Mistress Of Madderlea

Chapter Three

It was a perfect late spring day and the carriageway in the park was crowded with vehicles of all shapes and sizes, and as they were all going at little more than walking pace it was almost like a parade. Richard seemed to know or be known by almost everyone and they frequently drew to a halt for the girls to be presented to the occupants of other carriages. They were also hailed frequently by riders from the nearby gallop, who reined in to speak to Richard, while casting admiring glances at Charlotte, who sat smiling beside him, enjoying every minute.

Sophie hardly rated a second look, but that had its advantages in that she could take time to gaze about her, to make her own assessment of the wide range of characters who took part in the traditional afternoon procession. They ranged from dowagers to schoolgirls, not yet out, Lady This and the Countess of That, as well as some whom Sophie was sure came from the demi-monde and rode by with all the aplomb and self-confidence in the world, twirling their parasols.

There were dandies and rakes, army officers resplendent in uniform, a few naval officers and more than a sprinkling of hopefuls who did not fit into any category but wished they did. Not one took her eye…except the man sitting in the seat opposite her and conversing so easily with her cousin at his side.

He was handsome in a rugged kind of way, his features lined by exposure to sun and wind. He exuded masculinity; it came over so strongly it took her breath away. If only…She sighed and suddenly found his attention focused on her. ‘You do not agree, Miss Hundon?’

She had not been attending to the conversation and found herself at a loss. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord, I was daydreaming.’

He smiled. Her eyes had held a faraway look, as if she were thinking of some absent admirer. In Upper Corbury in the county of Leicestershire, perhaps. He had just learned from Miss Roswell that that was where the Hundons had their home. ‘Miss Roswell was commenting on the number of officers still in uniform and expressing the hope that the peace may last and they will no longer be needed to fight.’

‘Oh, to that I most heartily agree, but my sympathies are with the common soldiers, who know no other means of earning a living. I think it is shameful just to turn them loose, after they have fought so well for their country. We worry about Spain and Portugal, France and Austria, send delegates to the Congress of Vienna to ensure justice on the continent and we ignore the problems nearer home. It is no wonder there are riots. And ranging militia against unarmed men and women who are only trying to have their voices heard is not the way to go on.’

He was inclined to agree with her, but the challenge was there, in her voice and in her greeny-grey eyes, and he could not resist the temptation to rise to it. ‘Law and order must be kept or we will descend into anarchy.’

‘Oh, that is the answer we are given for every act of repression. Shoot them, cut them down. Throw them in prison and hope everyone will forget them. Suspending the Habeas Corpus Act was a monstrous denial of justice.’

He smiled. ‘I collect your father is a lawyer. Have you learned such sentiments from him?’

In her fervour, she had forgotten her uncle’s profession and she had not heard him express any views on the subject. He was not a man to discuss either his clients or the state of the economy with his daughter and niece. Young ladies, in his opinion, did not need to know of such things. She glanced at Charlotte from beneath the brim of her bonnet, but her cousin was staring straight ahead, a bright pink spot on each cheek.

‘No, my lord, but I read a great deal and have always been encouraged to think for myself.’ She knew she was on dangerous ground and hurriedly reverted to the original subject under discussion. ‘If work could be found for the discharged soldiers, they would not be discontent.’ And then, because she could not resist having a dig at him. ‘It is all very well for the officers, for they have families and estates and education to help them…’

He laughed. ‘Touché, my dear Miss Hundon. But, you know, families and estates bring their own responsibilities.’

She smiled at that, thinking of her own situation, but he saw only sparkling greeny-grey eyes and a mouth that was made for smiling. And kissing. God in heaven, what had made him think that? She was nothing more than a country mouse, a little grey one. No, he amended, that description was inaccurate, for she was tall and her movements were not the quick scurrying of a tiny rodent, but the measured movement of a stalking cat.

‘Yes, my lord, the responsibility to marry well, to produce heirs. It is, I am persuaded, a form of vanity.’

‘Sophie!’ Charlotte cried. ‘How can you say that when you—’

‘Miss Hundon is entitled to her opinion, Miss Roswell. Do not scold her.’ He was looking at Sophie as he spoke and she felt herself shrink under his gaze, though she would not let him see it. ‘You are surely not implying your cousin is vain?’

‘Nothing was further from my thoughts, my lord,’ she said truthfully. ‘No one could be less vain or more sweet-natured than my cousin. But her case is exceptional. She is a young lady who has inherited a large estate, but cannot have the governing of it. Society has decreed that that can only be done by a man. She must have a husband or give up her home entirely.’

‘Sophie, please…’ Charlotte begged. ‘You are being excessively impertinent, when Lord Braybrooke has been so kind as to invite us to share his carriage. He does not wish to hear…’ She stopped in confusion.

‘Oh, my dearest, I did not mean to put you to the blush,’ Sophie said, contrite. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

What had come over her was a strong desire to pierce Lord Braybrooke’s self-assurance, to stop him looking at her in that half-mocking way and take her seriously. But why? Why did it matter so much?

They had come to the end of the carriageway and the driver turned the barouche skilfully and set out on the return journey, while the two girls chatted, their disagreement forgotten.

Richard was intrigued, not only by Miss Hundon, but by the relationship which existed between the two girls. That they were close he did not doubt, but they were so different. Miss Hundon was outspoken and opinionated, almost the blue stocking he had decried, and her dress sense left a great deal to be desired but as he was not considering her for a wife, he told himself it was of no consequence.

On the other hand, Miss Roswell, who did have many of the attributes he had so carefully listed to Martin, including her own fortune, did not stir him to any kind of passion, either of desire or anger. Her skirts, brushing against his leg in the carriage, did not make him want to increase the pressure, to touch her, to kiss her, pretty though she was. Perhaps that would come, when he came to know her better, when she relaxed a little in his company and opened out to him. At the moment she was stiff and tense, almost as if she were afraid of him. Miss Hundon was not afraid.

He pushed thoughts of Miss Sophie Hundon from him and turned to converse with Miss Roswell, trying to bring her out, to show her there was nothing to fear, but she had suddenly gone mute. He could get nothing out of her but ‘Yes, my lord’ or ‘No, my lord’ or ‘Indeed?’

Sophie, now that his attention was engaged elsewhere, was able to relax a little. The carriage bowled smoothly along and she found herself thinking that they must be seen in the park more often, but it would not do to be too frequently in the company of Lord Braybrooke. He was not the only eligible in Town and he needn’t think he was! They certainly could not drive out in Lady Fitz’s town coach; they would be a laughing stock.

She would buy an equipage of her own, one with the Roswell crest emblazoned on the door, and drawn by matched cattle which would be the envy of the ton. The thought brought a smile to her lips, a smile not lost on Richard Braybrooke, who was taken aback by the way it lit her whole countenance and made what he had hitherto considered a somewhat unexceptional face into a beautiful one. He was lost in wonder and a sudden arousal of desire which made him squirm uncomfortably in his seat. It was the second time she had done this to him, and he resented it.

He was supposed to be searching for a wife, a wife with very particular virtues, not lusting after a poor country cousin. Did she know the effect she was having on him? Was it deliberate? If so, she might be agreeable to a little dalliance if he made it worth her while. It might serve to bring him back to his usual salubrious self and he could then concentrate on the task in hand, wooing the heiress.

He allowed himself to savour the prospect for a few delightful seconds before banishing it. He was not in the army now, he could no longer take whichever wench fluttered her eyelids at him in invitation. He had never had to pay for his pleasures, but neither had he bedded an unmarried gentlewoman. The idea was unthinkable. And yet he had thought it. He shook himself and made more strenuous efforts to engage the attention of Miss Charlotte Roswell.

‘Tell me about Madderlea,’ he said, deciding that was surely a subject on which she would find it easy to converse, but apart from telling him that it was near the north Norfolk coast and very extensive, she volunteered no information. In fact she seemed very agitated. Did she think he was more interested in her inheritance than in her? He smiled and dropped the subject.

When they drew up outside Lady Fitzpatrick’s front door, he jumped out to hand Charlotte down while the coachman knocked at the door, then turned to help Sophie.

About to step down behind her cousin, she held out her hand for him to grasp, but instead she found his lordship’s hands spanning her waist. Startled, she said nothing as he lifted her down and deposited her on the pavement. He did not immediately release her, but stood smiling down at her, his brown eyes looking into hers, almost as if he were trying to read her thoughts. She moved her gaze to his mouth and wished she had not. It was a strong mouth, so close to hers, she could feel the warmth of his breath. Even as she looked, it seemed to move closer. Surely he was not going to kiss her, not here, in the street? Why couldn’t she move away? Why couldn’t she speak?

‘Miss Hundon,’ he said, and managed to convey a deal of meaning in it. ‘I enjoyed our little sparring match. I hope you will afford me the opportunity of a return bout before too long.’

She had no idea what he meant and her legs were so shaky she thought she would fall if he released her, but she did not intend to be intimidated. She stepped back and found the ground stayed beneath her feet, the sky was in its correct position above her head and, though her breathing was erratic, she was in no danger of swooning. She forced a smile. ‘My lord, such a manly pursuit as fisticuffs is hardly in my repertoire.’

He grinned and turned to escort her to the door, where Charlotte stood looking back at them. ‘You and Miss Roswell do ride, though?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

He looked up at Charlotte as they approached her. ‘Miss Hundon tells me you both ride,’ he said. ‘Would you care to join Mr Gosport and me for a gentle canter tomorrow morning? If you have no mounts, I can easily find some for you.’

Charlotte hesitated, looking to Sophie to indicate whether or not she wanted her to accept. ‘I am not sure what engagements we have,’ she said.

‘Why, Charlotte, we said we were going to bespeak a carriage tomorrow and Lady Fitzpatrick recommended Robinson and Cook, don’t you remember?’

Charlotte remembered no such thing, but she smiled and said, ‘Oh, yes, I had quite forgot. I am sorry, my lord.’

‘Another time, then,’ he said, smiling affably. ‘But, forgive me, who will advise you on your purchase? Lady Fitzpatrick…’ He left the sentence hovering in the air.

‘We shall take Luke, our groom, with us and he will consult the proprietor,’ Sophie said.

‘I doubt that will ensure a satisfactory deal,’ he said. ‘Allow me to offer my services.’

Charlotte appealed to Sophie and, receiving a slight nod, turned back to him. ‘That is excessively kind of you, my lord, we should be most happy to accept.’

What else could she have done? Sophie asked herself, after he had arranged to call for them the following morning at ten and taken his leave. It would have been ungracious to have spurned his help, especially when she acknowledged they probably needed it.

‘He has fastened himself to us like a leech,’ Charlotte said as they went up to their rooms to divest themselves of their outdoor clothes. ‘It is Madderlea and your fortune he has in his sights and I wish it were not so. We shall both be ruined when the truth comes out that I am not mistress of Madderlea and have no fortune.’

‘Why?’ Sophie threw her bonnet on the bed and followed it with her cloak, glad to be rid of the out-modish garments. ‘Young gentlemen of the ton are forever playing tricks on people. They bam their way into select gatherings, pretend to be coachmen or highwaymen and no one thinks anything of it. Why shouldn’t we?’

‘We are not young gentlemen.’

‘No, but we have gone too far to turn back now. We will tell everyone when we return to Leicestershire at the end of the Season. No harm will be done because you are going back to Freddie and as for me…’

‘Yes? What about you?’

‘Unless I can find a man who comes up to my expectations and has humour enough to laugh at our masquerade, I shall go back single.’

‘What about Lord Braybrooke? Are you not a little taken with him?’

‘No, I am not,’ Sophie retorted, far too quickly to be convincing. ‘He is too arrogant and you heard all those questions about Madderlea. He is undoubtedly counting his chickens.’

‘He does not need Madderlea, he is heir to a dukedom.’

‘Then he is also greedy.’

It was all very well to find fault with the man, to try to convince herself that he had not come within a mile of her expectations; the truth was that, in the space of two days, he had touched a chord in her, made her aware of feelings and desires she never knew she had. The pressure of his hand, the light in his eye, the soft cadences of his voice when he was not sparring with her, even his disapproval, excited her and lulled her at the same time. He was a threat to her peace of mind. She must remember Madderlea and her responsibilities and perhaps the danger would go away.

‘He is not the only fish in the sea,’ she said. ‘We must make a push to meet more people and buying a carriage is the beginning of our crusade.’

‘Chickens! Fish!’ Charlotte laughed. ‘Are we to make a tasty dinner of him?’

They both fell on to the bed in paroxysms of mirth at the idea. ‘Served with potatoes and cabbage and a sharp sauce.’ Sophie giggled. ‘Followed by humble pie.’

There was nothing humble about Viscount Braybrooke and Sophie was obliged to acknowledge that when he called to accompany them to buy the carriage. He was dressed in frockcoat and pantaloons with a neatly tied cravat peeping over a yellow and white striped waistcoat. His dark curls were topped by a high-crowned hat with a curled brim which made him seem taller and more magnificent than ever. She was determined not to let him undermine her confidence and treated him with cool disdain, an attitude he seemed hardly to notice, being equally determined to pay particular attention to Charlotte.

But when it came to discussing the different carriages on offer at Robinson and Cook’s premises in Mount Street, Charlotte, aware that it was Sophie who would be paying for it, once again fell silent. It was Sophie who found questions to ask about the advantages and disadvantages of curricles, phaetons, high-perch and low-slung barouches, landaus and tilburys, and their comparative prices, and it was Sophie who asked about horses once they had chosen a barouche because it could seat four easily and Lady Fitzpatrick would inevitably be accompanying them on most of their jaunts.

Once the arrangements had been made for it to be finished in dark green and the Roswell coat of arms to be painted on the doors, they left and were driven by Richard to Tattersall’s where he purchased a pair of matched greys on their behalf and arranged for them to be delivered to the mews which served the houses in Holles Street. Luke would be in seventh heaven looking after them, Sophie knew, and prompted Charlotte politely to decline his lordship’s offer of interviewing coachmen.

They arrived home in good time for nuncheon and he stopped to pay his respects to Lady Fitzgerald, treating her with great courtesy and earning her enthusiastic approbation.

‘We are beholden to you, my lord,’ she said on being told of the successful outcome of their visit to the coachbuilder. ‘I am sure Miss Roswell could not have made such a bargain without you.’

‘Indeed, no,’ Charlotte said. ‘We are in your debt.’ He smiled and bowed towards her. ‘Then, if you wish, you may discharge it by coming riding with me tomorrow morning. Mr Gosport has said he will be delighted to escort Miss Hundon.’

Surprisingly she did not consult Sophie before accepting. ‘Thank you, we shall be delighted.’

Sophie’s feelings about that were so ambivalent she spent the remainder of the day going from depression to elation and back again in the blinking of an eye. Richard Braybrooke had, all unknowingly, wormed his way into her heart while so patently wooing the Roswell fortune embodied in her cousin. Mentally she went over the list of attributes she had decided were required for the master of Madderlea and incidentally, the husband of its mistress, and realised she knew very little about Richard, Viscount Braybrooke.

True, he was handsome and well turned out, but he was also conceited and arrogant. Was he kind to his servants, good with children, an honourable man? She did not know and only further acquaintance would tell her, a prospect that filled her with joyful anticipation, until she remembered that his attention had been almost entirely focused on Charlotte, the supposed heiress, which made her wonder if his grandfather, the Duke, was not as plump in the pocket as everyone had supposed and her fortune was the main attraction. Or was she maligning him—was his heart really set on Charlotte?

Jealousy and her love for her cousin raged within her so that she could not sit still, could not sew or read, was snappy with everyone and then immediately sorry. Charlotte could not bring her out of it, because Charlotte herself was worried about the deception they were practising and what she was going to say to his lordship should he offer for her.

‘I like him well enough,’ she told Sophie in the privacy of her room. ‘But I would never consider him as a husband. I am determined on marrying Freddie and nothing and no one will change that. Besides, as soon as he discovers that you are the heiress and he has been deceived…’

‘He will want neither of us,’ Sophie snapped. ‘So there is no need to put ourselves into a quake over it.’

It was a relief to find a pile of invitations on the breakfast table the following morning. Lady Fitzpatrick, in a housegown and with her hair pushed under a mob cap, was delighted. ‘I knew it would happen, as soon as you were seen out with Lord Braybrooke,’ she said. ‘None of the mamas of unmarried daughters are going to let you have a clear field where he is concerned. And the ladies with sons will not allow him to take all the limelight when you have so much to offer, dear Charlotte.’

She chuckled. ‘Oh, this is going to be a very interesting Season. Now, girls, go and dress for your ride. I have already sent for your mounts to be brought to the door.’ She waved the bundle of invitations at them. ‘When you return we will decide on which of these to accept and make plans for your own come-out ball.’

‘A ball?’ queried Charlotte as they mounted the stairs together. ‘How can we possibly have a ball here? There is no ballroom and the drawing room is too small, even if we moved all the furniture out.’

Sophie was too tense to worry about the answer to that question. ‘No doubt her ladyship will find a way. Let us take one day at a time. Today is the day for riding.’

In spite of her mental anguish, Sophie longed for the exhilaration of a good ride and made up her mind that she would enjoy it and not spend precious time worrying about what could not be helped. She had not bought a new riding habit because the one she already had was perfectly serviceable. Frogged in military style with silver braid, it was of deep blue velvet and fitted closely to a neat waist, becoming fuller over the hips. Her beaver hat, trimmed with a long iridescent peacock feather which curled around the brim and swept across one cheek, was a creation to turn heads.

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