Regency Rumours/A Scandalous Mistress/Dishonour And Desire

by Juliet Landon

  Before the all-important dinner party, which would be a farewell to Seton and a celebration of Amelie and Nick’s future, Nick walked Amelie through the village one evening just as dark was falling. The lamplighter was doing his rounds with his ladder and torch, the green in the middle of Richmond was emptying of children playing conkers and chasing hoops, and a horse and cart rumbled past on its way home from the brewery on Water Lane with the aroma of roasted hops.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ Amelie said, as they turned into Paradise Road. ‘You’re being very mysterious, my lord.’

  ‘Will you sit a while?’

  ‘What, here? On the church wall? Why, my lord?’

  ‘Because it’s probably the nearest we’re going to get to where the paradise garden used to be at the eastern end of the old friary. It’s not quite as romantic as that, I’m afraid,’ he said, peering over the wall at the outline of tombstones, ‘but it seems to be a tradition our family has that proposals take place as near to the paradise as one can get, sweetheart. Will this do, d’ye think?’

  ‘For a proposal of marriage, my love? Oh, I think so. Just here? You were not intending to take me by surprise, then?’

  ‘Yes, but I muffed it, didn’t I?’ He sat beside her, pulled up one tail of his dark blue coat and fumbled in its lining for the small pocket. ‘Ah, there it is. Now, is this going to fit, I wonder?’

  ‘Er … is this as romantic as it gets, my lord?’

  ‘Well … er, no. But I hesitate to kneel on this muddy pavement in my best pants. I will if you wish it, but … I’ve never done this before,’ he said, plaintively.

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it. If you must know, that was one of the conditions of my acceptance. I would not like such a proposal to be second-hand, you see. A proposal to be your mistress at second-hand would be different, of course, because then I might be number twenty-seven, or eight, and one must accept that …’

  ‘Will you shut up, woman,’ he said, ‘and let me get a word in edgeways? Good grief, I can just about live with the blackcurrant juice in the decanter, but this is getting ridiculous. Now, what was I saying?’

  ‘A proposal?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Stop teasing. What’s that in your hand?’

  ‘This? Blessed if I know. Let’s have a look. Can’t see properly in this light.’

  ‘Then let me look. Oh … oh, Nick! That is…. so beautiful.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A ring, idiot.’

  ‘Is that an acceptance, then?’ His arms went round her before she could reply, and it was several moments before either of them could remember at which point they should resume negotiations.

  Leaning against him, Amelie stretched out a hand, twisting it under the light from the parish lamp to catch the gleam of the magnificent fire-opal surrounded by blue flashing diamonds. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘And since you ask, yes, I will marry you.’

  ‘It’s just for the ring, isn’t it?’ he teased. ‘And my perch-phaeton.’

  ‘Well … er … they might be two good reasons. The house would be another—the name—the lovemaking too, that’s quite good. Then there’s—’

  ‘Enough, woman. The real reason, if you please.’ ‘A certain condition? Does that qualify?’ He stared at her, his face a picture of sheer delight. ‘Amelie?’ She nodded. ‘It’s a bit early to be sure, but I think it’s possible.’ All teasing ended, he drew her again into his arms, holding her to him as if he would never release her, lost for words, swaying gently. ‘My darling … sweetheart … my beautiful fruitful woman … my adored one. I am the happiest of men.’ ‘My lord,’ she whispered. ‘My dearest lord.’ It was not quite the done thing for adults, in love or not, to walk with their arms around each other, hip to hip, past the very elegant and proper Georgian houses lining Paradise Road. But these two did, too lost in each other to care about propriety and too much in love with their future together to dwell any longer on the problems of the past.

  Epilogue

  By anybody’s standards, the dinner party held by the Marquess and Marchioness of Sheen for their sons was a splendidly successful event that was not an ordeal for either Amelie or Caterina, knowing so many of the guests. The betrothal of Lord Nicholas Elyot to Lady Chester was announced, after which he presented his brother Seton with four handsome horses to take with him next week when he joined the Prince of Wales’s own regiment, the 10th Light Dragoons. Only the two brothers knew the true significance of this generosity. Seton’s farewell to Caterina was, at her own devising, the same as that to everyone else, a kiss, a handshake, a smile and a blessing. Anything else, she said, would be superfluous.

  But now the romantic focus had shifted slightly towards Miss Chester’s father for, when they departed for Buxton the next day, Miss Hannah Elwick travelled with them, expecting to stay quite some time. When Caterina returned to Richmond just after Christmas, however, Hannah did not accompany her.

  Nor was Tam Elwick expected to return for at least two years from his tour of Europe with a scholarly family friend, but no one seemed to mind that as much as they missed his sister.

  Amelie’s hopes of their becoming parents were fulfilled the next summer when she gave birth to a lusty young Elyot with a healthy pair of lungs who was given one of the family names of Adrian. But it would be inaccurate to say that the parents were in paradise, because by that time, Number 18 Paradise Road had been taken over by Stephen Chester and his growing family, while Amelie had gone to live at Sheen Court.

  For the sake of the story, a slight inaccuracy exists in the dates given for Lady Nelson’s residency in Bath, where Amelie met her. It was not until November that Viscountess Nelson went to stay in Sydney Place and almost immediately heard of the death of her husband, Admiral Lord Nelson, at Trafalgar on October 21st. News travelled very slowly. The sad story of the second of Lady Hamilton’s twin daughters, however, is unfortunately a fact.

  The escapades of Lady Adorna Pickering and Sir Nicholas Rayne in Elizabethan Richmond mentioned by Lady Dorna Elwick in Chapter Eight, are fully recounted in One Night in Paradise.

  Coming soon is a continuation of Miss Caterina Chester’s story.

  Dishonour

  and Desire

  Juliet Landon

  Dishonour And Desire is a sequel to

  A Scandalous Mistress. They feature descendants of

  characters you will have met in One Night In Paradise.

  Chapter One

  1812—Richmond, Surrey

  Still smiling at some absurdity, Miss Caterina Chester and her sister rode into the stable yard behind Number 18 Paradise Road, patting the damp glossy necks before them and fully expecting the usual smiles of welcome from the grooms eager to help them dismount. This sunny morning, with steam rising from the tiled rooftops, the stable yard was busy with lads sluicing mud off the wheels of a coffee-and-cream-coloured crane-neck phaeton while another groom in an unfamiliar green livery held the bridle of a large grey hunter in the shade of the covered walkway. No one came running to meet them.

  ‘Father has a visitor,’ said Sara.

  ‘That’s Aunt Amelie’s phaeton,’ said Caterina, coming to a halt. ‘Why is it covered in mud? Joseph,’ she called, ‘what’s all this?’

  Joseph lowered his dripping broom and turned, shading his eyes. ‘Sorry, Miss Chester. I didn’t hear you coming,’ he said, wiping his hands down his apron.

  He came forward to take the bridles, but Caterina threw one leg over the pommel and slid to the ground before he could reach her. ‘Help Miss Sara,’ she told him. ‘I can manage. Who’s been out in the phaeton?’

  ‘Master Harry,’ said Joseph, leading Sara’s horse. ‘He borrowed it last evening and—’

  ‘Borrowed it? Without asking?’ Angrily, she looked up at her sister. ‘Did you know of this, Sara?’

  ‘Certainly not. Aunt Amelie lent it to you, not to Harry.’

  ‘So why didn’t you mention this to me when you brought the
horses round this morning, Joseph?’

  The groom stared apologetically at the grimy phaeton, blinking in surprise at the sudden deep waters. ‘Well, because I thought you knew, Miss Chester. Master Harry told me he’d had permission to use it, and to be quick and get it ready.’

  ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘He didn’t say for what, miss. But whatever it was, I don’t think Lady Elyot would’ve liked it much. Just look at it, caked with mud and splashed all over. We’re having to scrub every last inch of it.’ He scowled at the shining areas of panelling just showing through runnels of water. ‘It only came back a half hour ago.’

  Pretty Sara did not intend to dismount by herself as long as there was an attractive groom to help. Bouncing lightly onto the cobbles, she removed her hands from Joseph’s shoulders but, even then, was not able to get her question in before her sister’s. ‘Back from where?’

  The stable yard grew quiet at Caterina’s razor-sharp tone.

  Joseph let out a breath. ‘It’s been over at Mortlake all night, Miss Chester. In Sir Chase Boston’s stables. That’s Sir Chase’s groom over there. They brought it back this morning. Shall I ask him …?’

  ‘No, I’ll find out the rest for myself.’ The hem of Caterina’s dove-grey riding habit skimmed over the wet cobbles as she strode away to the steps that led up to the house, her slender back curved like a bow, both hands raised to unpin her veiled hat. Before her sister had reached her level, a mass of dark copper curls came loose with the net, tumbling onto her shoulders like a fox-fur cape, glinting with red highlights in the sun. Her slender figure appeared to pour through the door with a fluidity that typified all her movements.

  ‘So that’s her,’ said Sir Chase Boston’s groom, smirking.

  ‘Aye, that’s her,’ said Joseph, leading the two horses away. ‘Now for some fireworks.’

  The man grinned. ‘Should be interesting, then.’

  Joseph glanced at the big grey. ‘I shouldn’t bother unsaddling him. Your master’ll be out in five minutes with his ears afire.’

  ‘Want a bet?’ the man said, settling himself onto the mounting-block.

  In the elegant white-and-gold hallway, Caterina paused only long enough to glance at the table where a beaver hat, a pair of pale leather gloves and a silver-banded riding whip lay where the butler had placed them. A row of calling-cards marked the exact centre of the silver tray, and the reflection in the ormolu mirror above received not even a cursory acknowledgement in passing. From the upper landing came the slam of doors, a woman’s faintly commanding voice, the siren-wail of infants, nurses cooing and strains of a distant lullaby. Wincing at the cacophany, Caterina just failed to hide the grimace before she opened the study door.

  Not usually minding her interruptions, her father stopped his conversation abruptly, sensing the arrival of a minor whirlwind. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘You received my message?’ Middle-aged and lean with the look of a harassed greyhound, Stephen Chester did his best to smile, though it did not come naturally to him.

  ‘No, Father. There appears to be a breakdown in the system somewhere. I received no message about the phaeton, either.’

  ‘So you’ve seen it. Well, Sir Chase has ridden over from Mortlake to explain the situation. I don’t believe you’ve met. Sir Chase Boston. My eldest daughter, sir.’

  There was a movement behind her and, to her discomfort, Caterina realised that her father’s guest had been lurking behind the door, watching her without being noticed. Well, perhaps not exactly lurking, but one could not help thinking that he had positioned himself there on purpose.

  Like her father, Caterina was tall and there were relatively few men who came near to dwarfing her so that she had to lift her chin to see their faces. This man was not only tall, but broad and deep-chested, too, which she did not think was due to padding. She had heard of him; everyone in society had heard of Sir Chase Boston’s on-off affaires, his nonsensical wagers, which he always seemed to win, his amazing exploits in the hunting field and his phenomenal driving skills. There was little, apparently, that this man had not attempted at some time. Except marriage.

  She had expected to put a more ravaged face to a man with such an intemperate reputation—deep creases, muddy complexion, that kind of thing. What she saw instead was a pair of very intense hazel eyes that held hers with an alarming frankness, a well-groomed craggy face with a firm dimpled chin, and thick black hair raked back untidily off a broad forehead and curling down the front of his ears.

  Yes, she thought, even his looks were excessive, though his dress was correct in every detail, spotless and well fitting. Looking down at the toes of his shining black-and-tan top-boots, she felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl, having seen in his eyes something more than mere politeness. The bow of her head was accompanied by the tiniest curtsy. ‘Sir Chase,’ she said, ‘may I ask how you come to be returning my aunt’s phaeton in such a condition?’ Her eyes, golden-brown and very angry, were not having the effect upon him that she had intended.

  ‘I won it,’ he said. ‘The horses, too. From your brother.’ His voice was deep, as one might have expected from such a well-built man.

  ‘My aunt’s dapple-greys? Harry took those?’

  ‘A good colour. Goes well with the brown.’

  She suspected he was not talking about the phaeton and pair. ‘Father,’ she said, stripping off her gloves, ‘will you tell me what’s going on, please? Aunt Amelie lent them to me, you know, and—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Chester, ‘and young Harry’s returned to Liverpool on the early mail this morning without saying a word about this ridiculous wager. It appears that Sir Chase and he had a race round Richmond Park last night and Harry lost. Hadn’t you better sit down, my dear?’

  ‘Harry lost with property that was not his to lose. I see,’ snapped Caterina. ‘No, I don’t see. Sir Chase, if you knew it was not my brother’s, why did you—?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ interrupted their guest, pushing himself off the wall and going to stand by his host’s side from where he could see her better. ‘He led me to believe it was his when he made the bet. And I won. He was obliged to leave the phaeton at Mortlake. When I looked, I found this tucked into a corner of the seat.’ His hand delved into his waistcoat pocket as he spoke, then pulled out a very delicate lace-edged handkerchief, which he handed to Caterina. ‘The initials A.C. in the corner suggested the young man’s aunt, the former Lady Amelie Chester, now Lady Elyot. And in case she particularly wants the phaeton back, I have offered your father the chance to redeem it. I dare say it’s worth about two hundred or so. One of the great Felton’s, I believe. Five years old, one owner, patent cylinder axle-trees, and the horses … well … they’re worth—’

  ‘And my brother walked back from Mortlake, did he? Or did you offer him a lift?’

  His eyes sparked with scorn. ‘Your brother owes me money, Miss Chester. I don’t offer lifts to people in my debt. Do you?’

  ‘The point is, my dear,’ said Caterina’s troubled father, ‘that Sir Chase has every right to expect his winnings to be paid promptly. It’s extraordinarily decent of him to return the phaeton and horses, but a wager is a wager, and—’

  ‘And it would be even more extraordinarily decent if Sir Chase were to draw a line under this silly nonsense and write his loss down to experience, wouldn’t it, Father? After all, I don’t suppose Sir Chase is lacking horses, or phaetons, is he? Harry is twenty, not yet earning, and tends to be a little irresponsible at times.’ Her heart beat a rhythm into her throat, and she could not quite define the singular hostility she felt towards this man. Was it simply his claims? His uncompromising directness? Was it his attitude towards her father? Or to her? Was it that she had heard of his many and varied love affairs?

  ‘Your brother’s lack of funds, Miss Chester, is his own problem, not mine,’ Sir Chase said. ‘If he makes a wager, he should have the resources to back it without embarrassing anyone else. His irresponsibility
is farcical, but when I win a wager I tend not to draw lines under the debt until it’s paid. Nor do I pretend that I’ve lost. I’m not a charitable institution, and it’s time young Mr Chester learned a thing or two about honour.’

  ‘I would have thought, sir,’ said Caterina, ‘that in a case of this kind, a phaeton and pair, for heaven’s sake, you might have waived the inattention to honour. I realise that my brother is at fault for gambling with something he doesn’t own, but surely—’ She stopped, suddenly aware that there was something yet to be spoken of.

  Stephen Chester had never been good at concealing his thoughts, and now his long face registered real alarm, with a hasty doleful glance at Sir Chase that spoke volumes and a twist of his mouth before he spoke. ‘Er … ahem! It’s not … oh, my goodness!’ He sighed, casting a longing glance at the two glasses of brandy, just poured.

  ‘Father, what is it? There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  He nodded, abjectly. ‘Harry owes money, too,’ he whispered. ‘Sir Chase was just about to tell me as you came in, but I really don’t think you should be hearing this, my dear. I didn’t know all this when I sent a message for you to come. Perhaps you should—’

  ‘How much?’ Caterina said, flatly. ‘Come, Father. Sit down here and tell me about it. You cannot keep this to yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know how much,’ he said, weakly. ‘Sir Chase?’

  ‘He owes me twenty thousand, sir.’

  Mr Chester’s head sunk slowly into his hands, but Caterina stared with her lips parted. She thought she saw stars until she blinked them away. ‘Twenty thousand?’ she whispered. ‘Pounds?’

  ‘Guineas.’

  She gasped. ‘And how in heaven’s name did he … oh … Good grief! And he’s left you to repay a debt like that? How could he … how could he do that, Father?’

  Sir Chase seemed remarkably composed, as if they were talking of pennies rather than guineas. ‘I have your brother’s IOU for that amount, for which I gave him twenty-four hours’ grace. He assured me he would bring the money to me yesterday morning, but when he arrived at my house in London, he proposed that we should race a team round Richmond Park, the debt to be written off if he won. I would not normally accept such a wager, but he begged me for one more chance and I could see he was in Queer Street. Even so, I saw no reason why I should entirely forfeit the blunt for his sake. As I said—’