Love and Lady Lovelace (The Changing Fortunes Series, Vol. 8) Read online

  He mounted his horse again, trusting to the sound of its hooves to keep him from straying from the road. From the sudden blacker blackness, he judged he was in a drive bordered by tall trees. The wind, blocked by the trees, raged away somewhere above his head. The weary horse clattered around a bend in the drive and he was able to make out the bulk of a large mansion. There were many lights, some stationary, some moving about as servants crossed from room to room.

  With a sigh of relief, he urged his horse forward until it was under the shelter of the portico. He thanked heaven for his scarlet coat. Any stray huntsman knew he had only to ring a doorbell and be afforded immediate shelter for the night. It allowed you to ride through someone’s garden, demand their best brandy, and all with the firm idea that you were doing them a favor. Such was the magic of a scarlet coat.

  He searched around in the blackness of the portico until he found the handle of the doorbell and gave it an energetic pull.

  It must be near midnight, he reflected.

  The bobbing light of a candle could soon be seen approaching through the hall windows. There was a great rattling of chains and bolts and bars and the doors suddenly sprang open to reveal two liveried footmen.

  He explained his predicament, saying he would see his horse bedded down for the night before entering the house. One of the footmen went to fetch a lantern and then led him through the darkness along the side of the house and through two courtyards until they reached the stables.

  A half-dressed groom hurriedly put on the rest of his clothes and set about attending to his lordship’s horse, whistling between his teeth, pulling the horse’s ears, and asking innumerable questions about the chase which Lord Philip answered as best he could.

  When Lord Philip had seen his horse drink a bowl of hot gruel and had seen it wrapped tenderly in blankets hot from the saddle room fire, he felt free to return to the house and see to his own comfort.

  He was so tired with the buffeting of the wind and his clothes were so uncomfortable that he failed to ask the name of his host. He recollected his manners as soon as he was standing in the warmth of a large hall before a blazing fire. But the footman who had escorted him back to the house had disappeared to find the housekeeper.

  The hall was not a great baronial affair but a square, pleasant room with a handsome carved wooden staircase rising from the center of it to the upper rooms. There were two old settles on either side of the fire. Several suits of armor stood sentinel in the gloom of the corners, and a fine Chippendale table stood near the door, with a silver tray on it for callers to leave their cards. A faded tapestry depicting a French hunting scene hung on one wall and several dim landscapes, badly in need of cleaning, ornamented the other three. The hall smelled pleasantly of woodsmoke, potpourri, and beeswax. His stomach gave a protesting rumble and he realized he was very hungry indeed.

  He heard a light footfall on the stair and looked up.

  For a long, long moment Amaryllis and Lord Philip stared at each other.

  Then both began to speak at once.

  “How dare you…”

  “I was hunting and…”

  “Come here….”

  “And lost the way.”

  “Have you not plagued…”

  “I would not have come…”

  “Me enough?”

  “Had I known you lived here.”

  As she spoke, Amaryllis had descended the stairs and was standing in front of him, affording him an excellent vision of heaving bosom and angry eyes.

  “Listen!” he said furiously. “I lost my way during the storm. I was in need of shelter. Now, by your leave, I will take my unwelcome presence elsewhere. Simply give me the direction of some hostelry.”

  Amaryllis stood back a little and saw the condition he was in for the first time. He was as muddy as Hungerford Stairs and his clothes were beginning to steam in front of the fire.

  Her anger left her abruptly, leaving her feeling strangely tired and numb.

  “You may stay,” she said in a flat voice. “The storm is too bad.”

  “Perhaps you had better ask your host, madam,” he said.

  “My…? Oh, I live here. I mean, it’s mine. It belonged to my late husband—Beaton Malden, that is—and he left it to me.”

  “But you said…”

  “Later,” said Amaryllis quietly. “Mrs. Jarrett is here. Mrs. Jarrett, take Lord Philip to the Blue Room and tell cook to send up something for supper. Set it in the drawing room.”

  And without another word, Amaryllis turned and left him.

  Feeling stunned, his head reeling, Lord Philip followed Mrs. Jarret up the stairs to the second floor. She did not betray by one flicker of an eyelid that she had seen him before, merely tuttutting in a motherly way over the state of his clothes, saying she would see if there was something of the old master to fit him.

  Two servants carried in a copper bath and, placing it in front of the fire, began to fill it with hot water. Lord Philip decided to stop fretting his brains until after he was washed and dressed.

  He proceeded to pry off his adhering boots with the aid of a bootjack while another well-trained servant softly entered the room and shifted the top log on the fire to make it blaze and then lighted the toilet-table candles. Then a man in the livery of groom-of-the-chambers entered and laid out clean linen, dress clothes, and shiny thin shoes on a sofa in the corner. A long-necked bottle of white brandy, accompanied by hot water, lemon, sugar, nutmeg, and a plate of biscuits, made its appearance on a massive silver tray.

  By dint of helping himself quickly to a large tumbler of brandy and drinking it down quickly without bothering about the other ingredients, Lord Philip managed to keep both fatigue and churning thoughts at bay.

  He bathed and scrubbed himself vigorously, disciplining himself not to hurry until he was dressed and brushed and groomed to the best of his ability. The clothes were a little slack about the hips and tight about the shoulders but at last he decided his appearance would have to do and rang the bell for a servant, who arrived very quickly, bearing a chamber-candle to light his lordship’s way downstairs.

  The drawing room into which he was ushered was a pleasantly feminine room, with chairs and sofas upholstered in rose-and-cream silk and rose silk hangings at the windows. Lamps and candles had been lit about the long room. Books and magazines were scattered over a long table in the center. A workbasket displaying an assortment of colored threads and silks was lying open on the floor near one of the armchairs which were placed at either side of the fire. A spinet with the lid laid back was in one corner. Several sheets of music lay on the top. On a marble stand by the door, a magnificent vase of hothouse flowers blazed in the candlelight.

  In front of the fire, a small table covered with a white cloth had been set up.

  Lord Philip turned from his inspection of the room as the door opened and his hostess walked in. She had changed into the spangled gown she had worn at Ranelagh.

  Her hair was dressed in a simple style, loose curls falling from a knot at the top of her head. He would have spoken but she held up a finger to indicate the presence of the servants carrying in his supper and so they sat in silence until a cold supper and a bottle of wine had been set out for him. Amaryllis sent the servants away and faced Lord Philip across the small table.

  “Eat first,” she said. “We will talk afterwards.”

  He nodded in agreement, feeling he could deal with her better on a full stomach, although he found her steady gaze on him as he ate disturbing, to say the least.

  At last, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and poured another glass of wine for both of them. The little gilt French clock on the mantelpiece tinkled out one o’clock in the morning.

  “Now, Lord Philip,” said Amaryllis. “You are wondering why I did not tell you I owned Beaton Malden.”

  He shrugged, feeling that he had at last guessed the answer.

  “You are obviously a rich heiress after all,” he said. “You were furious when
I told you I had no money. You obviously thought I was after your fortune… and so you lied to me.”

  For one brief moment, she wanted to lie to him, to tell him he had guessed the truth, but the thought went as quickly as it had come. Her rage when she first saw him standing in the hall had been so deep and so intense that when it had gone, it had left her feeling drained of all emotion.

  She raised her eyes and saw only a handsome man with a tired, rather drawn face whose green eyes looked at her so searchingly.

  “No,” said Amaryllis. “That was not it. That was not it at all.”

  A log shifted in the fireplace with a sound like a sigh and the wind outside hurled itself against the windows.

  “I was desperately in need of money,” she went on. “I had managed well for a long time. Did I tell you I had been married twice? No? Well, that was the case. Each time, I married an elderly gentleman for his money. The first one was because, when father died, my sisters and I were left destitute. I had to marry or we would all have landed in the workhouse. The second time was because my sisters craved a Season in London. And so I married again. This time, Lord Lovelace. He understood why I was marrying him—as my first husband did. I did not go to London with my sisters. They were “brought out” by a relative of my late husband. They did not aspire to Almack’s or the haut ton but circulated enough and had enough of pretty dresses and jewels to satisfy them. Both married well. My husband died and I was left very comfortably off. He loved this place and when he was dying I promised to look after it to the best of my ability. I became part of that despised race, a ‘lady farmer.’

  “Well, I invested well and my money doubled and trebled. I hired a certain Mr. Worthy as steward and decided to go abroad for a year with Miss Wilkins. I traveled extensively and extravagantly.

  “I unfortunately left complete control of my money and estates to my cousin, Bertram Warrell. I will not sully his memory by telling you the extent of his ills, but enough to say he not only dissipated my entire fortune but mortgaged Beaton Malden to the hilt as well. He is dead.”

  “Why did you not turn to your sisters for money?” asked Lord Philip, who had read self-sacrifice between the lines of Amaryllis’s story. “You had done enough for them.”

  “Ah, how could I? I knew they would be too embarrassed to ask their husbands for money. Besides, I had come about before and felt sure I would again. So I set out to marry for money.

  “Now, I seem very mercenary but I assure you that I made both my husbands very happy when they were alive. I planned to marry some elderly gentleman who would supply some of his fortune in return for affection and fidelity. I had to do it, you see. So many people here to pay wages to, to feed and clothe and house. And I had given my word to Lord Lovelace.

  “And so I met you. I would not have entertained the idea of marrying you but you appeared to be in love with me. And I believed you rich.

  “When you told me you had no money, all I could think of was that you had seduced me by a trick. I was determined you should never have Beaton Malden, for I feared you would be like my cousin and milk the estates for every penny you could get. Well, things remain the same. You shall not own a stick of the place. I shall fight you in the courts.”

  “I have no intention of taking Beaton Malden from you,” he said. “I think since we have finally met again, we should discuss arrangements to have our marriage nullified. We could,” he smiled wryly, “arrange it on the grounds that it was not consummated.”

  Amaryllis studied him closely. When he had said he did not want Beaton Malden, she had realized he spoke the truth.

  “What was your reason for wanting to marry an heiress?” she asked curiously.

  “I was weary,” he said, turning his wine glass round in his long fingers. “I was tired of military service, tired of foreign voices and foreign soil. I always wanted to farm some land. My father has never really liked me very much so there was no hope of any help from him. Harry… Mr. Bagshot… returned with me on the ship from India. He suggested I marry an heiress. All I wanted was some land, some horses, some dogs, and a home. Unfortunately, Harry spread it around that I was a rich nabob. Someone gossiped that you were a rich heiress. And so… there we were. It all seems a rather grubby episode now. But we did deceive each other.”

  “And pretended to be in love with each other,” said Amaryllis in a low voice. He did not reply, so she went on, “What will you do now?”

  “Well, the Fangs are still determined on my title and have offered all sorts of help in freeing me from this marriage. It seems as if poor Belinda still wishes to wed me.”

  “Then you have no worries,” said Amaryllis brightly. “I shall not stand in the way of a divorce.”

  “Thank you.” His face looked drawn and tired. “Divorce or no, I do not think I shall marry Belinda. I have discovered that I am not a true Exclusive. I do not think I could live the rest of my life with someone I do not love. But enough of me. What about you? Will you have to sell Beaton Malden?”

  He listened intently as Amaryllis told him of the loyalty of the servants, of their offer to remain without wages, of how Mr. Worthy was doing wonders with the land and that they had had a bumper harvest and that it looked as if things might be on a safe footing soon and she could start to pay off some of the mountain of debt.

  “I envy you,” he said with a sigh when she had finished. “Take my advice and stick to your land and property. Do not be beholden to anyone.” His eyes flashed with the old mocking glint and her heart turned over. “Don’t you think you have been married enough?”

  She gave a reluctant smile. “Perhaps. You are right. It is very hard work, and Mr. Worthy is very good. But his approach is so scientific. He forgets the tenants are flesh and blood. One must always call on those who are sick and then there are the young ones who need schooling—oh, so many things. A husband would naturally…” she broke off with a blush.

  “A husband would naturally take some of those duties from your shoulders,” he finished for her. “Do not look so embarrassed. I am leaving in the morning, you know. I am visiting Sir Peregrine Russell along with a friend of mine, Freddie Jackson.”

  Now that he so clearly did not want Beaton Malden—or herself—Amaryllis found herself full of strange desire to have him stay. This she put down to maternal feelings. He was a still-young man who longed to own some property. Well, why should he not stay at Beaton Malden for a little? Perhaps if he helped in the restoring of the Beaton Malden fortunes, he would feel part of it and would forget his penniless state for a little while.

  “Things have changed between us,” she said, “now that we do not have to pretend we are in love. And I am sure our marriage can be easily annulled. I do not know if any of my neighbors in the county know the gossip but if they do it is no matter. For the moment, we are married. So why not stay here for a little? You could help me with the running of things. Please say you will. I badly need some help. I think we could perhaps be friends. We are a couple of ex-adventurers.” She impulsively held out her hand.

  She meant him to shake it but he rose and stooped over it and, turning her hand over, dropped a light kiss on her palm.

  “Friends?” he queried, his green eyes glinting with mockery.

  “Yes,” said Amaryllis breathlessly.

  “I can’t really desert Freddie just like that.”

  “Then invite him too,” said Amaryllis impatiently.

  “Very well,” he said slowly. “We shall be friends… if that is really what you want.”

  And Amaryllis felt so elated and so happy that she was quite sure that was exactly what she did want. Firmly she thrust the memory of their lovemaking from her mind. By the time she had bid him good night and finally settled herself for sleep, she had convinced herself that that one night of honeymoon had been nothing more than an unfortunate episode in which two desperate people had tried to will themselves into being in love. But all that was over now and they were grown-up, mature people who coul
d meet as sexless equals on a basis of pure friendship.

  Amaryllis took an immediate liking to Colonel Freddie Jackson, who arrived the next day in a carriage which carried Lord Philip’s baggage as well as his own. He was a tall man about Lord Philip’s age, dressed in impeccable morning dress. He had a quantity of sparse light hair which was teased into fluffy curls. His eyes were a washed-out blue and held all the vague innocence and wonder of a very small child.

  Freddie, it seemed, was delighted to escape from Sir Peregrine’s hospitality, although he was too polite to say so direct. He merely said it had been a difficult morning, for Perry had brought his hunting horn down to breakfast and started complaining that he had been unable to get a single note out of it. “So,” sighed Colonel Freddie, stretching his polished Hessians out to the cheerful blaze of an applewood fire, “he begins to bang it on the breakfast table and shake it and worry it and then he raised the demned—pardon, ma’am—thing to his lips and puffs and puffs and all of a sudden this tremendous blast fit to bust the eardrums goes sounding for miles.

  “Well, the windows of the breakfast room were open, it being sunny and mildish after the storm, and the next thing his demned—pardon ma’am—hounds is broke loose from the kennels and comes charging and belling and giving tongue like they’ve never done for any fox afore. Well, the leader o’ the pack, Danny Boy, he ups on the table and shoves his great muzzle straight into the cold game pie and all the other animals follow suit with the exception of old Tan Bounder, who’s the laziest and meanest hound that ever was. He just sits and watches the others being cuffed and beaten off the table by the servants and he grabs the table cover in his teeth and gives an enormous pull and the whole lot goes a-sliding on the floor, teacups, coffee cups, jellies, preserves, the lot. Lady Perry, she screams and leaves off shooing the hounds and hits Sir Perry on the head with the coffeepot. So I’m glad I’m here,” he finished simply. “I’m sure Agatha will like it too.”