The Gamekeeper's Lady

by Ann Lethbridge

  The following day, the drawing room after dinner seemed eerily silent. Even the walls seemed to be listening for the sound of the carriage. Frederica let go a long breath.

  ‘Stop your sighing, girl,’ Uncle Mortimer said. His eyes gleamed over the top of his book, softening the stern words. ‘It is good to see you so anxious to meet your cousin again, I must say. You are going to make a fine couple. Do this family proud.’

  If only he knew. ‘Simon said they would be here this afternoon. He’s late.’

  ‘They’ll be here. The hunt is tomorrow.’

  She frowned. ‘We don’t have enough horses for two extra people.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, child. They will bring their own. Behind the carriage.’ He made a sound in his throat like disgust. ‘We’ll have the stabling of them for a week, though, I’ll be bound. They won’t think to leave them at the inn in the village.’

  ‘We have lots of room.’

  ‘It isn’t the space, girl, it’s the cost. And there will be grooms to feed as well as valets and ladies’ maids.’

  ‘Just one of each I should think, Uncle. At least, that is all I have provided for.’

  ‘Hmmph.’ Uncle Mortimer returned to his book.

  About to let out another deep sigh, Frederica stopped herself just in time. She picked up her embroidery and eyed the design. It would have made a lovely addition to the drawing room. It would never be finished. Working right-handed just took too long.

  The sounds of wheels on the gravel and the crunch of horses’ hooves brought Uncle Mortimer to his feet. ‘Here they are at last.’

  ‘Will you greet them at the door, Uncle?’ she asked, putting her needlework aside.

  ‘No. No. Too draughty. Snively will bring them in here.’ He stood, rocking on his heels, his head cocked to one side, listening to the front door opening and voices in the entrance hall.

  The door flew back. ‘Uncle,’ Simon cried, his round face beaming. ‘Here we are at last. Did you think we were lost on the road?’

  Uncle Mortimer shook his nephew’s hand and patted him on the shoulder. ‘I knew you’d come, dear boy. Eventually. I just hoped you’d not be too late. Need my rest these days, you know. Not been quite the thing.’

  The instant gravity on Simon’s face was so patently false, Frederica wanted to laugh.

  ‘I know, Uncle. The ague. You wrote to me of it.’ He turned to Frederica. He had to turn his whole body, because his shirt points were so high, his head would not turn on his neck. In fact, he didn’t appear to have neck or a chin. His head looked as if it had been placed on his shoulders and wrapped with a quantity of intricately knotted white fabric to keep it in place. It made his face look like a cod’s head. His valet must have stuffed him into a coat two sizes too small to make him so stiff and rigid.

  He bowed. ‘Coz. I hope I find you well.’

  Good lord, he had put on some weight around the middle, and was that a creak she heard? Some sort of corset?

  ‘Y-yes, Simon. V-v—’

  ‘Very well,’ Simon said. ‘Splendid.’

  Frederica’s palm tingled with the urge to box his ears.

  Simon turned himself about and looked expectantly at the door. ‘I want you to meet my friends, Uncle. Great friends.’

  Snively appeared in the doorway. ‘Lady Margaret Caldwell and Lord Lullington, my lord.’ He promptly withdrew.

  Pausing on the threshold, the lady glittered. Dark curls entwined with emeralds framed her face. More emeralds scintillated in the neckline of her low-green silk gown as well as at her wrists and on her fingers. Her dark eyes sparkled as they swept the room, seeming to take in everything at a glance. Lady Margaret held out her hand to Mortimer, who tottered forwards to make his bow.

  All Frederica could do was blink. It was like looking at the sun. Compared to this elegant woman she felt distinctly drab even with her new blue gown.

  Lady Caldwell sank into an elegant curtsy. ‘My lord. How kind of you to invite us to your home.’

  Uncle Mortimer flushed red. ‘Think nothing of it, my lady. Nothing at all.’

  The lady turned to Frederica. She tipped her head to one side. ‘And you must be Simon’s little cousin.’ She held out her hands and when Frederica reached out to take one, Lady Margaret clasped Frederica’s between both of her own. ‘How glad I am to make your acquaintance. I vow, Simon has told us all about you, hasn’t he, Lull?’

  The viscount, a lean, aristocratic and tall man in a beautifully tailored black coat, finished making his bow to Uncle Mortimer, then raised his quizzing glass and ran a slow perusal from Frederica’s head to her feet. ‘Not all, my dear, I am sure,’ he said with a lisp.

  Frederica felt her face flush scarlet.

  ‘Simon,’ exclaimed Lady Margaret, ‘Lull is right! You didn’t tell us your cousin was so charming. Absolutely delightful.’

  Simon stared at Frederica, opened his mouth a couple of times like a landed fish, then nodded. ‘By jingo, Lady Caldwell, you are right. New gown, coz?’

  ‘A whole wardrobe of new gowns,’ Uncle Mortimer mumbled.

  The burn in Frederica’s face grew worse.

  Viscount Lullington lounged across the room and took Frederica’s hand with a small bow. His blue eyes gazed at her from above an aquiline nose. She had the sense he was assessing her worth. ‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Bracewell. Simon has indeed been a songbird regarding your attributes. And I see his notes were true.’

  Oh, my. Had he just issued a compliment? And if so, why did his soft lisping voice send a shudder down her spine as if a ghost had walked over her grave?

  Swallowing, Frederica curtsied as befit a viscount. ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord.’

  He patted her hand. ‘Call me Lull. Everyone does.’

  Not she. She backed up a step or two, looking to Simon for guidance.

  He rubbed his hands together. ‘Here we are then. All ready for the ball. It will be such a grand time.’

  ‘Oh, it is sure to be, isn’t it, Lull?’ Lady Margaret took the seat by the fireplace and Frederica returned to the sofa. The men disposed themselves around the room, Lullington beside Lady Margaret and opposite Frederica, Simon beside the window and her uncle in his favourite armchair.

  ‘Without a doubt,’ Lullington said, his gaze fixed on Frederica.

  Frederica took a slow deep breath. ‘W-would you like t-tea?’

  ‘We were waiting to ring for tea until you arrived,’ Uncle Mortimer added. ‘Didn’t expect your arrival so late.’

  ‘By Jove,’ Simon said. ‘What a good idea. Tea. Just the thing.’ He looked at Lullington. ‘If you think so, Lull? Do you?’

  It seemed Viscount Lullington now pulled Simon’s strings. Not a pleasant thought.

  ‘Oh, yes, please,’ Lady Caldwell said with a brilliant smile. ‘We stopped for dinner when we realised the hour was far advanced, but I would die for a dish of bohea.’

  All eyes turned to the lean viscount. He nodded his head. ‘Very well. Tea for the ladies. For myself, I’d prefer brandy.’

  ‘Me too,’ Simon said.

  Frederica got up and rang the bell.

  Lady Caldwell smiled up at her. ‘I wonder if, while we wait for the tea, you could show me my room. I am desperate to freshen up.’

  Oh, dear. She should have thought to ask. ‘S-s-s—’

  ‘Surely, she will,’ Uncle Mortimer said. ‘Show our guest upstairs, Frederica. Don’t take too long. My head aches if I drink tea too late in the evening.’

  Aware of Lady Caldwell’s rustling silks, her lush curves and exquisite face, Frederica found her tongue tied in knots. She would have liked to ask the woman about London, about the museums and the academy of art, but feared her words would only make her a fool. So they walked side by side in silence until they reached the bedroom.

  Frederica opened the door and Lady Caldwell breezed in. ‘Ah, Forester,’ she said to a stiff-looking grey-haired woman standing over a brass-bound trunk, shaking
the creases from a gown of a soft rose hue. ‘Here you are.’ She turned to Frederica. ‘Come in, my dear. Fear not. Forester’s bark is much worse than her bite.’

  Forester played deaf.

  Since the words of a polite refusal escaped her, Frederica stepped inside. She perched on the upholstered chair by the door, while Lady Caldwell headed for the dressing room.

  ‘Do you need help, my lady?’ Forester asked.

  ‘Fiddle-de-de. If I cannot make water at my age, you best send me to Bedlam.’

  Forester’s lips pressed together, but she made no comment, continuing to remove items from the chest and put them away, opening and closing drawers, putting scraps of lace here and handkerchiefs there. Such delicate items and so many? Had their guests come for an extended stay? Uncle Mortimer would not be happy.

  A soft chuckle made her turn. ‘You are gazing at my wardrobe in awe, Miss Bracewell.’

  ‘You have a g-great many gowns.’

  Her ladyship laughed. ‘So I do. Lullington and I are on a progress, do you see? We are going to visit everyone we know for the next month or two, until the Season starts again. London is flat, there is absolutely nothing to do.’ She sat down at the mirror on the dressing table, patted her hair and pinched her cheeks.

  ‘Are you engaged to be married, then?’ Frederica asked, then turned red and was glad Lady Caldwell had her back to her as she realised just how impertinent her enquiry sounded.

  ‘La, but you are a country miss,’ Lady Caldwell said with a musical laugh. ‘I left my husband in London. I am travelling with several companions. I have my maid, as do the other ladies who make up our party. The rest of them are staying at Radthorn’s house, as you know, and so for now you are my chaperon. Not a breath of scandal, I assure you.’

  The thought of trying to chaperon the sophisticated Lady Caldwell made her want to giggle. The whole arrangement sounded odd, but then Lady Caldwell was clearly a woman of the world.

  From out of the trunk Forester pulled a dark blue riding habit with gold epaulettes and lots of frogging.

  ‘Do you ride out with us tomorrow, Lady Caldwell?’ Frederica asked.

  ‘Oh, my dear, you must call me Maggie or I vow I shall feel like an ancient crone.’

  Put entirely at ease, Frederica laughed. ‘No one would use that word to describe you. And thank you. Please call me Frederica.’

  Maggie clapped her hands. ‘To answer your question, yes, I will join the hunt. Do you go too?’

  She nodded. That had been a bone of contention between her and Uncle Mortimer. In the end, she’d agreed, but only if she could stay well to the rear and avoid being present for the kill.

  ‘I shall look forward to keeping you company.’ Maggie rose to her feet. ‘I can’t wait for this masked ball. I love dressing up, don’t you? Of course you do. What woman wouldn’t? And wait until you see the wonderful men Radthorn has brought with him.’ She put a delicate hand to the centre of her chest and gave a languid sigh, then laughed and held out her hand. ‘Come, let us go downstairs. Tea must have arrived. I think you and I are going to get along famously.’

  Oh, yes, they’d be great friends. Maggie would talk and Frederica would listen and everyone would be happy.

  What would her new friend think if she learned that Frederica was an artist? A wanton? And about to go out into the world alone?

  Robert tightened Pippin’s girth and looked up at Frederica, the first of the riders out of the stable. No longer the secretive little mouse she’d been a day or so ago. The sea-green riding habit was of the very best quality. Its tailored lines suited her slim figure and matched the colour of her eyes. He’d never seen her look so elegant or so happy. She looked utterly charming. Glowing.

  Bloody alluring.

  He wanted to drag her back to his cottage and hide her away.

  ‘Th-thank you, Robert,’ she whispered.

  Aye. She’d whisper, with her London guests nearby. And that was just how he wanted it. He touched his cap and pulled it lower on his forehead, keeping a wary eye out for Lullington. Of all the cursed ill luck, he had to be one of the guests. And Maggie, too. He was still having trouble believing it.

  He shouldn’t have reported for work this morning. He should have sent word of some infectious disease the moment he’d realised who young Bracewell had brought along as guests. But that would have left poor old Weatherby in the lurch.

  A visiting groom led out the next animals, a sweet little chestnut mare called Penny and a large black gelding. The mare whickered a soft greeting to Robert. He bit back a curse. Who’d have thought the horse would remember him? Maggie, in a dark blue habit, strolled into the courtyard on Lullington’s arm. Robert watched covertly as a groom threw her up. She was too busy conversing with the viscount to notice him, a mere servant. Thank God.

  Instead of leaving the task to the groom, Lullington saw to Maggie’s tack, his hand touching her thigh lightly in an intimate gesture as he finished. So Maggie had gone to Lullington. Perhaps that’s why the viscount had been keen to see Robert disgraced. They had often vied for the same females, usually to Lullington’s disadvantage. But unless things had changed, he’d not be able to afford the kind of baubles Maggie liked to add to her collection.

  Lullington sprang into the saddle unaided. ‘Hey, you there.’ He pointed his crop at Robert. ‘A stirrup cup for the lady.’

  Head lowered, Robert touched his hat and went for the tray of pewter cups set on a bench by the door. Normally Maisie would be out here passing the good cheer around, but something had happened in the kitchen and Snively had assigned Robert the task.

  He handed a cup up to Maggie, who nodded a thank you.

  Lullington looked down only long enough to grasp his goblet. He leaned closer to Maggie. ‘God,’ he lisped in a low voice, ‘did you see the hack Bracewell is riding? A slug.’

  Maggie’s answering laugh struck a chord in his memory. It was what had attracted him to her in the first place. Merry and meaningless laughter. Now it left him cold.

  He took a cup to Frederica, who bestowed thanks by way of an intimate little smile.

  Robert prayed Lullington didn’t notice. Damnation, but this was hell.

  The last rider out of the stable was the young master on a showy bay. It was Robert’s first real look at Frederica’s cousin. Clearly greener than grass and still with his mother’s milk on his lips, he was just the kind of youth dangling at the edges of society to be impressed with Lullington’s smooth style of address. Still, even the daring viscount would not dare gull the lad under his own roof.

  Bracewell jobbed at the horse’s mouth. It reared in protest. Its wicked flying hooves narrowly missed Pippin. Frederica manoeuvred neatly out of the way. ‘Take c-care, Simon.’

  Robert caught the bay’s bridle and soothed it with some whispered words. ‘Stirrup cup, sir?’ he asked Bracewell, who seemed unconscious that another had taken control of his mount.

  ‘Yes, by Jove. Good man.’ Simon beamed. ‘I say, Lullington. Good hunting weather, what?’

  ‘Is it?’ Lullington replied, looking up at the clear blue sky.

  ‘You wag,’ Bracewell said. ‘Always ribbing a fellow. What do you think, Maggie? Are you ready to take the first brush today?’

  Frederica winced, causing Pippin to dance sideways.

  Lullington, who had drawn close, caught her bridle. ‘Steady there,’ he said to the horse, his gaze fixed on Frederica. ‘My word, Miss Bracewell, you look simply ravishing this morning. I am quite determined not to leave your side—you present such a pretty picture.’

  Robert gritted his teeth and handed the last of the stirrup cups up to Bracewell. If he had known Lullington was to be ensconced under the same roof as Frederica, he might have whisked her off to Gretna Green and to hell with the consequences.

  No, he wouldn’t. Any more than Lullington would. The man was simply enjoying himself putting a pretty miss to the blush. Robert knew, because he’d done it himself. The last thing the viscount
wanted was a wife as poor as himself.

  He just hoped Frederica would see through the viscount’s charm to the rake beneath.

  She hadn’t seen through Robert, though. The thought gave him a cold feeling in his chest.

  Gun over his shoulder, Weatherby marched into the courtyard and approached Bracewell with a touch to his hat. ‘Hunt is meeting at the Bull and Mouth, Master Simon. Ye’ve a half-hour to get there. Deveril here will send the beaters off ahead. You’ll have a good day’s sport, I promise ye.’

  Robert ran around, collecting the goblets from the riders.

  ‘We’re off,’ Maggie said, her face a picture of eagerness. ‘We don’t want to miss the start.’ She trotted out of the courtyard and down the drive, with Bracewell right behind.

  Frederica grimaced as if she’d like to miss the whole thing, but the viscount still retained his grip on her bridle. He gave it a jerk. The little gelding tossed his head, then broke into a canter with Lullington at Frederica’s side.

  Ire boiled in Robert’s gut. How dare he touch her horse? It was as if he’d taken possession. Robert kept a tight grip on his urge to shout a protest. Lullington couldn’t do her much harm if the party stayed together.

  When Frederica leaned back and gave the viscount’s black a sharp slap on the rump with her crop and the black took off at a gallop, he couldn’t hold back his smile. For all her appearance of frailty, his Frederica was a woman to be reckoned with.

  His? What the hell was he thinking? That was one thing she could never be. Not in any way, shape or form. And there were going to be no more midnight visits.

  He’d made certain. He still felt a sharp pain between his ribs every time he recalled the hurt look on her face. What if they could be friends, as she’d asked? Would it ever be enough? Would he be able to resist her appeal? Damnation, he missed her like the devil already.

  It wasn’t as if he’d seduced an innocent, he reminded himself, but there were different kinds of innocent. And she was the most vulnerable to a man like him.