Regency House

by Elizabeth Moss

  REGENCY HOUSE: Season One, Episode 1

  Copyright @ Elizabeth Moss 2014

  All rights reserved.

  Elizabeth Moss has asserted her right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in part or in whole or transferred by any means without the express written permission of the author.

  Elizabeth Moss is also the author of the critically acclaimed WOLF BRIDE (Lust in the Tudor Court) and THE EARL AND HIS TIGER: SPECIAL EDITION (a Kindle Bestseller).

  WOLF BRIDE (UK link)

  WOLF BRIDE (US link)

  THE EARL AND HIS TIGER: SPECIAL EDITION (UK link)

  THE EARL AND HIS TIGER: SPECIAL EDITION (US link)

  fiat justitia ruat caelum

  let justice be done, though the heavens fall

  REGENCY HOUSE

  Two powerful families at war in Regency England

  CHAPTER ONE

  MICHAEL

  ‘Good God,’ Patience muttered thickly, then swallowed her mouthful of boiled ham. She handed her copy of The Times to her brother, tapping the announcements’ page with a buttery finger. ‘Did you know about that, Michael?’

  Michael took the newspaper and studied the small black print to which she had pointed, now irrevocably stained with a greasy fingerprint.

  It was a forthcoming wedding announcement. Since he knew both the participants, he read the details with more than usual attention: The Honourable Rollo Farraway, eldest son of Lord and Lady Farraway of Gloucestershire and London, to Miss Caroline Lewis, at St. George’s Church, the last Saturday in December, et cetera.

  He only knew Rollo vaguely. But Caroline was one of his sister’s particular friends, having spent a few years together at the same girls’ seminary in Cheltenham.

  ‘I knew they were to be married, but not so soon. I heard in one of the clubs that he began courting her a month past. There was some speculation about a spring wedding.’ He threw the newspaper down and returned to his breakfast. ‘It does seem somewhat precipitous.’

  ‘Of course it does. And to be marrying so close to Christmas too.’

  ‘I don’t see how that can possibly signify.’

  His sister raised her eyebrows in disapproval. ‘Heathen.’

  ‘You think she may be in an interesting condition?’

  ‘Michael!’

  He smiled and drank some refreshing, lukewarm tea from the shallow bowl on the table. ‘Well, what else could be in your mind?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Patience picked at the cold ham on her plate. But it was clear that the news had removed her appetite for breakfast, for she did not even seem tempted by the welcome addition that morning of a tasty pickled onion sauce in a little silver pot.

  ‘I wonder if Caro will send us an invitation to her wedding. I must write her a note of congratulation, if we do not see her at the Smales’ Christmas ball. Though of course we rarely move in the same circles now.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Her money will solve his father’s problems admirably though, won’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical, my dear sister. It is an excellent match on both sides.’

  ‘Excellent, you call it? When the bridegroom is lame?’

  He frowned, considering that remark with some disapproval. Rollo had been born with a disability which meant he had trouble walking, and even found riding a challenge at times. He used a cane, like an old man, but this difficulty had never prevented him from enjoying first a good university education at Oxford and then London society to the full.

  ‘He cannot dance, I will give you that. And I believe his health has always been fragile. But Rollo is hardly lame.’

  Nor would Farraway make a bad husband. He would not mention such indelicate gossip to his sister, but although Rollo was only five and twenty, he was already known for his tempestuous mistresses, tumbling one Italian or French actress after another into his bed. No doubt he had felt some need to compensate for his unfortunate limp. But his bride would certainly have no trouble conceiving a future heir for the Farraway title.

  ‘Forgive me, you are right. Still, Caroline is so young, only eighteen years of age, and such a beautiful, tiny creature. To think of her sold to the Farraway family in return for greater social consequence …’ Patience shuddered. ‘The Marriage Mart sickens me at times. Her father should be ashamed to have allowed such a match.’

  He could not share his sister’s distaste over the match, but then he had never admired Caroline’s pale and fragile beauty, and on the few occasions when they had met, had found her behaviour that of a spoiled child. Though in truth he thought most ladies of the ton spoiled and lazy, and he had to admit that her education at least had been excellent, just like his sister’s.

  ‘Lord Lewis has not enjoyed an invitation to court since that scandal over his wife’s death,’ he commented, and nodded to the footman to remove their plates. ‘So his daughter marries into a family high in royal favour, and in return Lewis’s wealth clears Farraway’s debts. I call it good husbandry.’

  ‘I call it Beauty and the Beast, though not as delightful as that fairy tale.’

  Michael did not answer, for his gaze had returned to the newspaper and stopped there, arrested by one of the smaller announcements.

  ‘Applications are requested for the hiring of London servants for the household of Sir Tobias Dryden. Interviews to be granted only to … ’ He read on under his breath, finally uttering an obscenity which had Patience clamping both hands over her ears in horror, ‘Damn it to hell!’

  His sister was too young to have met the Drydens while their parents were still alive, and so did not understand. ‘Goodness, whatever is the matter, Michael? And temper your language at the breakfast table, I beg you.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ He stood, collecting the newspaper and leaving the table in some distraction. ‘I cannot take you out to call on Kitty as we planned. There is some urgent business I must attend to. Some friends to whom I must write without delay.’

  ‘Abolitionist friends?’

  Michael paused on the threshold, looking back at his sister at the breakfast table. She was a handsome girl, taller than most, with striking dark chestnut hair and large eyes that watched him with interest. He enjoyed the lively discussions they had at table, for his sister had a well-educated mind and did not shy away from giving her opinion. But secretly he thought she was of a rather too serious disposition considering she was barely nineteen, and had already scared away a few suitors by arguing with them over politics.

  He smiled at her, though in truth he was deep in his own thoughts. ‘Yes,’ he said, already mentally composing the message he knew must be sent to his friends in Clapham. ‘They must be told at once of Sir Tobias’s return from Jamaica, in case they missed that notice in the newspaper.’

  ‘This very morning? Is it so important then?’ Patience did not bother to hide her natural disappointment that their outing was to be cancelled, though at least she knew better than to remonstrate with him as other girls her age might have done. ‘I shall have to send a note round to Kitty. Perhaps we could arrange to meet tomorrow instead. But who is this dread Sir Tobias who has ruined our book-buying expedition?’

  ‘Only one of the wealthiest and most notorious slave-owners of this century.’

  ‘A slaver!’

  ‘Sir Tobias would never dirty his own hands by dealing in slaves. He leaves that to the merchant classes. But yes, he owns many hundreds of slaves. Men, women and children. He owns them body and soul, and puts them to work on his vast sugar plantations in the most grievous of conditions, treating them worse than animals. Though I note he is hiring servants here in London. No doubt he realises he cannot keep slaves in his hou
sehold while in England, not after the Somerset case failed.’ He quoted, ‘The air in England is too pure for any slave to breathe. That precedent has long been established here.’

  ‘I see. And now he is back in London. You think Sir Tobias means to sabotage you?’

  ‘I believe he will exert all his power and influence to bring the abolitionist movement to its knees, yes.’

  Patience pushed back her chair before the footman could reach her; it fell, hitting the floor unheeded. Her white cloth napkin crumpled in her fist, a martial light in her eyes, she demanded, ‘Then why are you still standing here, brother? Go write your letters. Fiat justitia ruat caelum.’

  Despite his concerns, Michael had to smile at his sister’s passionate outburst. ‘Indeed,’ he agreed drily. ‘Though let us hope the outcome is somewhat less apocalyptic. For all our sakes.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  SOPHIA

  Miss Sophia Dryden had never felt so cold in all her twenty-three years. Nor as choked with the foul and filthy air of a city.

  She stood on the cold stone balcony and stared up into a sky where the distant stars were only visible through a film, as though wrapped in voile. Nothing so beautiful, of course. Merely the daily outpourings of smoke that filled this teeming city. She had heard London described many times by her father as a centre of excellence, a place of classical beauty and elegance, where ladies and gentlemen rode and danced in the best style, all clad in the latest fashions. But while she had indeed seen many elegant ladies here tonight, too many of the gentlemen seemed almost ramshackle after the stern rules of dress to which she had grown accustomed back home. Certainly none of those with whom she had danced so far had struck her as a potential husband. Unless her standards were too high for Englishmen.

  And she thought she might expire in the thin muslin gown she had been advised to wear this evening, her body was so frozen.

  ‘Cold, my child?’ her father asked in a jovial tone, appearing behind her on the balcony. He rubbed her bare arms to warm them. ‘I am not surprised if you will stand outside in the evening. Where is your wrap? Come into the ballroom, my dear. December in England is not so bitter a month as January, but it will serve nicely to chill you into an icicle while you are still accustomed to the warmth of Jamaica.’

  She turned, smiling at her father. ‘Then why drag us to this frozen island, Papa? It was not very well done of you.’

  ‘It was time. You must find an English husband, and your brother must court a wife. Besides, there were other reasons.’

  She nodded, and allowed him to lead her back into the ballroom, a crowded room brightly lit by candles at every vantage point, and a glittering central chandelier of massive proportions. Her father did not need to explain his concerns over the growing English opposition to slavery. Nor that their fortune might depend on the outcome of any further Parliamentary Act seeking to abolish the legal possession of slaves by English citizens living in the colonies.

  ‘I found her,’ he said, leading Sophia back to her mama on the edge of the dancing. ‘On the balcony, of course. Star-gazing.’

  ‘Oh, Sophia,’ her mama remonstrated with her, but without heat, slipping an affectionate arm about her waist, ‘you may not behave just as you wish anymore. This is not home. This is England. The rules are different here, you may not simply slip away from us whenever you feel like it.’

  ‘I am well aware of it.’

  She looked about the ballroom restlessly. A man of middling height stood across the room with his back to her. Dark, his glossy hair was gathered at the back in the manner of a sailor’s pigtail and tied with a single black ribbon.

  Unlike the more elegantly languid gentlemen she had seen that evening, this man exuded impatience and desire for action even standing in one spot. His back was broad, his waist narrow. His clothes were neither expensive nor elegant, but they were clearly well-tailored. The tails of his green coat descended to mid-thigh, but his thighs and calves were pleasingly muscular, and there was something mesmerising about the way he held himself …

  ‘Come now,’ her mother pressed her, ‘did you not enjoy the Viscount’s addresses? He is a very presentable gentleman, would you not agree?’

  Tearing her gaze from the man with the pigtail, she turned dispassionately to regard Viscount Smale, with whom she had danced earlier. ‘His lordship is well enough,’ she conceded, ‘but not a man with whom I could spend a lifetime. He talked of nothing but the weather while we were dancing, and seemed nonplussed when I attempted to turn the conversation to politics. It was all I could do not to enquire if he had sawdust between his ears.’

  Her father laughed. ‘I fear you will find all these noblemen much the same. They talk of such matters in the clubs, but not with a lady. It is not the done thing.’

  ‘Yet you discuss politics at the dinner table, Papa.’

  ‘That is because I am no aristocrat,’ he said wryly, and pinched her cheek. ‘Now, puss, you must lower your standards somewhat if you are to marry well. You have style and beauty, and certainly more wealth than most débutantes this season. But your wit may prove your undoing. These blue-bloods want a pretty wife to provide them with an heir and play hostess for their friends. They will not welcome your pert opinions. So be sure to restrict your own remarks to the weather next time you are dancing. Understand?’

  Sophia loved her father and did not wish to hurt his feelings, so merely nodded. ‘But of course, Papa.’

  She had no intention, though, of doing anything so feeble-minded. Her papa would have no idea what she was discussing during a dance, and besides, there was no one here with whom she could enjoy a proper conversation anyway.

  ‘I shall go and find the card room,’ Sir Tobias said abruptly, and took his leave of them, promising to return later to escort them into dinner.

  Sophia watched her father go, then amused herself by turning to survey the other guests. Having been raised in an unorthodox fashion, taught early on not only to understand politics but also to defend herself against possible attack in a savage land, she had little hope of finding anyone of interest.

  But her glance about the crowded ballroom snagged on the man with the pigtail again, and she had to admit to liking what she saw.

  He was talking to a group of other men, some of them much older than himself, and one young lady of around eighteen or nineteen years of age, whose striking similarity in looks must surely mean – Sophia was surprised to find herself hoping – they were related.

  His sister, perhaps?

  The gentleman turned at that moment, looking towards the dancers, a smile on his lips, and Sophia caught her breath.

  He was handsome, in profile at least. Dark eyes, a mobile brow, strong cheekbones, and an even stronger jaw. Stubborn as herself, she guessed ruefully. And perhaps a dash impulsive.

  ‘Who has caught your attention now?’ her mama demanded sharply, and followed her gaze.

  Her mother was used to guarding her daughter closely from ineligible suitors, so it was no surprise when she studied the young man for a moment, then snapped her fingers to the mulatto page who had accompanied them to the ball.

  ‘Solomon, discreetly discover that young man’s name. The one in rustic green.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The boy, who had always lived in their household and had travelled with them from Jamaica, disappeared impassively into the throng.

  ‘My dear Sophia, that gown seems mighty low-cut,’ her mama said, eyeing her with disapproval.

  ‘But the modiste said it was all the fashion to show the chest, Mama. You heard her yourself, and applauded the gown when it arrived. Would you change your mind now and have me look dowdy?’

  ‘I would not have you look quite so … available.’

  ‘Mama!’

  ‘Very well, I shall say no more. But if that is the fashion these days, it is indecent. And these thin muslin gowns that show off the legs and buttocks to a ridiculous degree … We would never have worn such obscene creat
ions at a ball in Jamaica, and you know it. There would have been a riot. Though of course one cannot be too careful abroad.’

  Solomon reappeared some five minutes later, just as the dinner dance was due to begin, a somewhat altered expression on his face. Malicious, one might almost have said.

  In truth Solomon was too old now to be a page, Sophia thought, observing how tall the boy had grown in the past year alone. He quite towered over her and her mother. Yet her father did appear to like having him about the place, and even her mama had made no formal move to have him replaced with a younger slave. Now that they had come to London though, he would be better trained as a footman. Not least because a black page was no longer the fashion in England, and she had caught more than one disapproving glance this evening.

  She herself was not sure she liked Solomon. There was a sly look on his face at times which made her uncomfortable. And he and his African mother Dido enjoyed such special favour in the household, it was hard not to be suspicious …

  ‘His name is Mr Michael Hunt, ma’am. His father is Sir James Hunt of Henley Upon T … Thames,’ Solomon told them in a husky voice, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar words. ‘He is a gentleman of means, and an ab … abolitionist with close ties to the Clapham Sect.’

  ‘An abolitionist!’ her mama cried in horror, and grasped Sophia’s hand with cruel fingers. Her voice hissed. ‘Sophia, I charge you not to look at that young man again, nor speak with him if he should be so ill-mannered as to introduce himself. The Clapham Sect! That is the very group to which that appalling man Wilberforce belongs.’

  Two spots of red burned in her mother’s cheeks now. Not merely fear, but anger too. ‘I absolutely forbid it, do you hear? Mr Hunt is one of those who would ruin us!’

  ‘Whatever you say, Mama,’ Sophia agreed promptly, and linked arms with her flustered mama, accompanying her to the card room in search of her father.