An Unreasonable Match. Sylvia Andrew

had been sly, their compliments mere flattery, their attentions empty…She drew in a shuddering breath. They were all fools! Every one of them! Fashionable fools with no more brain than a pea! Heartless, brainless fools!…

      “You’re looking serious, my dear. Are you alone?”

      She looked up. An elderly gentleman was gazing at her in concern. His face was vaguely familiar.

      “Sir…” she stammered. “You must excuse me. I…I am a little…a little…” Her voice faded.

      “My dear girl, you are clearly upset. How fortunate that I happened on your hiding place. Come. You shall have something to restore you, and then I shall take you back to your Mama. Or…” He eyed her speculatively. “Perhaps you would tell me more of the very interesting reforms in the north you’ve been studying?”

      Hester looked at him in surprise. “I’ve talked to you before? I’m afraid…”

      “No, but I was there when you were talking about them to Lady Castle. I found them quite absorbing. May I know more?”

      This was balm to Hester’s wounded pride. Here was a man of mature years, obviously distinguished, who, far from laughing at her, respected her views enough to want to hear more! What a contrast to those…fribbles of Hugo’s, especially Dungarran! Here was someone who really appreciated her.

      They talked for a moment or two, and never since she came to London had Hester had such an attentive listener. After a moment he winced as a burst of music came from below, and said, “I hardly dare suggest it, but we would be more private in the library. Of course, if you don’t care for the idea we could continue to sit here…”

      The temptation to sit there on the balcony, to be seen by people who did not appreciate her as they ought, was very strong. But he went on, “The Duchess has a splendid selection of books on the subject…?”

      Books! She hadn’t seen a book in weeks! Hester smiled and nodded with enthusiasm. She was too shy to ask him his name, but he clearly knew her family. There could be nothing wrong in accepting the invitation from such a very distinguished-looking old man. The cane he used to support him was of ebony with a silver-chased top. His coat was of blue velvet and the ribbon and diamonds of some sort of order was pinned to its front. His white hair was tied back in the old-fashioned way with a velvet ribbon. He was altogether the epitome of august respectability. Filled with pride at having attracted the attention of such a man, she accepted the arm he offered and let him guide her through the doors and on into the library. He led her to a sofa by the window. On a table next to it was a decanter filled with wine, and some glasses.

      “Sit down, Miss Perceval. Will you have some wine?”

      “I’m not sure…Why did you shut the door?”

      “Do you not find the noise outside disturbing? You are young, of course. Your hearing is more acute than mine. Would you like me to open it again?”

      “Oh no!”

      “Good! Let me pour you some wine.” He smiled at her reassuringly in a grandfatherly way.

      “Th…thank you.” Hester smiled nervously at him. He handed her a large glass of wine at which she gazed apprehensively, then came round and sat down beside her.

      “Now, tell me why you think the north needs special attention. Are things there so very different from the south?”

      “Oh, they are!” Relieved, Hester launched into a description of conditions in the manufacturing towns. She was flattered by the attention the gentleman was paying to her words, and failed to notice at first how very close to her he was sitting, his arm along the back of the sofa. It seemed very warm in the room, and she was relieved when he got up and walked over to one of the bookcases. But her relief was short-lived. When he returned with a heavy volume, he sat even more closely, his thigh pressing against hers.

      “We shall look at this together,” he said with a smile, and opened the page at a spectacularly undressed lady…

      Even today, six years later, she could still feel the shock. She had sat paralysed for a moment, and Canford had taken the opportunity to turn her head to his…His lips came down on hers with brutal force, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. One hand clutched the front of her bodice…With a scream of outrage and horror she had leapt away, snatched up her glass of wine, which was still very full, and emptied it over him. She made for the door.

      Canford was beside himself with rage. “My coat! Look at my coat, you damned little vixen!” he snarled, picking up his stick and lifting it threateningly as he chased after her. She managed to unlock the door before he reached her, but then he grabbed her hair and wrenched it painfully as he pulled her back.

      She screamed again, whereupon the door burst open, knocking her aside, and Hugo rushed in. What happened next was a blur, but it ended with Canford and her brother crashing to the floor together. It was a dangerous moment, luckily interrupted by the arrival of Robert Dungarran.

      “Canford! Hugo!”

      Canford, recalled to sanity by Dungarran’s intervention, got up, glared at Hugo, and stormed out, swearing vengeance on all concerned.

      Hugo then turned to her. After making sure she was unharmed, he lost his temper with her—comprehensively. The general drift was that he had finished with her. She had ruined not only herself, but the rest of the family in the eyes of the Ton. After a few other, similarly amiable sentiments, he had gone out after Canford to see, he snapped, whether he could limit the damage she had caused. She had been left, ashamed and humiliated, alone with Dungarran.

      Hester preferred not to think of what had followed—the recriminations, the accusations, her stupid declaration of love, and his contemptuous rejection of her. If she was to meet Dungarran in April with any degree of equanimity she must put that scene out of her mind. Forget it completely.

      Hester picked up the pen, put on her glasses and returned to work. This was what was important, what would be important in the future. She finished her copying and sealed the papers up. Recently Garimond had insisted that every precaution should be taken to keep her work from prying eyes. She always complied, though she couldn’t see a reason for it. Men were basically very childish with their secrets and their ciphers. The messages Zeno had sent her recently had all been to do with Romans marching into Gaul, and transport over the Alps. Did he regard himself as a latter-day Caesar? Some of it didn’t even make sense. But he was clever! His ciphers had always been devilishly ingenious, even the simpler ones he used for his covering letters…These were never published, of course.

      Hester gave a little laugh. Who would think that Hester Perceval, spinster and recluse, would dare to conduct a secret correspondence with an unknown gentleman? Even parents as indulgent as hers would be shocked beyond measure at it. But Zeno could hardly be regarded as a danger, even by the strictest guardians, for, in the nature of things, she and Zeno would, regrettably, never meet! Though she felt a surprising sense of kinship with him, an astonishing similarity of humour and ideas, she could never reveal her true identity. The shock would probably kill the elderly gentleman, who sat in his club in St James, painstakingly writing his articles, and inventing the most tortuous, the most diabolically difficult ciphers—all for a woman to solve!

      Hester’s eyes wandered over her attic and stopped at a dusty cupboard in the corner. Should she open it? Inside was the manuscript of The Wicked Marquis, a ridiculous novel she had written in fury after her return in the summer of 1806. Her pen might well have been dipped in vitriol, so corrosive had been the caricatures of her unsuspecting victims. No, it was better left locked away where no one else could read it. She would otherwise face ruinous actions for libel! One day she would destroy it. But writing The Wicked Marquis had undoubtedly helped her recovery. Through its absurdities she had learned to laugh not only at society, but also at herself at seventeen—naïve, arrogant, so sure that she could change the world…She smiled as she thought of the absurd plot based on tales told by the servants of the local villain, the Marquis of Sywell—the orgies in the chapel, the deflowering of local maidens, the mysterious disappearance of the Marchioness…She had