Her Favoured Captain

by Francine Howarth

  He sat back, his eyes not leaving hers for a second and it was most disconcerting, but in a nice way. Throughout the journey air of authority and reserved calm had emanated from his very person, though his manner caring at the coaching inn or they would not now be sharing the drag. His deep timbre of voice, too, had sounded sincere and not once had it raised sense of alarm to falseness nor implied him a man of ill repute.

  She had to say something. Break the silence. For he looked most concerned that he had wrong-footed her and made bold on wild assumption. “No, please, forgive me. Supposition is unwise at the best of times, and our journey, until the accident, indeed, most pleasant. To have company on a long journey always lessens what is otherwise a tedious and lonely experience.”

  A tentative smile creased his face. “In that case, would you mind terribly if I leap from the coach at the gates to Abbeyfields?”

  “At the gates. Not be driven to the house in style?” He chuckled, a deep-throated chuckle. In other circumstances such might have caused her heart to flutter. “Please, you cannot walk in these freezing conditions.”

  “I fear you are chilled enough young lady, so home with you straight away. I’ll not freeze to death trudging the drive to the house. As it is, the hound’s death has raised a needling question as to why he was where he was at time of his death.” He reached for his gold-topped cane previously abandoned on the seat beside him. She had already surmised it to be a swordstick, its dragon’s head handle ornate and curved to fit neat to palm of hand, which he promptly used to thump the roof of the drag. “Shall you be at Fenemore for a long or short stay?”

  Her heart lurched. “How did you know I am to stay at Fenemore?”

  “You booked for a drive from London to Batheaston and I from London to Batheaston, and when I arrived at the inn it was assumed I to be the passenger for Fenemore, Batheaston. Hence your arrival coincided with and interrupted a heated argument that although I, too bound for Batheaston, it was Abbeyfields I wished to be taken to.” A smile creased his face. “I am not sure how, but you seemed to think my intended journey was to Bath. And gentleman that I am I chose not to reveal otherwise.”

  “So you had intended escorting me to Fenemore and then returning to Abbeyfields?” She laughed. “Oh how gallant, and now you wish to leap from the coach and abandon me.” She immediately corrected her outburst. “Please, I do beg your forgiveness. That sounded terribly remiss, when you must be quite worried about your father.”

  Aware the drag was slowing down with verbal encouragement to the horses from the coachman, Edwin Brockenbury once again leaned forward only this time he extended his hand. She accepted his gesture of friendship their kid gloves coming together, and not for one minute had she expected him to dip his head and kiss her gloved fingers.

  The contact was fleeting, but when his eyes levelled on hers something indefinable sparkled within and, “Good night, Lady Beaumont,” came as quite a shock. Though his smile was enough to melt the coldest of lady’s heart and somehow as reassuring as were his final words. “Be assured your presence at Fenemore will not slip my tongue.”

  With that he departed and closed the door and disappeared from view. So he had known her identity all along and said not a word. He was most certainly nothing like his hateful brother. She could, if he were not a Brockenbury be quite taken with him.

  It was all but a few moments before the drag moved off and there he was standing in front of magnificent wrought iron gates, a large leather valise at his feet. He waved, turned, pushed one of the gates and that was her last sighting of him.

  Yes. Indeed, there was something about Edwin Brockenbury that was most appealing. But, who was he really? For all she knew he could be a married man. After all, who would say no to a man of his looks, good manners, and those eyes?

  ~

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  ~

  The Highwayman’s Mistress

  ~

  It is 1793: era of the French Revolution.

  ~

  Richard Courtenay Viscount Somerton, gallant as heroes come, has agreed to see Miss Diamonta Whitaker, safely delivered to the Palace of Versailles. Half French by birth and daughter of a French countess, Diamonta has more than one reason for accepting a gracious invite to stay at the Royal Court at Versailles. Her heart lies at court, with Francois de Boviere, Count of Saint Mont Marche.

  Unfortunately, tide of revolution has swept from Paris to Versailles and heads of French aristocrats are seriously under threat of Madame Guillotine. With Diamonta's coche still en route to Versailles, strange as it seems a highwayman delivers a message by way of robbery to save her life. Can she, upon return to England, ever recover from her mother's wrath once her relationship with a highwayman is discovered, and can he survive a duel to the death?

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  Chapter One

  ~

  “Would he not make for a divine suitor?” said Leohne, emitting a deep sigh.

  Diamonta raised her fan to shield her face and considered Richard Courtenay, Viscount Somerton with leisurely eye. She had not indulged in consideration of his handsomeness in a long while. It was true he was fine of stature, fair of hair, a wicked smile and uncommon pleasant in manner.

  In all the years of his having paid court to her and her younger sister, she never had thought of him as divine in any sense of the word divine, nor as a potential suitor, though an angel in many ways. Her own heart dwelt elsewhere, with someone who might never learn of her affections toward him.

  “I fear you grant Richard more favour than he deserves,” she said, baiting her sister’s keened regard for the viscount.

  Leohne spun round, the silk of her blue gown shimmering beneath warm sun of September afternoon. “How can you say, that. He has heavenly blue eyes, hair the colour of ripe corn and a smile to die for.”

  “Must you be so obvious in your attentions upon Richard?”

  “I am not,” replied Leohne, petulant in manner. “I like him, that is all.”

  Diamonta’s eyes drifted from the figure of the tall young man in conversation with their brother, and settled on Leohne. “I see, and this like you talk of, is it reciprocated?”

  Her sister blushed and let fall her eyes to the grass at their feet. The brim of her hat perched precarious on powdered wig shaded one eye in coquettish manner, which amused Diamonta in extreme. “I think not,” replied Leohne, “I am of mind to think him enamoured by you.”

  “By me?” exclaimed Diamonta, letting slip a chuckle she could not hold back at such a suggestion. “He and I are merely friends, childhood friends of longstanding. I have no desires in his direction and he none in mine . . . That I am aware of.“

  Leohne flashed a look of disbelief. “But you laugh a lot when you are with him, and I am always left to follow the pair of you as though I do not even exist.”

  “That is an unfair statement. Oft Richard has drawn you into our conversations, and it is you who chooses to stay behind instead of catching up and slipping your arm in his.”

  “But he has never offered his arm to me.”

  “Then cease your pretence of shyness and step forward first in future. I am more than happy to walk behind for a change.”

  “What are you two squabbling about now?” asked Charles, inclining head over shoulder from where he was seated, his injured leg resting on a pillowed stool.

  Richard, with amused glint in his eyes glanced their way. “I fear we have displeased them somehow.”

  Charles chuckled, said, “Shall we go for a stroll alongside the lake? I think I can manage a little farther today.” As he struggled to gain his feet, assisted by Richard, they really had no option but to agree to his suggestion.

  She took it upon herself to help Charles, “Here, take my arm
, dear brother.” For she was utter determined she would not be accused of harbouring Richard all to her self, which left young Viscount Somerton with no option but to offer his arm to Leohne. To which her sister giggled in acceptance, and off they set.

  For Charles it was a case of slow and steady, for he could not bend his injured leg at all and only quite recent had begun to take light exercise after a serious fall from his horse. It was no wonder then that Leohne and Viscount Somerton soon gained distance of several yards ahead, and before long almost out of sight.

  Charles patted her hand, the lake shimmering, swans floating past them majestic and stealing their attention. “That was a kind gesture, you’re taking my arm and allowing Leohne time alone with her heart’s desire.”

  She laughed. “Well, why not. I have no wish to raise Richard’s expectations of more than friendship between him and I, for it would be so unfair. I like him, true enough, but cannot envisage a marriage between us.”

  “He’s very fond of you, you know.”

  “Yes, but now I know Leohne is utter smitten by him I shall do my utmost to procure a happy outcome for her.”

  “Darling Diamonta, the sacrifices you make for yon snippet of a sister, indeed most commendable.”

  “It is no sacrifice to step aside and hope Richard will be lured by her charming guile, for the little minx has had her heart set on him for quite a while methinks.”

  “And you, what gentleman has caught your eye?”

  A self-conscious laugh escaped in haste to allay any suspicious thoughts he might have, though she duly cursed a sudden flush to her cheeks. “Oh, no one in particular.” She averted attention to the far side of the lake where her sister and the viscount were animated in conversation. “You see, they’re getting along famously.”

  Charles chuckled. “You can say what you like, but this Mr. No One in Particular, has most certainly stirred something within you, for I have never seen you looking so vivacious and ravishing.”

  “Charles Taylor Whitaker, what would our father think if he were here now to hear you talk of me in such a manner?”

  “No doubt agree, and demand the name of the bounder.”

  “Bounder?” She turned to face him, noted a mischievous glint in his slate blue eyes. “If Francois De Boviere, Count of Saint Mont Marche could hear you, he would no doubt call you to a duel at dawn.”

  “Damn Frenchmen are fools, utter fools. Always killing each other over some woman or other, and where’s the sense in that?”

  “I think if ever a man proved willing to duel for my love, he might well win my favour.”

  “Ha, just like a woman to desire two men fighting over her.” He winced, grabbed at his leg. “I’m done for, Diamond girl, I’ve done my distance for today.” He managed to maintain his balance as they swirled about. They then began the slow trek back toward the house. “So. This Frenchy. Are you fond of him, or am I to presume more between the pair of you?”

  “You must not say Frenchy in front of mother, for Leohne and I have her blood gushing through our veins.”

  He chuckled. “Dear sister, I am well aware of your French connection, and I love your mother dearly as I loved my own. I, on the other hand, English to the very bone and shall not seek a French gal for a wife as did my widower father.”

  She laughed. “So parti pris, dear brother, I think you would regret those words if ever you set eyes upon Angelica. As for her brother, the count, I hardly know him. It is Angelica that I am fond of. In her last letter she asked if I might consider a return visit to France. And further more, I have with the Queen’s grace, invitation to stay at Versailles for all of a month. There is to be a grand masque in October. Can you imagine what fun that will be?”

  “Good God,” exclaimed Charles. “The Queen has sanctioned your presence at Versailles?” He glanced her way, his face a picture of delight. “Well fancy that. My sister invited to the French court by none other than Marie Antoinette, Queen of France.” He laughed, and affectionately squeezed her hand. “Then you must go, for I will not be accused of having denied you the pleasure of seeing your heart’s desire.”

  “Heart’s desire?”

  “Count what’s his name.”

  “Oh him.” she said, heart skipping at the very thought of once again letting her eyes fall upon Francois De Boviere, Count of Saint Mont Marche. “It is not him I will be going to see.”

  Charles chuckled. “A likely story, and I now understand why you were so happy for Richard to escort Leohne for a constitutional around the lake. Be warned, though, it may not deter Richard’s affections for you.”

  “If I am away for a month, Leohne’s affections toward Richard I feel sure will win him over.”

  “Ah, so you are attracted to this French count of yours.”

  “I liked him well enough when introduced, and Angelica speaks fondly of him. It was but a brief encounter and I cannot say that I know him sufficient to consider my heart taken by him.”

  “I wager it is,” said Charles, head inclined enough to catch a glimpse of second flush to her cheeks. “Hide all you like behind your fan, but I know you Diamond girl, know you too well.”

  “Well, to some extent you are right,” she said, as they reached the terrace. “I did think him rather handsome when he took my hand, and can you believe it, placed his lips on my cheeks. A proper kiss to each cheek.”

  “The Devil, be damned.” He swung his stiffened leg in order to ascend the steps before them. “Blasted Frenchy, and taking liberties with my sister.”

  She assisted in his ascent by allowing him to lean heavily on her shoulder. “Charles, be reasonable. A greeting such as his happens to be quite normal in France.”

  Her brother grunted in disapproval. “Would you have Richard kiss you in like manner?”

  “He would not. Though I suspect he does when in France.”

  “Men are supposed to show respect for women. Dash it all, Diamond girl. A mere bow of head to a young miss is sufficient recognition to her presence. And of course, odd kiss of hand to a married woman of close connection.”

  “Customs do change, Charles. After all, in times past, only courtiers kissed the hand of a monarch, and as you said, men now kiss the hand of married women and of widows.”

  “Hmm,” he grunted again, then winced and grappled with his leg. “Damn cramps.”

  “Am I to assume permission for a return to France is no longer granted?”

  “You shall go, but I will ask Richard to keep an eye on you.”

  “You cannot mean to ask Richard to be my escort.”

  “He gave me to understand he is to go to France next month and I don’t suppose he will mind your travelling with him,” declared Charles, whilst negotiating the glass doors from terrace to drawing room. “He can at least see you safely delivered to Versailles.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, once there you will have Angelica for company.”

  She helped him settle in his favoured chair overlooking the terrace and lake. “And Richard?”

  “He has business in Paris, Lyon and then Bruges.”

  So, she would be at Versailles without Richard. How grand. How delightful. She settled in the seat beside her brother; Francois’ glittering dark eyes coming to mind. Versailles. Angelica. Francois. Oh, if only it was possible to depart tomorrow.

  “There you are. I quite thought you all in the music room.” Rustle of silk implied great haste, her mother upon them so quick Charles barely managed to raise his rump from seat. “Sit down, dear boy.”

  Charles fell back to chair. “What ails, dear lady? You have the look of news most important.”

  “Viscount Somerton. I must speak with him.” Her mother glanced about them. “Please tell me Leohne has not imposed herself upon him.”

  “Not in the least,” said Charles, a broad grin. “Blame Diamonta, for it was her idea to foist Leohne upon Richard.” He inclined his head toward the lake. “They will return fairly soon, I shouldn’t wonder.”
>
  “I did not foist her on to Richard, I merely suggested they go ahead while I assisted in Charles’ exercise.”

  How beautiful her mother was, when suspecting intrigue afoot. Chloetilde de la Roche, a daughter of France who married below her station for love. Though none of them knew for sure if that was the case, for the Hon Charles Whitaker senior, although a widower of means and minor title and rather handsome and distinguished, nonetheless a good deal older than her mother, and sadly deceased. Yet her mother loved Charles junior as though her very own son, and would no doubt be enraptured to know her eldest daughter had eyes for a handsome young French count.

  She mused her mother’s stance by the open doors her interest centred beyond the terrace, her gown of black and purple stripes quite regal “Does it matter if Leohne has her heart set at Richard?”

  Her mother grimaced but momentary, a smile slow to face, no doubt her dark brown eyes cast to the lakeside path visible here and there between trees. “I had thought your heart, Richard’s,” she said, absent in tone.

  “I am fond of him, it is true.”

  “Ha,” blustered Charles. “Diamonta has her heart set on a . . .” He faltered, Diamonta held his gaze to prevent utterance of Frenchy. He gathered himself. “A count, and son of France.”

  “Is this true?” Her mother glanced her way, eyebrow raised. “What is the name of this count?”

  “It is Angelica’s brother, and . . .”

  “Ah, I see. A most unsuitable choice.” came forth as unaccountable dismissal of Angelica’s brother.

  Stunned and confused she could not muster words, words to extract explanation of her mother’s disregard for Francois. “I hardly know him,” her defence. “I’ve met him once only. No, twice to be exact, but we did not speak on that occasion. ”

  “Just as well,” her mother’s curt response. “Good, I see them, now.”

  To some extent sense of relief at Leohne and Richard’s reappearance swept over her, for her mother would not press further on Francois and the way in which they had met, nor the time and place of their meeting. How glad she was to have refrained from telling her brother or sister all that had happened on her last venture to France. Perhaps there were things best kept secret, after all.