by Carola Dunn
“Curst cold-hearted cove,” Mr. Hancock confirmed in a voice of doom.
“Whatever the rest of you choose to do,” Jane said resolutely, “I intend to seek shelter at Wintringham Abbey. If I can find the place,” she added on a less certain note, peering into the fog. The hedge on the other side of the ditch where the coach had come to rest was almost invisible. The breeze had dropped and the air was decidedly chilly.
“I am willing to lead the way,” Mr. Selwyn offered. “I suggest we link hands so that no one who wishes to go is left behind. Miss Gracechurch, will you be so good as to take my hand?”
Miss Gracechurch complied. Jane took her other hand, and reached for Ella’s. The others stepped forward, murmuring agreement.
‘‘ Wait!’’ cried the coachman. “You young coves give us a hand tying the baggage on them hosses, and I’ll come along too. Ain’t got nothink to lose, arter all.”
When they set off a few minutes later, in single file, Jane could scarcely see the coachman at the rear end of the line, leading his three horses—the guard had bravely ridden off on the fourth beast with his precious mail sacks. The sound of plodding hooves and jingling harness was muffled by the fog, and for some reason they found themselves speaking in hushed voices. Mr. Selwyn kept to the side of the road. Very soon he came to a bridge of great slabs of stone laid across the ditch. He led his band over, the horses hooves ringing hollowly, and halted before towering gates of wrought iron.
“Locked.”
“There must be a lodge,” Jane said, “but no doubt the gatekeeper would turn us away. See if there is a wicket gate to one side.”
This proved to be the case. With considerable difficulty and much low-voiced profanity the horses were persuaded to squeeze through, their muzzles wrapped in cloths to stop them neighing in protest. Jane was breathless with suppressed laughter as they started up the drive. She was quite looking forward to crossing swords with the haughty Earl of Wintringham.
Guided by white posts linked by black-painted chains, they quickly covered the half mile to the house. Judging by the vast sweep of steps they came upon, Wintringham Abbey must have been an impressive mansion, but even the front door was invisible from the bottom. Mr. Selwyn came to a stop.
“Perhaps we should look for the servants’ entrance,” he said hesitantly.
“We might never find it.” Jane dropped Gracie’s and Ella’s hands and started up the steps. She knew they would follow. The coachman’s plaintive “Don’t forget me!” told her the others were coming, too.
To one side of double doors of iron-banded oak hung a brass bell-pull. She tugged on it twice and heard a clangour within, faint through the thick wood. As it died away, she moved to the centre of her little troop, facing the doors. The right-hand one swung open and she stepped in.
“Who... What...?”
Jane ignored the stammering footman in favour of the butler, who was advancing across the marble floor of the spacious, lofty hall.
“The Mail coach came to grief in the fog,” she announced, pushing back her hood. “I and my companions have come to request shelter.”
“Impossible, madam.” Not an eyebrow twitched. “There is an inn in the next village.”
“We cannot possibly go so far. I daresay this house is large enough to accommodate us without anyone even noticing.”
“I fear her ladyship would disagree, madam. Peter will direct you to Nuffield.” Indicating the footman, he turned away.
Young Mr. Hancock was not about to be cowed by a mere servant, however imposing. “You can’t see your hand in front of your face out there,” he said loudly.
Emboldened, Mr. Ramsbottom joined in with his customary belligerence. “What’s more, it’s demmed nearly dark.”
“At least let the ladies stay,” pleaded Mr. Reid.
A cold, quiet voice cut through the clamour. “Bradbury, who are these intruders?”
The butler swung round. “My lord!”
Jane looked with interest at the infamous earl. Her gaze met icy grey eyes set in a square-chinned face that would have been handsome but for its unrelenting hauteur. Lord Wintringham’s hair was dark, cropped short above a broad brow. Tall and powerful, he wore a superbly tailored shooting jacket, buckskin breeches and top-boots with an air of formality more suited to evening dress. The wrathful flare of his nostrils belied his apparent calm composure.
Jane had pictured an elderly curmudgeon. My Lord Winter was no more than thirty years of age.
Moving towards him, she curtsied. Now was the moment to solve all their problems with what Gracie had called a judicious mention of her title of nobility. Jane easily resisted the temptation. Even if so toplofty a gentleman were willing to believe a shabby young woman from the Mail coach to be a marquis’s daughter, she was determined to best him on her own terms.
“Lord Wintringham?” She favoured him with a sunny smile, unaware that imps of mischief danced in her eyes. “I am Jane Brooke. I beg your pardon for this invasion, but we are in dire need of a refuge. The Mail coach overturned.”
He looked her up and down and his lips curled in contempt. “I daresay Bradbury can direct you to the nearest inn, madam.” l
“I daresay you have not glanced through a window recently, my lord,” she retorted. “The fog is so impenetrable we were hard put to find your vast mansion.”
“Hardly impenetrable, Miss Brooke, since you have penetrated it.” He raised supercilious eyebrows at his butler.
“The mist does seem to have thickened, my lord,” admitted that individual with evident reluctance.
Jane returned to the attack. “Miss Gracechurch, the lady with whom I am travelling, cannot go a step farther.” From the corner of her eye she saw Gracie suddenly lean heavily on Mr. Selwyn’s arm with a failing expression. “And her maid has a shocking cold.”
For a moment she was afraid she had done it too brown as Ella’s prompt sneeze emerged, intermixed with a giggle. However, the earl, uninterested in a mere maidservant, was regarding Miss Gracechurch with a slight frown.
“Forgive me, ma’am,” he said to her abruptly. “I have no desire to figure as an inhospitable misanthrope. Bradbury will see to your comfort.” He turned away.
The butler stared after his master in dismay, his mouth opening and closing as if he wished to ask for elucidation but didn’t quite dare. Jane bit her lip. The poor man must be wondering whether Gracie was to be offered a chair or a bedchamber, not to mention what he was to do with the rest of the uninvited visitors.
Jane was perfectly prepared to assume command, but before his lordship had taken more than two strides he was stopped by an imperious voice.
“Wintringham!” The elderly lady’s gown of grey figured silk, lavishly embellished with Valenciennes to match her lace cap, suggested widowhood. Despite the formal way she addressed his lordship, Jane guessed she must be the dowager countess, though they had no features in common but the coldness of their gaze. “Wintringham, who are these...” she raised a lorgnette and studied the interlopers with austere disapprobation “...these persons?”
“Stranded travellers, ma’am. The fog is become impassable. I feel compelled to offer the hospitality of the Abbey.”
“Indeed! And am I to have no say in my own house?”
“Naturally, ma’am, you will wish to instruct Bradbury as to which accommodations are to be prepared for our...guests.”
Short of arguing with his lordship before their inferiors, the countess had little choice but to comply. Neatly manoeuvred! Jane nearly applauded. She caught Mr. Selwyn’s eye and saw that he found the situation decidedly entertaining. He patted Gracie’s hand. Gracie was struggling with mixed emotions, caught between amusement and trepidation.
Curtsying to Lady Wintringham, Jane said, “We are in sore straits, my lady. It is excessively kind of you to take us in. As you see, we are seven passengers, and the unfortunate coachman is waiting outside with our bags and three horses.”
“Allow me to present M
iss Jane Brooke, ma’am,” said the earl. “Miss Brooke appears to be the appointed spokeswoman.”
Was that a glint of mockery in his eyes, or merely irritation? Before Jane could make up her mind, he excused himself, bowed, and strode away.
* * * *
Edmund Neville, Earl of Wintringham, was aware only of irritation. He retired to his library to brood over the invasion of his home led by an impudent young woman whose blue eyes had seemed to laugh at him. He’d have been inclined to throw them all out to fend for themselves but for the opportunity they offered to thwart her ladyship for once. Nothing would persuade the dowager to brangle with him in public.
Also, he had felt sorry for the older female—Churchill? No, Gracechurch. She was obviously exhausted and she looked respectable, probably a gentlewoman come down in the world. The rest he dismissed as a horde of Cits.
Not that anything could be worse than the house party presently assembled at the Abbey, he thought bitterly. He had invited Fitz for a little light relief, and Fitz had turned up with his very pregnant wife, who ought to be decently secluded at home, and her sister. The reason was all too plain to Edmund: the Honourable Lavinia Chatterton was setting her cap at him.
The worst of it was that Lady Wintringham had taken it into her head to support the chit. Lavinia was of noble birth, well-dowered, pretty enough in a childish way, and possessed of all the social graces. The countess had decided that it was time for her nephew to marry and she would harass him unmercifully until he complied.
Edmund poured himself a glass of Madeira and slumped with a groan into one of the deep leather chairs by the fireplace. For once the mere contemplation of his library brought no solace. Two stories high, with a gallery half way up, it was a handsome room large enough for a long table, a desk, and several comfortable chairs. Bookshelves reached from floor to ceiling, interrupted only by two tall windows at one end. A servant had already closed the crimson velvet curtains, shutting out the night and the accursed fog.
Sipping his wine, Edmund stared into the glowing coals in the grate. A fire always burned here in cold or damp weather, both to preserve the books and because this was his sanctuary, inherited from his uncle along with title, vast estates, and vaster responsibilities. On the infrequent occasions when he thought of his uncle, he pictured him poring over a medieval Herbal or a first edition of Chapman.
Whenever Edmund acquired a rare volume, he wished he had known the late earl better and could share with him his pleasure in expanding the superb collection. Now, however, all he wanted was something to distract him for half an hour. A traveller’s tale, perhaps...
The door opened. “You there, Ned?” enquired a cheerful voice. “Ah yes, there you are. I thought you’d have gone to earth in here among your precious books. What a hullaballoo!”
“Do come in, Fitz,” said Edmund ironically as his friend helped himself to Madeira and dropped into the opposite chair.
Not a whit disconcerted, Lord Fitzgerald raised his glass in salute. “Cheers. Her ladyship’s in high fidgets, I hear.”
“Come now, have you ever seen my aunt in high fidgets?”
“Well, no, but Miss Neville says she’s cross as a bear at a stake.”
“I might have known my cousin Neville would spread word of the deplorable influx.”
“I must say, I’d have thought you’d be glad of any additions to the company. Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” Fitz hastened to add. “Devilish good of you to put up with Lavinia and my poor Daphne.”
“Lady Fitzgerald must always be a welcome guest,” said Edmund with more politeness than truth, for he found the lady insipid. He did not go so far as to pronounce Lavinia welcome. “However, the new arrivals can scarcely be counted as assets to our company. I suppose they will dine in the servants’ hall, or in the housekeeper’s room.”
“Passengers on the Mail, weren’t they? Took the Mail myself once or twice, in my misspent youth.”
“You prove my point.” My Lord Winter grinned, a sight few had ever been privileged to witness. The grin was wiped from his face as the library door opened again.
“Fitz? Daphne asked me to tell you... Oh, my lord!” As the gentlemen rose to their feet, Lavinia abandoned her pretence of conveying a message from her sister. “I was prodigious shocked to hear of those dreadful people pushing their way into the Abbey. You are excessively charitable, I vow, to permit them to stay.”
“I had little choice, Miss Chatterton. The fog is... er...impenetrable.”
“Still, I think you are prodigious kind. Miss Neville said one of them is a disgracefully impertinent girl, a despicable creature.”
“Miss Brooke was certainly outspoken.” Perversely, Edmund found himself coming to the young woman’s defence. “She was concerned for a fellow-traveller, I believe, who was in some distress.”
“A ploy to gain your sympathy, no doubt,” Lavinia sniffed. “Such vulgar people are beneath one’s notice.”
“I daresay you will wish to take dinner on a tray in your chamber, then, Miss Chatterton. Certain of my unexpected guests will be dining with us.” He ignored Fitz’s raised eyebrows.
“You are hoaxing me, sir!”
“On the contrary, ma’am,” he said coldly. “I am not accustomed to hoax.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “Of course, my lord, if you think it proper...” she gabbled. “Pray do not suppose that I mistrust your judgement.... Excuse me; I must go and see if Daphne needs me.”
“What was it Daphne sent you to tell me?” enquired her brother-in-law.
“To tell you? Oh, nothing important, Fitz. I have forgotten it. You had best ask her yourself. You cannot expect me to recall every trifling whim.” Miss Chatterton flounced from the room.
“Little minx,” said Lord Fitzgerald. “A transparent excuse, if ever I heard one. I’m sorry, Ned, I’ll have a word with her about pursuing you in here. I shouldn’t have brought her, but my mama-in-law, you know...”
“Few could withstand the combined forces of Lady Chatterton and my aunt.”
“You could, I wager, and can, and will. Tell me about this Miss Brooke of yours. A beauty, is she?”
“No, passable but nothing beyond the ordinary.” Edmund remembered mocking blue eyes. “A saucy wench. And she is not my Miss Brooke.”
“I suppose she is fit to sit down at table with gently bred females?” Fitz asked. “You said at first they were to dine in the servants’ hall.”
“What, you don’t trust my judgement? She was, as I said, outspoken, but not vulgar. Miss Gracechurch, the older woman, had something of refinement in her air, I fancy.” He reached for the bell-pull and rang. “I shall leave it to Bradbury to sort the sheep from the goats.”
A footman appeared on the instant and was sent for the butler. Bradbury received his instructions in stolid silence, but Edmund recognized his deep disapproval. Was the servant yet higher in the instep than his master? No, for already Lord Wintringham regretted the impulse that had made him lower his standards for the sake of giving Lavinia a set-down.
Bradbury bowed and departed.
“So you really mean to go through with it,” marvelled Fitz. “Of all men, you’re the least likely...”
“Enough of my unbidden guests,” Edmund said impatiently. “Will you play backgammon?”
“Make it billiards and you’re on.”
Since Lord Fitzgerald regarded backgammon as an intellectual pursuit and had an oft-expressed aversion to all things intellectual, Edmund acquiesced. He left his sanctuary with considerable reluctance, praying that neither his whining brother-in-law nor his hearty cousin-in-law would be found in the billiard room.
Thus far he was in luck, but there his luck deserted him. After three games, Fitz went up to change for dinner fifteen guineas the richer.
Edmund repaired to his apartment. His valet, Alfred, awaited him in the dressing-room with hot water, freshly pressed evening clothes, and unabashed curiosity.
“Your lordship’s
set the hen-house in a right flutter,” he observed, shaking out his master’s jacket.
“You are referring to a certain consternation in the servants’ quarters, I take it.”
“That I am. There’s them as can’t think what’s got into your lordship to invite them Mail coach people to sit down at table with you. Your razor, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Edmund smoothed his chin with the straight-edged blade, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “It was a momentary whim, Alfred, to put Miss Chatterton in her place for considering them beneath her touch. It’s devilish difficult to find an excuse to snub Miss Chatterton when her sister is married to my friend, especially as her ladyship favours the girl.”
“So that’s the way of it.” The servant nodded wisely. “I reckoned summat of the sort.”
“You will not speak of it, however!”
“’Course not, my lord,” said Alfred, injured. “I don’t never gossip about our affairs.”
“I know it, man, though I cannot think why not, since you are an incorrigible gossipmonger.” Edmund washed the soap off his face and reached for the ready-warmed towel. “Tell me with whom I shall be dining tonight.”
“Well now, there’s Mr. Selwyn. A lawyer, he is, and a pleasant-spoken gentleman by all accounts. Then there’s a couple of young sprigs, Mr. Hancock and the Honourable Mr. Reid. Mr. Bradbury suspicions they’ve been sent down from the university. But the one what’s exercising Mr. Bradbury’s mind, as you might say, is a fella by name of Ramsbottom. Mr. Josiah Ramsbottom. Your shirt, my lord.”
“Ramsbottom?” Donning the snow-white, ruffled shirt, Edmund grimaced, wishing again that he had sternly repressed his whim, as was his custom.
“Collar too tight, my lord?”
“No, no. What’s wrong with this Ramsbottom?”
“Downright vulgar, not to mince words. But he won’t take no for an answer. Claims he was an inside passenger and if them young chaps as rode outside gets to dine with the nobs, he’s entitled.”
