by M C Beaton
His Lordship’s Pleasure
M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney
Copyright
His Lordship’s Pleasure
Copyright ©1991 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: 9780795320323
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter One
Annabelle, Mrs. Carruthers, walked down the drive of the Manor House, her heart as heavy as lead. In London the Season was about to begin and she would miss it all because her husband had had to flee from town pursued by his many debtors. He must rusticate, he had said, and of course that rustication included his wife.
She did not pine for the balls and parties of the Season, but for the company of her two friends, Matilda, Duchess of Hadshire, and Emma, Comtesse Saint Juste. Emma perhaps might not wish to see her, for before her happy marriage to the comte, Emma had been abducted by her first husband’s murderers, traitors working for the French, and Annabelle feared her husband had taken money from the criminals to assist in that abduction, although he still swore his innocence when he was sober enough to do so. But Matilda would be there; Matilda, who was as unhappily married as Annabelle and therefore a great source of comfort.
Annabelle felt very alone. Such servants as they were able to afford were rough and uncouth. She had no lady’s maid and her husband’s reputation was so bad that no member of the local gentry came to call. The vicar had made a brave visit but had had the port decanter thrown at his head for his pains.
Guy Carruthers had been gambling again and she had gone through his pockets that morning while he slept and removed a few shillings. She was on her way to the mercers in the village of Upper Chipping to buy silk ribbon to refurbish one of her old gowns. The high Cotswold hedges were full of bird song as she let herself out through the large iron gates of the manor beside the deserted lodge and walked down the lane that led to the village. The sky was pale blue and there was warmth in the southerly wind and green buds on the boughs of the trees. Water chuckled in the ditch beside the road and a curious blackbird eyed her suspiciously as if wondering how anyone could look so miserable on such a glorious day.
And Annabelle was miserable. She had lost all hope of ever seeing her marriage recover from the bitter drunken depths to which it had sunk. She found herself hating her husband and dreamt longingly of his death, at the same time finding these evil thoughts frightening, as if she could wish him to death.
She was a tall woman in her early twenties dressed in good but shabby clothes. She had rich brown curly hair and large gray eyes. Her figure was deep bosomed and her waist trim. Her mouth was large and generous, a sad fault in an age where beauty demanded a small, pouting rosebud mouth, but hers was a mouth made for love and laughter and when she was in good spirits—although that was an increasingly rare event—she was extremely attractive.
Outside the village, she passed the high gates and walls of the Darkwood estates. She had heard the servants talking about the return of the wicked Earl of Darkwood from the wars. He seemed to have caused great excitement in the village, and although he was now in his thirties, the villagers remembered every episode of Lord Darkwood’s rakish youth. Although accounted a brave solder, it was rumored that he had not changed his dissipated habits and that a feverish illness was the only thing stopping him from taking up his evil ways again.
He was, thought Annabelle bitterly, probably not a monster at all, but simply a drunken, violent brute like her husband. Mrs. Pomfret, who came in daily to do the rough cleaning, sighed over his good looks and seemed proud to have such a villain in the parish. It was amazing, reflected Annabelle, that behavior that would be deemed disgusting in a member of the lower orders was admired in an earl.
But she was in no danger of meeting him. A rich and wealthy unmarried earl would be feted by the county and would hardly stoop to visit the Carruthers. An impoverished married rake like her husband was shunned. She thought fleetingly of her husband, Guy, as he had been when they were first married. He had been merry and affectionate, and although she had never been in love with him, her life had been pleasant for a few months before he had returned to his favorite pursuits of drinking and gambling. She had learned to stay out of his way because to remonstrate with him meant a beating.
The square Norman tower of St. Charles, the church of Upper Chipping, rose above the trees. Nearly there. It had been a long walk. They could not afford a carriage. Her husband had two fine hunters, but Annabelle had never learned to ride.
She walked down the twisting, narrow village street. The houses built of Cotswold stone gleamed a mellow gold in the sunlight. She pushed open the door of the mercers, ducking her head as she did so because she was tall and the little shop had a low-beamed ceiling. She blinked a little in the darkness of the shop. An elegant lady was being served while a tall man stood waiting beside her. Annabelle hesitated inside the doorway. The lady was finely gowned and Annabelle was now as timid of her peers as any servant girl. She knew one of her gloves had a split in one of the fingers and that the hem of her woolen gown was frayed. The lady was buying print cotton for her housemaids’ dresses and the mercer was saying, “Yes, my lady. Oh, most certainly, my lady.”
Who could she be? Then Annabelle with quickening curiosity remembered that wicked Lord Darkwood had a sister, a married sister at present in residence with him. What was her name? Ah, Lady Trompington. She haggled over the cost of the cotton until the price was reduced to a low enough figure. Then she demanded if there was anything new in silk.
Annabelle gave a little sigh. The ribbons would have to wait for another day. But the man with Lady Trompington heard that sigh and turned around sharply.
Annabelle stood transfixed. This must surely be Lord Darkwood. But he did not look ill in the least, or, for that matter, dissipated. Also, she was so accustomed to hearing any man with a sizable fortune described as handsome that she had expected Lord Darkwood to be nothing out of the common way.
But the tall man looking at her was simply the most handsome man she had ever seen. He had jet black hair and eyes as green as a cat, a strong nose and a thin, well-shaped mouth. His face was tanned and his figure strong. But it was the force of his personality that struck Annabelle like a blow, a heady mixture of sensuality, virility, and humor.
“Why do you not attend to this lady,” said Lord Darkwood, “while my sister examines your silks at her leisure?”
Lady Trompington turned around, a smile on her face that quickly faded as her ice-cold eyes raked up and down Annabelle’s shabby gown.
“Certainly, my lord,” said the mercer. “What can I show you, Mrs. Carruthers?”
Feeling as gauche as a schoolgirl, Annabelle approached the counter. “I wondered if you had any silk ribbons—green, I think.”
The mercer pulled out drawers and extracted spools of ribbons while Annabelle, aware of Lord Darkwood’s eyes on her, felt her hands beginning to tremble. But she saw exactly what she was looking for, a pale green corded-silk ribbon that would do to embellish
one of her gowns that was of light green muslin and had a nasty burn near the hem—thanks to her husband having dropped a lighted cigar on it.
She could decorate the hem and the waist with the ribbon and, with any luck, she might have enough left over for shoulder knots.
“I will take three yards,” she said grandly, childishly hoping that the aristocratic customers would be impressed.
The mercer’s next words hit her like a blow in the face.
“That will be six shillings, ma’am,” he said, measuring out the yards and then raising his scissors.
Annabelle had only four shillings in her purse. Lord Darkwood noticed the way Annabelle’s face went red and then white. With a pathetic dignity, she said, “Send the bill to the Manor, Mr. Simms.”
The mercer put down his scissors with an angry little click. “You have an outstanding bill with me for four pounds, ten shillings, and twopence farthing,” he said.
Annabelle was about to protest, to say that her husband had assured her he had paid that bill, but then realized in the same moment that Guy had been lying as usual.
“I am sorry, Mr. Simms,” she said. “You will be paid.”
The mercer gave her a cold look and then turned eagerly back to Lady Trompington.
Annabelle walked out into the sunlight. Despite the warmth of the day, she found she was shivering. And yet, why should she mind so much? The days of her marriage had been punctuated by humiliations of one sort or another and all brought about by her feckless, drunken husband’s improvidence. She should have stood her ground and paid four shillings toward the outstanding bill. She half turned to go back into the shop but her courage failed her.
People were walking up and down the twisting little main street of the village, which lay in the shadow of the church tower. How happy and carefree they all seemed, thought Annabelle. Upper Chipping had two silk mills and was relatively prosperous by English village standards. It was a closed community, however, and the Carruthers had bought the Manor House a bare two years before, which marked them as outsiders.
Annabelle moved on down the street and then nearly collided with the vicar’s daughter, Cressida Knight. She had been too absorbed in her own misery to see the girl and Cressida, as usual, was wrapped up tightly in one of her rosy fantasies. Cressida was a thin, intense, academic-looking sort of girl. People shook their heads over her, saying that this is what became of giving girls an education and blamed Cressida’s scholarly father for the girl’s rather plain looks and abstracted air, not knowing that inside Cressida’s sober exterior rioted one lurid romance after another. She brightened when she saw Annabelle. Cressida thought it must be marvelous to have a handsome ruin of a husband. She often dreamt that Annabelle, whom she had previously admired from afar, would reform her husband. That was what they did in books, after all.
“Good day, Miss Knight,” said Annabelle. “How d’you do?”
“I am very well,” said Cressida. “How d’you do, Mrs. Carruthers?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Annabelle, wondering what on earth Cressida would do if she replied to that polite English form of greeting that never demands a truthful answer, I am wretched. I feel alone. I am tired of being humiliated. I wish my husband would die.
Annabelle smiled and was just about to move on when the mercer came running up, rather breathless. He handed her a small package. “Lord Darkwood’s compliments, Mrs. Carruthers,” he said. “His lordship has settled your bill and begs you to accept these silks with his compliments.”
As Annabelle’s face flamed scarlet with mortification. Cressida stayed rooted to the ground. Lord Darkwood! The wicked lord. And the attractive Mrs. Carruthers. Here was intrigue!
“Pray return the silks to his lordship with my compliments,” said Annabelle stiffly, “and tell Lord Darkwood that Mrs. Carruthers does not accept charity and that I shall settle your bill as soon as possible.”
The mercer’s face hardened. “I shall return the silks, and should you choose to settle your bill, then I shall return the money to Lord Darkwood, but only then.”
He turned on his heel and stuffing the package of ribbons into one capacious pocket, he strode off.
“Civil of his lordship, but very clumsy,” said Cressida calmly. Cressida always sounded very practical and sensible when she spoke, having learned to keep her mad flights of fancy to herself. “You have had a sore embarrassment, Mrs. Carruthers. I was just about to return to the vicarage for tea. I beg you to join me.”
“I fear I should return home,” said Annabelle in a stiff voice.
“But I crave your company,” said Cressida. “And Papa would be delighted to see you. Good heavens! Look at the time. Our housekeeper will be wondering where I am.” Somehow without touching Annabelle, she managed to urge her along toward the vicarage.
The vicarage was a fifteenth-century building that had the appearance of having subsided comfortably into the surrounding countryside. Ivy rioted over the walls and hung about the little casement windows. Inside it was cool and dark; the parlor into which Cressida ushered Annabelle had low dark beams and a floor polished like glass. There were bowls of spring flowers everywhere. The windows were open with gay-colored chintz curtains fluttering in the breeze.
Cressida’s mother was dead. The vicarage housekeeper, a large roly-poly woman called Mrs. Jenks, promptly appeared with a laden tray. There was no sign of the vicar.
It dawned on Annabelle that she was very hungry indeed. She made light social conversation as she ate and then as she began to feel better, she studied her young hostess.
Cressida was wearing an expensive taffeta gown, but obviously one made by the local dressmaker because it was too fussy and did not flatter her thin figure. Her face was long and pale, her eyes were pale blue, and her mouth a startling red, almost as if it had been painted. She had removed her bonnet, revealing a head of fine light brown hair, which was coming out of its curl.
“Perhaps Lord Darkwood is reformed,” said Cressida, finally returning to the subject that intrigued her most. “After all, all the wild stories about him concern his youth.”
“And what makes you think him reformed?” asked Annabelle.
“His gift of the silks, you see. He has taken an interest in the welfare of others since his return from the wars. Old Mrs. Haggerty had been existing this age on what little food and money Papa sent her, but on his last visit, she said, she had received a visit from his lordship, who came with his man of business and arranged a monthly allowance for her; and not only for Mrs. Haggerty but for other poor widows.”
“I am hardly a poor widow,” said Annabelle wryly, “and I still find his gesture vastly insulting.”
“Of course you do,” said Cressida calmly. “But he probably did not know who you were.”
“I should think I was discussed when I left the shop,” said Annabelle. “His sister, Lady Trompington, was with him and I am sure she asked a great deal of questions. She looked like that kind of lady.”
“I have not met her,” said Cressida, “although I have seen her in church. Very cold and proud. But you shall see her at the ball.”
“Which ball?”
“Oh.” Cressida colored faintly. “The earl is giving a ball and most people have been invited. Would you like Papa to speak to him? Your invitation must have been mislaid.”
“No, Miss Knight,” said Annabelle firmly. “Neither I nor my husband attend social functions these days.”
“What a pity.” Cressida poured more tea. Annabelle must go to the ball. Cressida was persuaded that the wicked earl had fallen in love with poor Mrs. Carruthers. He would challenge Mr. Carruthers to a duel, kill Mr. Carruthers, and flee to the Continent with Annabelle. They would live happily ever after in a ruined castle on the Rhine and Annabelle would invite her, Cressida, to come and visit them, For had it not been for you, my dearest of friends, I would never have found my heart’s desire.
Aloud, Cressida said, “Then you must advise me on a gown to we
ar. What color do you think would suit me best? Papa says I should wear white, but I do not think it becomes me.”
“I should be glad to,” said Annabelle, “but I do not think I should find the courage to go to the mercers with you.”
“There is no need for that,” said Cressida. “I have the material here. My aunt, Lady Kitson, is very rich and sends me bolts of cloth from London. I am to go to her in the Little Season for my come-out. I shall be eighteen then.”
“Eighteen,” said Annabelle half to herself. “How lovely. I remember being eighteen.” She spoke as if she were looking back down long years instead of back over only six of them.
Cressida jumped to her feet. “Come with me, dear Mrs. Carruthers, and let me know what you think.”
She led the way out of the parlor, up an old wooden staircase, and into a small room that led off to the first landing. Bolts of silks, merinos, taffetas, chintzes, and muslins were stacked up on shelves.
Annabelle blinked. “You have more cloth than the mercer,” she said. “Let me see now. What would be suitable?”
She fingered the materials and then took down a bolt of ice-blue silk and took it to the window. “This, I think,” said Annabelle. “It is the color of your eyes. You need a simple style with a square neckline and puffed sleeves, but with many deep flounces at the hem. High-waisted, of course. Perhaps the puff sleeves slashed to show white silk and I could make a wreath for your hair, white and blue silk roses. Yes, I think that would do. In fact, if you would allow me, Miss Knight, I could make it for you. I am a good needlewoman.”
Plots raced through Cressida’s mind. Annabelle must go to the ball, but she must look like a heroine so that Lord Darkwood would fall even more in love with her and fight that duel.
“I do not know what to do with the rest of the stuff,” she said with affected languor. “Perhaps you would be so good as to take a bolt of the wretched stuff off my hands.”
“I could not,” said Annabelle, coloring up as she remembered her recent mortification.
