. He had offered for her at one point, drunk and overcome by that innocent beauty — so far from his usual flirts — in the vague hope that she might be her aunt’s heir. At least he could convince his creditors of that. He’d been relieved when she had refused, cooler head prevailing. He needed a dead cert. But when an opportunity to have her was offered by her disgrace, he’d taken his chance. He might even have been able to keep her for a while, if his plan for his future came off. But his habit of drinking in the morning was fugging his brain and he knew it. He couldn’t afford to let his lust for a deliciously reluctant young girl upset his plans.

  He’d keep his distance for the moment. Soon he would know how to answer them all. Durant would pay, of course. And he would see about Wilbert Fenton, though he shuddered at that thought. There was something about Fenton…

  Genevieve looked down from the window of her bedchamber, at the gardens facing the Fenton’s house, to see Benedict clomping around like a horse, with her son crying out with delight on his shoulders. Tears came to her eyes, Benedict was such a boy at heart. It made her remember when they ran like this together around the woods and parks of Fenton and Ottershaw, her old home, with one of his little brothers, or perhaps his tiny sister Angelica riding his shoulders. It was good to see him like that again. When he had come back from the war he had seemed so troubled, so burdened. He had hinted at the horrors in his letters, but only just. She had known from Lady Fenton that his missives home had been neither so frequent, nor so frank. She had been glad to be his confidant.