Regency Rumours/A Scandalous Mistress/Dishonour And Desire

by Juliet Landon

  ‘A fairly recent purchase,’ he said. ‘Will it do to practise on?’

  Speechless with sudden emotion, she nodded into the back of her hand. ‘Yes, indeed it will. Signor Cantoni and the others will be arriving soon. Will he have his own bedroom?’

  ‘Certainly. I have plenty of rooms, and he’ll be treated as one of the family. I’ll show them to you, but first …’ Taking her into his arms, he nudged her face upwards so that he could see into her eyes, obliging her to yield up all the fears and hidden accusations for him to see, if not hear. ‘First,’ he said, ‘we must come to an understanding. Yes, I know what you think, my beauty, that now I’ve won my wager I shall go my own way and leave you to make shift for yourself. Well, that’s not what will happen. There are things on your mind that only you can resolve in your own time, and I shall do what I can to help. It’s in my best interests, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it?’

  ‘Of course it is, my girl. I want all of you, Caterina, not only your companionship, but your respect and love, too. You thought not to hear that word from me so soon? Eh? Well, I was never one for half-measures.’

  That much was obvious. She was bound to smile.

  ‘There. A smile at last. But if you’re not willing to take me back into your bed, that’s a price I have to pay for the unseemly haste, and I shall wait until you are. There’s a lot to find out about each other, my beauty. Such a lot has happened to us, very quickly. Perhaps too quickly. But now we can take one day at a time and enjoy each other as we did at Brighton. You did, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And the nights?’

  ‘Yes, and the nights.’

  ‘And now you’re continuing the protest, even though it hurts? Is that it?’

  ‘It’s all I can think of.’

  ‘Then you have only to say when your angers have gone, and we can carry on where we left off. Is that agreed?’

  She knew it was a dangerous game she was playing. Take too long to discover how deeply he was implicated in her father’s illegal affairs and he might grow tired of waiting. He was understanding, but what man could be expected to be so obliging when his rights were at stake?

  ‘You are not supposed to be so cooperative,’ she said. ‘How am I to thwart you when you’re so tolerant?’

  His reply to that was spontaneous and suitably masculine, the hard pull of his arms bending her to him, his expression anything but long-suffering. ‘Because, my fierce one, I’ve just spent a fortune to get you here, protesting all the way, and I’m not about to lose you through impatience. If there’s one thing gambling has taught me, it’s how to play a patient waiting game and not to give up.’ The deep voice was husky with desire, and if Caterina had thought he cared little about her protest, she now realised how wrong she was. He cared very much indeed.

  His head bent to hers, taking the kiss she’d intended to deny him, a kiss of three days’ waiting that told her explicitly about his need of her, a kiss that left her dizzy and weak. Breathless, instantly aroused, she had to cling to him to keep her balance.

  It was all she could do then not to give in, to forget the hurt of deception, the anger of being used. But the memory of her father’s smug expression as he shook Sir Chase’s hand earlier, wishing them both a speedy journey to wherever they were going, hardened her heart and strengthened her resolve to discover the extent of his treachery. As Sir Chase had said, the two of them had much to find out, but meanwhile she could not help but assume that this business was more complicated than a wager.

  Having earlier decided on a strategy of unpredictability in her lovemaking, it had never been her intention until now to take it to the limit, denying him her bed altogether. Even now, her wish to spend that first night alone collapsed after the first hour of lying sleepless in her large comfortable bed, and she had eventually gone to the door of his room, tapped lightly upon it and walked in, standing outside the circle of light from the oil-lamp beside his bed. He was reading.

  The book was lowered and he was on his feet in one bound, coming to meet her without a trace of complacency, holding out his hands, leading her towards the bed, lifting the covers and arranging them round her as she lay her head on the pillow, appalled by her own temerity.

  Without explanation, he seemed to know both what she wanted and what she didn’t want, and the night spent in his arms was chaste in every respect, comforting them both after their nights apart, as well as being a test of his personal discipline, which was extraordinary for a man with a desirable bride.

  They had talked all this evening through dinner and beyond, and because Signor Cantoni had been invited to join them, the conversation made it easy for Caterina to discover more about her remarkable husband by means of small prompts rather than by questions that revealed her ignorance. They talked of mutual acquaintances, of music, of travel on the continent and the wonders of Italy, of the Peninsular War, politics, the Prince Regent’s problems, life in the army, of architecture and the latest crop of landscape gardeners. And if Signor Cantoni thought it unusual for a singing teacher to be invited to a newly-weds’ private dinner, his natural sensitivity and perfect manners forbade him to mention it.

  Caterina was very fond of him. His own voice was a remarkable instrument, ranging from falsetto when he was amused down to a gravelly bass when seriously rambling, his features equally supple and expressive, his hands the same, describing words in the air. Thick dark hair made him look like a younger version of Beethoven without the scowl, and his willing acceptance of Sir Chase’s offer meant that, for the first time since leaving Italy, he had a permanent home and a generous fixed salary. Though he favoured himself, he had not quite decided which of them was the most fortunate.

  The conversation that evening also revealed that Sir Chase was one of the exclusive Society of Dilettanti, men whose main qualification, apart from wealth, was a patronage of the arts. According to some sceptics, the other qualifications were having been to Italy and getting drunk. None of this surprised Caterina greatly, having observed the paintings on her husband’s walls by the popular Mr Turner, by Sir Joshua Reynolds and Richard Wilson, by an up-and-coming watercolourist named John Sell Cotman, by Stubbs (horses, of course) and an oil by Thomas Lawrence, who had painted Aunt Amelie’s portrait.

  Sir Chase’s membership of the Royal Society was now much in evidence from the number of scientific instruments displayed all over the house on walls and tables, all of which he knew how to use. The scholarly side of her husband, Caterina decided, was less gossip worthy than his extrovert side, which was why news of his public affairs travelled faster than that of private ones. But as for any suggestion of slave-trading, merchanting or ship-owning, there was as little indication as for any other money-making venture, including the famed gambling, for which she needed no more evidence than she already had.

  After last night’s forgivable lapse of purpose, she half-expected some comment from him about her lack of determination but, apart from lifting the curls from the back of her neck in one large fist, which held her very securely to the spot, and planting a soft kiss below them, he said nothing as he held the door for her to return to her own room. She felt the exciting sting of his grasp for quite some time afterwards.

  One who saw nothing unusual in two newly-weds sharing the first days of their marriage with others was the sixth Duke of Devonshire who greeted them at Chiswick House that same day as if they’d been married for years. Since he was himself a mere twenty-two years old and as far from matrimony as he would ever be, this was perhaps to be expected, being sophisticated in so many areas, but naïve in matters of romance. A well-known London courtesan had only recently complained that he had given her two old wedding rings as a gift which she had passed on to her butler. His charm and perfect manners, however, were reason enough for him to be a favourite with everyone. An added reason was his generous hospitality at his many large establishments.

  Known as Hart to friends and family fr
om his previous title of Marquess of Hartington, the Duke had inherited his late father’s wealth only one year ago and had just begun to take stock of his legacy, including some crippling debts that appeared to have had no noticeable effect upon his lavish spending. Parties and entertaining were his love, Chiswick being especially well placed on the outskirts of London for smaller select gatherings of a more artistic nature, which is why he had invited Caterina to sing for him at one of them.

  With obvious delight that two of his friends had arrived together, he welcomed them even before their town coach had come to a halt below the impressive steps of his ‘villa’, as he liked to call it. Introduced to the Duke for the first time, Signor Cantoni was treated to a welcome in his own language where, also for the first time, Caterina heard her husband join in with perfect fluency. Every day, she thought, brought a new revelation.

  They went with the tall young man with the affable countenance into the grand house built in the style of an Italian villa and set in acres of perfectly laid gardens. His personal musicians, he told Caterina, were at her entire disposal. Taking them across marble floors past statues and busts, stone friezes filched from ancient Greece and plaster walls removed from Pompeii, they entered the airy music room beneath the dome where the great Frederick Handel himself had performed more than once.

  But as so often happened, no sooner were the rich mellow tones of Caterina’s voice picked up from every polished surface than a slow trickle of listeners flowed on tiptoe towards the source, their ears straining to catch every luscious sound, and when the two artistes turned to look, the crowd applauded the rehearsal as if it had been a performance.

  Laughing, Caterina took a bow. ‘Well, now, there’s no more to look forward to,’ she said. ‘What a pity.’

  There were several faces she recognised who came forward with smiles of welcome and congratulations for a marriage none of them had anticipated, though they knew Sir Chase Boston well. Who did not?

  One of them was their mutual friend George Brummell who, with typical understatement, good-humouredly took Sir Chase to task. ‘Dashed if I can tolerate this habit of yours any longer, Chase, of snatching the goods before the rest of us can get a look in. I was about to saunter over to Richmond to claim the heavenly Miss Caterina Chester for myself and, but for a pressing engagement with my coat-tailor, I’d have done so. When did you marry him, Miss Chester?’

  ‘Yesterday, Mr Brummell.’

  ‘There you are, then. It was yesterday I was all set to claim you. Too bad of you, Chase. Too bad.’ Moving his quizzing glass up and down Sir Chase’s large frame, he halted its progress at the cravat. ‘Tch!’ he remarked. ‘A drink, somebody, before I call this coxcomb out.’

  A liveried servant appeared bearing a silver tray of cut-glass beakers and a bowl of fruit punch, placing it at a small table by Sir Chase’s side. His skin was the colour of polished ebony, his solemn face exceedingly handsome, his hair like astrakhan. Sir Chase thanked him; the man bowed and left. Others were chatting and laughing too loudly to notice, but Caterina did, and when she and Brummell sauntered to a bench with their drinks, it was she who remarked that she’d not expected the Duke to employ black servants, on principle.

  ‘On what principle, my dear Lady Boston?’ said Brummell. ‘The man’s not a slave, he’s on the same footing as any other servant. Everyone employs them nowadays, even if only to show their liberal-mindedness.’

  ‘Do you, Mr Brummell?’

  ‘Lord, no. I can’t afford any more servants. But Chase does.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Laconically, he turned to her wide eyes to search for more behind the amazement. ‘Ah, I see. You’ve hardly had time to find out these details yet, I take it. Why is the man always in such a blinding hurry, I wonder?’ His eyes turned towards the assembly, resting upon the finely proportioned figure before he continued. ‘Somewhere, my dear, your lusty husband employs a negro woman; if not in London, she’s safely tucked away in one of his other places. Oh, dear, don’t look like that, child. She’s a servant, that’s all. He’ll tell you, if you ask him. He’s coming over.’

  ‘No, don’t mention it, please. I’ll ask him in my own time.’

  ‘Very well. Ah … Chase, just asking your bride what your plans are. Will you be at Prinny’s “do” next weekend?’

  ‘No,’ said Sir Chase, noting Caterina’s frown. ‘If fortune favours us, we shall be several hundred miles away.’

  The conversation flowed gently without Brummell caring too deeply about the seeds of mistrust he had just scattered over the new Lady Boston’s fertile imagination, which already had begun to nurture all kinds of reasons why her husband would employ a negress in his service unless he had bought her or, worse, unless she was his mistress. That there could be a dozen other reasons for the woman’s existence in his household did not occur to her, primarily because she was looking for some evidence that would fit her vague theory about his duplicity. Why else would he keep a beautiful young negress hidden away unless he wanted to avoid questions being asked? Was he, like her father, involved in the slaving racket? Or was he an abolitionist out to take revenge on her father, to ruin him with blackmail or exposure? Was she being made to play some bizarre part in this power game?

  With a supreme effort of will, she pushed the information to the back of her mind during her performance that evening so well that none of the guests had the slightest inkling about her newest fears growing like hothouse plants, feeding off what remained of her resentments. Her contribution to the musical evening was so well received that she and Signor Cantoni were asked for several encores until Sir Chase drew her away for some refreshments.

  Still nursing serious doubts about him, Caterina nevertheless found it impossible to conceal the delight she felt at being by his side, as his wife, the one he’d chosen and paid a fortune for, as he’d reminded her only recently. Conveniently, she chose not to recall his use of the word ‘love’.

  Sir Chase’s past mistresses concerned her very little. What concerned her now was the possibility of an existing mistress, even if she were a servant, which would be quite unacceptable, and heartbreaking. It was a subject she had never spoken of, nor was any wife expected to pay any attention to her husband’s affaires, let alone discuss them with him. She was not supposed to care enough for that.

  To balance Brummell’s cynical information, Caterina discovered yet more about her husband’s abilities, for their host was eager to involve his guests in dancing the quadrille, which Sir Chase had already mastered, as Caterina had. Between the envious looks of the assembly, they executed the complicated moves like a dancing master and his best pupil—a caper merchant, he laughingly called himself after the compliments. Then there was the waltz, for which the Duke held morning classes at his Burlington House, shockingly improper to dance with anyone except one’s nearest and dearest, or under the strictest supervision.

  But to waltz in the arms of Sir Chase Boston was a fantasy that women took to their dreams, for here was no sharing of partners but bodies pressed close, the woman arching against the man’s supporting arm, her own arms held wide and raised in surrender. That night, in their adjoining rooms at Chiswick House, they lay alone and thinking of the waltz and how they needed each other, but aware that the chasm between them was widening instead of narrowing. She did not go to his room, and he did not visit hers.

  ***

  Had he not promised her a few days’ shopping in London before heading northwards to Derbyshire, Sir Chase would have taken her away immediately from the claustrophobic public scrutiny where his own and Caterina’s experiences of the marriage-mart were well documented and regarded with some healthy scepticism.

  George Brummell and he had known each other since their Eton days, had been in the same regiment and shared many an escapade and, although he liked much about the man, there was a prickly side of which to beware when George envied something he could, with more effort and commitment, have got for himself. His rem
arks concerning Caterina had not been quite as innocent as they appeared, and Chase had little doubt that the ensuing coolness she had shown when no one else observed was a direct result of something Brummell had said to her. He would have liked to know what it was.

  The more positive result of their stay at Chiswick House was an invitation to stay with the Duke at another of his homes, Chatsworth House, for as long as they wished while they were in Derbyshire. It was a prospect that pleased Caterina well, giving Chase an extra incentive to set a day for the first stage of their journey. The sooner he could be alone with her, the better it would be for both of them.

  She and Sir Chase were emerging together from Jackson’s Habit Warehouse in Covent Garden, about to climb aboard the high-perch phaeton, when Caterina felt Sir Chase’s attention being drawn to a group of gawping young dandies on the opposite side of Tavistock Street. He would normally have ignored them but, from his delay, she saw that one of them had been recognised. Without cutting the fellow, it was too late for them to escape.

  ‘Oh no,’ Sir Chase muttered. ‘Look who it is. Can you believe it?’

  Caterina could. Even without the five-storey neckcloth, the bee-striped waistcoat, the brilliant blue long-tailed coat with the exaggerated lapels like wings and the tight pantaloons, his mincing walk alone would have been enough to proclaim him a peep-o’-day boy. With winks and waves he was making it clear to his cronies that he knew the owner of the raffish phaeton and his stylish lady, and that he would remind them of it. The lady was, after all, a relation.

  Neither of them had bargained for the untimely interference of yet another face from the past in the unwelcome dazzling form of Mr Tam Elwick, younger brother of Hannah, née Elwick. Caterina had heard news of his return after years of travel, but she had hoped it would be some time before they met again, for Tam’s irresponsible behaviour had once caused her some problems.