Regency Debutantes

by Margaret McPhee

  If anything, Ravensmede’s feet dragged.

  ‘My lord, I’m very late.’ Agitation raised her voice, and she tugged at his arm to propel him faster.

  His lordship stopped stock-still. ‘What are you so afraid of?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  A cynical brow raised. ‘I’ll speak to your uncle. The situation may change if he realises that your shoddy treatment has not gone unnoticed.’

  Kathryn paled at the very thought. Heaven forbid that he should do such a thing! ‘No!’ She licked her suddenly dry lips. ‘Thank you, but no. It would serve only to make matters worse.’

  Ravensmede looked at her, then slowly resumed walking towards Green Street. Once they reached the Marchant residence he loosened Rollo’s load and made to mount the steps up to the front door.

  ‘Lord Ravensmede.’ Kathryn gently pulled at his arm.

  ‘I won’t see you struggle beneath this weight.’

  Her fingers tightened around the broad band of muscle. She looked up into his face and bit at her bottom lip. ‘Very well. Then please come this way.’ She made to walk around the side of the house.

  The Viscount of Ravensmede showed no sign of moving. ‘I find I have a preference for the front door. I’ve never used a servants’ entrance in my life, and I don’t intend to do so now.

  Kathryn’s heart missed a beat. The blood drained from her face. She composed a breath. ‘Please, my lord.’

  The green eyes held hers, and in his gaze was understanding and determination. ‘It’s better this way,’ he said softly, and, tucking her hand into his arm, walked up the steps.

  The bell rang. And in that moment of waiting, Kathryn was never more aware of the absurdity of her situation. The tall handsome aristocrat by her side, a sack of potatoes under one arm, her own hand tucked in the other, standing at the front door of the house in Green Street for all the world to see. Footsteps sounded from within. The trickle of fear surged and she felt suddenly that she might be sick. She tried to remove her hand from Lord Ravensmede’s arm.

  His lordship’s hold tightened.

  The door opened.

  Kathryn swallowed hard.

  ‘I’m here to call upon Mr Marchant,’ said Lord Ravensmede and thrust the sack into the unsuspecting manservant’s hands. The sack was followed by Ravensmede’s card.

  The manservant stared first at the potatoes, then at Lord Ravensmede, and finally at Kathryn. He blinked once or twice, seemingly unable to find words.

  Ravensmede gestured Kathryn in ahead of him. ‘After you, Miss Marchant.’ Once within the hallway he raised Kathryn’s hand to his lips. ‘So fortuitous to have met you again,’ he said gallantly, and finally released her.

  ‘Lord Ravensmede,’ she said, and gave a small curtsy. Even her breath was shaky.

  ‘Ever your servant,’ he said and bowed.

  With a very straight back, and very precise steps, Kathryn walked away…while she still could.

  Only then did the manservant remember himself enough to stop gaping and fetch the master of the house.

  Lord Ravensmede was wiping his hands on a pristine white handkerchief when Henry Marchant entered the drawing room.

  ‘Lord Ravensmede! What an unexpected pleasure.’ Mr Marchant bustled forward, unable to believe just who had called upon him. His lordship might be considered one of the worst rake-hells in London, but, as the current Viscount of Ravensmede, heir to an exceptionally wealthy earldom, and in receipt of a considerable allowance, he was not a man that Henry Marchant felt any inclination to snub. Ravensmede made the Marchant monies look like a pile of pennies, and he was what Henry for all his hard work could never hope to become—an aristocrat. As the initial surprise waned Henry began to calculate just how advantageous Lord Ravensmede’s visit might prove. Mr Marchant was, after all, in possession of a young and attractive daughter, and his lordship had ever been known to have an eye for a beautiful woman. The possibilities danced before him. ‘Please take a seat. Would you care for a drink?’

  ‘Brandy, if you have any.’

  ‘Most certainly,’ said Mr Marchant. He poured the brandy into two crystal glasses and passed one to Lord Ravensmede.

  Ravensmede made himself comfortable in the chair and leisurely perused the surrounding room before turning his attention to Henry Marchant. ‘Perhaps you may be able to assist me, Mr Marchant.’

  Mr Marchant’s chins wobbled in delight. ‘Of course, my lord, in any way that I can.’

  ‘It is the most peculiar of situations.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The older man leaned forward.

  ‘I chanced upon your niece while I was out. She was carrying a sack of potatoes.’

  There was the smallest silence before Mr Marchant spoke. ‘Potatoes, you say?’

  ‘Most definitely potatoes,’ said Ravensmede, and waited.

  A subtle pink coloration crept into Henry Marchant’s complexion. ‘I don’t understand. What on earth would Kathryn be doing with potatoes?’

  ‘My question precisely, sir. Naturally no gentleman would allow a lady to carry such a burden.’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ Mr Marchant added in bluff agreement.

  ‘I therefore carried the potatoes in her stead.’

  ‘You?’ said Mr Marchant weakly.

  ‘Me,’ said the Viscount of Ravensmede, and smiled grimly.

  ‘Good God!’ came the whispered reply.

  ‘Financial straits are always embarrassing, sir, but it is a gentleman’s duty to spare his womenfolk.’

  The colour of Mr Marchant’s cheeks deepened to puce. He stuttered so much as to almost choke on the words. ‘M-m-my finances are all in order. You are mistaken, sir, in your thoughts. I employ a house full of servants.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Ravensmede paused. ‘Then why was Miss Marchant sent to do a servant’s job?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but rest assured, my lord, I shall discover what this business is about.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Kathryn is very grateful for my family’s charity and tries to make herself useful in return. Perhaps that was her intention in this instance—well meant, but poorly judged. There is, after all, no fathoming the workings of the female mind!’ Mr Marchant laughed. It sounded false and uneasy in the room.

  Ravensmede raised a single eyebrow.

  Mr Marchant hurriedly cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying, I mean to get to the bottom of the matter. Kathryn came to us when my brother tragically died some number of years ago. She has been welcomed into the bosom of my family. I’ve never been one to flout my duty, my lord, and I trust that no one would suggest otherwise.’

  ‘Heaven forbid, sir.’ Ravensmede took a swig of brandy and stood to leave. ‘You stock a fine brandy, Mr Marchant.’

  Soothed by Lord Ravensmede’s response, Mr Marchant sought to redeem something of the situation. The thought of a match between the Viscount and Lottie was still rather tantalising. ‘If you would like to call again, my lord, under more auspicious circumstances, I have some rather splendid cigars.’

  ‘How very kind,’ said Ravensmede with an irony that was lost on Henry Marchant, and departed.

  Lord Cadmount attacked the game pie with obvious exuberance. ‘Nothing like an afternoon practising the pugilistic arts to fire up a man’s appetite. Didn’t mean to land you such a planter.’

  ‘You got lucky. It was a very respectable left hook, and my mind was elsewhere.’ Three hours’ boxing had not taken the edge off Ravensmede’s disgruntlement. It was a sentiment that had failed to shift since his earlier encounter with Miss Kathryn Marchant.

  ‘So I noticed.’ Cadmount forked a great mound of meat into his mouth. There was nothing but the sound of cutlery scraping against plates and noisy mastication coming from Cadmount. He licked a smear of gravy from his lip. ‘Ain’t been happy for a while. Can see it in your face. Been winning at the card tables; cellar is stocked with the best of bottles; plenty of luck with the ladies too. But something ain’t right. Known y
ou too long for you to pull the wool over my eyes.’ Cadmount resumed his attack on the enormous piece of pie before him. ‘Pressure from the old man getting too much? Is he still trying to force that heiress upon you—what’s her name—Pitten?’

  ‘Francesca Paton.’ Had it been anyone else sitting across the table, Ravensmede would have quelled them with an arrogant stare. Archie Cadmount was different. He was one of the few people that Ravensmede trusted. The two men were as dissimilar in temperament as they were in looks. But since their youthful days at Eton they had remained true friends. And because it was Cadmount, Ravensmede spoke the truth. ‘And, no, things are no worse than usual. My father can say what he will, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let him dictate my life.’

  ‘Still sore about him forbidding your commission?’

  ‘While you were risking your life in the Peninsula to put a halt to Boney’s forces, I was here doing what I’ve been doing for the last twelve years, what I’m still doing. Men are dying for England and I’m here drinking, gambling, whoring…What’s the bloody point?’

  ‘Ain’t your fault that you’re heir to the earldom. Ain’t your father’s fault either. Maybury just wants to ensure things are safe for the future. Only son and all that. Can’t have you going off and getting yourself killed. Can’t blame the old man for that.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Ravensmede. ‘But tell me this, Caddie—if you hadn’t been obliged to come home because of your brother, would you choose to still be out there fighting, or sitting here in London leading a comfortable existence?’

  ‘Point taken. But if you ain’t happy with things as they are, perhaps it’s time for a change. Perhaps Maybury is right, perhaps it is time for a wife and a nursery.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth, Caddie, not you too! I’ll marry when I’m good and ready and not before.’

  ‘Stubborn to the bone,’ murmured his friend. ‘Always were, always will be. Stubborn and wilful.’

  Ravensmede gave him a crooked smile. ‘You know me so well.’

  A little pie remained on Cadmount’s plate. He set about remedying that with one final flourish of his fork and pondered on his friend’s unhappiness. Clearly a change of subject was required. Something to cheer Ravensmede. Something with which the Viscount was enamoured. He paused to savour the richly flavoured gravy. ‘By God, but that was good. If you ever tire of Lamont’s cooking, send him to me.’ The claret was drained in one gulp and he eyed Ravensmede. Inspiration came to him. ‘Made any progress with the Marchant chit?’

  Ravensmede sipped his wine with a nonchalance that he did not feel. ‘I happened to chance upon Miss Marchant while I was out this afternoon. She’s not treated well within the Marchant household, but refuses to consider possible ways out.’ He looked away to conceal the depth of his emotion. ‘Blasted girl’s pride will be her downfall.’

  A snort of laughter sounded in the dining room. ‘Turned you down again, did she?’

  The blue-shadowed jaw-line tightened. ‘Something like that.’

  Cadmount snorted again. ‘Good for her.’

  Ravensmede did not want to reveal the full extent of his encounter with Kathryn Marchant. He knew full well what he had offered the girl. Could still taste the sourness that the ignoble offer left upon his tongue. And yet he wanted her, even here, even now, knowing all that he did. Any mention of what she had been doing or her tired appearance would be an act of betrayal. Instinctively he knew that Kathryn would not want others to know of her circumstance. Living as she did could not be pleasant. He thought of her lugging the sack of potatoes across St James’s Park, of her seeking refuge behind the old oak tree, ashamed to be seen. Despite her dusty worn clothes and her red chapped hands she had been happy, humming that tune, with a faraway look in her eyes. Happy, at least until he had arrived. He set his fork down upon his plate.

  Cadmount eyed him with interest.

  Ravensmede’s finger tapped thoughtfully against the stem of the glass. ‘There must be something I can do, Archie. I’ll be damned if I’ll just leave her to that family’s devices.’

  Lord Cadmount knew things must be serious. Ravensmede never, but never, used his given name. It looked as if Kathryn Marchant might be just the tonic that Ravensmede needed. ‘She turned you down, old man, and if she ain’t under your protection then there’s nothing you can do. Unmarried lady and all that. And she is a lady,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t look too good for li’l Miss Marchant if you start charging in there, pistols blazing. Not to put too fine a point on it, Ravensmede, any association with you is likely to leave a lady’s reputation a little the worse for wear. No offence intended.’

  Ravensmede thought grimly of his meeting with Mr Marchant. Hardly charging in with pistols blazing, rather a case of letting the man know that his treatment of the girl hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  ‘Best thing you could do is to stay away.’ A large dollop of puréed potato was scooped into Cadmount’s mouth. It did not prevent his continued conversation. ‘Unless, of course, you’re prepared to contemplate a more respectable alternative.’ The adroit blue gaze slid to Ravensmede.

  Lord Ravensmede picked at the fillet of sole, before pushing his plate away.

  ‘Stands to reason,’ Cadmount released a loud and resonant burp, ‘why did you turn down the splendid Mrs White if your interest in Miss Marchant isn’t in earnest? I mean, the Winsome Widow’s practically offering herself on a platter. Don’t think that I’d send her packing. And from where I was standing, it looked like you were about to devour the Marchant chit on the dance floor. If it ain’t serious, why else did you waltz with her?’

  Ravensmede’s eyes glowered in the candlelight. ‘Why indeed?’

  Cadmount affected not to notice. ‘I know you’ll go your own way, you always do. But for what my humble opinion is worth, if you’ve any regard for the girl you’ll stop sniffing round her skirts and leave well alone. There’s no family to hush a scandal, and no man waiting in the wings to salvage her reputation. Don’t ruin her life, Nick…unless you mean to offer her marriage.’

  One haughty eyebrow cocked. ‘Still on that old theme? I’m beginning to think that you’re in league with m’father.’ He savoured the taste of the claret against his palate. ‘I’ve no intention of marrying Miss Kathryn Marchant or anyone else.’

  ‘Good thing you’ll be leaving her alone then. Besides …’ he looked pointedly at Ravensmede ‘…I don’t suppose the chit is quite what Maybury has in mind for your bride.’

  ‘Don’t push it, Caddie,’ Ravensmede said quietly.

  Cadmount laughed, and shrugged off his serious garb. ‘Then it’s to Brooks’s this evening and the faro tables.’ He slapped the table and belched again, grinning all the while. ‘It’s not as though Henry Marchant will starve or beat the girl.’ And with that parting comment Lord Cadmount went to relieve himself.

  Ravensmede remained alone at the dining table. Starvation. Beatings. For some reason the thoughts weighed uneasy on his mind. He rubbed at his chin and tried to banish the image of a small heart-shaped face. His dark brows puckered. Damn Kathryn Marchant’s pride, and damn Archibald Cadmount’s warnings. He could no sooner leave the girl to her fate than he could pluck out his own eyes. Whether she wanted it or not, Miss Marchant was about to become the recipient of his help…whatever guise that it might come in.

  Chapter Four

  It was ten o’clock and Kathryn was busy helping Nancy wash the linen. The coarse soap stung at their hands as they scrubbed within the cold water, but neither woman complained. They chatted about Nancy’s young man and her sister’s new baby boy.

  ‘’E’s as bright as a button, miss, truly ‘e is. All downy black ‘air and big blue eyes, and such a big smile for a little fella.’ The front door bell sounded. ‘Wonder who that could be?’

  Kathryn tucked a stray curl back up into her cap with a soapy finger. ‘It’s rather early for visitors. Unless, of course, there was some scandalous affair last night at Lady Campbell’s after Aunt Anna and Lottie lef
t. Just think what they might have missed!’

  The scullery filled with their chuckles.

  ‘You ain’t ‘alf a laugh, miss.’

  A delicious aroma of eggs and chops and toast wafted through from the kitchen. Kathryn’s stomach growled so loudly that Nancy pulled a face.

  ‘Lawk! Sounds like someone ain’t had no breakfast!’

  Kathryn just shrugged and carried on with the scrubbing. Her stomach protested at being ignored.

  Nancy peered suspiciously at the other girl’s pale face. ‘’Ave you ate somethin’ this mornin', miss?’

  ‘There was a to-do over the potatoes yesterday that displeased my aunt. Breakfast is forbidden for the next week.’

  Nancy knew exactly what the ‘to-do’ was about. Indeed, the servants had talked of little else since that fancy lord had brought Kathryn and the potatoes home. But Nancy was wise enough to make no mention of it.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not really hungry. It’s just that smell causing all the rumbling down there.’ Kathryn’s eyes dropped down to indicate her stomach.

  ‘But you didn’t ‘ave no dinner last night neither. Let me get you somethin'.’

  Kathryn’s soapy hand reached out towards the maidservant’s, and squeezed it affectionately. ‘Thank you, but no. I don’t want you getting into trouble on my behalf, and it would be just like Mrs Moultrie to spot what you were about. She seems to inform my aunt of every detail. No, Nancy, kind as your offer is, I shall last very well until lunch.’

  ‘She’s a bloody bitch, that one,’ came the sharp reply. ‘Sorry, miss. I know I shouldn’t be swearin’ in front of you, but I couldn’t help myself. She’s a mean-hearted woman.’

  Kathryn smiled at what a shock it would cause if she were to ask Nancy to which woman precisely the maid was referring. Swallowing down her bad grace, which she feared was getting out of hand, she changed the subject. ‘When will you visit your sister again?’