Scandalous Innocent

by Juliet Landon

  ‘No! No, I don’t want to see it!’ The words were rasped out with the last of her breath before a sob held it and let it out again, slowly. ‘Don’t show me,’ she whispered. ‘I suppose he was…inebriated…was he?’

  ‘His writing reflects that, madame. But in case you’re thinking to claim invalidity on that score, may I remind you that—’

  ‘You don’t need to remind me, my lord,’ Phoebe cried. ‘Drunk or sober, a debt of honour must be paid. I’ve been his sister long enough to know that much. Did you get him drunk on purpose?’

  A steely coldness crept into his eyes. ‘I shall pretend you did not say that,’ he told her, sternly. ‘Nobody needs to induce your brother to make bets while he’s in his cups, madame, nor is anyone responsible for stopping him. He’s free to do whatever he wishes with his own person and property.’

  Phoebe leapt to her feet, shaking with fury, her eyes flashing in a manner Buck Ransome had often longed to see, but not for this reason. ‘Not while I’m living in it!’ she cried. ‘He forgot, didn’t he? He forgot I’m here keeping his property in good repair, lavishing money on it, keeping people in work.’ Flinging an arm into the air to signify the extent of the improvements, she gasped as a small table-easel and its watercolour-painting flew across the room, hitting the floor with a crack. ‘All for nothing! For you!’

  ‘A rather premature analogy,’ he murmured as the door opened.

  A concerned face appeared in the gap as if she had not been too far away. ‘Can I get you anything, dear?’ she said, her grey eyes wandering over the scene in alarm.

  Phoebe was having trouble with her breathing, so Lord Ransome answered for her. ‘A tray of tea, if you please. And quickly, woman.’

  ‘Oh…er…yes,’ said the lady. ‘Is that…?’

  ‘It’s all right, Hetty dear,’ said Phoebe, soothingly. ‘Lord Ransome’s manners have their own kind of charm. A tea-tray would be very welcome.’

  He rose from his chair as the door closed and began to pick up the pieces. ‘Lord Ransome’s manners, however, are usually less destructive than some ladies of his acquaintance,’ he said, softly, placing the component parts upon the table.

  ‘I beg to differ,’ Phoebe retorted. ‘They’re a good deal more destructive when you accept other people’s homes in payment of a bet. I would call that disgraceful, my lord. I suppose it didn’t occur to you to renegotiate?’

  ‘No. I had no idea you were living in it at the time and, even if I had known, I may not have attempted to renegotiate, as you put it. A bet is a bet. Take it or leave it. And the more I see of this place the better I like it. With or without you.’

  ‘Unfortunately, my lord, that is exactly how I feel about it too, so you can renegotiate with me, because I’m not moving. I’ve put too much time, money and effort into Ferry House to hand it over to you, of all people, simply because you chose to take advantage of my brother’s weakness one evening. There are people living here who depend on me.’

  ‘Yes, I know you have a daughter.’

  ‘It’s not only my daughter I’m thinking about. There are others.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise. How many?’

  ‘Please don’t be facetious, sir. You may have won my home, but that doesn’t allow you to make ridiculous assumptions about my situation. Indeed, my personal affairs have nothing to do with you, nor will they ever. All we need to settle as quickly as possible is that I am allowed to live here as unhindered as I have been since I came. It’s taken me all this time to put the place back to rights, and there is still more to be done, as and when I can afford it.’

  They had come to stand where they could read each other’s face more clearly and, even before she had finished speaking, Phoebe knew that it was not going to be as straightforward as she would have liked. If he’d had it in mind to allow her to stay, unhindered, he would hardly have rushed from London with news that could have waited months, presumably. She prompted him. ‘You wished to see the place, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally, madame,’ he agreed, smoothly. ‘But let us get a few facts straight, shall we? It will prevent misunderstandings in the long run. I am now the rightful owner of Ferry House, lock, stock and barrel, however you may wish it to be otherwise. And since your brother clearly states in his promissory note that he forfeits the whole estate and all its contents, including the tenants and livestock, that includes you too. You are a tenant, are you not, madame?’

  The almond-shaped eyes widened again, flashing with rage. Any lesser man would have stepped back, but Ransome was unwavering. ‘That is utterly absurd,’ she replied. ‘It cannot be. Leon would not…could not have meant that.’

  ‘I can assure you he did. He may not have remembered that you were here at the time he made the bet, and I was hardly in a position to remind him of it. But this is a matter of honour, Madame Donville, and debts must be paid in full.’

  ‘Honour my foot!’ she said, moving away. ‘I had nothing to do with my brother’s debt. I refuse to be drawn into it, and I won’t be owned by anyone. Ever.

  ‘And if I were, my lord,’ she continued, blithely contradicting herself while rounding on him again, ‘I’d not be owned by the likes of you. Heaven forbid, but I can do better than that, if ever I need to.’

  She had come perilously close, closer than she intended and much too close for her own safety. She ought to have known better, but there was a furious and reckless fire ablaze in her that morning, waiting since yesterday to be fuelled by his presence, his arrogance, his deep voice and the inflexible choices that were no choices at all. She had hardly slept, sure that she knew the reason for his visit, fearful and excited by the danger he presented. She had intended to give him the kind of snub he deserved for his presumption and now, to her cost, the well-prepared put-down was as useless as her protests. She was no match for him, after all that.

  She flung up a hand to ward him off, but it was caught even before she could think, taken to the small of her back and pushed, bending her to his body like a green willow. Overpowered by the width of his chest, her other arm was useless in holding him away and not even a yelp escaped her before his mouth took hers in a kiss that told her in no uncertain terms how he could make her change her mind.

  Along the whole length of her body she felt it, through her thighs and knees locked against his, through her aching shoulders, even through her hair that he held in one hand, keeping her immobile. Distantly, she heard herself plead for breath, for release, hating herself for weakening, for not fighting harder. But when the kiss softened in response, she found herself lingering to taste him and to fill her nostrils with more of his scent, opening her mouth under his to breathe him in more deeply. Savage. Brute. Mannerless ruffian, she told herself. What did you expect from him? Charm? Sweet words? What a fool!

  Struggling wildly, she opened her eyes to the daylight and twisted away from the heady danger of his lips. Her own lips tingled, shamefully. ‘Barbarian!’ she gasped. ‘Get out of my house!’

  But he took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. ‘I shall leave you to think about it, madame, as well as how not to cross swords with me with your sharp tongue. Because I can stop you. Tomorrow, we shall discuss the details.’

  ‘Don’t come back!’ she said, wrenching herself out of his arms at last. ‘You will not be allowed in.’

  ‘Tch! You are remarkably forgetful, Madame Donville. You are the one who can be kept out, remember. Not me.’

  ‘Then there is nothing to discuss, my lord. I shall be staying here whatever your feelings are, and insulting me in such a manner will not change anything. After that feeble demonstration of lordship, you can surely have no more need to boost your confidence. And if it was intended to humble me, it didn’t.’

  ‘Good, I’m relieved to hear it. So we may discuss your late husband’s patriotic activities without restraint, I take it. Excellent. I bid you good day, madame. Don’t come to the door. I shall easily find my own way.’ He bowed, picked up his hat and gl
oves from the hall table as he went, and she saw him stride past the window like an owner, adjusting his grey beaver upon his dark hair as if the kiss was of no consequence to him. In two strides he was in the phaeton, taking his whip and reins while the groom swung himself up on to the rumble-seat as the horses pranced and plunged and, with a rattle of hooves, dashed off through the gates.

  But the words that lingered in her head alongside his punishing kiss were the ones she had dreaded hearing since the tragic death of Claude Donville. We may discuss your late husband’s patriotic activities without restraint.

  The rattle of the inner door announced the arrival of the tea-tray borne by Hetty, whose astonishment appeared in every crease of her well-worn face. ‘Oh, gone?’ she said, looking across at the window. ‘Already?’

  Keeping her face averted while struggling to tidy her loosened hair, Phoebe could only mutter through the hairpin in her mouth, ‘Not a moment too soon, Hetty. Pour a cup out for me, will you, dear?’ With the back of her hand, she pressed comfort upon her tingling lips, and she could not take the cup and saucer Hetty offered for the shaking of her hands.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ Hetty whispered. ‘What has that dreadful man said to upset you so? I ought to have been with you, oughtn’t I? What has he done?’

  Phoebe’s voice trembled. ‘I don’t know, Hetty. I don’t know what he’s done.’

  But Hetty’s grey eyes were still sharp, and she knew Phoebe’s lips hadn’t been as swollen at breakfast.

  Chapter Two

  Passing the glasshouse and the patch of tall artichokes, the dainty figure clothed in various shades of blue, some of them mud-spattered, peered round the corner of the potting shed where the sun glared against the pink-toned brickwork. ‘Mama, there you are. I thought you might be. Hetty said you preferred to be alone, but you don’t mind me, do you?’

  Clearly, Claudette was an exception to most generalities, being Phoebe’s only beloved child and likely to remain so and, for that reason, very special. She had not been spoiled beyond what one might expect, but her years of being the centre of her mother’s world had taught her that, if she questioned the rules with enough care, she could usually manage to have them bent in her favour. Cousin Hetty had given her the facts as she saw them, knowing that the bond between Phoebe and her daughter was of a quite different order from that of Phoebe and Lady Templeman, who would have meant what she said about being left alone.

  ‘No, cherie. I don’t mind you at all. Come and sit by me.’ Patting the warm cushion, she moved the soft muslin skirt closer to her thigh while Claudette took her hand between her own, gazing at the tearful face with open curiosity.

  ‘You’ve been weeping,’ she said in her newfound motherly voice. ‘Are you unhappy, Mama? Your Viscount didn’t stay long, did he? Did you hope he would?’

  Phoebe’s tears had dried, but she had not thought to smile quite so soon. Squeezing the nearest hand, she selected one of the easier questions. ‘No, cherie. Lord Ransome stayed the usual time for a gentleman’s first call, perhaps a little longer. Now, tell me what you and Miss Maskell found down at the riverside. Did you see the coots and moorhens?’

  Assured that her mama was not as distressed as she’d been led to believe, Claudette obliged her with a full account of the river’s wildlife, some of which she and her governess had brought back to the house for closer examination. It was never difficult to engage Claudette’s interest in anything, with so much to be discovered on the doorstep. She was a bright, energetic young lady with her father’s innate charm; some might have said that she was precocious, having been allowed to contribute to her elders’ conversations whenever there was a chance, contrary to most parents’ approach. But at Ferry House there was no authoritarian father to be humoured with displays of feminine subservience, only three women and a child who took all meals together with the freedom to say what they pleased, within reason.

  Claudette was now fluent in French, both written and spoken, for in spite of Claude Donville’s tragic fate, Phoebe had always encouraged her daughter to write regularly to her French grandparents who had remained in England. At home, the four of them often lapsed into French for Claudette’s sake, the use of cherie being a favourite endearment.

  Looking down upon her glossy curls and catching the laughter in those black-lashed eyes, Phoebe saw glimpses of Claude Donville and his celebrated allure that had once ravished her heart. She had been a mere sixteen years old when she’d first fallen under his spell, too young to exercise any discrimination until much too late. Thinking of little except how quickly to cement the brilliant match for her youngest daughter, her mother failed spectacularly to discriminate on her behalf, talking down anyone who urged caution on account of Donville’s nationality. As far as her mother was concerned, Monsieur Claude Donville was connected to one of France’s oldest families, was utterly in love with her daughter, well mannered and, most of all, wealthy.

  Phoebe was married before her seventeenth birthday. The fact that hostilities between France and England were in abeyance at the time was an indication that there was nothing for them to be concerned about. This, in spite of the fact that, only two weeks before the wedding, the French king had been cruelly executed by a howling mob on the rampage for anyone bearing an ancient name, a title or disproportionate riches. Claude Donville had two of these and had fled to England as a refugee some time before, as had many others.

  The new Madame Donville, soon pregnant, had understood that her wonderfully courageous husband was obliged to make return visits to his estates in France in order not to be classed as an emigre, forfeiting everything to the dreaded Committee of Public Safety. Time after time he came back to her with the news that he had managed to sell property, increasing their prosperity, soothing her fears.

  Then came the time when he failed to return, and she learned a week later that he had become yet another victim of the ghastly guillotine. The trumped-up charges, she was assured, were malicious and loaded with envy, but the Committee needed no more than that to act without a trial.

  Broken-hearted, distraught, Phoebe had been persuaded to return their London home to members of the Donville family and to move back to live with her mother and older siblings, where Claudette was born at the end of November 1794. Married for less than a year, Phoebe was now the mother of a child who would never know her father.

  But no sooner had she begun to reconcile herself to the terrible manner of her husband’s death and the grief of not having said a fitting farewell, or having his body to bury with dignity, than another blow fell upon her unreal world that threatened to turn her love and admiration crazily upside-down. French refugees abounded in London and elsewhere, friends of her husband and family, some of whom had lost everything to the new regime. One of them felt unable to keep secret what he knew about the manner of Claude Donville’s death and, for no other reason than a desire to put the record straight regarding the way he himself had lost his entire family, told Phoebe what he knew. Far from helping others to keep hold of their estates in France, Donville had, in fact, secretly been supplying the Committee of Public Safety with false evidence to convict them on any trivial charge, such as growing cattle fodder instead of corn, or expressing sympathy with critics of the new dictators. As a reward, he had been allowed to pocket some of the confiscated wealth, loading his own coffers with blood-money. This was now Phoebe’s, for he had left it all to her.

  One of her weightiest problems then had been how to reconcile what she knew of her handsome, charming and brave husband, with what their French friends had decided, except one, to keep secret from her. Another problem was to decide whether his supposed gruesome death by guillotine was better or worse than being shot in cold blood by those who had found him out, which was precisely what had happened. Either way, what she herself had known of him in their short time together and what she had just discovered, were so incompatible that, for a long time, she could not believe it, nor could she believe it had happened to her. This was t
he kind of nightmare that others suffered, outside her experience. The only thing of which she could be certain, during those distressing months, was that she carried his child to be her comfort and solace. The other certainty was that as few people as possible must know that her husband had betrayed his own countrymen for money. Especially it must be kept from her mother who had engineered the match and who would probably not recover from the shock.

  The consequence of this bereavement was that once her sister Mimi and brother Ross had found suitable marriage partners, nothing would satisfy their mother as much as a new husband for herself and then to begin, all over again, to search for Phoebe’s second husband. If she had known the real reasons for her widowed daughter’s aversion to her plans, she would probably have left her alone to bring up her daughter in peace, but she did not, and her machinations were relentless and embarrassingly conspicuous.

  By that time, Phoebe’s mother, now married to Lord Templeman, was stepmother to two young men who saw their new stepsister as fair game for their flirting and for exercising all the attention-seeking ploys young bucks use when competing with each other. According to their immature reckoning, four years was quite enough time for her to have got over it, and what with their persistent and annoying attentions, her mother’s unremitting attempts to force the pace, her new stepfather’s irritation with a four-year-old infant, Claudette’s needs, and Phoebe’s own fear of being exposed as the widow of a traitor, the need to get away from London became her top priority.

  Added to all this was the inevitable guilt of needing to retain the wealth Donville had gained by dishonest means, money that would give her independence when the time came. In one way, it became an aid to remaining chaste to the memory of the man she had loved. But the guilt was a high price to pay for it, and it was this as much as anything that encased her in a distant world where no one was admitted except her daughter and, at times, Cousin Hetty. She had learned to her cost that men were not what they seemed, and too much was at stake for her to allow another man into her future. Her future was Claudette, and no other.