Mistress Of Madderlea

‘No, of course not, the poor fellow likely never made it back to England. He probably settled down in the Peninsula with a Spanish señorita. You asked for an example and I gave you one.’

‘Point taken. But I hope you will rid yourself of your aggression and ill humour against Gentleman Jackson in the boxing ring this afternoon and present yourself in my mother’s drawing room at seven this evening, in a sweet temper, ready to act the agreeable.’

‘Have no fear, my friend,’ Richard said, as both men left the table. ‘I shall be a model of the man about town.’

Sophie and Charlotte had arrived at Lady Gosport’s in Denmark Place a few minutes after seven to find her drawing room already buzzing with conversation. Most of the company seemed to be of Lady Fitzpatrick’s generation and Sophie’s spirits sank. This was not her idea of London Society at all. She looked across at Charlotte and exchanged a rueful grimace, before their hostess caught sight of them and hurried over to greet them.

‘Harriet, my dear, so glad you could come.’ She kissed Lady Fitzpatrick on both cheeks and then looked at the girls, taking careful note of Charlotte’s white crepe open gown trimmed with silk forget-me-nots over a pale blue slip, and moving on to examine Sophie’s cambric high gown with its overskirt of pale green jaconet, which her ladyship considered more suitable for day than evening wear. ‘So, these are your charges.’

‘Good evening, Beth.’ She took Charlotte’s arm and drew her forward. ‘May I present Miss Charlotte Roswell. The Earl of Peterborough’s niece. God rest his soul.’

‘Indeed, yes. My commiserations, Miss Roswell.’ Reminded of her superior station by a dig in the ribs from Sophie, Charlotte executed a small polite bob, not the deep curtsy she had intended. ‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘You are fully recovered from your ordeal?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ It was obvious that the girl was painfully shy and would have to be brought out of her shell if she were to take well. Her ladyship turned to Sophie. ‘Then you must be Miss Hundon. Miss Roswell’s companion, I collect.’

‘Oh, no,’ Charlotte put in. ‘Sophie is my cousin and friend, not a paid companion. We share everything.’

‘That is to your credit, my dear,’ Lady Gosport said. ‘But you will find that the possession of an estate and great wealth, as I believe you have, will make your advance in Society very unequal.’ Then to Sophie, ‘I do hope, dear Miss Hundon, you have not been led to expect the same attention as your more illustrious cousin?’

‘No, indeed,’ Sophie said, though she longed to bring the lady down to size with some cutting remark. Only the thought of their masquerade being exposed stilled her tongue.

‘Come, let me introduce you to the company.’ There were a few young ladies present, they realised, as they were conducted round the room, and one or two young men, who stood about posing in tight coats and impossibly high pointed cravats, twirling their quizzing glasses in their hands and speaking in affected voices which made the girls want to laugh aloud. Instead, they bowed politely and exchanged greetings and longed to escape.

‘This is quite dreadful,’ Sophie murmured to her cousin when they had done the rounds. ‘If the whole Season is to be like this, I shudder to think how we shall go on.’

‘It is early in the year,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘The Season is not yet under way.’

‘I hope you are right.’

Just then a commotion by the door heralded the arrival of latecomers. ‘Why, it is Martin,’ Lady Gosport cried, hurrying over to drag her son into the room. ‘You are very late. I had quite given you up.’

He gently removed her hand from the sleeve of his green superfine coat and smiled at her. ‘I am sorry, Mama. Pressing business delayed me. May I present my friend, Richard, Viscount Braybrooke?’

The man behind Mr Gosport stepped forward and the whole roomful of people gave a combined sigh, including Sophie, who had told herself she was immune to masculine vanity. If vanity it was. He seemed unaware of the impression he had created, and yet, as she looked more closely she realised he did know, for there was a twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes and a slight twitch to the corners of his mouth.

He was clad in a blue satin coat which fitted him so closely the muscles of his broad shoulders could be detected as he bowed over her ladyship’s hand. His waistcoat was of cream figured brocade and his blue kerseymere trousers, in the latest fashion, reached his shoes and were held down by straps under the instep, making his legs seem impossibly long. His cravat, though nothing like as high and pointed as those she had noticed on the other young men, was so skilfully tied, it drew exclamations of admiration from them.

His dark hair, cut short so that it curled about his ears, was the only slightly dishevelled part of him, but Sophie knew it was a style much favoured among the gentleman of the ton, called Windswept. Here was a tulip of the first order, and tulips were very definitely not what she was looking for, but beneath all that finery she sensed a man of great strength and power. She had a sudden vision of him unclothed, all rippling muscle, and a flood of colour suffused her cheeks.

She turned away to scrabble in her reticule for a handkerchief in order to compose herself. Whatever was the matter with her? She had never ever thought about a man’s nakedness before. Had he deliberately set out to have that effect? It was disgraceful in him if he had and even more disgraceful in her to succumb.

Charlotte, beside her, was openly staring. ‘My, would you look at that peacock,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, goodness, Lady Fitzpatrick is bringing them both over.’

Sophie, struggling to regain her usual serenity, was aware of Lady Fitzpatrick presenting the two men to her cousin. ‘Miss Roswell is the niece and ward of the late Earl of Peterborough,’ she was saying. ‘Being abroad, you will not have heard of the tragedy two years ago which left poor Miss Roswell all alone in the world.’

‘Not quite alone,’ Charlotte said, determined to include Sophie, not only because she felt overwhelmed, but because it wasn’t fair on her cousin to shut her out, as Lady Gosport seemed determined to do. ‘My lord, may I present my cousin, Miss Sophie Hundon?’

Sophie found herself subjected to a brown-eyed scrutiny which made her squirm inside and when he took her small hand in his very large one, she felt trapped like a wild bird in a cage which longed to be free but which hadn’t the sense to fly when the cage door was opened. Here, she knew, was a very dangerous man. Dangerous because he could make her forget the masquerade she and Charlotte had embarked upon, could make her disregard that list of virtues she had extolled as being necessary for the man she chose as her husband, dangerous for her peace of mind. And all in less than a minute!

She hated him for his extravagant clothes, for looking at her in that half-mocking way, for his self-assurance, for making her feel so weak. But no one would have guessed her thoughts as she dropped him a deep curtsy and then raised her eyes to his. ‘My lord.’

‘The cousins are to be brought out together,’ Lady Fitzpatrick told him. ‘Which I hold very generous of Miss Roswell.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, though she could not be sure if he was expressing surprise or agreement.

‘Not at all,’ Charlotte put in, making him turn from Sophie towards her. ‘We have always been very close, ever since…’ She stopped in confusion. She had been going to say ever since Sophie’s accident brought her to Upper Corbury, but checked herself. ‘Since the tragedy.’

‘Your soft heart does you credit, Miss Roswell,’ he said. ‘May I wish you a successful Season?’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ She curtsied to him and he moved off. Sophie breathed again and managed a smile for Mr Gosport as he followed in his friend’s wake.

‘What do you make of that?’ Sophie whispered, watching the backs of the two men as they were introduced to the other young ladies.

Sophie made sure their sponsor had moved out of earshot, which, for her, was not very far. ‘I think Lady Fitz fancies herself as a matchmaker.’

‘Who?’

‘Why, you and Lord Braybrooke, of course.’

‘But she thinks I am you. Oh, Sophie, we are truly in a coil now.’

‘No, we are not. You do not fancy him for a husband, do you?’

‘No, I do not. He is too high in the instep for my taste. Besides, he might already be married—he is surely nearer thirty than twenty.’

‘Yes, but you heard Lady Fitz mention he had been away in the war. And she would not have dragged him over to us if he were not eligible.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Nothing. Enjoy ourselves. If he offers for you, you can always reject him. I’ll wager that will bring him down a peg or two.’

‘You do not like him?’

‘No, I do not think I do.’

‘Why not?’

Sophie was hard put to answer truthfully. Across the room the two men were enjoying a joke with a young lady and her mother to whom they had just been introduced and Sophie felt her heart contract into a tight knot, which she would not recognise as anything but distaste.

‘He doesn’t fit my criteria in any respect.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’

‘I just do.’

The two men were taking their leave. Lady Fitzpatrick returned to the girls after talking to Lady Gosport. ‘What a turn up,’ she said, smiling broadly, making her round face seem even rounder. ‘We could not have hoped for a better start. Lord Braybrooke will undoubtedly be the catch of the Season. He was particularly interested in you, my dear Charlotte.’

‘Oh, no, I think not,’ Charlotte said. ‘He did not say above a dozen words to me and those most condescending…’

‘There you are, then! We must make what plans we can to engage his attention, and soon too, before he is snapped up.’ Sophie burst into laughter and received a look of disapproval. ‘Sophie, finding a husband for such as Miss Roswell is a very serious business and not a subject for mirth.’

Sophie straightened her face and remembered to speak very clearly, close to her ladyship’s ear. ‘You are quite right, my lady, marriage is a solemn undertaking. I beg your pardon.’

‘If you are lucky, you may engage the attention of Mr Gosport, though from what I have seen, he does seem to be tied to his mother’s apron strings and disinclined to wed. I should not say it, of course, for Beth Gosport is my friend.’

Sophie wondered why she had said it, unless it was to emphasise what a difficult task lay ahead in being able to suit the less important of her two charges.

‘I think we can safely take our leave now,’ Lady Fitzpatrick went on. ‘It is polite to arrive a little late and leave early if one means to stamp one’s superiority on to these little gatherings.’

‘As his lordship has done,’ Sophie said, winking at Charlotte, a gesture which was lost on the shortsighted Lady Fitzpatrick or she would have earned another reproof.

‘God, Martin, is that what I have to do to find a wife? I’d as lief forget the whole thing. I would, too, if it didn’t mean falling into a worse case and having to marry Emily.’

The two men were walking towards St James’s Street, where they intended to spend the remainder of the evening at White’s.

‘Oh, it was not as bad as all that,’ his friend said, cheerfully, ‘There was that little filly, Miss Roswell. Pretty little thing, blue eyes, blonde curls and curves in all the right places. And a considerable heiress, to boot. My mother told me the story.’

‘I collect Lady Fitzpatrick saying something about a tragedy.’

‘Yes. Her father, the second son of the second earl, married a Belgian lady and Miss Roswell was born and raised in Belgium…’

‘Really? She does not give the impression of a well-travelled young lady. I would have taken a wager that she has not stirred beyond the shores of England. More, I should have been inclined to say she had never come up to Town before.’

‘How can you possibly tell?’

‘The polish is lacking. She has a simple charm that is more in tune with country life.’

‘That is good, surely? It fits in well with your criteria.’

‘Does it?’ Richard turned to grin at him. ‘And are you going to remind me of that whenever we meet and discuss one of the hopefuls?’

‘Probably.’

‘Then carry on. I might as well know the rest.’

‘I believe her mother died some years ago. Her father brought her to England to stay with her uncle and his wife and then bought himself a commission and died in the Battle of Salamanca, a hero of that engagement, I am told. Her uncle, the Earl of Peterborough, adopted her.’

‘What do we know of him?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary. He was a quiet gentlemen who stayed on his estate most of the time. I have heard nothing against him. On the contrary, he was well respected, even loved, on his home ground.’

‘Go on.’

‘Two years ago they were all travelling to London for Miss Roswell’s come-out when they were caught in a terrible storm; the horses took fright and the carriage turned over. Miss Roswell was the only survivor. Unmarried and seventeen years old, she inherited Madderlea. Quite a catch, my friend.’

‘Then why is she being sponsored by that antidote, Lady Fitzpatrick? Are they related?’

‘I do not think so.’

‘Related to the country cousin, maybe?’

‘I don’t know that either. I suppose it is possible. Since the accident, Miss Roswell has lived with her cousin.’

‘Miss Hundon,’ Richard murmured, finding himself remembering the feel of her small hand in his, the colour in her cheeks and the flash of fire in greeny-grey eyes which had looked straight into his, as if challenging him. She made him feel uncomfortable and he didn’t know why.

‘Yes, but she is of no consequence, not out of the top drawer at all and must be discounted. Your grandfather would not entertain such a one.’

‘No. So, I am to make a play for Miss Roswell, am I?’

‘You could do a great deal worse. It was fortuitous that we went to my mother’s soirée. Unless you make a push she will be snapped up.’

‘I do not intend to make a push. I cannot be so cold-blooded.’ They had arrived at the door of the club and turned to enter. ‘But if, on further acquaintance, I find myself growing fond of her…’

‘Oh, I forgot that love was an item on the list.’

Richard laughed and punched him playfully on the arm.

‘Very well, I shall call on Lady Fitzpatrick tomorrow and suggest a carriage ride in the Park. And now, do you think we can forget the chits and concentrate on a few hands of cards?’

Lady Fitzpatrick and the two young ladies were sitting in the parlour the following morning, discussing the previous evening’s events, when the footman scratched at the door and, flinging it wide, announced in a voice which would have done justice to a drill sergeant, ‘My lady, Lord Braybrooke wishes to know if you are at home.’

‘Braybrooke?’ her ladyship queried, making Sophie wonder if she was losing her memory as well as her other faculties.

‘He was at the gathering last evening, Lady Fitzpatrick,’ Charlotte said. ‘Surely you remember?’

‘Oh, Braybrooke! To be sure. Rathbone’s grandson. Show him in, Lester. At once.’

He disappeared and she turned to Charlotte. ‘Who would have thought he would call so soon? He must have been singularly taken by you. Now, do not be too eager, nor too top-lofty either, my dear. Conduct yourself decorously and coolly.’ Fussily she patted her white curls and adjusted her cap, took several deep breaths and fixed a smile of welcome on her face, just as the footman returned.

‘Viscount Braybrooke, my lady.’

Richard, dressed in buff coat, nankeen breeches and polished hessians, strode into the room and bowed over her hand. ‘My lady.’

‘Good morning, Lord Braybrooke. This is a singular pleasure.’ She waved a plump hand in the general direction of the girls. ‘You remember Miss Roswell and Miss Hundon?’

‘How could I forget such a trio of beauties, my lady? Quite the most brilliant stars in the firmament last evening.’ He turned and caught Sophie’s look of disdainful astonishment before she could manage to wipe it from her face and his own features broke into a grin. He was bamming them in such an obvious way, it made her furious, all the more so because Lady Fitzpatrick was simpering in pleasure and Charlotte’s cheeks were on fire with embarrassment. He plucked Charlotte’s hand from the folds of her muslin gown and raised it to his lips. ‘Miss Roswell, your servant. I hope I see you well.’

‘Quite well, thank you, my lord.’

‘And, Miss Hundon,’ he said, turning to Sophie almost reluctantly, ‘you are well?’

‘Indeed, yes.’ He was having the same effect on her as he had had the previous evening. A night’s sleep and time to consider her reaction had made not a jot of difference. He exuded masculine strength and confidence, so why act the dandy? Why pretend to be other than he was? This thought brought her to her senses with a jolt. She was acting too, wasn’t she?

Lady Fitzpatrick indicated a chair. ‘Please sit down, my lord.’

‘Thank you.’ He flung up the tails of his frockcoat and folded his long length neatly into the chair.

Sophie watched in fascination as he engaged Lady Fitzpatrick in small talk. To begin with he was frequently obliged to repeat himself, but as soon as he realised her ladyship was hard of hearing—a fact she would never admit—he spoke more clearly, enunciating each word carefully, winning her over completely.

Sometimes he addressed his remarks to Charlotte, smiling at her and flattering her, but rarely turned to Sophie. She was glad of that. He was far too conceited for her taste and she sincerely hoped Charlotte would not be such a ninny as to fall for a bag of false charm.

It was several minutes before he could bring himself to speak of the true reason for his visit. It had been a mistake to come, but Martin had nagged at him unmercifully, reminding him of his grandfather’s ultimatum and in the end he had concluded it could do no harm. Little Miss Roswell was pretty; she had a rosy glow about her and an air of insouciance he found at odds with her position as heiress to a great estate.

But the other, the country cousin, disturbed him. Her eyes, intelligent, far-seeing, humorous, seemed to follow his every move, to understand that he was playing a part dictated by Society. He was not behaving like his normal self and he was afraid she would call his bluff and expose him for the clunch he felt himself to be, a feeling with which he was not at all familiar. How could she do this to him?

He had come to ask Miss Roswell to take a carriage ride with him, but she would have to be chaperoned and it was evident that was the role Miss Hundon was to play. Her watchful eyes would be on him every second, protecting her cousin, reducing him to an incompetent swain.

‘My lady,’ he said, addressing Lady Fitzpatrick. ‘I came to ask if you and the young ladies would care to join me in a carriage ride in the park tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Why, how kind of you,’ she said, while both girls remained mute. ‘I should very much like to accept, but…Oh, dear, I am afraid I have undertaken to visit Lady Holland.’ She paused. ‘But I do not see why you should not take the young ladies. Miss Hundon will chaperone Miss Roswell and their groom can ride alongside. If you are agreeable, of course.’

‘I shall look forward to it.’ He rose and bowed his way out, leaving two thunderstruck young ladies and a very self-satisfied matron behind him.

‘Well…’ Lady Fitzpatrick let out her breath in a long sigh. ‘I never thought you would engage the attention of someone so high in Society so soon.’

‘No doubt he has heard of my…’ Sophie paused and hastened to correct herself ‘…my cousin’s fortune. Madderlea is a prize worth a little attention, do you not think?’

Charlotte’s face was bright pink. ‘That is unkind in you, Sophie,’ she said. ‘Do you not think he likes me for myself?’

Sophie was immediately contrite. ‘Of course, he does, my dear, who could not? But you must remember that you, too, are superior and have something to offer.’

‘Quite right,’ her ladyship said, after asking Sophie to repeat herself. ‘Now, we must discuss clothes and what you will say to him, for though it is one thing to attract his attention, it is quite another to keep it.’

‘What do you know of the gentleman, my lady?’ Sophie enquired, for Charlotte seemed to be in a daydream, and someone had to ask. ‘Apart from the fact that he is grandson to the Duke of Rathbone. Is he the heir?’

‘Indeed, he is. His father was a second son and did not expect to inherit, particularly as the heir was married and in good health, but the old Duke outlived both his sons. There is a cousin, I believe, but she is female.’

‘Can she not inherit?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Unlike Madderlea, the estate is entailed. Richard Braybrooke came back from service in the Peninsula to find himself Viscount Braybrooke and his grandfather’s heir.’

‘A position, I am persuaded, he finds singularly uncongenial,’ Sophie put in.

‘Yes, he is a most congenial gentleman,’ Lady Fitzpatrick said, mishearing her. ‘Such superior address and conduct can only be the result of good breeding.’

Sophie choked on a laugh, making Charlotte look at her in alarm. ‘If good breeding means one is insufferably arrogant, then he is, indeed, well-bred,’ she murmured, while wiping tears of mirth from her face with a wisp of a handkerchief.

‘I do not know what ails you, Sophie,’ her ladyship said. ‘Your cousin is also well-bred and she is most certainly not arrogant. Indeed, it were better if she could adopt a more haughty attitude, for she is far too shy.’

‘I cannot change the way I am,’ Charlotte said.

‘Nor should you,’ Sophie said. ‘If the gentleman cannot see that you are sweet and kind and would not hurt the feelings of a fly, then he is blind and does not deserve you.’

The gentleman could see it. He was well aware of Miss Roswell’s virtues and it only made him feel unworthy. She deserved to be wooed for herself, by some young blood who appreciated the very qualities he found so cloying. He wanted and needed someone with more spirit, someone to challenge him as Miss Hundon had done. When he had said as much to Martin, his friend had laughed and reminded him of his list of requirements. Challenge had not been mentioned at all. ‘You have hardly had time to make a reasoned judgement, Dick,’ he had said. But then reasoned judgement and instinct did not go hand in hand.

He called for the young ladies the following afternoon, not at all sure he was going to enjoy the outing. It might be the way Society dictated a man should court a lady, but it was not his way. It was too artificial. He felt a sham, dressed to make a killing in double-breasted frockcoat of dark green superfine, soft buckskin breeches and curly-brimmed top hat. He was not averse to dressing well, but to do so to catch a young lady smacked of hypocrisy.

Sophie and Charlotte were waiting in the drawing room for him. There was still a keen edge to the wind and so Charlotte had chosen to wear a blue carriage dress in fine merino wool which almost exactly matched the colour of her eyes. It was topped by a blue cape and a fetching bonnet trimmed with pink ruched silk in a shade that echoed the rose in her cheeks. She looked delightfully fresh and innocent.

Sophie, on the other hand, determined not to shine, was dressed in grey from head to foot and would not be persuaded to change her mind, when Charlotte said she had made herself look like a poor relation.

‘But that is exactly what I am, Charlotte dear,’ she had said. ‘I am your chaperon, after all.’

There was no time to go back to her room and change, even if she had wanted to, for his lordship was announced at that moment and, after the usual courtesies, they made their way out to his lordship’s barouche. And what a carriage; it made Lady Fitzpatrick’s town coach, which stood beside it ready to convey her ladyship to her appointment, look even shabbier.