The Proud Viscount

by Laura Matthews

  “May I join you?” he asked.

  It sounded like a rhetorical question to her. He scarcely waited for her nod before parting the branches and lowering himself to the ground beside her. He wore buckskin breeches and a riding coat, a much more appropriate outfit for lying on the ground than her own. And he did lie on the ground, while she sat primly with her knees bent and her skirts tucked decorously about her.

  “I was hoping you would ride with me today,” he said.

  “Thank you, but I have a thousand things to do.”

  “I can see that.”

  “This is one of the things I have to do,” she insisted. “I have to spend a little time alone, planning menus and considering which of the laundry maids to promote to dairy maid, and whether the new footman is working out satisfactorily. He’s not learned to protect the lower part of a topboot when he’s working on the top with pumice stone. Really, it’s so elementary I can’t believe he would have to be reminded more than once."

  Rossmere considered the matter with mock gravity. “I tell you what. You can have him take the place of the laundry maid you promote to dairy maid. It will keep him employed and out of harm’s way.”

  Jane tried to match his lighthearted tone. “You really think the laundry is out of harm’s way? He would only manage to ruin all our linens, I daresay. Put blacking in the wash water or some such thing.”

  “How little faith you have! Which reminds me. What was that about Parnham and the book last night?”

  “Oh, nothing to signify. You will note that Parnham takes an interest in my father’s hobby, rather than speaking of amputated goddesses.”

  Her attempt to distract him was not totally successful. He regarded her with intent blue eyes. “Or perhaps it was his wife who remembered your father’s passion while the husband took credit for his thoughtfulness.”

  “I’m certain it’s a book that Papa will enjoy,” was all she replied.

  Rossmere rolled over on his back and locked his fingers over his flat stomach. He didn’t look at Jane. Instead, his gaze was absent, up through the tree to the sky above. “Parnham said some rather interesting things about your sister yesterday when you women left us to our port.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “He spoke of how unsettling childbearing was to a woman. Very kindly, you understand. He intimated that the stress of such an event was sometimes the occasion of a... mmm, shall we say a mild instability? Nothing to be particularly concerned about, he felt sure.”

  Jane clenched her teeth together to prevent herself from saying something truly disagreeable about her brother-in-law. After a while she was able to ask, “How had he come to that conclusion?”

  “Several erratic things she had done, I gather. Let me see. He enumerated them, each time extravagantly excusing such a small but odd occurrence as the product of an overactive fancy. The first occasion he recounted was shortly after his son and heir was born. Nancy announced suddenly, when the infant was in full sight of her, that his hands were on backward. Which they weren’t.”

  Jane recalled that Nancy herself had told her this months ago, as a sort of joke on herself and her fears that something would be wrong with the baby. It was an instance of anxiety and confusion that could easily happen to a woman so soon after lying in. Parnham, of course, might have viewed the matter differently.

  “Then there was the time Parnham found her dressed to go out on an evening when there had been no invitation,” Rossmere continued in an even, deep voice. “On that occasion Nancy insisted that indeed there had been a card, from the Cutfords, and that she had mentioned the matter to him. But she was unable to find any card, and by chance Mr. Cutford, Junior, happened to call in just at that time and Parnham discovered by discreet query that there was no invitation at all.”

  It was hard to know what to make of this tale. Nancy had never mentioned anything of the kind. Jane considered the various possible explanations and frowned. “Go on. What else did he say?”

  “Though he indicated that there were several other instances of that general nature, he did not elaborate on them. He was much more concerned about a recent event that showed a deepening of her... distress. On this occasion, barely a week ago, her delusion was much more serious."

  Jane could feel her heart hammering in her chest. Rossmere closed his eyes, as though trying to remember precisely how Parnham had told this particular story. His voice took on an almost disembodied quality.

  “It was the stormy night, Monday, I think. Parnham had been into Lockley during the afternoon and on the way back his horse threw a shoe. He returned to Lockley and waited for the smith to repair it, which took an unconscionable amount of time, he said. When he got back to Parnham Hall, it was already dark and the storm had begun.

  “I can’t remember whether he said the servants didn’t know where Mrs. Parnham was, or whether they thought she was in her room. Parnham was soaking wet and went directly up to change. While he was changing, he heard noises coming from the balcony and then a feeble pounding on the door. He went immediately to open it, and there was Nancy, soaking wet and sobbing.”

  Before she could stop herself, Jane snapped, “Nonsense!”

  Ignoring this interruption, he continued. “According to Parnham, she clung to him and begged to know why he had locked her out on the balcony. Well, he was never so flabbergasted. In the first place, he had only just returned home, and in the second, the balcony door wasn’t locked!”

  “I’ve never heard such a pack of lies.”

  “But, Lady Jane, his valet was just coming in with a fresh shirt and heard the whole,” Rossmere assured her with a decided lack of conviction.

  “What is the purpose of such a tale?”

  Rossmere looked thoughtful. “He’s a born storyteller, of course, but I think this is more than an exaggeration. Has your sister mentioned any of this?”

  “Only the first one, about the hands being on backward. She was laughing at herself about that. I’m sure if there were even a grain of truth to the others, she would have said something. Does Parnham think this makes him more acceptable in my father’s eyes?”

  “Your father is a little naive, Lady Jane. He thinks of women as rather a mystery, and he’s not at all surprised to hear tales of this sort. He was concerned, and counseled Parnham to be sure that Nancy got plenty of rest and didn’t try to do too much.”

  “How could he be so taken in?” she demanded.

  “As you say, what purpose could Parnham have for lying?”

  Jane found that his eyes were on her now. “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know either of them well enough to make any pronouncement. Fortunately it has nothing to do with me. I simply thought you should know, since your father strikes me as someone who won’t bother to tell you, thinking the whole story a bit too upsetting for your fragile ears.”

  This forced a grin out of her. “You’re very clever at determining what people are like, aren’t you, Lord Rossmere?”

  He rose from the ground and stood towering over her before answering. “Not always. I’ve had a few experiences that have taught me to pay a little closer attention.” He held a hand down to her. “Would you like to go for that ride?”

  Though she let him help her to her feet, she shook her head. “Really, I have things I have to attend to. You go right ahead.”

  “Very well. Perhaps another time.”

  ‘‘Perhaps.’’

  Rossmere didn’t like to leave her standing there alone under the giant willow tree. Though she maintained an outward calm, he could see that his information had distressed her. Her hazel eyes were troubled and the smooth line of her jaw was thrust minutely forward in anger or anxiety. She wasn’t really seeing him, though her eyes followed as he turned away.

  When he was about to round the corner of the stables, he looked back and found her still there, staring vacantly in his direction. He regretted having to burden her with this disturbing mystery, but her father ap
parently had no intention of unraveling it, and he himself hadn’t the necessary knowledge. He had no doubt that Lady Jane was the one to approach. Her calm capability was her most obvious asset.

  Not that she didn’t have others. She was an elegant woman, with a lively mind and a sympathetic heart. And an income so vastly superior to his that he refused to think about it, or about her.

  He gave instructions that Ascot be saddled. A good ride on that untamed beast would shake any unwelcome thoughts from his head. If there was one thing Lady Jane most certainly was not, it was untamed. She was civilized to within an inch of her life. In the best possible way, of course, but civilized nonetheless.

  Rossmere was attracted to a less-restrained type of woman. Every lady of quality whom he’d ever met had struck him as impossibly reserved or ludicrously puffed up with her own consequence. In either case, these women had very little sparkle and absolutely no resplendence. Rossmere had grown up well-heeled, and he had developed a taste for the extravagant—in women, particularly.

  And no woman he’d known had been as flamboyant, beautiful, and amusing as Madeline Fulton. He had met her when he was twenty-five and despairing of ever discovering a woman who truly embodied his desires. It was at the theater that he first caught a glimpse of her in a box across the way, her flaming hair catching the candlelight and her delicious laughter almost seeming to reach him. There were two other attractive women in the box, but she easily outshone them. Even at a distance her vitality couldn’t be mistaken.

  He had made a point of finding out who she was. Somewhat to his surprise, he learned that she was marginally accepted in society. This was occasioned by her being the widow of a war hero, rather than by her own birth. Her manner of living in London was suspect, but not reckless enough to be definitely censured. Rossmere never doubted for a moment that she was exactly the woman he wanted for his mistress.

  Lord, the chase she had led him! He followed her to a succession of entertainments that were among the most interesting he’d ever attended, with their slight air of disreputability and their gay abandon. Madeline flirted outrageously with him at each of these balls, parties, breakfasts, routs, boating parties, but she refused to allow him to be alone with her. Her reputation was protected when he called on her by the presence of an elderly woman whom it took Rossmere several days to ascertain was stone-deaf. Later he had decided she didn’t see all that well, either.

  Madeline was the perfect temptress. She always let him know that she was interested, and yet she wouldn’t allow him to come too close. Her dresses were low-cut and provocative, her smiles enticing and full of promise. When they waltzed together, Rossmere could hardly believe the satiny texture of her skin, the glowing warmth of her body. For these were not Almack’s waltzes, but those dangerous, intoxicating dances held at the homes of her friends, where no eyebrow rose at the sight of two bodies so close together that they touched in any number of places rather than a decorous hand at the waist.

  Ascot was brought to Rossmere and he swung up on the horse with practiced ease. The groom stepped warily around the huge animal, backing out of Ascot’s way as soon as Rossmere indicated that he was settled. The viscount kept his horse on a tight rein until they were beyond the lawns. When he was given his head, Ascot surged into a gallop that had its usual effect of filling Rossmere with total abandon. Together they seemed to sail across the countryside at a remarkable pace, passing the fence posts and trees so quickly they almost blurred into one another.

  It had been like that with Madeline. The thrill of the chase, the excitement of finally winning her as his mistress, the exotic nights in her bed—it had all blurred together into a time set apart from the rest of his life. She was everything he had ever looked for in a woman, and daily she delighted him with the proof of how perfectly she matched up with his dreams. What he imagined, she turned into reality.

  Once he told her of a dream he’d had where a woman dressed only in a sheer muslin slip had ridden up to him on a white horse and held her hand out, beckoning him to follow her. He’d forgotten all about the dream when Madeline set an appointment to meet him in a secluded area of Richmond Park. He was there ahead of time, leaning against a tree, when he heard the soft sound of hoofbeats. They drew closer and he watched for the horse to emerge from the woods at a spot where there was no trail.

  And there she was, her dazzling red hair flowing loose down over her shoulders, riding a white horse and wearing a wisp of material he could easily see through. She said nothing, but beckoned to him as she slowly guided the horse back into the trees. Mesmerized, he followed through the tangle of undergrowth, never losing sight of the horse and rider. Finally they came to a glade where a bower had been improvised. Madeline had already dismounted and lay on the waiting cushions. Rossmere joined her there, intoxicated by the living out of a fantasy.

  Gradually she claimed a larger part of his thoughts until she became almost an obsession. He had never met anyone who was so adroit at accommodating his moods. She seemed to know him better than he knew himself. And she consequently became immensely important to him, a necessary part of his life. It was only a step to thoughts of marrying her. Certainly she was not accepted into the inner circles of society, and never would be. But did he care? Wouldn’t it be better to live a life filled with the kind of excitement she offered than to accept the stuffy existence his contemporaries wedged themselves into? This argument continually battled for supremacy in him, and it seemed, for a while, to be gaining ground.

  It was a visit to Richard that had begun Rossmere‘s recovery. Though Richard was sturdily sane when not in the grip of his occasional madness, he had a sensitivity to disturbances in others that was almost uncanny. Before Rossmere had spent half a day with him, Richard said, “You’ve allowed this woman to become an obsession, Stephen. You don’t love her; you’re consumed by her. Which tells me she’s diabolically clever, since you’re not ordinarily gullible.”

  Rossmere had at first indignantly ignored this wise counsel, and then he had argued against it. But his very resistance to the idea began to work its way into an understanding that there was something terribly wrong. Richard was relentless in making him trace the course of the association between Rossmere and Madeline. They sat for hours over glasses of small beer or Madeira, with Richard pointing out the steps by which he had been ensnared. Rossmere had hated every minute of it, like undergoing a particularly painful course of medical treatment. At the time it hadn’t mattered that it was necessary for his health; it had simply hurt. But Richard insisted.

  And then it was over. Knowing how a magician does his tricks may leave one with a respect for his skill, but it leaves one with no illusions about the authenticity of the tricks. Madeline was no longer a goddess. She was a clever woman, a genius as a seductress, but she was not the possessor of his heart. Rossmere learned from that experience, and one of the things he learned was that women were not to be trusted.

  Shortly afterward, when his father gambled away the Rossmere fortune, he learned that it wasn’t only women who weren’t to be trusted.

  Forced to become self-sufficient, he had also become a little cynical, but intrigued by the machinations of his fellow man. His curiosity had been aroused now by two very different circumstances at Willow End: John Parnham’s unlikely tales of Nancy’s behavior, and Madeline Fulton’s presence in a village the size of Lockley. During the course of his month’s promised stay at Willow End, he had every intention of finding out what was going on.

  Chapter 6

  As always, the gallop on Ascot was a rewarding experience. When Rossmere had satisfied his need to feel unrestrained, he slowed the horse to a trot and headed for Lockley. It was only necessary to ask one person, a lad of ten or so, where the Bentwick cottage was located. In the country even the children knew where everyone lived.

  The cottage sat at the edge of a small wood and slightly separated from the rest of the village. Everything about the place was well-maintained: the walk, the grass,
the paint, the curtains in the windows. It looked wholly respectable, the dwelling of gentlefolk who would shop in the village shops and walk the length of the High Street nodding to their neighbors.

  Rossmere never doubted that Madeline’s rented home would be anything other than such a decorous cottage. He dismounted, tying Ascot’s reins to an iron ring near the gate. The gravel walk had a flower border of roses and pansies, columbine and pinks. A flowering vine twisted up the side of the cottage and along the roofline. The air was fragrant with the perfume of sweet pea, a scent familiar to Rossmere from his boyhood at Longborough Park.

  His knock at the door was answered by a fresh-faced girl wearing a maid’s apron. He was surprised that Madeline would have a local girl privy to her secrets, but when the girl opened her mouth to speak, it was pure cockney that flowed from her tongue. Obviously Madeline had found this fresh-faced one in London.

  "‘Ow can I help ya?” she asked.

  Rossmere handed her his card, but the girl barely glanced at it. “I’ve come to call on Mrs. Fulton. Is she receiving?”

  “I don’t know as ‘ow she is. ‘Oo should I tell her is here?”

  “Rossmere. I’m an old acquaintance of hers from London.”

  “Are you now?” The girl regarded him suspiciously. “I ain’t never seed you before.”

  “Were you with her when she lived on the Edgeware Road?”

  She didn’t answer, but rubbed the card between her fingers. “Wait ‘ere.” She closed the door, leaving him on the stoop.

  Rossmere studied the situation of the house. A very handy place, when one came to consider the matter. Anyone wishing to visit Madeline had no need to appear by way of the front door in sight of all the village residents. One could come over the Ridgely Road to the back of the tiny wood, tie one’s horse to a tree inside the stand, and knock at the rear door (there always was one) without being seen by a soul. Very clever.