by Sandra Heath
An Impossible Confession
FAIR WARNING
Miss Helen Fairmead could not argue when Mary, her maid, reproached her. ‘Miss Fairmead, you were very unwise to permit Lord Drummond such liberties.’
‘I know,’ Helen said.
‘And as for returning his kiss like that, oh, miss, if it ever got out you’d have no reputation left.’
‘I know that, too,’ replied Helen softly.
‘He’s a man of the world, miss, and it’s my belief he’s made love to a hundred ladies.’
Helen nodded. ‘I know all you say about him could be true. He could be a libertine, a wicked lord with a dark past, intent only on adding me to his list of easy conquests. But when he kissed me…. Oh, Mary, I’ve never felt like that before, it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.’
Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
By the Same Author
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
The blue post chaise left the exclusive Cheltenham school, driving smartly out through the tall wrought iron gates. The fashionable spa was quiet in the early morning sun, and the villa gardens were bright with mid-May flowers, but the chaise’s two passengers, a young lady and her maid, were too excited to take note of anything but the dazzling new life they were embarking upon.
Soon the town was behind them, and the London road began the long climb into the Cotswold hills. The yellow-jacketed postboy urged his team to greater effort, kicking his heels to keep them at it all the way to the top. Far from being a boy, he was nearly fifty years old, and he’d driven this road countless times. He knew every bend and incline, and he drove like the wind, living up to the nickname by which his kind were known, the ‘yellow bounders.’
There wasn’t much traffic at such an early hour, but a detachment of horse artillery was moving slowly in the same direction as the chaise, impeding its progress for a while. The soldiers were en route from their Herefordshire barracks to the distant port of Dover, where they would embark for the Low Countries. On such a beautiful spring morning, it was hard to remember that 1815 was a year of war, and that near Brussels a final confrontation was soon expected with Bonaparte’s France.
Passing the column of horse artillery at last, the chaise continued on its way. A day’s journey lay ahead before it reached its destination, the magnificent estate of Bourne End, near Ascot in Berkshire, but after setting off so promptly, there was little doubt that it would cover the distance before nightfall.
The young lady gazed impatiently out of the chaise window. Her name was Miss Helen Fairmead, and at the age of nineteen she had at last completed her education, being now deemed ready for her first London Season. From now on, her home would be with her sister and brother-in-law, Colonel and Mrs Gregory Bourne, one of society’s most popular and sought-after young couples. Gregory was a devotee of the turf, one of its leading lights, and owned a stud of thoroughbreds that was reckoned to be the finest in the land. Bourne End, newly rebuilt in the latest picturesque style, was a very desirable address indeed, and Helen was assured of every advantage. Exclusive doors would be opened for her, her name would grace all the best invitation lists, and vouchers for Almack’s, that temple of the highest fashion, would not be difficult for her to obtain.
She was striking rather than beautiful, for her green eyes were a little too large, and her mouth too wide, but she had a glory of long honey-colored hair, and a complexion of the softest pink and white. Her figure was curving and slender-waisted, and looked good in all the latest modes. Today she’d chosen to wear a lavender silk spencer over her long-sleeved white lawn gown. The spencer was unbuttoned to reveal the pretty white embroidery on the gown’s high-waisted bodice, and her white shoes and gloves were slashed with lavender. The hem of the gown was fashionably stiffened with rouleaux and more embroidery, to give the triangular shape that was all the rage, and she carried a lavender velvet reticule. Her hair was dressed up into a knot beneath a stylish straw bonnet, and her only jewelry, apart from a signet ring, was a dainty gold fob watch given to her by her sister, Margaret. All in all, she was a young woman of elegance and fashion, and very much a credit to her couturière, Madame Rosalie of The Promenade, Cheltenham, whose talents would soon take her to the more superior circles of London.
Helen’s entire wardrobe was by Madame Rosalie, and the chaise boot was packed to capacity with trunks containing an almost bewildering variety of gowns, pelisses, spencers, hats, bonnets, shoes, shawls, and petticoats. The requirements of a young lady setting out on her first Season were many and expensive, but Colonel Gregory Bourne’s generosity and fondness were such that he hadn’t stinted by so much as a pin; indeed, he’d even supplied his sister-in-law with a collection of beautiful jewelry.
As the chaise reached the top of the climb into the hills, Helen attempted to apply herself to the pages of Miss Austen’s Mansfield Park, but she was too excited to concentrate. How different her life was going to be from now on; indeed, how different she was from the rather timid young girl who’d arrived at Miss Figgis’s Seminary for the Daughters of Gentlefolk five years before. Then she’d merely been the younger daughter of a modest Worcestershire landowner, overcome with envy that her elder sister had just gone to London to enjoy an unexpected Season because of the beneficence of a distant relative. Margaret Fairmead had been very fortunate indeed. Helen could not have hoped then for a similar stroke of luck; the highlight of her social calender was likely to be the annual subscription ball at the assembly rooms in Worcester. But Margaret’s Season had changed everything, for although she hadn’t been a beauty, or ‘a fortune,’ she’d still managed to snap up one of England’s most eligible young gentlemen. Colonel Gregory Bourne was not only handsome and privileged, he was also something of a hero, having distinguished himself in Spain at the battle of Vimiero in 1808, when his personal heroism had saved his men from certain extinction. He’d received wounds that had led to him being invalided out of the army, and he’d returned to London to find himself the object of much romantic attention from hopeful ladies. He could have taken his pick, but once his glance fell upon Margaret, he’d lost his heart completely. Theirs had been a match to set society by the ears, for no one had expected him to take such an insignificant bride, and their marriage at St George’s, Hanover Square, had been one of the most extravagant occasions that year.
Margaret had been pampered with love and luxury from the outset of the marriage, and she and Gregory had adored each other in a way that made theirs a love match of the highest order. They’d lived at first in a fine town house in Park Lane, waiting until Bourne End was rebuilt in the very latest style. The work had finished two summers before, but Helen had yet to see the new house, although she knew of it from Margaret’s letters. Margaret and Gregory were all the family she had now, for her parents had both been killed in a carriage overturn during her second year at Cheltenham, and the elderly great-aunt she’d stayed with during subsequent school vacations had died the previous autumn, but she’d always been close to her sister, and on the
occasions she’d met Gregory, she’d liked him very much indeed. The new life now stretching before her was everything she could have ever wished for, and she couldn’t wait for it to begin. Royal Ascot was in two weeks’ time, and it was at this prestigious event that she’d make her first appearance in society.
The postboy hurled the chaise toward the end of the first stage, which was at the Frogmill Inn. He took on and passed every vehicle on the road, from a Cheltenham ‘Flyer’ stagecoach to a rather startled military gentleman driving a gig, and as the chaise lurched and swayed alarmingly, Helen’s thoughts were dragged momentarily away from the delicious contemplation of her fortunate circumstances. Posting was always a somewhat hazardous method of traveling, because it was so fast, and she was to have made the journey in Gregory’s carriage, but when Miss Figgis had been persuaded to let her leave two days earlier than previously agreed, it was an escape that could not be refused. Five years was a horrid long time to be incarcerated in school, even one as superior as the seminary, and Helen hadn’t been able to wait to get away. She’d hired the first available chaise, and now would be at Bourne End before Gregory dispatched his private carriage.
The rigors of the chaise’s pace didn’t alarm the maid, who was so tired after staying up half the night packing for the unexpected departure that her head was lolling against the back of the seat. Mary Caldwell was the same age as her mistress, and had been in her service for just over a year. She was Cheltenham born and bred, and sharp enough to have used her time at the school to lose as much of her country ways and accent as possible. She was small and dark-haired, with brown eyes and a liberal sprinkling of freckles on her snub nose. Her clothes were plain, a light-blue linen dress beneath a gray cape, and her mobcap was very stiffly starched. To Helen, she was more than just a maid, she was a friend too, and so was accorded the privilege of speaking her mind from time to time, a liberty she used whenever she felt it was in the interests of her rather impetuous mistress. Discreet, wise beyond her years, and intensely loyal, she thought the world of Helen, whose welfare she guarded like a tiger. Like Helen, she was excited about the new life at Bourne End, and she’d been determined to stay awake and see every inch of the journey, but her eyes had closed, and now she was fast asleep.
The Frogmill Inn loomed ahead, and at last the postboy maneuvered his tired team into the yard, where stagecoaches and mails always made their last stop in, and first stop out of Cheltenham. Helen glanced at the clock on the wall of the ticket office next to the taproom door. It was a quarter to eight. Frowning, she looked at her fob watch, which indicated that it was only twenty-five past seven. She’d forgotten to wind it the night before, and it was running slow again. She really would have to get into a proper routine, otherwise she’d never know the right time. Adjusting it, she settled back in the seat, and almost immediately the chaise started forward again, the swift change of team accomplished very deftly.
As the postboy brought the fresh horses up to a spanking pace, she noticed that there was more traffic on the road now. There were a number of stagecoaches and slow-moving wagons and carts, to say nothing of a variety of private carriages, from landaus and barouches to cabriolets and curricles. The beau monde was always to be found on the road from London to fashionable Cheltenham spa, just as it was to be found on the road to Bath.
There were no more columns of horse artillery to hinder progress; indeed, there was very little sign of anything military. The hills were beautiful at this time of year, the fields fresh and bright and the woods dazzling with bluebells. There were mellow stone hamlets, flocks of sheep with lambs, hedges bowing beneath the weight of hawthorn blossoms, and valleys where cool streams wound between mossy banks; the war in Europe was a world away. In London the newspapers were increasingly uneasy, and the citizens were said to be quite agitated about the situation across the Channel, fearing invasion at any moment, but here, in the serenity of the countryside, Napoleon Bonaparte was but a name to frighten the children into good behavior.
It wasn’t long after the end of the second stage of the journey that Helen’s day began to go wrong. They’d just passed the wool town of Northleach, and she and Mary were sharing the light meal of cold chicken and salad packed for them at the seminary, when quite suddenly the chaise drew to a standstill on the open road and the rather disgruntled postboy came to the door to inform them that one of the horses had gone lame. He rode on to the next inn for a replacement, and more than an hour was lost. Then no less than five hours were lost on the next stage, because repairs had to be carried out on a faulty wheel. Realizing that her intention of reaching Bourne End before nightfall was in jeopardy, Helen endeavored to hire another chaise, but there wasn’t one to be had, and so she and Mary resigned themselves to a long wait in the house of an obliging clergyman while the chaise was made good again.
It was well on in the afternoon when they were at last able to set off again, and by then Helen knew they’d have to travel by night in order to complete the journey, it being unthinkable that an unescorted young lady should stay at an inn, even a superior posting house. But she reckoned without the intervention of the weather, or the existence of a highwayman by the name of Lord Swag, whose after-dark activities on the road beyond the village of Upper Ballington had recently been causing much alarm. Highwaymen were scarce these days, but this impudent fellow had been doing very well for himself out of travelers grown complacent about such things.
The weather changed quite abruptly at six o’clock in the evening. Clouds stole swiftly over the clear May skies, and the sunshine was shut out as a torrential downpour set in. In a very short time the road was dirty and difficult to traverse as puddles and rivulets formed, and the chaise could only move slowly. The horse’s heads were low and dejected as they plodded through the rain toward the end of the stage, which lay beyond Upper Ballington at the Rose Tree Inn, on a stretch of road where Lord Swag was particularly active. There should have been several hours of daylight left, but the weather was so bad that darkness came very early. The road was almost deserted, all other travelers wisely having broken their journey, and just as the outlying houses of Upper Ballington appeared ahead, the postboy reined in and dismounted, coming to the door.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, miss,’ he said, the rain dripping from the brim of his beaver hat, ‘but there’s no ’ope of reachin’ anywhere tonight, ’ceptin’ the village just up the road.’
Helen was dismayed. ‘But I have to reach Ascot.’
‘That’s not possible, miss,’ he replied firmly.
‘But….’
‘Not only is the weather against us, there’s also Lord Swag to consider now it’s as good as dark.’
‘Lord Swag?’ She hadn’t heard of the highwayman.
‘The, er, gentleman of the road, miss.’
‘But there aren’t any highwaymen anymore,’ she protested.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but there’s Lord Swag, and a little rough weather won’t keep ’im inside. Them as is foolish enough to stay on the road in conditions like this, will be sittin’ targets for ’im. I don’t know what you’ve got in all that there luggage we loaded up, but I reckon ’e’d find it mortal interestin’.’
He would, for her jewelry was in one of the valises. She drew a long, resigned breath. ‘What do you intend to do, then?’
‘I’m stoppin’ at the Cat and Fiddle in Upper Ballington. It’s about a quarter of a mile ahead. You might be able to ’ire another chaise there, if you’re that set on riskin’ it, but my advice is to call a ’alt tonight and carry on in the mornin’. Lord Swag don’t come out in daylight.’
He didn’t wait for her to reply, but slammed the door and went to remount. A moment later the chaise continued at its crawling pace.
Helen looked unhappily at Mary. ‘What am I to do? I’m not supposed to even set foot in an inn, let alone get myself benighted at one.’
‘I know, miss.’
‘Oh, I can hear Miss Figgis now. Unmarried ladies never
enter wayside inns unescorted, so do not, whatever the temptation, be so foolish as to stay at one. Your reputation must be considered before all else, Miss Fairmead, so do not forget it.’ She mimicked the headmistress’s thin voice very accurately indeed, making Mary giggle in spite of the quandary they were in.
The maid glanced out at the fading light, and the downpour. ‘You don’t really have any choice, miss. The postboy has no intention of continuing, and I don’t think it’s very likely you’ll get another carriage, not in weather like this, with a highwayman to avoid.’
‘But an inn is quite out of the question, Mary. To stay at one amounts to a heinous sin, or so I’ve been lectured for the past five years.’
‘The circumstances are rather exceptional, miss. Why, I haven’t seen anyone else on the road for at least half an hour now.’
Even as she spoke the sound of hooves carried clearly into the chaise, coming up smartly from behind. Helen’s breath caught in alarm, for she thought instantly of the highwayman. Lowering the glass to look out, she saw to her relief that the hooves belonged to a high-stepping team of perfectly matched bays pulling a dashing bright red curricie. The little vehicle was moving at a spanking pace in spite of the weather, and a gentleman of fashion was at the ribbons, his top hat pulled low over his forehead. His modish traveling cloak was soaked through as he eased the blood team effortlessly past the slow-moving chaise, and he didn’t even glance at the other vehicle as he drove on by.
Helen drew back inside, raising the glass again. ‘It wasn’t Lord Swag, it was a gentleman who looked as if he had but five minutes in which to reach Hyde Park.’
At last the chaise approached the Cat and Fiddle, a large old stone building with mullioned windows and a rambling, gabled roof. Behind it were stables and coach-houses, and beyond them some tall elms where rooks could be heard settling down for the night. The scraping sound of a fiddle emanated from the tap room, and the smell of cooking drifted from the kitchens as the chaise approached the archway leading into the courtyard.
