‘Please … can we forget that now? I shall manage well enough, I thank you, and I’d be most grateful if you would think no more about the device I used. It was an emergency and I shall never do it again.’
‘You won’t have to. It’ll be all over Richmond by this time tomorrow.’
With any other man of so short an acquaintance, especially one whose compassion was so underdeveloped, she would have asked him to leave her to sort out her problems alone. But having used Lord Elyot’s good name and linked it so firmly with her own, she could not now tell him it was nothing to do with him when it so patently was. And unfortunately he was right about Hurst spilling the news. She’d had enough evidence of the power of his malicious tongue to know that the damage would spread like oil on water. Why this had not occurred to her at the time she would never know, her only excuse being that she was taken unawares.
‘No, you’re mistaken,’ she said, rising. ‘I know him. He’ll leave.’
But the other matter had not been resolved to Lord Elyot’s satisfaction, and he was determined she should not escape so lightly. He stood before her just one step too close for comfort, his dark head inclined towards her. ‘For a lady who thinks it best to steer clear of men, I’d say you were not making a very convincing job of it, wouldn’t you? Could it be that you’re sending out the wrong signals? Eh?’
‘No, my lord. I think it more likely that they’re being wilfully misinterpreted, if indeed there are any signals to be seen.’
‘Really. But to adopt a man’s name for such an intimate relationship for whatever reason seems to me more like a miscalculation on your part, for if you believe I shall simply ignore a signal like that, which is what you suggest, then you have miscalculated, my lady. I take such an appeal for help very seriously.’
‘You were not meant to know. If you had not turned up—’
‘If I’d not turned up when I did, you’d have had that wretch in your house for the next few weeks. You’re too generous for your own good, and far too impulsive to be let loose on your own in a place like this. You must admit that you’ve not made a very impressive beginning, have you?’
‘I’ve hardly had time in five weeks, but thank you for the vote of confidence.’ She made as if to turn and walk away, but he anticipated her, facing her into a curve of the high yew hedge where she could not turn without standing almost on his toes.
She felt again the solid and potent bulk of him at her back, his warmth through her clothes, the unaccustomed and mysterious electric charge that had a strange effect on the softness deep inside her, and it was as she had been at the dance, too tired and exhilarated to feel anything except an inexplicable urge to surrender herself without protest. It seemed then not to matter that she couldn’t approve of a man who took mistresses instead of marrying, who used his power to restrict the freedom of others, and the unacceptable elements faded into nothing as he moved closer and placed his arms across her, pulling her against him until, this time, his mouth was against her ear, whispering, beguiling.
‘Hush, my beauty. You need a man’s protection, if ever a woman did.’
Oh, yes … yes … I need your protection … no other …
She kept her head turned as he stopped her from twisting away, but his warm breath was upon her neck, emptying her lungs of air with a sudden shudder of delight. ‘My lord,’ she said, willing herself to concentrate, ‘I am not … th … things are not as they seem … please … let me go. What happened that evening was a terrible mistake … and today also … and I deeply regret …’ But his arms held her fast while one hand eased her face upwards and, before she could say more about how wrong he had got it, her protests were tenderly extinguished under his lips, holding her mind in a limbo between excitement and fear.
If she had thought that this might be a quick peck meant to tease her, the idea dissolved within seconds as his mouth moved expertly over hers, unhurried and assertive like that of a man who knows how to change a woman’s protest to wanting. Yet Amelie knew almost nothing of kissing. It was not something she and her late husband had ever practised, and now it was her complete lack of proficiency that became obvious to Lord Elyot, who knew from years of experience the difference between a novice and an unwilling woman.
Though surprised, he was unable to resist letting her know of it. ‘At last, my lady,’ he whispered, lapping at her lips, ‘I have discovered an art at which you are not so accomplished. A little more tutoring, perhaps?’
She was not ready for the taunt, nor could she pretend not to know exactly what he meant. Angrily, she pushed herself out of his arms and, if he had not held her, she would have fallen into the hedge. ‘Let go of me!’ she snarled. ‘I should have expected a man like you to take advantage of a lady in such a manner, Lord Elyot. Please leave me.’
He did, but not without having the last word. ‘I think, my lady, that you should not be the one to be complaining about taking advantage. That was to even the score, nothing more. Your servant, ma’am.’
She had little choice but to watch him march briskly away towards the house, knowing that he would find his way out as easily as he’d found his way in.
Planting tulip bulbs was as good a way as any of dissipating anger, though this time it was only partly effective, even after Amelie had lectured the polished copper bulbs on being fortunate enough to have everything they needed, that they had nothing to complain of, not even a lack of companionship. It was the missing element in her own life that no talking-to would be able to reverse.
Signifying everything she had lacked in her marriage, Lord Elyot’s kiss had brought home to her for the second time how little attention she paid to her own physical needs, perhaps deliberately. His hands on her body, his desirous eyes, his deeply moving voice, his authoritative manner that both riled and fascinated her. Josiah had had other sterling qualities, but this was the first time a man had aroused in her such intensely disturbing emotions, combining dislike and fear with a yearning to be near him. He would never know, she told the fecund bulbs, what his kiss had meant to her and, though he had detected a lack of practice, he would surely put it down to her two years of widowhood without taking into account the two bleak years that had gone before. Her despair was for what she had missed, for what she had just been allowed to see, and for what she would never taste again, for by now his enquiries must be nearing some kind of conclusion.
It would mean little to him, of course, one way or the other. His sort made a game of such minor diversions, of teasing respectable women before leaving them to pick up the broken pieces. Twisting the old dry roots from the base of a bulb, she allowed indignation to take the place of sorrow. ‘Well, not me, my lord,’ she growled. ‘I know exactly what to expect from you any day now.’
That same day, Amelie’s obliging young footman, Henry, carried a note to a certain Mr Ruben Hurst at Number 9 King Street from where the mail-coach departed for London three times daily. So intent on his mission was Henry that he failed to notice Lord Seton Rayne resting there on his way home from delivering Miss Chester safely back at Paradise Road. Nor did Henry notice that he was being overheard asking for Mr Hurst, or being told that Mr Hurst had already taken the mail-coach half an hour earlier. Tucking the note back into his waistcoat pocket, Henry was observed leaving the posting-office, whistling.
As Lord Rayne had been asked by his brother, Lord Elyot, to keep his eyes peeled for anything havey-cavey, he thought the incident worth reporting, though this he was unable to do until after his brother’s long consultation with Todd, the coachman who had just returned to Sheen Court from his visit to the north.
Chapter Four
After helping to plant tulips without noticing her aunt’s unusual preoccupation with the task, Caterina went to her room to write her weekly epistle to her father and brother in Buxton. She followed this with a more chatty account of her doings to Sara, her younger sister.
Dearest Sara,
It has been such a week I cannot begin to tell yo
u, but you recall saying how I must find someone with a perch phaeton and that nothing less will do? Well, I have, dear sister. Yes, just imagine your dear Cat bouncing along beside the handsomest gallant with shining top-boots and an hauteur such as you never saw. A marqess’s son, no less. We went to see his sister and her darling puppies today. She has children too. And we’ve been to a dance, a local affair where the men didn’t wear gloves, but good fun with more militia than one could dance with. So very dashing. My escort? Well, yes, I suppose I may befalling in love, which I could not tell to Father. Oh, how I wish you could be here. Write to me soon. I have my French lesson next. Aunt Amelie lets me read to her from the Journal des Dames et de Modes and I am also reading The Mysteries of Udolpho at last and I have a new bonnet with strawberries on, and Aunt Amelie is getting a new seamstress called Millie. I am to learn how to ride side-saddle tomorrow.
Your ever loving sister who misses you. Cat.
Post Script, take good care of Father and Harry, won’t you? Aunt Amelie’s house is prettier than ours, but smaller. I’m learning to play the harp.
Lady Chester’s new house on Paradise Road was known only as Number Eighteen. Found for her by her agent, then extended and renovated to conform to Amelie’s requirements before her move, it had been on the same site in one form or another for close on three hundred years, growing and evolving through each new style, now more like a mansion than the original timbered cottage. From the road, the white stone façade was elegantly four-storied, the front door with a beautiful fanlight above and accessed by a paved bridge across the basement yard known as ‘the area’.
Through the large double gates along the adjoining wall, the land surrounding the house was more extensive than one might think. Here was not only a sizeable formal garden, a hothouse, kitchen gardens and an orchard, but also a square courtyard surrounded by the kitchen buildings, the servants’ quarters, offices and stores and, beyond all that, the coach house and stables.
In the Peak District of Derbyshire, Amelie’s previous existence had been countrified on a larger scale than this, her entertaining both lavish and frequent in accordance with her husband’s status. At Chester Hall she had tended the preserving of plums and the drying of apple rings, she had pickled walnuts and helped to lay down spare eggs in ash, store the pears, pot the beef and concoct lemon wine using brandy smuggled through Scarborough and Whitby. She had fish on her table from her own ponds and streams, her own ducks and geese, vegetables and fruit enough to send up to the Manchester house and, best of all, she had her own blooms to draw and paint. There was very little that Sir Josiah had denied her—intended, they both knew, to make up for what she could not have.
Being offered her niece’s company for the next phase of her life had required some consideration, but whereas it meant accepting a responsibility she had not anticipated, the diversions had so far been entertaining, even satisfying. Caterina was good company, eager to learn, intelligent, well-mannered and, thank heaven, possesssed of a natural grace that was easy to clothe. The new riding habit she had worn that morning fitted her shapely young figure like a dream, already attracting some admiration from the men and envy from the women.
They had gone riding in the park well before breakfast to avoid meeting certain acquaintances, and a party of young officers from the local militia at Kew had hung around them to stare and to vie for her attention. But Caterina had acquitted herself well and had even managed a comfortable trot attached to the head groom’s leading rein. Fortunately, they had not met anyone disagreeable to Amelie, who had already begun to reap the benefits of having attended the ball, for now there were several waves and smiles and calls of, ‘Good morning to you, Lady Chester.’
***
Clattering into the stable yard two hours later, however, was like a sneaky winter breeze to cool Amelie’s warm praise of her niece, for there, being walked up and down by a groom in Lord Elyot’s grey livery was a very large and glossy dark bay with a double-bridle. On a marble table in the front hall of the house lay a beaver hat, a pair of leather gloves and a riding whip, with a rather concerned Henry standing by to tell his mistress that Lord Elyot felt sure she would not mind him waiting.
Biting back the very obvious reply, she asked instead, ‘Where?’
‘In the morning room, m’lady.’
‘Very well, Henry. Caterina, go up and change, dear. Then go and take a little breakfast, then perhaps a little practice on the pianoforte. The new Haydn sonata we bought the other day—you might take a look at it.’ She would have given much to go with her instead of to the council of war in the morning room. The staircase seemed twice as high, for she knew why he had come at this early hour and why he had insisted on waiting.
Pausing only to remove her gloves, hat and veil, Amelie half-expected to see her visitor standing on the hearth with hands clasped behind his back, as her late husband had often done to hear an account of her activities. But Lord Elyot was reading the newspaper over by the window and did not hear Amelie’s quiet entry through the rattle of the paper as he fought with a wayward page.
She caught sight of herself in the round ornate mirror over the mantelshelf, like a miniature fashion plate of a highwaisted habit of soft violet velvet with a mandarin collar open at the neck to show the delicate ruffle of lace on her habit-shirt. Her brown curls, however, were in a mess. No matter, she thought. Who was there to impress? She closed the door with a loud click, taking pleasure in the crash of paper as he turned, quickly.
‘Ah, Lady Chester. Do forgive me.’ He laid the crumpled heap of newspaper upon the table, then stood to perform an elegant bow.
‘You’ve waited all this time to apologise, my lord? Well, then, I shall accept it on condition that it never happens again. Which I think is a safe bet in the circumstances. Don’t you?’
His smile was full of admiration. ‘On the contrary, my lady, I think it an extremely dodgy one. In any case, I never apologise for kissing a woman. So very hypocritical.’
Refusing to be drawn further along that line, Amelie went to pick up the crumpled newspaper and, carrying it between her finger and thumb to the door, dropped it outside. ‘Then I think,’ she said, moving to the striped sofa, ‘that you had no need to wait so long.’ She waved a hand towards the nearest chair, trying to appear calm and in command of the situation. ‘If you do not mean to apologise, then what can be the purpose of your visit?’
‘Given your record of being out when I call, even when you’re in, I thought it wiser to be in first, while you were out, so that we could stand a fair chance of being in together. Eventually.’
‘Ah, to be of such importance,’ she sighed, gazing at the top of the sash window. ‘Can you bear to get to the point, I wonder?’
Slipping one hand into the front of his deep blue morning-coat, Lord Elyot pulled out a velvet reticule and passed it to her, dangling it by its long drawstrings. ‘Yours, I believe? Or that of a certain Ginny Hodge?’ he said.
Amelie’s heart pounded. This was horribly unexpected. Frowning, she took it. ‘Who? Why would you think this was mine, my lord?’
He leaned back into the chair, making a steeple with his fingers. ‘For two reasons—one is that it had one of your visiting cards inside.’
‘Which this … Ginny person … could have stolen. How did you come by it?’
‘The man who picked it up after you had been mugged on the night you went up to the workhouse followed you home again. You were riding a donkey named Isabelle.’
‘Todd!’ The name escaped before she could prevent it.
‘Exactly. My coachman.’
So, he must have known of this for quite some time.
Her heart still hammered under the strain of staying calm. ‘And does this prove something, my lord? Apart from being robbed, is it a crime to ride one’s donkey at night?’
‘It is a crime to bribe His Majesty’s servants to release people in their custody,’ he said, quietly. ‘You did not quite manage it that time, but you
have done it several times before through your servants, I understand. Those who live at the workhouse have been sent there by the authorities, my lady. By the Vestry, in other words. Any release must be done through the proper channels, not by stealth or bribery, or without permission. You sent a man up there to try again while you were with me at the Castle. Am I correct?’
‘So it was you who prevented—’ Unbidden, the words tripped out.
‘Prevented?’
‘Prevented that poor woman from giving birth to her child in decent surroundings,’ she snapped. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You told them to keep her there at all costs because your father is the local magistrate who heads the Vestry who put her there in the first place. And no matter how inhumane, how stigmatising, how downright dangerous it is for a child to be born in a workhouse, your father’s interests must come first. Think how he would look if the poor unfortunates were cared for properly,’ she went on, striding across to the window. ‘Would he ever hold his head up in Richmond again?’
‘So you admit—’
‘What good would it do me to deny it?’ she said, sifting through the untidy pile of music sheets on top of the pianoforte. The Haydn sonata caught her eye as she hit the edges with a clack on the rosewood surface. She slammed them down. ‘Do your worst, my lord. There must be more serious crimes a woman can commit than trying to help those less prosperous than herself. If that’s so wrong, then it’s time the law was changed.’
‘It isn’t a crime when it’s done openly and above board. By your method, any gypsy or conman could bribe his way in and take his pick of anyone there, even a child, and whisk it away in the dark, never to be seen again. The rules are there to safeguard—’
‘I would have cared for them,’ she croaked, on the verge of tears. ‘I would have … oh, you would not understand. People like me are loose screws and addle-pates, are we not? And the women in that predicament not worth rescuing.’
Regency Rumours/A Scandalous Mistress/Dishonour And Desire Page 8
