by M C Beaton
Milady in Love
M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney
Copyright
Milady in Love
Copyright ©1987 by Marion Chesney
Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.
ISBN Mobipocket edition: 9780795319990
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ONE
Viscount Anselm was thirty-three years of age, handsome, and rich. He was unmarried. And yet no one who knew his recent past was at all surprised that he was still unwed.
Ten years earlier, because of his extraordinary beauty, he had been as much the talk of London as any reigning belle. His golden hair, his sweet smile, and his charm made him a prime favorite with the ladies, while his strong physique, his ability with a small sword, and his reputation as a first-class whip ensured him the admiration of the sporting fraternity.
Then his uncle Viscount Anselm died, leaving in his care a gaggle of misses in their teens: three daughters, two orphaned nieces, and two illegitimate daughters.
The late viscount had been a crusty widower. He had alienated the affections of every respectable female relative who might have stepped in to aid the new viscount in finding husbands for this brood of young ladies he had inherited along with the title and his uncle’s vast fortune.
He could have married, of course, and let his wife take some of the burden from his shoulders. But the young misses, with their hair-raising escapades, their flirtations with unsuitable men, and their constant giggles, kept him so busy that by the time he had escorted the last of them to the altar, he was a changed man.
He distrusted and disliked all females under the age of forty. The cares of his estates along with the cares of chaperonage had added stern lines to his face, and his once sweet and generous mouth was now perpetually set in firm, uncompromising lines.
Weary of the hot drawing rooms of London and the mindless frivolities of Season after weary Season, he let his town house and retired to his country residence, Trewent Castle in Cornwall.
Trewent Castle had been a lazar house in the old days and then a state prison. It had amused the late viscount to take it as his country home and then do very little about decorating or modernizing it. It stood on the cliffs, over-looking the sea, a stark battlemented place built of yellow bricks and surrounded by high grim walls topped with iron spikes, which had been placed there originally to keep the prisoners from escaping.
The new viscount planned to settle down to a quiet bachelor existence.
And then, only that week, the blow had fallen. His uncle, he knew, had been wild and courageous in his youth and along with a band of other young Englishmen had done much to rescue French aristocrats from the guillotine. It appeared the ever-grateful Comte de la Falaise had died in Lisbon and left his daughter to the care of Viscount Anselm, without stating which viscount. This girl, a seventeen-year-old named Yvonne, was barely out of the schoolroom.
The Portuguese lawyers said this Yvonne would be arriving at Falmouth at the end of the month. They took it for granted that the viscount would accept the guardianship without question.
He traveled to London to consult his own lawyers. The head of the firm, Mr. Venables, shook his hoary head. Lord Anselm was within his rights to send a letter to Portugal by the next packet, refusing the guardianship. If he decided to accept it, however, said Mr. Venables, then the best advice he could give was to find some governess or respectable female to take the whole business off his hands.
“Again?” demanded the viscount testily. What about all those other governesses and companions he had hired to look after the late viscount’s brood? Two had fallen in love with him to the point of embarrassment, one had become pregnant by a footman, and the others were so weak and silly they had proved useless.
“You have been very unlucky, my lord,” agreed Mr. Venables. “But I urge you to place an advertisement in the newspapers, asking for a lady of mature years and long experience. Besides, this is only one young lady. And brought up in Portugal! They are very strict there. There will be nothing of the hoyden about her. Advertise locally. You have perhaps a better chance of finding someone of more stable character in the country than in London,” added Mr. Venables, who had a very low opinion of the city in which he conducted his highly successful practice.
Although he did not entertain much hope of finding any reasonable-minded woman in the length and breadth of Britain, the viscount placed the suggested advertisement.
To his amazement, on the very day the advertisement appeared, his butler told him that a lady had answered it and was waiting in the hall.
“Put her in the library,” said the viscount with a sigh. “Send in wine and biscuits. I shall join her in a few minutes. What is her name?”
“A Miss Patricia Cottingham from Middle Dean.”
“From Middle Dean? Do you know the family, Fairbairn?”
Fairbairn, who was as old and hoary as Mr. Venables, shook his head. “Can’t say as I can bring them to mind, my lord.”
The viscount made his way down the oaken staircase some ten minutes later.
He did not usually keep callers of any rank or description waiting, but then he was sure this Miss Cottingham would prove to be another faded, genteel, long-nosed antidote.
What a gloomy place this is! he thought not for the first time as the chill and bleakness of his home struck him afresh.
It seemed as if he had never had any time to redecorate it, what with squiring young misses to balls and routs in London in the Season and taking them to fashionable spas and watering places out of it.
He walked into the library and looked in surprise at the lady who was waiting for him.
She was certainly not in the first flush of youth; he thought she might be only a couple of years younger than he was. But she was plainly and stylishly dressed in a simple gray gown covered with a blue pelisse. She had thick fair hair under a neat straw bonnet. Her face was a calm oval, and she had well-spaced clear blue eyes. Her figure was shapely, and she held herself with an air.
But it was not her looks that struck the viscount so forcibly. It was the calm expression in her eyes and the way she stood very still, waiting for him, without fluttering or fussing.
For her part, Miss Cottingham saw a very tall man with guinea-gold hair cut in a Brutus crop. He was not dressed in any of the current extremes of fashion. His clothes were suitable for the country. He wore fawn leather breeches and top boots. A black riding coat, beautifully tailored, set off his strong shoulders and broad chest to advantage. His eyes were very blue and framed with thick sooty lashes. His nose was high-bridged, and his chin was firm. His eyelids were very heavy, which gave a strangely sensual, brooding look to a face that was otherwise rather severe.
“Miss Cottingham?”
She curtsied. “My lord.”
“Pray be seated. You came very promptly in answer to my advertisement. Are you in some lady’s employ at present?”
“No, my lord. I was employed by a Mrs. Benham in Exeter. She died earlier th
is year, leaving me an excellent reference—I have it, along with a previous reference—and a small sum of money. It was a long time since I had enjoyed a holiday, and I was grateful for the respite her bequest allowed me. Now I am ready to work again.”
All this was said in a calm, steady voice.
“Let us, then, take the post with Mrs. Benham. How many young misses were in your charge?”
“Five, my lord. I have the reference here.”
“I shall look at it later. In the meantime, I would rather you described the nature of your employment to me.”
“Very well, my lord. I was with the family three years. I instructed the younger girls in the use of the globes, Italian, needlework, and in playing the pianoforte, as well as writing and spelling. The two elder girls—twins—I coached for their come-out: how to curtsy, hold a fan, make conversation, and dress in a genteel manner.”
The butler came in with cakes and wine and set the tray on a low table.
“We shall help ourselves,” said the viscount, dismissing him.
When he had poured Miss Cottingham a glass of wine and when she had refused the cake and biscuits, he leaned back in his chair and said, “Tell me about your family, Miss Cottingham. Are they from Middle Dean?”
“No, my lord. They are from Pendry in Norfolk. I came to Exeter in answer to Mrs. Benham’s advertisement. On her death, I found myself lodgings in Middle Dean.”
“And your parents?”
“Both of them are dead, my lord. My father was vicar of St. Edmund’s in Pendry. On his death, Mama and I found he had left very little. We struggled along. When Mama died a year later, I decided to make my own way in the world.”
A gloomy greenish light filtered through the leaded windows. A huge grandfather clock beat out the time in a corner, and the crackling fire began to hiss as rain pattered down the chimney.
Lord Anselm found himself touched by Miss Cottingham’s story. She had stated the details in a matter-of-fact voice, but he thought she had had a hard time of it.
He came to a decision.
“The situation is this, Miss Cottingham. My ward, Yvonne de la Falaise, will be arriving at the end of the month from Portugal. I have never seen her. She is French and has been brought up in Lisbon. I do not know if she can even speak English.
“I want a sensible lady to educate her enough so that she may be presented in London during the Season when she becomes, I think, nineteen years of age. I have no time to busy myself personally with such matters. Your job would be, in effect, to take the weight of the guardianship from my shoulders.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
“Let me have your references—thank you—but I doubt I shall even trouble to read them. Character is what matters and not references.
“It may strike you as odd that I should come to a decision so quickly, but I confess this matter wearies me already, and I have not even seen the girl.
“I shall travel to Falmouth to meet her, and when she is safely back here, I shall send my carriage for you. It has begun to rain. You had better go home by carriage. Make sure the coachman takes note of your address. Now, as to the matter of your salary. May I suggest fifty pounds a year?”
“You are very generous, my lord.”
“You have to be more than just a governess. You must also be friend, companion, and substitute mother. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He tugged at the bellpull beside his chair and ordered his carriage to be brought around to the front of the castle.
While they were waiting, he chatted about local affairs, all the time watching her calm face and graceful figure with pleasure.
So impressed was he with Miss Cottingham that he escorted her to the door of the castle himself and waited until she had been driven off.
Then he turned to his butler. “You may tell all future callers the post of governess has been filled, Fairbairn.”
The viscount smiled with satisfaction. If there was one sensible woman left in England, then he had found her. Now all he had to do was to meet the chit at Falmouth when the boat from Portugal arrived and turn her over to Miss Cottingham’s capable hands.
“Those, milady,” said Gustave Bouvet, servant to Yvonne de la Falaise, “are the white cliffs of England.”
“Tien!” exclaimed the little figure wrapped in furs beside him. “Then their size has been much magnified by report. Not impressive. I know I am not going to like this country, Gustave. What is England? A country without sun, I have heard, with great fat Englishmen eating the roast beef all day long. Pah!”
Gustave remained silent, but he felt depressed. The day was gray and cold. Already he missed the sunshine of Portugal. As Yvonne’s father had slowly and steadily gambled away his fortune, his servants had left one by one, until there was only Gustave, old Gustave, who stayed without wages and who had now transferred all his crusty devotion from the comte to this little child-woman, who was his late master’s daughter.
Yvonne spoke English very well, having had an English governess until two years before her father’s death, when even that worthy lady had tendered her resignation, saying she would not work for nothing. Gustave knew only a few words.
So when they landed, it was Yvonne who had to battle with the vexatious ceremonies of the customs house, where surly men tried to exact double fees for their baggage.
“And where is this milord who is to be my guardian?” demanded Yvonne, emerging flushed and triumphant after warring successfully with a rapacious customs official.
A liveried footman appeared at her elbow and enunciated with difficulty, “Do I address Lady de la False?”
“Yes,” said Yvonne impatiently, “if by ‘False’ you mean Falaise.”
“I am to take you to the Three Tuns, where my lord, the Viscount Anselm, awaits you.”
He led the way to where a carriage was waiting outside the customs house. Yvonne’s trunks were strapped on the back and the carriage moved off.
She looked curiously out the window. She had heard much about the wealth and cleanliness of English towns. But Falmouth appeared to consist of one long, narrow, rather dirty street with mean-looking houses crouched on either side.
But the harbor was very fine and commanded by Pendennis Castle, now a black silhouette against the darkening sky.
After a very short journey, they stopped outside the Three Tuns. The footman said his lord had waited dinner until her arrival and was abovestairs in a private parlor.
She followed the footman up a narrow staircase and along a twisting corridor.
He threw open a door at the end and announced her.
Yvonne tripped lightly in. Gustave stood in the doorway, awaiting his mistress’s orders.
Viscount Anselm rose to his feet at Yvonne’s entrance. His heart sank at the sight of her. She was the epitome of everything he detested in the gentler sex. And her very appearance and manner spelled Trouble.
He had persuaded himself that this new charge would be a meek, convent-bred foreigner, crashed, he hoped, into suitable modesty by a stern and disciplined upbringing.
The frivolous little creature in front of him looked uncrushable.
Her skin was golden, and she had huge black eyes fringed with ridiculously long silky lashes.
She had shrugged back the heavy fur mantle from her shoulders to reveal a dainty gown of India jaconet muslin cut quite low at the neck and ending at the hem in three deep flounces. Her hat was of gold straw chip, wide-brimmed and tilted to one side of her head in a decidedly rakish manner to reveal a head of thick black glossy curls.
She was quite small in stature, and she promptly sat down on a chair at the head of the table and looked up at the viscount in open admiration.
“Well, my lord,” were the first words he heard Yvonne utter, “this is much better than I thought. I expected a fat old Englishman.”
“Is that your servant?” demanded Lord Anselm, looking over her head to where Gustave, sallow and la
ntern-jawed, stood by the door.
“My Gustave. Yes.”
“I am surprised. I should have expected a female servant to accompany you.”
“And so she would, had there been any left. Papa gambled so much, he had no money to pay anyone, and only dear Gustave stayed.” She kissed the tips of her fingers to Gustave, whose nutcracker face relaxed slightly, which was the most he could ever achieve in the way of a smile.
The earl signaled to his footman. “Take Gustave below and show him to his quarters. Tell the landlord to serve dinner immediately.”
When the door had closed behind them, he sat down at the table next to Yvonne. “You must be exhausted after your journey, my lady.”
