Regency Rumours: A Scandalous Mistress / Dishonour and Desire. Juliet Landon

play the harp.

      Lady Chester’s new house on Paradise Road was known only as Number Eighteen. Found for her by her agent, then extended and renovated to conform to Amelie’s requirements before her move, it had been on the same site in one form or another for close on three hundred years, growing and evolving through each new style, now more like a mansion than the original timbered cottage. From the road, the white stone façade was elegantly four-storied, the front door with a beautiful fanlight above and accessed by a paved bridge across the basement yard known as ‘the area'.

      Through the large double gates along the adjoining wall, the land surrounding the house was more extensive than one might think. Here was not only a sizeable formal garden, a hothouse, kitchen gardens and an orchard, but also a square courtyard surrounded by the kitchen buildings, the servants’ quarters, offices and stores and, beyond all that, the coach house and stables.

      In the Peak District of Derbyshire, Amelie’s previous existence had been countrified on a larger scale than this, her entertaining both lavish and frequent in accordance with her husband’s status. At Chester Hall she had tended the preserving of plums and the drying of apple rings, she had pickled walnuts and helped to lay down spare eggs in ash, store the pears, pot the beef and concoct lemon wine using brandy smuggled through Scarborough and Whitby. She had fish on her table from her own ponds and streams, her own ducks and geese, vegetables and fruit enough to send up to the Manchester house and, best of all, she had her own blooms to draw and paint. There was very little that Sir Josiah had denied her—intended, they both knew, to make up for what she could not have.

      Being offered her niece’s company for the next phase of her life had required some consideration, but whereas it meant accepting a responsibility she had not anticipated, the diversions had so far been entertaining, even satisfying. Caterina was good company, eager to learn, intelligent, well-mannered and, thank heaven, possesssed of a natural grace that was easy to clothe. The new riding habit she had worn that morning fitted her shapely young figure like a dream, already attracting some admiration from the men and envy from the women.

      They had gone riding in the park well before breakfast to avoid meeting certain acquaintances, and a party of young officers from the local militia at Kew had hung around them to stare and to vie for her attention. But Caterina had acquitted herself well and had even managed a comfortable trot attached to the head groom’s leading rein. Fortunately, they had not met anyone disagreeable to Amelie, who had already begun to reap the benefits of having attended the ball, for now there were several waves and smiles and calls of, ‘Good morning to you, Lady Chester.’

      Clattering into the stable yard two hours later, however, was like a sneaky winter breeze to cool Amelie’s warm praise of her niece, for there, being walked up and down by a groom in Lord Elyot’s grey livery was a very large and glossy dark bay with a double-bridle. On a marble table in the front hall of the house lay a beaver hat, a pair of leather gloves and a riding whip, with a rather concerned Henry standing by to tell his mistress that Lord Elyot felt sure she would not mind him waiting.

      Biting back the very obvious reply, she asked instead, ‘Where?’

      ‘In the morning room, m’lady.’

      ‘Very well, Henry. Caterina, go up and change, dear. Then go and take a little breakfast, then perhaps a little practice on the pianoforte. The new Haydn sonata we bought the other day—you might take a look at it.’ She would have given much to go with her instead of to the council of war in the morning room. The staircase seemed twice as high, for she knew why he had come at this early hour and why he had insisted on waiting.

      Pausing only to remove her gloves, hat and veil, Amelie half-expected to see her visitor standing on the hearth with hands clasped behind his back, as her late husband had often done to hear an account of her activities. But Lord Elyot was reading the newspaper over by the window and did not hear Amelie’s quiet entry through the rattle of the paper as he fought with a wayward page.

      She caught sight of herself in the round ornate mirror over the mantelshelf, like a miniature fashion plate of a highwaisted habit of soft violet velvet with a mandarin collar open at the neck to show the delicate ruffle of lace on her habitshirt. Her brown curls, however, were in a mess. No matter, she thought. Who was there to impress? She closed the door with a loud click, taking pleasure in the crash of paper as he turned, quickly.

      ‘Ah, Lady Chester. Do forgive me.’ He laid the crumpled heap of newspaper upon the table, then stood to perform an elegant bow.

      ‘You’ve waited all this time to apologise, my lord? Well, then, I shall accept it on condition that it never happens again. Which I think is a safe bet in the circumstances. Don’t you?’

      His smile was full of admiration. ‘On the contrary, my lady, I think it an extremely dodgy one. In any case, I never apologise for kissing a woman. So very hypocritical.’

      Refusing to be drawn further along that line, Amelie went to pick up the crumpled newspaper and, carrying it between her finger and thumb to the door, dropped it outside. ‘Then I think,’ she said, moving to the striped sofa, ‘that you had no need to wait so long.’ She waved a hand towards the nearest chair, trying to appear calm and in command of the situation. ‘If you do not mean to apologise, then what can be the purpose of your visit?’

      ‘Given your record of being out when I call, even when you’re in, I thought it wiser to be in first, while you were out, so that we could stand a fair chance of being in together. Eventually.’

      ‘Ah, to be of such importance,’ she sighed, gazing at the top of the sash window. ‘Can you bear to get to the point, I wonder?’

      Slipping one hand into the front of his deep blue morning-coat, Lord Elyot pulled out a velvet reticule and passed it to her, dangling it by its long drawstrings. ‘Yours, I believe? Or that of a certain Ginny Hodge?’ he said.

      Amelie’s heart pounded. This was horribly unexpected.

      Frowning, she took it. ‘Who? Why would you think this was mine, my lord?’

      He leaned back into the chair, making a steeple with his fingers. ‘For two reasons—one is that it had one of your visiting cards inside.’

      ‘Which this…Ginny person…could have stolen. How did you come by it?’

      ‘The man who picked it up after you had been mugged on the night you went up to the workhouse followed you home again. You were riding a donkey named Isabelle.’

      ‘Todd!’ The name escaped before she could prevent it.

      ‘Exactly. My coachman.’

       So, he must have known of this for quite some time.

      Her heart still hammered under the strain of staying calm. ‘And does this prove something, my lord? Apart from being robbed, is it a crime to ride one’s donkey at night?’

      ‘It is a crime to bribe His Majesty’s servants to release people in their custody,’ he said, quietly. ‘You did not quite manage it that time, but you have done it several times before through your servants, I understand. Those who live at the workhouse have been sent there by the authorities, my lady. By the Vestry, in other words. Any release must be done through the proper channels, not by stealth or bribery, or without permission. You sent a man up there to try again while you were with me at the Castle. Am I correct?’

      ‘So it was you who prevented—’ Unbidden, the words tripped out.

      ‘Prevented?’

      ‘Prevented that poor woman from giving birth to her child in decent surroundings,’ she snapped. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You told them to keep her there at all costs because your father is the local magistrate who heads the Vestry who put her there in the first place. And no matter how inhumane, how stigmatising, how downright dangerous it is for a child to be born in a workhouse, your father’s interests must come first. Think how he would look if the poor unfortunates were cared for properly,’ she went on, striding across to the window. ‘Would he ever