Blackmail and the Bride

by Sahara Kelly

  She walked firmly to the door and held it open. “Please make yourself at home…the gardens still need work, but there are some lovely walks if you would enjoy the fresh air.”

  Thus adjured, the three Harewoods could do little but follow her instructions. Rude and unpleasant though they were, they still adhered to the basic rules of courtesy that had been drummed into them since they were in short coats. And that fact worked to Cressida’s advantage.

  “We dine early, of course. So perhaps we could reconvene at seven for sherry? In the small parlor where we were earlier, after your arrival.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ridlington.” Pendrick smiled as he passed her, the last to leave. “You are a very gracious lady to put up with a Harewood invasion.”

  His words recalled her to a topic she wished to pursue. “You mentioned you had lists? Of those lost at Waterloo?”

  “We do,” he nodded. “I will make sure they are in your hands right away.”

  He was as good as his word, and Cressida returned downstairs a few minutes later with a sheaf of papers, filled with names. “We should think about those runners…now that we have these. Make some copies or something…”

  Richard waited for her to reach the bottom of the stairs.

  “Cressy, I’m so sorry…” It was the first chance he had to talk privately with his wife.

  She waved it away. “Richard, hush. I understand.” She looked up at him. “Although I’ll not pretend I like Lady Delphine.” She returned to the lists.

  “Look, about her…”

  He stopped as she sucked in a gasp and paled.

  “Cressy…what…?”

  She swayed toward him. “Oh nooo…” Her trembling hand turned the papers toward him. “Look…”

  He looked. And closed his eyes.

  The casualty list included one name they both recognized.

  Davy Worsnop.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The pain he saw in Cressida’s face reflected the crashing sorrow that hit his heart as he read the name. “How are we going to tell them?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. But we must.”

  He nodded. “Together.” He held out his hand.

  She took it. “Yes, together.”

  By mutual accord they walked downstairs and into the kitchens, where—as luck would have it—both Worsnops were present. The maids were still upstairs settling the guests.

  Mrs. Parsnip looked up. “I ‘ear them guests ain’t what yer’d call nice people,” she frowned. “Yer let me know if’n yer need anythin’, now, yer ‘ear?”

  “Mrs. Parsnip, Worsnop…come and sit for a minute?” Cressida pulled out a chair from beneath the long table and Richard did the same.

  She laid the lists onto the smooth and well-worn wood surface.

  It only took one look for Worsnop to move behind his wife as she sat, and put his hand on her shoulders. “’Tis bad news, ’ain’t it?” He looked at them both, his shoulders square but his eyes fearful.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Richard quietly. “One of the guests had copies of the first lists to come through from Waterloo.”

  “Oh God.” Mrs. Parsnip’s words were a mere whisper, but she reached up to clutch her husband’s hand. “Our lads?”

  Cressida nodded. “I’m afraid Davy’s name is here on the list.” She gulped, her eyes filling with tears. “He did not survive.”

  “Frank?” Worsnop’s voice was gruff.

  Richard sighed. “No, thankfully Frank’s name is not here. So with luck, he’ll be on his way home to you soon.”

  Both Worsnops were silent, their eyes closed. Richard wasn’t sure if they were saying prayers of thanks for one son’s survival, or grieving the loss of another.

  He reached out to Mrs. Parsnip, touching her lightly on the arm. “There are no words for us to let you know how sorry we are, and how we share your grief.” He paused for a moment, trying to contain his own emotions. “There were so many lost. So many good lads like your Davy who won’t be coming home. And we grieve for all those families as well.”

  “How many?” Mrs. Parsnip opened her eyes.

  Cressida shook her head. “They’re saying over twenty thousand casualties, our brave lads and our allies.”

  “Bastard’s done for then, is he?” Worsnop looked at Richard.

  “He’s done for. There’s no coming back from this defeat. There will be all kinds of negotiations now, settling Europe back to rights and redrawing borders, but Bonaparte is finished.”

  Mrs. Parsnip nodded, and wiped her eyes with her apron. “Well then, our Davy died fighting for the right thing, eh?”

  “He died a hero, Mrs. Parsnip.” Cressida’s tears trickled unnoticed over her cheeks. “As did all of them.”

  “That’s good,” Worsnop wiped his nose on his sleeve. “‘e’d of liked that, ‘e would.”

  Richard stood. “I’m sure you’d like to be with your family right now…and we can certainly spare you for a few days…”

  “Good God no,” Mrs. Parsnip expostulated. “Best thing fer us is ter go one like we allus do, keepin’ busy.”

  “I might go off t’vicar for a bit, mebbe tomorrer…” Worsnop glanced at his wife. “Like ter ‘ave the lad mentioned of a Sunday.”

  Cressida rose as well, and rounded the table to take Mrs. Parsnip in her arms. “You are our family, Mrs. Parsnip. Never forget that. You only have to ask for anything and if it’s in our power, you’ll have it.”

  Hugs were exchanged, a few more tears shed, and then Richard and Cressida left, knowing that at this moment the Worsnops needed each other more than their master and mistress.

  Silently walking back to the small parlor, Cressida sighed and leaned against Richard for a moment. His arm went around her and he held her thus, taking comfort from the way she tucked herself into him, and the warmth emanating from her body.

  “It’s all so futile, isn’t it?” She stared out the window. “Wars, lives lost…and for what? A few miles of farmland? New borders? New ways to squabble over who owns what?”

  “I agree.” Richard recalled his thoughts about that very topic, way back when he walked through Brussels on that fateful day.

  How long ago that seemed now. A different time and a different life. But some things touched one no matter when or where one happened to be.

  He squeezed Cressida. “I’m so glad I married you.” It popped out of his mouth before he could think about it; an honest and forthright expression of exactly what he was feeling at that moment.

  “And I’m so glad you married me, too.” She tilted her head back and gave him a watery smile.

  “’Scuse me, Ma’am…” A maid’s voice recalled them to the present. “That there lady? She’s a’wantin wine in ‘er room. Dunno if I should give ‘er any?”

  Cressida withdrew from Richard’s arms and turned toward the door. “Give her the whole damn bottle,” she answered. “Perhaps it will sweeten her tongue.”

  “Or knock her out?” asked Richard.

  “Better the wine than me.” Cressida flashed him a little smile, and then left with the maid.

  *~~*~~*

  It wasn’t until about an hour later that Cressida recalled the three small diaries she had tucked away in a desk drawer. She wanted to tell Richard about them, to read them with him beside her.

  A shiver trickled over her spine as she recalled the look in his eyes when he held her close and told her he was happy to have married her.

  Was it possible he was coming to regard her with warmer affections? Did she dare let herself believe that someone could love her like that…that he could love her?

  She would very much like to, of course. What woman didn’t want that kind of affection? But she’d never really believed that she would experience anything like it. Her childhood, although a normal and happy one, had come to an abrupt end with the passing of her mother. And from that point on she’d learned to conceal her emotions. It had been hard work at first, but Aunt Phyllida wa
s not one to encourage such displays. Cressida quickly managed the knack of keeping her own counsel.

  But Richard…he was weakening those walls with his smile, his touch and the gentle way he treated her. She had begun to feel respected, which was a new experience altogether.

  Even when his London acquaintances arrived, with all their airs and graces, he’d not put her down, or sent her away. He’d stood beside her, and expected his guests to treat her with the same respect.

  That was quite surprising, and Cressida found herself rising to the occasion. For one of the first times she could remember, she had become Mrs. Richard Ridlington. It was no longer an act, or an unusual way of thinking about herself.

  As she had faced the supercilious surveillance of the Harewoods, her chin had gone up and she was the mistress of Branscombe Magna. She was Mrs. Ridlington at last.

  There was only one small obstacle to overcome, and tonight she was determined to rectify that as well. Assuming the damned ghost didn’t interfere again.

  Zizi appeared, snuffling around her mistress’s heels.

  “Where have you been, pet?” She walked into the parlor and sat by the window, leaning down to grasp the fuzzy bundle. “Do you like it here? Shall we stay, do you think?”

  A small woof greeted her words and much contented wriggling followed as Cressida tugged and played with Zizi’s ears, sending her into a frenzy of delight.

  Eventually they both eased into a relaxed state of mutual pleasure, Zizi contentedly sprawled over Cressida’s knees and also looking out the window.

  Richard was out there somewhere, either working in the barn or at one of the nearby farms. He seemed to be learning the ropes of estate management very quickly; their conversations were peppered with comments about crops, cattle and soil.

  It was strange, really. She’d not anticipated his enthusiasm for Branscombe Magna. And yet that was her mistake, since not all members of Society were like the Harewoods.

  She rubbed Zizi absently. Delphine Harewood-Lloyd was obviously the driving force behind this visit, since why else would anyone go so far out of their way as to find Branscombe Magna and arrive uninvited?

  And anyone could see her feelings about Richard. Had she come to renew their intimate relationship? If so, she’d chosen an appallingly bad time to do so, because even Cressida knew that there was some sort of “waiting period” after a marriage before a gentleman could return to his mistress’s bed.

  Her mouth turned down at the unpleasant thought. “I don’t know, Zizi,” she said to the dog. “How do I get rid of them? I was so happy just being me. Being us. Now I’m going to have to do all the things I don’t want to do, like watch what I say, and get dressed for dinner. And be polite to people I don’t like…”

  Zizi had little to offer but a wag of her fuzzy haunches and a sneeze.

  “You need a good brushing.” Cressida chucked Zizi’s chin, tickling the one spot she adored. The grin she received in response was thanks enough. “Let’s see to it, shall we? If I have to dress for dinner, then the least you can do is look well-groomed.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Richard’s timing was definitely off. He’d planned on catching Cressida before dinner, just to make sure she was ready to face the Harewoods, and managing to cope with the Worsnop’s loss. It was a lot to throw at her all in one day.

  But he’d ended up in a longer conversation with one of the farmers than he’d planned and by the time he’d returned to Branscombe Magna it was time to change for dinner. Hurrying upstairs, he found that Cressida’s door was closed and he could hear her speaking with one of the maids.

  Having grown up with three sisters, he knew better than to interrupt at this moment, so he took care of his own needs, deciding that formal dinner wear was the only reason he might ever need a valet. Up until now, they’d been much more casual—by mutual consent. But tonight, courtesy demanded they do the pretty for their guests.

  Which was somewhat absurd, since neither Cressida nor Richard cared for any of them.

  But it was the world they inhabited, so they had to make the best of it.

  Fighting with his cravat, he cursed luridly as his fingers refused to produce the required elegant design. He sighed, and after the fifth try, opted for the Mathematical over the Osbaldeston.

  Ready at last, and wondering where he could find a decent valet in the wilds of Devon, he left the room and headed downstairs, to be shocked nearly out of his wits by a thunderous racket threatening to shatter the windows of the hall.

  “Jesus…” he all but ran down the last few treads. “What the hell, Worsnop…” The older man stood straight as a rod next to what looked like something left over from a medieval Chinese battlefield. “Is that a gong?”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “Tells when dinner’s ready better’n saucepan.”

  “It certainly does.” He clutched his heart. “And takes years off one’s life.”

  “But yer ain’t gonna miss yer dinner, then, are yer?”

  “Good point,” replied Richard. “Neither are the three farms to the south of us, I’d guess. However, we don’t have guests too often, so perhaps we can save it for special occasions?”

  “‘Ow am I s’posed ter tell yer dinner’s ready, then?”

  Richard thought about that. “The way you always do.”

  “Pop me ‘ead around t’door and jes’ say it?”

  “Well, perhaps not when we have company…” Richard found himself in the middle of a conversation that might not end well. Or at all. “Never mind. It worked for this evening.” He saw the three Harewoods at the top of the stairs.

  “It did that,” agreed Worsnop. “Oh, and yer dinner’s ready.”

  Shaking his head, Richard sighed and moved to the bottom of the stairs, waiting for the others to descend. Delphine walked ahead of them, a stunning vision in deep rose, the color accentuating the beauty of her full lips, and matching the silk flowers cunningly arranged in her hair. Her necklace was a heavy collar of diamonds and rubies, that made her neck look like a swan’s, sleek and elegant.

  Richard’s first thought was that she was still as lovely as ever. His second thought? That she was quite horridly overdressed for the occasion.

  He managed a smile and a compliment, however. “Lady Harewood-Lloyd. You are an ornament to Branscombe Magna. If you’ll go through to the parlor, I believe sherry is available. Dinner will be served momentarily.”

  “Only if you come with me, darling,” she infused her answer with about as much sensuality as she could manage without exploding.

  Finding himself immune was an odd sensation, but Richard didn’t question it, just embraced it with relief. “You must forgive me. I will await my wife. She should be with us at any minute…”

  A movement at the top of the staircase attracted his attention. It was Cressida, but not a Cressida he could recall seeing before. He completely forgot what he was saying to Delphine, and walked to the bottom step, watching his wife descend.

  She was dressed in spring green, a shade that made her skin look like cream silk and her hair like burning starlight. Her gown fit her perfectly, the long straight skirt falling from her breasts gave her height and elegance, and the silk gathers around her shoulders and over the bodice sparkled as she moved.

  She wore no jewelry, but carried a tiny reticule and her hair was clipped back with a tiny bunch of daisies. She looked—fresh, exquisite, like that first flower of spring after a shower of rain, glittering but soft and innocent.

  The two men were watching her every bit as closely as he was, and he became aware of a very strong urge to seize his wife and hide her from their gazes.

  He managed to tamp it down and merely extended his hand, letting his smile broaden as she neared him. “You are magnificent, Mrs. Ridlington.”

  She smiled back, a laugh in her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Ridlington. You look rather nice yourself.” Taking his arm, she addressed the three people staring at her. “Shall we have a little sherry before
dinner?”

  As if freed from some spell of immobility, the others moved together, Delphine shooting both Richard and Cressida a look that should have incinerated them on the spot.

  Richard felt her hand give his arm a tiny squeeze, and he glanced down at her. Her quick glance up at him revealed quite clearly that she’d seen that look. And thought it was quite amusing.

  He hoped she’d still be amused when dinner concluded, since the upcoming battle—and it was indeed going to be a battle—might be messy, to say the least.

  Vowing to do his best to divert disaster, Richard led his wife and guests into the parlor for sherry, and then, after a relatively brief interlude of awkwardly polite conversation, into the newly refurbished dining room.

  “This is such an interesting room,” observed Delphine as her brother seated her next to Richard. “I’m sure it will be quite lovely once you’ve finished your improvements.”

  Richard revised his earlier assessment. This wasn’t going to be a battle, this was war.

  *~~*~~*

  Cressida took her seat at the opposite end of the table to her husband and smiled serenely down its length. Fortunately, most of the leaves had been removed, so they could still see and speak to each other without squinting or yelling. Which was helpful at this moment, when she was about to embark on an evening of matching wits with an acknowledged Incomparable.

  The fact that Lady Harewood-Lloyd was a vicious and mean-tempered bitch did in no way ameliorate her standing in London, but this wasn’t London. This was Branscombe Magna and manners were appreciated here.

  “Thank you for the compliments, Lady Delphine.” Cressida unfolded her napkin. “I am most honored, since I’m sure your opinion of dining rooms has been perfected by the many fine ones you have seen over the years.” She glanced up at the woman. “Perhaps you might give me some advice on bedrooms as well?”