by Mary Nichols
THE DANBURY SCANDALS
by
Mary Nichols
Originally published in 1992 by Mills & Boon.
Copyright 1992 and 2012 by Mary Nichols
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which is it published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN
Published by Mary Nichols 2012
Cover design: Elaine Nichols.
The image of the chateau on the cover was taken by Xedos4 and is reproduced by permission of FreeDigitalPhotos.net, and the image of the couple in the garden is reproduced by permission of Anacronicos Recreacion Historica
When Maryanne Paynter is ten, her beloved mother dies and she is taken by her great uncle to live with the Reverend Mr Cudlipp at Beckford. Her life is unexceptional until, a little before her twenty-first birthday, Viscount Danbury takes her to Castle Cedars, the country estate of the Duke of Wiltshire where she is taken to see the Dowager Duchess, a frail, bedridden old lady who is apparently anxious to make her acquaintance. Furious with the way she is treated Maryanne runs from the house, only to fall into the arms of a mysterious man walking through the woods who seems unusually interested in the occupants of Castle Cedars. She is unsure whether he is a gypsy, a poacher or an escaped prisoner of war, for the war with Napoleon has just ended with the dictator’s defeat and imprisonment of the island of Elba.
Later, she learns that her mother was the daughter of the fifth Duke of Wiltshire, who disowned her when she married a man of whom they disapproved. But now the old man is dead and the dowager is anxious to bring Maryanne back into the family. Instead of returning to the rectory, she is to live with Viscount Danbury and his son, Mark, and spoiled daughter, Caroline.
It is the beginning of a new and bewildering life, not made easier by old scandals and the occasional reappearance of the intriguing man she met in the wood, who seems to have a string of pseudonyms and disguises. There is mystery and danger, a proposal and more scandal and Maryanne, in the thick of it, does not know whom to trust. Mark or the man who calls himself variously le Choucas, Jack Daw or Adam St Pierre?
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter One
The snow of the longest and hardest winter for centuries had gone at last and the snowdrops were nodding their delicate heads in the woods beside the lane and it would not be long before the daffodils were in bloom, carpeting the ground beneath the trees in a glory of gold. The first awakening of spring had never before failed to enrapture Maryanne, but today her thoughts were on other things, as the heavy family coach turned in at the gates of a huge estate and along a tree-lined drive.
Opposite her, James, Viscount Danbury, whose title seemed to sit uneasily on his upright shoulders, even after twenty-eight years, sat back in his seat, looking pensive. Lean and sinuous, he was in his early fifties, she judged, and still a handsome man, with a complexion which owed more to his time in the Navy than to his duties as the squire of Beckford, where he was a well-liked and respected figure. He had been married, though his wife had died many years before, leaving him to bring up a son and daughter alone.
All this Maryanne knew, but what had been puzzling her ever since her interview with him at Beckford Hall the previous day was what she had done to deserve his attention. They lived on a different plane entirely; he was so far above her as to seem god-like and yet he had asked to see her and then had startled her into agreeing to take this short journey with him, and unchaperoned at that. ‘The reverend is in full accord,’ he had said, when she protested.
So here she was, wearing her best-and only-silk gown, a warm cloak and a plain bonnet, on her way to goodness knew where and he alone knowing why. Except, perhaps, her guardian, the Reverend Mr Cudlipp; he had come away from the interview looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
She looked up suddenly to find his lordship’s brown eyes on her, and smiled nervously, then sat forward in her seat with a gasp of surprise as the vehicle rounded the bend which brought the mansion into view. But it was not the graceful lines of the building, its great length and height, nor its myriad shining windows arranged in rows either side of a huge portal of marble columns, which caused her surprise. It was the feeling, so strong she could not believe it anything but fact, that it was not the first time she had been there.
‘What is this place?’ she asked him. ‘I’m sure I have been here before.’
‘You have?’ He sounded surprised. ‘When was that?’
Maryanne teased her memory, trying to pin-point the occasion. As a child she had seen very little of her father, who had been a sea captain and rarely at home. It was why they had lived at Portsmouth, why they had had no real home of their own, but lived with Benjamin Paynter, her father’s uncle. It was Uncle Ben who had brought her here. He had been a seaman himself and was gnarled and weather-beaten, but he had the kindest heart of any man she had ever known. She remembered how he used to hold her on his knee to tell her stories of his adventures in foreign places and show her pictures of the ships he had served on. After her father had been killed in the Copenhagen action of 1802, she and her mother had continued to live with Uncle Ben, existing on a small naval pension bought with her father’s share of the prize money. Her great-uncle had been her only comfort when her mother, too, had died.
Even now, she could easily recall the feelings of desolation, of bewilderment, she had felt then. She remembered the people standing at their street doors as the hearse passed, drawn by four black horses with huge black plumes and shining harness, and followed by a very few mourners on foot. It had poured with rain while they stood at the graveside; everything, including the sky, had looked black or grey, everything except the shining oak coffin and its brass handles. When they started piling earth on top of it, she had screamed, so that one of the black-clad figures had led her away until she quietened down. Who had they been, those people at the graveside? As far as she was aware, she had never seen them before or since.
She had been too young to realise that it was a far grander funeral than a poor family like hers could afford and it had not, at the time, occurred to her to wonder who had paid for it. It had been easy to accept it without question, assuming that Uncle Ben had arranged it or that her mother had had enough savings to cover the expenses.
Uncle Ben, she remembered now, had hired a chaise to bring them up from Portsmouth, a trip which at any other time would have delighted her, especially in his company, but on that occasion he had been silent and thoughtful. When the coach stopped at the lodge, he had been obliged to spend several minutes persuading the lodge keeper that his business was important enough for him to be admitted without an appointment. Eventually he had succeeded, the huge gates had been opened and they had proceeded up the long drive through an avenue of trees to the front door of the house, when her view of it had been exactly as it was now. Her great-uncle had left he
r sitting in the chaise while he went to the door. He had not been admitted, although the footman had gone off with a message to someone, who had declined to see him. When he returned to the coach he had been almost purple with rage and uttering imprecations under his breath which had startled her.
Soon after that, she had been taken to live with the Reverend Mr Cudlipp and his wife. She remembered her arrival at Beckford, how bereft she had felt, how she had cried into her pillow night after night, cried for her mother and Uncle Ben, who had cruelly left her there. At the time she had not been able to understand why it was out of the question to allow a growing girl to be brought up by an old bachelor. The tears had dried at last and since then she had hardened herself to be indifferent to mental anguish; she had not wept since. Tears changed nothing. She had settled down in her new life and had learned to curb what her guardian referred to as her ‘wilful ways’, although deep inside her was a defiant streak born of a longing for something different, a restlessness which the oppressive atmosphere of the rectory did nothing to assuage.
‘My great-uncle brought me here,’ she said, bringing herself back to the present to reply to his question. ‘It was just after Mama died.’
He looked surprised. ‘Whom did you see?’
‘No one. Neither did he. We were turned away.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said softly. ‘Did he say why?’
‘No. I never knew.’ She turned to him, her huge eyes troubled. ‘What is this place?’
‘Castle Cedars, the country home of the Duke of Wiltshire. We are going to see the Dowager Duchess. She is my aunt, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘You will not be turned from the door this time,’ he said softly.
Any questions she might have had were cut short because the carriage had stopped and the groom had jumped down to open its door and let down the step. She was aware, as she stood hesitantly on the gravel of the drive, that their arrival had been anticipated and the great oak front entrance had been opened by a liveried footman in yellow satin and white stockings.
She wondered if she was going to be offered a post, perhaps as a maid or companion to the old lady, but she dismissed that idea as being nonsensical; Her Grace was unlikely to employ someone she did not know and who had no experience of the duties expected of her. Had her mother once worked in this great house? Was that why Uncle Ben had brought her here, hoping for a little charity for the ten-year-old orphan? Charity!
Was that all it was? His lordship took her arm and escorted her up the steps and into a large high-ceilinged hall, where they were met by the house steward. ‘Good afternoon, my lord.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Fletcher. How is Her Grace today?’
‘She rallied a little this morning, my lord, and was able to direct her affairs.’ This was said with a conspiratorial smile, as he took Maryanne’s cloak and bonnet and his lordship’s hat. ‘Mr Mark and Miss Caroline are already with Her Grace, my lord. She gave instructions you were to be shown straight up.’
‘Then let us go to her.’ His lordship smiled at Maryanne, ‘Come, my dear, you will not be kept in suspense any longer.’
She followed him up the grand staircase and along a gallery whose thick carpet deadened their footsteps, to a room at the end, where he knocked on the door and ushered her inside.
The curtains were almost fully drawn across the big windows and the room was in semi-darkness, so that it was a moment or two before Maryanne’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom. She could not see the occupant of the bed, because the doctor’s broad frame was in the way. On one side stood a young man in his late twenties, a handsome man, tall, upright and unsmiling. He was so like Lord Danbury that she guessed he must be his son, the Honourable Mark Danbury. The young lady sitting on the other side Maryanne knew to be the Honourable Caroline because she sometimes came to Church with her father and could be seen occasionally riding out in one or other of the family carriages, or galloping across the downs with a groom endeavouring to keep up with her. Today her fashionable pink-striped open gown over a satin petticoat in a darker shade made Maryanne feel dowdy and out of place.
‘I do not think this is a good idea at all, Your Grace,’ the doctor was saying, as he moved round to take the patient’s wrist in his hand, allowing Maryanne a view of the tiny figure in the bed. ‘You should not become excited.’
The Duchess’s white hair, under a snowy cap, was spread about an equally snowy pillow, making her lined face look even greyer than it really was. She lay so still that, for one shocked moment, Maryanne thought she was dead. But then her eyes flickered open and they were as clear and blue as forget-me-nots.
‘Tarradiddle, you old fool! I shall become more excited if I am thwarted, as you well know.’ She turned her head slowly and looked directly at Maryanne. ‘Come forward, child.’
Maryanne moved slowly towards the bed, conscious of everyone’s eyes watching her, the young man with curiosity, his sister with disdain.
The old lady attempted to sit up and Lord Danbury hurried forward to plump up the pillows behind her. Once she was settled, Maryanne was subjected to a scrutiny which made her feel like a farm animal at market. No one spoke and Maryanne, self-conscious and uncomfortable, swallowed hard and resisted the temptation to speak first and shatter the silence.
‘The likeness is there,’ the old lady said at last, to the room in general, and then to Maryanne in particular, ‘I am sorry, my dear, so very sorry.’ She stretched out her hand and Maryanne moved forward to take it and drop a curtsy.
‘Sorry, Your Grace?’ she asked.
But the Dowager Duchess did not appear to hear. She dropped her hand and turned to her nephew. ‘James, you must make... amends.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’
‘And don’t leave it to Henry; you know what he is like.’
‘It will be my pleasure to look after her myself, Aunt,’ he said.
The old lady smiled. ‘You always did have a soft spot in your heart for Helena, didn’t you? When we condemned, you connived...’ She sighed. ‘But then we could hardly expect anything else from you, could we? Baked in the same mould, the pair of you.’
‘Aunt...’
‘Oh, do not try to hum your way out of it. It is of no consequence now. Just make sure she is brought out and makes a good match. Now, I am tired.’ She turned to Maryanne. ‘I’m glad to have met you, my child. Go now, I must sleep...’ The voice was weaker, breathless. Her head sank back into the soft pillow. ‘We will talk again when I feel stronger.’ Her last words were almost inaudible and the doctor brushed Lord Danbury aside to go to her.
Maryanne felt herself being taken by the arm and propelled towards the door. Once outside, she turned to look at the young man who had escorted her from the room. He smiled easily, although behind his smile was a certain wariness.
‘I am sorry you had to be subjected to that, but once Her Grace gets an idea into her head there is no gainsaying it.’
‘But I don’t understand. Why am I being treated like some prize horse? I thought someone would ask to inspect my teeth next.’
He chuckled. ‘I’ve no doubt my father will enlighten you shortly. I’m Mark Danbury, by the way.’ He escorted her down to a small reception-room and turned to smile at her. ‘Please wait in here; my father will come to you soon.’
‘Mr Danbury,’ she said, turning on him with anger flashing in her violet eyes. ‘I insist on being told why I have been brought here and inspected just as if I were some chattel to be bargained for. I am me, Maryanne Paynter, and no one’s property.’
‘Of course, But you did agree to come.’
‘Did I have a choice?’
‘You could have refused.’
She smiled. ‘I can just imagine what my guardian would have said if I had tried that, and besides...’
‘You were curious.’ He chuckled. ‘Now admit it.’
She found herself laughing. ‘Perhaps, but now I have had enough and I want to go home.’
>
‘And if this were your home?’
She looked up at him, startled. ‘I don’t understand; am I to be offered a post here?’
He laughed aloud. ‘I doubt that was in Her Grace’s mind, though since she’s been ill she has been a bit queer in the attic. Please wait until my father comes; he will tell you.’ He smiled easily. ‘Now, I must go back to the family. I shall look forward to seeing you again later.’ He turned and left her, shutting the door behind him.
She stood quite still, listening to the sounds of the house: scurrying footsteps, subdued voices, the soft shutting of a door. She moved to the window and looked out. Because the house was built on a hill, the room had a fine view over the surrounding countryside. Beyond the wood, she could see a village nestling in the valley, a row of cottages, the inn and the church; it reminded her of Beckford. Why was she standing here, alone and bewildered? Why was she not in her safe little world at Beckford Rectory, teaching the village boys their letters?
Her Grace had instructed Lord Danbury to find a good match for her. Did they intend to marry her off without so much as asking her what she had to say about it? Once she had overheard her guardian talking to his wife on the subject. ‘How it is to be brought about, I cannot imagine,’ he had said. ‘She cannot marry into the gentry, no one will have her with her background, and yet she is too genteel to become the wife of a commoner.’ He had sighed. ‘I had done better not to have taken her in, but there, I have a soft heart...’
Maryanne’s mother had been a gentlewoman in the best sense of the word, anyone with eyes in their head could have seen that, so why had he made it sound like a barrier? And why had he involved Lord Danbury and the Dowager Duchess? If that was what they were about, then they were going to find her outward meekness hid a will of iron; she would not be mated like some farmyard animal. She would live in poverty first. And she would not wait on their convenience a moment longer. She went and flung open the door.
