Lord Ravensden's Marriage

by Anne Herries

  he might be called upon to meet his Maker at any time and must repent his sins...'

  'Of which there are many?' Harry asked, clearly enjoying himself. 'Tell me, what does he imagine

  is the significance of the lights? What has the Marquis been up to—surely not pagan orgies?'

  Beatrice frowned at him in reproof. 'Well, you may not know of Sywell's reputation...but he has

  been denounced in the pulpit of every church in the county I dare swear. He is never sober, so they

  say...and no woman was safe from him, at least until he married.

  She was much younger and very beautiful...though I do not recall ever having seen her myself. The

  adopted child of the Marquis's bailiff, she was educated by her stepmother, who was a governess-

  —and she did not mix with the villagers nor go to school. She had been away from the village for

  some years, engaged in some trade, I suppose, but came back when her guardian died...and then

  the Marquis married her and carried her off to his home. After that, she has scarcely been seen

  again.'

  'A very rogue!' Harry stated. 'It stands to reason— he must have done the dastardly deed.'

  'Will you be serious, sir!' Beatrice gave him a speaking look from her wonderful eyes, which

  were themselves glowing like jewels. 'We do not yet know for certain that she is missing—nor

  that she has been murdered. She may have simply gone away for a visit.'

  'If that were so, the Marquis would not have ranted of her absence to Mr Hartwell,' Olivia said.

  'No, no, it is clear...he must have murdered her. And his anger at her disappearance was clearly to

  cover his own guilt. I am sure he has done away with her!'

  'And buried her in the haunted chapel at dead of night,' said Harry helpfully. 'He must have got it

  from one of Fanny Burney's novels.'

  'You rogue!' Beatrice cried, laughing at his tone. 'I liked Evelina excessively. Now if you had said

  dear Mrs Radcliffe...' Her eyes were bright with mischief. 'You have a wicked humour, sir. Why

  will you encourage Olivia in this nonsense?'

  'How can you be sure it is nonsense?' Olivia asked. 'You did hear a scream—and you did see the

  Marquis rush past on his horse.'

  'Yes...' Beatrice frowned. Olivia was more animated than she had been in days, her imagination

  clearly caught by the mystery of the young Lady Sywell's disappearance. 'The truth is, I cannot say

  what happened—and nor can any of us. I think we should wait and hear what the Reverend

  Hartwell has to say this evening...'

  'A capital notion,' Harry said. 'I shall look forward to it eagerly.'

  'Are you sure you are well enough to join us this evening?' Beatrice asked with an air of false

  concern. 'That cough was painful to hear, my lord—perhaps you should go to bed and I will ask

  Bellows to come and rub goose grease on your chest.'

  'No, that you will not,' Harry said, and coughed again, twice. 'I shall drink a little of the excellent

  brandy Bellows ordered for...us...if I may, and hope that I may be well enough to come down to

  dinner.'

  Beatrice fixed him with a look that would have slain lesser men.

  'Pray go on with what you were doing when I arrived,' she said. 'I have no time to waste if we are

  to have a decent dinner this evening.'

  Harry's smile made her turn hastily away. What did he mean by giving her such a look? He was

  here to persuade Olivia to marry him—not to make her spinster sister's heart behave in the most

  peculiar way imaginable.

  Chapter Six

  .Beatrice glanced at herself in the mirror as she dressed for dinner. Her one evening gown was

  sadly worn and out of style. She had refurbished it with a fresh sash and trimmed the edge with

  green ribbons, but the colour did nothing for her complexion.

  Olivia looked at her and frowned. 'I have more gowns than I need, Beatrice,'' she said. 'I should

  have thought before...perhaps some of them could be altered to fit you?'

  'I very much doubt it,' Beatrice said and laughed. 'You are a sylph, dearest, while I am what they

  call well-formed. Do not feel at all uncomfortable because you have a few pretty gowns. They

  may have to last you for a long time.'

  'Yes, I know.' Olivia smiled at her. 'I do not mind that—but I wish I might share those I have with

  you.'

  'It would be too difficult to alter them,' Beatrice said. 'Besides, I shall buy some material soon and

  make myself a new gown in time for Christmas.'

  'Oh, well,' Olivia sighed. 'I do not suppose either of us will often have much need of stylish gowns

  in future.'

  'Are you feeling very unhappy, dearest?' Beatrice looked at her in concern. 'I know you must miss

  your friends—but there are some young women in the villages you might come to know in time.

  Lady Sophia, Annabel Lett, who is a widow and has an adorable little daughter—and Miss

  Robina Perceval. She is the niece of the vicar of Abbot Quincey and a very charitable and friendly

  young woman. She sometimes visits our village, and we stop to talk when we pass in the street. I

  shall invite her to take tea with us the next time we meet.'

  'I am sure I shall find friends soon enough,' Olivia said, her blue eyes a little wistful. 'You must

  not worry about me, Beatrice.' She smiled and tucked her arm through her sister's. 'We ought to go

  down. Our guests will soon be arriving...'

  'I cannot imagine why Mr Hartwell thought it a good idea to visit the Marquis in the first place,'

  said his wife at table that evening. 'Everyone knows what a dreadful man he is...'

  The Reverend gave her a faintly reproachful look. 'I felt it incumbent upon me to make the effort,

  my dear. Sywell should make his peace with God before it is too late. As a Christian minister, I

  must do my duty as I see it.'

  'Very right and proper,' Harry said, not a flicker in his eyes to betray him. 'Tell me, my dear sir,

  do you expect the Marquis's demise imminently?'

  Beatrice gave him a darkling look. She glanced across the table at her friend Mademoiselle de

  Champlain. 'Tell me, Ghislaine, how do things go on at dear Mrs Guarding's school? Have you

  any new pupils?'

  Ghislaine was an attractive woman in her late twenties, pleasant to look at but not pretty except

  for her dark eyes, which were very fine.

  'They come and go, as you know, Beatrice,' she said. 'We have several young ladies coming to us

  after Christmas, and shall be in need of a new teacher to look after the little ones. Have you

  thought any more about returning to us?'

  'I have not given it much thought of late,' Beatrice replied. She saw Lord Ravensden's eyes on her.

  'As you know, I have considered taking up a position...if Papa could spare me?' She looked at her

  father, who was addressing his beef with the dedication of a man who had not eaten such a treat

  for a long time.

  'What's that, Beatrice?' Mr Roade blinked at her. 'Excellent beef, my dear. You and Nan have

  excelled yourselves... visit Mademoiselle Champlain when you like, have her here to stay for

  Christmas. Why not? Always pleased to see your friends.' He beamed round the table happily,

  apparently lost in his own thoughts.

  Beatrice would have turned the subject once again, but Olivia was before her.

  'Is it true that the Marquis told you his wife had gone, sir?'

  The Reverend Hartwell let his solemn gaze rest on her. A man of forty-odd years, with thinning

&
nbsp; hair and brown eyes, he was very aware of his importance in the community. The world was full

  of sinners, and he knew his duty. Let it never be said that he had neglected the spiritual welfare of

  his parishioners, even one as disreputable as the Marquis of Sywell.

  'I do not have to ask where that came from, Miss Olivia. It is unfortunate that Mary Ekins should

  have overheard me telling Mrs Hartwell...but the gossip will not be long delayed I fear. It is true

  that Lady Sywell does appear to have left her husband. No one has seen her for months...'

  'Why would she do that, sir?' Olivia's blue eyes were wide and guileless, her manner that of a

  young girl begging for instruction. Mr Hartwell warmed to her at once. 'Do you think the Marquis

  was unkind to her?'

  'How could it be otherwise?' asked the Reverend, frowning and shaking his head sadly. 'The

  marriage was doomed to fail from the start. Sywell is a disgrace to his class, Miss Olivia—I

  might say a disgrace to mankind. Far be it from me to condemn a fellow creature, but he was most

  damnably rude...told me I was an interfering, prosy busybody and...well, such language is not fit

  for a young lady's ears.'

  'No, indeed it is not, Mr Hartwell,' said his wife and smiled kindly at Olivia. 'I dare say you are

  very shocked by all this, my dear. Pray tell me, have you come home to be married?'

  'No...' Olivia blushed fiery red. 'That is...'

  'Miss Olivia is not sure she will take me,' Harry said. 'I have come to beg on bended knee, but she

  has never yet given me an answer.'

  'But I thought it was announced in The Times?' Mrs Hartwell stared at him in surprise.

  'That was a misprint,' Harry said without the slightest hesitation. 'Dashed awkward for Olivia, you

  know. I am thinking of suing them...'

  'Indeed, you must not on my account, sir.' Olivia gave a strangled laugh, which she smothered

  behind her kerchief. Her eyes twinkled at him. 'It was simply a mistake, and since I have no wish

  to marry at all, it cannot make so very much difference in the end.'

  'No wish to marry?' Mr Hartwell looked shocked. 'It is surely your duty to marry, my child? It is a

  woman's allotted purpose in this world, the reason for which all women were created.'

  'Oh, but surely...' Beatrice began to protest, then stopped and blushed, remembering the Vicar was

  her guest, and the rules of politeness would not allow her to disagree with him.

  'You wished to object, Miss Roade?' Harry asked, deceptively enquiring. 'I dare say you think a

  woman fit for other purposes than the rearing of a family?'

  'I think a woman should be free to choose whether or not she cares to be married,' Beatrice said,

  frowning at him severely. 'But I have no wish to argue with our guest, whose opinions must

  naturally be respected.'

  'Just so...' Mr Roade beamed at them all. 'Do we have one of your excellent puddings this evening,

  Beatrice?'

  'Yes, Papa. I shall ring for Lily now...'

  She got up and went over to the sideboard, giving Lord Ravensden a look as she passed. He

  raised his brows at her but she merely shook her head. He was the most provoking man, but she

  would not be drawn. Time enough for what she had to say to Lord Ravensden when their guests

  had gone!

  'Well,' Olivia said when they were alone in the parlour later that evening, all their guests having

  drunk tea and left. Mr Roade and Nan had both retired, leaving the three free to speak their minds.

  'I think the case plain...Lady Sywell has not been seen in an age. You may depend upon it, her

  husband kept her a prisoner, and now he has killed her...and this is his way of pretending to the

  world that she has gone off.'

  'You are placing your reliance on the scream Beatrice heard when she was crossing the Abbey

  lands,' Harry said, nodding thoughtfully. He seemed not to be aware that he had used her first

  name and Beatrice did not want to be the one to point it out. 'But consider this—the Marchioness

  has not been seen in months, while Beatrice heard the scream only a few weeks ago. It may be that

  Lady Sywell found her position intolerable and ran away soon after her wedding.'

  'Someone would have seen her,' Olivia said. 'Besides, I have a feeling...' She shivered

  impressively and looked grave. The great actress Sarah Siddons could not have done better

  herself had she taken centre stage. 'I am convinced that the Marquis of Sywell killed his wife and

  has buried her body somewhere...'

  Beatrice frowned, remembering the night she had almost been knocked down by the Marquis, who

  had seemed half-demented. What Olivia was saying was possible. The man was clearly a brute,

  who cared for no one and nothing.

  'Even if you are right...I do not see how it can be proved.'

  'We must find her grave,' Olivia replied, a look of determination in her eyes. 'If he has killed her,

  she must be buried in the grounds of the Abbey.'

  'Or the ruined chapel...' supplied Harry, and received a reproving look from both sisters. 'Forgive

  me, I am sure you are right, Miss Olivia.'

  'We cannot look for the grave,' Beatrice objected. 'The Abbey grounds are private property.'

  'That did not stop you crossing them...' Harry's eyes danced with wicked amusement, then he

  crossed his arms and looked penitent. 'But I shall be silent on that subject. What do you suggest,

  Miss Roade? Shall we call out the militia and demand Sywell be arrested this instant?'

  'I told you he takes nothing seriously,' Olivia said to her sister, pulling a face of exasperation.

  'How could I be expected to marry a man like that?'

  'You could not, of course,' Beatrice said and glared at Harry. 'If you have nothing of sense to say,

  sir, you may take yourself off to bed'. I dare say you are weary, and needing your rest. Shall I send

  Bellows up to you with a hot posset?'

  'A large brandy would be more appropriate,' Harry said. 'But I shall leave you to work out our

  plan of campaign. You are more in command of the terrain, and I rely on you for instructions. I

  suppose we shall have to search at night? If we were seen in daylight it might be awkward...or is

  that a mere quibble?'

  'Go to bed, sir,' Beatrice said sternly. 'I shall speak to you in the morning.'

  'Yes, Miss Roade. Your wish is my command...' Harry smiled at both sisters and went from the

  room.

  Beatrice looked at Olivia and laughed. 'You are quite right, dearest,' she said. 'He is impossible. I

  am sure no woman of sense would ever wish to marry him.'

  'Perhaps not,' Olivia said, looking thoughtful. 'But for the right woman I suppose he might be an

  agreeable husband. He is charming, is he not?'

  Beatrice turned away to make sure that the fire screen was in place. 'Yes,' she said, without

  looking round. 'He does have a certain charm, and in some circumstances I suppose a woman

  might be wise to accept an offer from Lord Ravensden.' She faced her sister, smile in place.

  'Come, let us to our beds, Olivia. We must both sleep on all this, and in the morning we can

  decide what we ought to do...'

  Harry smiled to himself as he undressed. His stay in Northamptonshire was proving most

  diverting. His sense of the ridiculous had made him go along with Olivia's outrageous suggestion,

  though his own more logical mind told him that it was unlikely they would find a grave...unless, he

  supposed, the lights in the woods might have a mor
e sinister significance than he had first thought.

  It was possible, he imagined, that there might actually be a woman's body buried somewhere on

  the estate. It was an unpleasant thought, and not one he wished to sleep on.

  His mind turned towards the woman he had left downstairs. What was it about her that he was

  beginning to find fascinating? Far too fascinating for his peace of mind!

  Sipping the brandy Bellows had brought him, Harry considered. Supposing Olivia continued to

  refuse him? He sighed. It was an awkward situation, and he could have wished that things were

  different. Somehow, he must find a solution to all their problems...

  Why was it so impossible to sleep? Beatrice turned from side to side on her pillow, which was

  unaccountably lumpy. Olivia was sleeping, but as her sister moved she moaned and half woke.

  This would never do! She must not wake Oh via. Slipping carefully from beneath the covers,

  Beatrice pulled on her wrapping-gown and left the room. She normally slept easily at night, but

  nothing was normal now. Lord Ravensden's arrival had turned their household upside down, and

  she sometimes wondered if anything would ever be the same again.

  Now there was this mystery of the young Marchioness to plague her. Where had she gone? Had

  she truly been murdered by her cruel husband—or had she simply run away?

  Alone in the kitchen, Beatrice poured herself a glass of wine, then saw the glace fruits that had not

  been eaten after dinner and helped herself to two of them. They were quite delicious. She ate them

  both and licked the sweetness from her fingers, feeling guilty as she remembered that she had

  grumbled at Lord Ravensden for buying them...the provoking man.

  How had he managed to get under her skin in this manner? He was constantly making her want to

  prick at him with words as sharp as needles, and yet she was always glad to see him.

  A thought occurred to her, which was ruthlessly denied. Impossible! She could not be developing

  a tendre for him? No, certainly not...such an idea was out of the question. Especially after the way

  Olivia had spoken of him just before she went to bed. It was clear that her sister was beginning to

  reconsider...

  Beatrice turned her head as the kitchen door opened. Her heart jerked as she saw Lord Ravensden