Regency Rumours/A Scandalous Mistress/Dishonour And Desire

by Juliet Landon

  First, she could confront her father with the letter and ask for an explanation, an idea that was dismissed even before it had formed. He would tell her it was none of her business and that the day of her wedding was no time for such matters. He would offer to tell her after the event. This was not the day for a showdown.

  Then perhaps she should cancel the wedding, or postpone it until the matter was cleared up? No, she had promised not to do that. They would all want to know the reason, and that would mean exposure and ruin for them all.

  Were those the only reasons not to cancel? she asked herself. Again, no. Marriage to Sir Chase was beginning to look like the only relatively secure element in her life, and she knew that she wanted him above anything, whether he was right for her or not. She could not cancel this wedding, as she had done the others.

  Should she confide in her future husband, then? No, it was too risky. He might already know about her father’s ships. They may have done a deal, for all she knew, a wager in which, if he should win her, he would take a share of the profits. Blackmail, in other words. Her father would bet that she could not be won. Sir Chase was experienced in winning both women and money, and her father would do anything, apparently, to keep his money out of anyone’s reach. At the same time, it made sense for Sir Chase to make her father pay dearly for taking his choosy daughter off his hands. Is that what was happening? Did Sir Chase know of the slaving? Had he threatened to expose him via some complicated game using money and daughters, IOUs, wagers and time-limits? Is that why he’d forced Harry to keep on losing?

  No, she would keep this disgraceful affair to herself until she could discover whether he had colluded with her father. The thought of it almost broke her heart, but she had a vow to keep about not weeping for a man’s love. And she needed a clear head to solve this gargantuan problem.

  Ought she to tell Hannah, though? No, her stepmother was in a delicate enough condition already, and such news would do nothing but harm.

  What about Lord Rayne? No, he’d been away for so long, and was not likely to know anything she didn’t know herself. She could not involve him in this business.

  Aunt Amelie, then?

  No, tell no one, she said to herself, firmly. Make your own enquiries, then confront Father privately when you have more facts. The whole family was at risk.

  All the facts? What about his lead mines in Derbyshire? Could she lure Sir Chase up there to find out more about exactly what father owned? After all that deception and play-acting about his lack of funds to meet a dowry, the hardship of having a new family to support, the cramped conditions—why, he could have bought the largest house on Paradise Road for the price of Harry’s gambling. Her price.

  But from the thought of slave-trading Caterina recoiled with utter disgust. To think that her father was making himself a secret fortune at the cost of human suffering was far, far worse than the position into which he had forced her. She would come out of it alive and with a future. Slaves would not.

  And what of Harry’s notorious IOU? Who had it now?

  Coldly, and with determination, she folded the letter and laid it upon her lap, beginning methodically to work her way through piles of bills and letters to find any piece of paper that looked like a promise to pay. With no clear idea of what an IOU looked like, it took some time before she found a scruffy note folded into four, placed at an angle in one of the pigeon-holes of the desk, obviously scribbled with the aid of some very potent alcohol. Even so, it was legible enough to be frighteningly genuine.

  ‘Mine, I think,’ Caterina whispered. ‘I have a right to it, Father. If you want to know where this and Harry’s letter have gone, you’ll have to come looking for them, won’t you?’ Taking the candle, she left the room and tiptoed upstairs to bury her treasure in the secret drawer of her travelling writing-desk, which Aunt Amelie had given her only the day before yesterday. Then, lying sleepless beside Sara, she told herself repeatedly that she had made the right decisions for, with a father transported to Australia on a convict ship, Sara’s chances of connecting with the Ensdales would come to nothing. It went without saying that Caterina’s own sacrifice would have been useless, in that event.

  On the cupboard door before her, the pretty white gown with embroidered lilies-of-the-valley hung waiting for tomorrow’s marriage to the man who had stolen her heart in exchange for twenty thousand guineas. It was a very great amount for anyone to forfeit, and the details of it were yet to be discovered.

  In many respects, the day that ought to have been the happiest of her life had become the most difficult, fraught with ugly questions, with assumptions, and with a revival of the anger that had recently been diverted through days and nights of fierce delight. Now this anger had returned with an added vengeance, and there were few at the wedding ceremony who failed to notice how strained were the bride’s efforts at sociability.

  The only time she had been able to divert those negative emotions was when they stood side by side at the altar, given away, literally, by her father, pledging to obey this wonderful man in all things. Feeling his protectiveness and his boundless vitality, she asked herself what more she could want from a man but his boldness in knowing exactly what he wanted and how to get it? Like herself. What other man would have chased down to Brighton after her, or thrown himself into the sea to bring her back, or given her the space to work out her anger and direct it towards their loving? What man could love as he did, teach her, guide her, take her every whim and mood through the most difficult days of their relationship?

  She took his hand and felt the strong comforting grasp of his fingers close over hers. It was not the done thing, but he cared no more for that than she did and, as soon as the vows and rings had been exchanged, he took her hand back into his with a smile that held the most blatant look of triumph she’d ever seen.

  ‘I have you, my lass,’ he whispered.

  His smile was for her alone, drawing from her a similar one that he understood the meaning of better than anyone watching. It was one of the rarest and most poignant moments of the ceremony and lasted until the vicar gave a discreet cough behind his hand.

  Her father, however, was one rendered oblivious by his favourite tipple to everything except his astounding success and, when his hands were not holding a glass or plucking at his high neckcloth, they were smoothing his hair from back to front. With one eye on the expense and another on the advanced timing of it, it pleased him to host a wedding he described to his guests as select rather than small.

  Since the discovery of her father’s terrible secret, it was more than Caterina could do to look him in the eye with anything like the love she had held for him only last week. She still found it hard to believe what he was doing, which could ruin them all, for he’d been a kindly father, though never overindulgent. But such outrageous exploitation of others’ lives sat very ill beside his demands for her to be dutiful and obedient to others’ needs. Apparently, her absent brother’s duties lay in a different direction.

  With her usual motherly directness, Aunt Amelie took Caterina aside after the ceremony. ‘Are you avoiding me?’ She smiled lovingly. ‘You are, aren’t you? What is it, dearest? Is this so very painful for you? You seemed to be quite reconciled the other day. Has anything happened?’

  Radiantly lovely in the white embroidered morning gown with ribbons fluttering from each shoulder, Caterina had not intended her anxieties to be so obvious. ‘I am reconciled, Aunt Amelie. And, no, nothing has happened between us. Sir Chase will be a considerate husband, I believe.’

  The colour that flooded her long neck was observed by Lady Elyot’s concerned eye. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear it, love. So that’s not going to be a problem. Good.’ She laid one gloved finger against her niece’s rosy cheek. ‘I’m glad. I would have been surprised to hear otherwise. You and he have a lot in common, you know.’ Lady Elyot knew her niece better than anyone, and she was astute enough to see that most of her questions had been sidestepped. So she took the angry you
ng woman into her arms and held her like the mother she had been during their years together in Richmond, thinking that if Chase Boston didn’t know how to please a woman, then no one did. ‘Promise me,’ she whispered, ‘that you’ll come to me, and write, if you need help. Or advice. I’ll listen to you, you know that. Promise me?’

  ‘I promise. You’ve always been my confidante. I shall tell you what we’re doing, and I shall need your advice. I shall miss you more than anyone else. My lovely writing-desk will go everywhere with me.’

  ‘That’s good. Look, here’s Seton. He wants a word with you.’

  Lord Rayne took the bride’s hand and, with eyes that told their own private story, drank in her beauty with envy written so clearly in them that Caterina’s blush hardly had time to fade.

  Smiling to herself, Lady Elyot moved away to her husband.

  Lord Rayne sidled Caterina away from the crowd. ‘Well, my lovely Cat?’ he said. ‘How many hearts will you have broken today?’

  ‘Rubbish,’ she whispered.

  ‘Badly bruised, then. I would have had you, Cat. Did you know that?’

  ‘Hush.’

  ‘I cannot hush. I want you to know that I could have offered for you, and now it’s too late and I shall probably go into a slow decline. Shall I do that, just to prove how sincere I am? Shall I make you feel guilty, Lady Boston?’

  ‘Seton, hush! You may not talk like this. Not now. You think you and I could have made a partnership, but it’s not so, dearest. We could not. It has nothing to do with being too late. I’ve changed and so have you. But I want you as my best friend. Say you’ll be that to me, Seton, that you’ll be there when I need you. Please?’

  One eyebrow flicked upwards. ‘When?’ he said. ‘Not if?’

  ‘Whenever I need you.’

  ‘I shall be there. Just send for me.’

  ‘Thank you. And find someone wonderful to marry.’

  Lifting her hand, he bent his head to kiss her fingers, and the look they exchanged said all that could be said in the crowded drawing room on Paradise Road where so many eyes were upon them. ‘I did,’ he whispered, ‘but I was too slow off the mark.’

  ‘Wish me happiness, then?’

  ‘Apart from myself, there is no one better for you than Chase Boston. You’re two of a kind, and I wish you every happiness together.’

  ‘That’s what Aunt Amelie said, too. Thank you.’

  This, she thought, from the man who had come close to breaking her heart, for whom she had wept bitter tears and vowed never to weep so again. But she had changed, and now she understood that those tears were for the first stirrings of a woman’s love which were nothing compared to the melting fires she suffered when Chase Boston looked at her, his winnings of one evening. Seton would find a woman, or a woman would find him. He would take another mistress, perhaps. What a pity to waste time. He would make a wonderful husband and father.

  There could be no further exchange as Sir Chase came to take his bride’s arm. ‘Lady Boston … my lord?’ he said. ‘Am I interrupting? I do hope so.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lord Rayne, winking at Caterina. ‘You’ve taken my woman again. Thank heaven you’ll be out of my damned way at last. I might get a clear run now. Keep him from getting under my feet, will you, Cat?’

  Laughing, Sir Chase placed an arm around his wife’s waist, drawing her to him in a bold display of possessiveness. ‘No need for that, whelp. As far as I’m concerned, no other woman exists. You’re safe. Just get on with it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not a speed merchant like some I know,’ Lord Rayne said, walking away. ‘Positively indecent, I call it.’

  His innocent but apt remark did not bring the expected smile to Caterina’s face and, as Sir Chase looked down at her, he was moved to sympathise. ‘We shall be away soon,’ he said. ‘Tell me when you’re ready to leave.’

  ‘Any time now. We must go and take our leave of Father and Hannah. Do you need to speak to him in private?’

  ‘No, my sweet. What about?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘No, I doubt it would do much good if I did.’

  She understood the reference to her father’s noticeable heartiness and her shame deepened as she noticed Hannah’s concern at his dependence on the brandy. ‘Then let’s get away from here,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘Are you all right? Did Rayne say something to upset you?’

  ‘No. Nothing at all. I’m fine.’

  ‘Then we’ll take our leave, sweetheart. Have you said your farewells to Miss Chester?’

  Caterina nodded. It had hardly been a farewell, Sara having been so immersed in her own good fortune that all the things she might have remembered to say had been somehow left aside. Her thanks had been implied, rather than spoken, her good wishes for her sister’s happiness wrapped neatly into her own subjective parcel of expectations.

  Attuned to his new wife’s sensibilities, it had not taken Sir Chase very long to see that she was suppressing a new wave of resentment that he believed had begun to fade during their days together in Brighton. When he asked about it, she denied any cause for concern, though he did not believe the denial. When she asked him, on their drive from Richmond to London, what he knew about something called ‘the triangle’ that ships sailed on their return to Liverpool, he began to suspect that he knew the cause of her latest tensions, though his reply purposely betrayed no alarm, no curiosity about her reason for knowing.

  ‘A three-sided voyage,’ he told her. ‘Before the Act, ships would sail from English ports down to Africa’s west coast loaded with goods, and barter these goods for slaves. The second side of the triangle was to take the slaves across to the Caribbean Islands or the east coast of America, sell the slaves to owners of sugar and cotton plantations, then buy coffee, raw cotton, molasses …’

  ‘Molasses?’

  ‘Raw sugar. It’s made into blocks of sugar, and into brandy.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Then, with a load of goods that we want in England, the ship would complete the last side of the triangle to home.’

  ‘So now we cannot buy raw cotton and sugar any more.’

  ‘Yes, we can. It’s put the prices up, certainly, but English merchants are not allowed to use slaves as currency, as they used to do.’

  ‘Then I wonder if the Carrs’ mills in Manchester have suffered. They used to belong to Aunt Amelie’s late parents, you know. The factory still prints cottons.’

  ‘More than likely.’ His interest appeared to lapse, and he did not ask where she had heard of the triangle.

  Caterina’s silence was as eloquent as words, and the journey to Halfmoon Street in the flashy curricle continued in a state of thoughtfulness. As a concession to the occasion, the team of chestnuts had been decorated with white ribbons that fluttered from their brow bands and cruppers, drawing waves and smiles from those they passed on the road. When Sir Chase asked her if she would like to drive, she politely excused herself. When he asked her what she was thinking about, she sighed and could not bring herself to tell him. Moments later, she asked him the same question.

  ‘About tonight,’ he said, without hesitation.

  ‘Don’t,’ she whispered.

  ‘How can I not?’

  ‘I think … I would prefer … tonight … to be on my own, if you please.’

  ‘All right. I understand. It’s been a hectic day and there’ll be plenty more nights.’ He waited, but she did not respond. ‘You’re free now, sweetheart. Free at last. You can learn to fly. We’ll do whatever you please.’

  Caterina had doubts about the plural ‘we’ and decided to put it to the test. ‘I wonder if we might go up to Buxton soon? To take a look at the house and see old friends.’

  ‘Why not? Want to show me off, do you?’ He smiled at her, then gave his attention to an oncoming stagecoach in a hurry.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’

  ‘Then we’ll go. Derbyshire is beautiful in May.’

  ‘You know Der
byshire?’

  ‘Very well indeed. We’ll get this weekend out of the way, then we’ll make your purchases, then we’ll pack and go. We have no need to return to Richmond unless you wish it, now we have Signor Cantoni with us. Is there anything you need to pick up?’

  Her hesitation was only slight, but he noticed it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have all I need, thank you.’

  ‘Then we shall waste no more time there.’

  If her father wanted to ask if she knew anything about the missing papers, she thought, he would have to wait. If only she could discover more about Sir Chase’s part in all this. The questions gave her no respite, for it seemed that just as she had begun to learn acceptance of one problem, another even greater one had come to take its place.

  Just off Picadilly, Sir Chase’s well-proportioned house on Halfmoon Street was tall, white, terraced and as elegant as Caterina had imagined, in style very like the one on Paradise Road, with servants’ quarters below and a further four floors of spacious living rooms above. Iron railings painted black and gold, a bright red door with a fanlight above, a brass knocker in the shape of a stirrup, an iron shoe-scraper and three newly scrubbed steps led them past the bowing bald-headed butler into a high white hallway lined with the dusky autumnal pink of Persian rugs. On one wall hung a barometer, opposite which a tallcase clock stood quietly ticking, showing the phases of the moon above its dial to anyone who cared to know.

  ‘Your new London home,’ he said, leading her by the hand into the pale green panelled salon at the front. ‘I’ve had no time to change anything, but if it’s not to your taste we’ll find one that is.’

  ‘It’s charming,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That now I have a husband—’ like it or not, she almost added ‘—I ought to know something about him. If anyone were to ask me, I shall not have much to tell them. I don’t even know for certain how old you are. Oh … what a handsome piano.’

  He had led her through double doors into a large adjoining room where long sash windows looked out onto a long narrow plot of apple trees in full bloom. A grand piano of polished rosewood was reflected in the oak floor, and a tidy pile of music lay at one side as if waiting for the owner’s return.