Lessons in Love (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 3)

  Lessons in Love

  M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney

  Copyright

  Lessons in Love

  Copyright ©1987 by Marion Chesney

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN Mobipocket edition: 9780795319969

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  For

  Jane Wibberley

  Chapter One

  Lady Lucinda Esmond was described by the servants as “an old-fashioned child.” They all believed she would not live long. She was mature beyond her years, which showed that God intended to package that biblical lifespan of three score years and ten into a short space of time.

  There was little doubt about it. The angels would call for her very shortly.

  Lady Lucinda’s father was the Earl of Sotheran. His remaining friends and relatives also believed that Lucinda was not long for this world—but for less romantic reasons. They were sure that the earl would drive his ten-year-old daughter to an early grave with his choleric bad temper, in the way that he had bullied his young bride, Lucinda’s mother, into her deathbed.

  He did not like children and so he preferred his daughter to look as grown-up as possible. Lucinda was attired like an adult and wore her hair up. It was glossy black hair, coiffeured in one of the latest Grecian fashions. She had a high-cheekboned white face and large greenish-gold eyes. She was very thin and her arms were like sticks.

  A governess had once stayed long enough, before the earl had seduced her, to teach the child how to read and write. The governess had been bought a seminary in Bath by the earl so that she could continue to earn her living at a distance. Once she was gone, the earl forgot about her very existence.

  He was a gross, vulgar man who drank heavily and was given to choleric outbursts of rage.

  The first women in a long line of mistresses he had brought home to Partletts, his country seat, had been relatively genteel. Of late, they belonged to the Fashionable Impure: highly painted, smelly ladies who often whiled the time away when the earl was sleeping off yet another drinking bout by chatting to his young daughter as if she were the same age and of the same social standing. Lucinda amassed a peculiar knowledge of what gentlemen did after the lights were out.

  She resolved never to marry.

  Lucinda was a dreamy, sensitive girl. She had no friends, even among the servants. Few of the servants were women, and those who did belong to the gentle sex were old and plain, since any young girl in the neighborhood wisely shunned the perils of taking up employment under the earl’s roof. The menservants changed with amazing regularity, some of the toughest giving up the post shortly after their arrival. The earl was a bad master and a worse father. In all, he was a thoroughly nasty man.

  Lucinda had learned how to disappear when his rage became violent. She was able to melt into the shadows of the old house when she knew he was looking for her.

  The house was old. A long line of profligate ancestors had ensured that no money was ever spared from their rounds of dissipated pleasures to redecorate it. It had been built in the sixteenth century and nothing much had been added to it since then, either inside or out. Lucinda’s father was very rich. He gambled frequently and, unlike his ancestors, often won large sums. It was rumored he cheated at cards.

  One hot June evening while her father was safely in London trying his luck at the gambling tables of St. James’s, Lucinda walked in the gardens, quite unaware that the events of the night to come would change her life.

  She was wearing a modish gown of the finest India muslin, and the delicate material fluttered around her thin body as she walked across the shaggy lawns.

  Rosebushes that had not been pruned for a long time rioted about her in a glory of red, white, and pink. Birds cheeped sleepily from the bushes and trees, and the ivy on the south wall of the house turned and rustled and stirred in the breeze. All of the shifting busy movement made the house look strangely like one of those cumbersome Spanish ships setting out to sea. Lucinda was just old enough to begin to dream romantic dreams, but she did not. She did not read romances, for romances involved thinking about men and Lucinda knew that all men were disgusting lechers who sometimes covered their brutality with a thin veneer of sophistication and elegance.

  Instead she talked to her dream friend, Mary. Lucinda had created this friend for herself to while away the long, empty days. Over the past year, she knew what Mary looked like. Mary was not like herself. Mary had hair as golden as the sun and laughing blue eyes, and was afraid of nothing.

  “I hope Papa does not cheat at cards this time,” said Lucinda to her dream friend. “He will be found out. Instead of rumors, someone will find facts one of these days. His last mistress told me that everyone in London has begun to be suspicious of him.”

  “If he gets found out,” pointed out the imaginary Mary, “he will be sent to prison and you will be free.”

  Lucinda thought about this. “No,” she said at last. “I will never be free. All of the Esmond men live for a very long time. And he would not be sent to prison. He would flee the country and take me with him and then we should be together the whole time.” She sighed. “I wish I could remember what Mama was like …”

  “She got windmills in her head?” asked John, the second footman. “She’s moping and mowing and talking to herself.”

  Black, the butler, joined the footman at the dining-room window, which overlooked the garden. Both men were preparing the room for Lucinda’s solitary evening meal.

  “No,” he said. “Poor little thing. Never sees nobody ‘cept my lord and his doxies. Got no one to talk to, see. So she talks to herself.”

  “Been with his lordship long, Mr. Black, sir?” asked John, who had only been in the earl’s household a week.

  “A whole year,” said Black proudly. “But I’m leaving soon. If you stay on here, you’ll end up like poor little Lady Lucinda—talking to yourself.”

  “She’s like a little woman,” marveled John. “ ‘Tain’t natural.”

  “Won’t live long,” said Black gloomily. “Them old-fashioned ones never do. Here she comes. Get to your post.”

  Lucinda picked her way through ten courses, eating a tiny amount of each dish. She knew the servants sent up these enormous stately meals knowing she would not eat them, and they would therefore be able to have a luxurious dinner themselves. Dinner in the country was usually around four o’clock. But Lucinda’s father made her keep fashionable London hours and so she had become used to dining at seven.

  Her dinner finished, she went up to her bedroom, read a Latin grammar for a couple of hours, carefully memorizing the genitive case, which was as far as she had got with her verbs, and then decided to go to bed.

  She lay for a long time, talking to her imaginary friend, then she blew out the candle beside the bed, leaving the rushlight in its pierced cannister alight, and fell asleep.

  A summer gale started to blow outside, racing around the old mansion, scattering rose petals over the untended lawns and lifting the heavy d
amask curtains at the open windows of Lucinda’s bedroom. The tumult of the wind also covered the stealthy approach of the dark figure of a man who skulked through the bushes toward the house.

  Once in sight of the windows, he crouched behind a rosebush and lit a dark lantern, peering at a rough map of the sleeping quarters of the mansion by its feeble rays.

  Then he crept toward the house and, with a brief look around, began to climb nimbly up the ivy. Having reached the outside of Lucinda’s bedroom window, he swung himself inside as lightly as a cat.

  The bed curtains were drawn back, and by the faint glow from the rushlight, he could see the face of the sleeping girl.

  She looked very frail and innocent. He hesitated, half turned toward the window, and then appeared to change his mind. He took out a small cudgel and raised it to bring it down on Lucinda’s head, but stopped with a sigh, as if he had just realized the impossibility of his harming so weak and defenseless a prey.

  Instead, he sat at the end of the bed, drew out a small pistol, leveled it at Lucinda’s head, and said in an urgent whisper, “Wake up!”

  Lucinda stirred uneasily but did not wake.

  He shook the bedclothes roughly. “Wake!” he said again.

  Lucinda opened her eyes.

  “Don’t scream,” he said softly. “I have a gun.”

  Lucinda wriggled up against the pillows and looked at the shadowy figure of the man on the end of her bed. “Is Papa home?” she asked, looking not in the slightest afraid. Lucinda was sure it was one of her father’s drunken friends.

  To his amazement, she calmly lit the bed candle from the rushlight and then held it up.

  She saw a tall, handsome young man with a rakish face. He was dressed in black and had buttoned up his coat to hide any gleam of white linen. He did not look in the least like one of her father’s friends. For one thing, he appeared sober, and for another, he was much too young. Lucinda judged him to be around twenty.

  She looked at the gun that he held in his hand and asked mildly, “Are you going to shoot me?”

  “Not if you do as you are told.”

  It was then that a look of sheer terror filled Lucinda’s large eyes. She had heard from her father’s doxies of the child prostitutes in the brothels of Covent Garden and knew her age to be no protection.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked in a thin, little voice.

  “I am kidnapping you and holding you for ransom,” he said. “You must get dressed and come with me.”

  The look of relief on the child’s face was almost ludicrous.

  “Yes,” she said meekly. “You have not introduced yourself, sir.”

  “I am Captain Peter Charteris. I played your father at cards—and won. Unfortunately, there were no witnesses to the game. He refuses to pay me, denying the game ever took place. He owes me one thousand guineas—a trifle to him, but a great deal to me. You should not have to endure my company for very long.”

  “He may not want me back,” Lucinda pointed out. “Papa gambles a lot, but he is very fond of money.”

  “Get dressed,” said the captain curtly.

  Lucinda obediently climbed down from the bed, took out some clothes, and went behind a screen. Although now outwardly calm, her mind was racing. She believed the captain’s story. It was just the sort of thing her father would do. But this Captain Charteris was a man, and all men were fools. If she stayed calm and obeyed his orders, he might not tie her up. She would bide her time and find a way to escape.

  “Hurry up!” came an urgent whisper from the other side of the screen.

  “I’m coming,” said Lucinda quietly. She emerged with her hair up and wearing one of her modish gowns.

  “Do you always dress like that?” asked the captain.

  “Yes,” said Lucinda. “Papa does not like children and prefers me to appear as grown-up as possible.”

  It was then that Captain Charteris thought he would be much better to swear her to silence and then disappear into the night. She had said her father might not want her back. But he desperately needed the money.

  “Is it possible to leave here in the ordinary way,” he asked, “or do I have to carry you down from the window?”

  “No one is awake,” said Lucinda. “We can leave by the main door.”

  “You are sure? I do not wish to be obliged to shoot some innocent servant.”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then let us go.”

  He kept the gun pressed against her shoulder, expecting her to make some sort of bid for freedom. But she walked daintily down the huge shadowy staircase, lit by great shafts of moonlight, like gauze curtains.

  To his surprise, the great door of the house was unlocked. His informant had not told him that.

  He hurried her across the grounds until they came to a stand of fir trees where a horse was tethered. He tossed her up into the saddle and then sprang up lightly behind her.

  Lucinda wondered why she was not afraid of this man. Perhaps life with her father had made even a kidnapper seem like a reasonable human being.

  He made a clicking noise and the horse began to move soundlessly over the thick turf. At last they came to the outer wall of the earl’s estate. There was a broken bit in the wall that formed a gap. The thoroughbred horse picked its way as cautiously as an old lady over the tumbled stones of the fallen piece of wall, and then they were out on the road.

  The captain put one hand firmly on Lucinda’s waist as he urged his mount to a gallop. Trees and fields flew past as they thundered along the road.

  Lucinda, in all her ten years, had never left the grounds of her home before. Her father never made calls on the local aristocracy or gentry, most of his dissolute friends traveling down from London to stay with him. She wondered where the captain was taking her. To his home? Or to some remote cottage?

  They rode on and on until dawn began to turn the sky to the east a pale pink. Lucinda was beginning to get a stitch in her side from the effort of riding without a sidesaddle.

  At last, across the flat fields she saw the black bulk of houses and buildings. They appeared to be approaching a sizable town.

  He slowed the horse’s pace as they clattered over the cobbles between quiet, shuttered houses until he reined in before a building in what appeared to be a main street.

  “I have taken lodgings here,” he said quietly. “You can contrive to be comfortable if you do as you are told and do not cry out or attract attention to yourself in any way. Do you understand?”

  Lucinda nodded gravely and he looked down at her with sharp suspicion. This odd child was behaving in too docile a manner.

  He swung himself down and then lifted Lucinda down from the saddle, supporting her as she staggered slightly from weariness. Keeping a sharp eye on her, he tethered his horse and then said, “I shall take you abovestairs before I stable this beast.”

  He took out a key and opened the street door. Ahead stretched a wooden staircase.

  “Up,” he urged. “The door on the right on the first landing.”

  Lucinda climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to a sparsely furnished but pleasant sitting room. He walked past her and opened a door at the far side of it.

  “Your bedroom, madam,” he said. “I suggest you get some sleep. I shall make us some breakfast first. I am going to lock you in while I stable my horse. Do not make a sound or it will be the worse for you.”

  Lucinda sat down primly on a high-backed chair, her feet dangling.

  She looked so very young and frail and lost that the captain began to regret the whole plan. He decided to make up his mind later as to what to do with her after the child had had some sleep. He went out and locked the door.

  “Well, here we are, Mary,” said Lucinda to her imaginary golden-haired friend. “And what’s to do? It is all very strange. I feel somewhat nervous but not shattered or terrified.”

  “You should be,” said Mary tartly. “He has a gun.”

  “Perhaps he would not
use it even if I did try to escape,” said Lucinda. “Come to the window, Mary, and let us see what the world looks like.”

  It crossed Lucinda’s mind that if she managed to open the window, she could easily cry for help. But she could not raise the sash. The window was tightly varnished shut and, on closer inspection, she discovered two nails had also been driven into the frame.

  She turned her attention to the view of the street below.

  Shopkeepers were taking down their shutters; a farm cart laden with vegetables, driven by a grog-faced man, creaked slowly past; a sweep went by with his brushes, followed by a tattered little climbing boy who scurried at his master’s heels like a beaten dog. The first of the morning street cries sounded on the air. “Watercress. Fresh watercress. Come buy.”

  The wind had died, and smoke from the jumbled chimneys climbed up in thin gray threads to a pale blue sky. The shutters at a window opposite swung open and a slatternly looking girl hung a linnet in its wicker cage on a bracket outside. The bird shook its wings and began to sing.

  Lucinda waved frantically, but the girl yawned, stretched, scratched herself lazily, and disappeared into the darkness of the room.

  “So many people around, Mary,” marveled Lucinda. “ ‘Twill only be a matter of time before I can attract attention to myself. I am quite dreadfully hungry. I would rather be rescued after breakfast.”

  “Who are you talking to?” came Captain Charteris’s voice from the doorway.

  “No one,” said Lucinda, turning pink. “I was talking to myself.”

  He eyed her suspiciously, locked the door behind him, and went over to the iron stove and filled it with logs. He took down a parcel from a shelf and unwrapped it, took out a piece of ham and cut several slices. “Ham, eggs, bread, and small beer,” he said over his shoulder. “Do you think you will be able to eat any?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Lucinda politely.

  “You are a very self-possessed child,” he said. “Are you not frightened?”