Robert Dungarron was on the road to London.

Hunting in the mist, rain and snow of Leicestershire had been dismal, and the society there even less attractive. What was more annoying was the meeting with Hester Perceval…. How strange that he hadn’t recognized her!

When he had first seen her coming around the corner with her cousins she had seemed a different creature altogether. Laughing, animated, capable. It had taken a minute or two to remember what a bore she had been once before—and the devilishly awkward circumstances of their last meeting…. Still, if what she had said about not coming to town for the Season was right, he wouldn’t see her again….

Dungarron settled back more comfortably against the squabs and composed himself for sleep. But sleep eluded him. Memories of Hester Perceval flitted about his mind like ghosts.

An Unreasonable Match
Sylvia Andrew

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SYLVIA ANDREW

taught modern languages for years, ending up as a vice-principal of a sixth-form college. She lives in Somerset with two cats, a dog and a husband who has a very necessary sense of humor and a stern approach to punctuation. Sylvia has one daughter, living in London, and they share a lively interest in the theater. She describes herself as an “unrepentant romantic.”

Other books in THE STEEPWOOD SCANDAL series:

Lord Ravensden’s Marriage, by Anne Herries

An Innocent Miss, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Reluctant Bride, by Meg Alexander

A Companion of Quality, by Nicola Cornick

A Most Improper Proposal, by Gail Whitiker

A Noble Man, by Anne Ashley

An Unreasonable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

An Unconventional Duenna, by Paula Marshall

Counterfeit Earl, by Anne Herries

The Captain’s Return, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Guardian’s Dilemma, by Gail Whitiker

Lord Exmouth’s Intentions, by Anne Ashley

Mr. Rushford’s Honour, by Meg Alexander

An Unlikely Suitor, by Nicola Cornick

An Inescapable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

The Missing Marchioness, by Paula Marshall

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

1812

Feeling rather like a sheepdog in charge of a flock of very pretty lambs, Hester Perceval ushered her cousins out of Mr Hammond’s draper’s shop in the centre of Northampton. They were all in tearing spirits, exclaiming and laughing as they slipped on the snow-covered street, frantically clutching the parcels which they had adamantly refused to leave to be delivered the next day. Even Hester, normally so sober in public, found it impossible not to laugh at their antics, as she helped first one, then the other to negotiate the busy high street. The gentleman coming from the Receiving Office was enchanted by the picture of the four young ladies as they rounded the corner from Abington Street—rosy, animated faces framed in fur-lined hoods, youthfully slender figures in their warm pelisses, blue, wine-red, russet and green.

Just a few yards from the Peacock, Henrietta, the youngest of the cousins, slipped yet again and lost her balance. Hester managed to save her from falling, but dropped her own parcel in the snow as she did so. The gentleman hurried towards them and picked up the sadly sodden package. He held it for a moment, then said with a charming smile, “I think the damage is superficial. Would you like it, or shall I hand it to the boy at the inn for treatment? I take it that you are making for the Peacock? Your servant is no doubt waiting for you there.”

Hester caught her breath in shock. A deep, drawling voice, a tall, elegant figure. Dungarran. Impossible to forget him, however often she may have wished to. Fortunately, the gentleman had apparently found it perfectly possible to forget her!

“Thank you, sir,” she said, keeping her head down. “Our groom will be here in a few minutes. He has gone to fetch my brother from the Cambridge coach. We have a parlour bespoke in the Peacock, where we shall wait for him.” She turned to follow her cousins.

“Wait a moment!” He came round and stared hard at her. “It’s Miss Perceval, is it not? Hugo Perceval’s sister! Well, well!” He looked at the three girls, standing in amazement behind Hester.

“Are these your sisters?”

“My cousins, Lord Dungarran.”

“But what am I thinking of! You shouldn’t stand on the street in this weather. Come! You must allow me to escort you into the inn. We can talk inside.”

Hester hoped that her dislike of the idea did not show on her face. It was impossible to refuse. He was right to express surprise, however disguised, at the lack of a maid or groom to attend them in such a busy town. It was certainly unheard of in London. And Dungarran, she thought bitterly, was the example par excellence of a London gentleman.

Inside the inn the landlord greeted her party with friendly respect. “The parlour is ready, Miss Perceval, and I’ve laid out some pasties and pies in case you need something to keep you going. Shall I fetch some coffee or tea? Or would you like a drop of negus? It’s cold enough outside, and shopping is thirsty work.”

“Thank you, Mr Watkins.” The innkeeper looked inquiringly at her escort. “Lord Dungarran will join us until my brother arrives.”

“However, I’d like something stronger than negus, landlord. Have you a pint of good ale?”

“The best, my lord! Please to come this way.” He led them into a cheerful room, furnished with a table and cushioned settles, and warmed by a glowing fire. “You’ll be comfortable in here. We’ve sent the boy to Hammond’s to have your parcel rewrapped, Miss Perceval. He should be back in a moment.”

Hester thanked him and he disappeared. There was slight pause, then she said coolly, “Girls, I’d like to present a friend of Hugo’s. Lord Dungarran, my cousins Miss Edwina Perceval, Miss Frederica and Miss Henrietta.” The girls curtsied rather solemnly. They all regarded their cousin Hugo with some awe, and this friend of his was just as impressive. The greatcoat he had removed on coming into the inn had no fewer than five capes, and one could see now that his indoor clothing—dark blue coat, a snowy, immaculately starched cravat, light-coloured buckskins—was in the first stare of fashion. They gazed at his tall figure and handsome looks, his short black hair and lazy grey eyes, with guarded admiration. However, they relaxed when Lord Dungarran smiled and said, “I am charmed, ladies. Truly charmed. But I am consumed with curiosity, too. Tell me what is in those intriguing parcels which you are so reluctant to relinquish.”

The girls laughed and put their parcels down on one of the settles. At the same time they loosened their pelisses and took off their hoods. Hester slowly followed suit. Henrietta, the youngest and least shy, said eagerly, “Muslins and silks. For dresses. We are all to have some new evening dresses, even me. Robina is coming out in the spring.”

Dungarran looked enquiringly at Hester. “Robina is my eldest cousin,” she said colourlessly, not looking at him. “She is not with us today. My aunt is taking her to London some time in March for her début in society.” She could feel the colour rising in her cheeks. Her own catastrophic début six years before had been witnessed by the gentleman standing before her. Indeed, he had been a key player and from the conscious look on his face he, too, was aware of awkwardness in the situation. Fortunately for her peace of mind the landlord reappeared with a tray laden with warm drinks and Dungarran’s ale. By the time he had removed the covers from the food laid out on the table, adjured them to enjoy it, and gone out again, Hester had recovered her composure. Dungarran cleared his throat.

“Did you say Hugo has been in Cambridge, Miss Perceval? I thought he was in Gloucestershire with the Beaufort?”

“He is. We are meeting my other brother. My younger brother, Lowell. He should be here at any moment.”

Reminded of their favourite’s imminent arrival, the girls went to look out of the window. Hester and Dungarran were left by the fire. Hester felt she must break the uncomfortable silence that followed.

“Are you staying in the district?” she asked stiffly. “Althorp, perhaps?”

“Er…no. I was at my own place in Leicestershire, but the weather hasn’t been good for hunting. I’ve decided to return to London. I’ve things to do there.”

Hester took a sip of her wine, and turned away to look at the girls. Why didn’t Lowell come? It was impossible to sustain a casual conversation with this man. Yet it would be humiliating if he was reminded of the girl she had been six years ago—scornful of small talk, determined to discuss serious matters of state and politics, inept and unskilled in the manners of society…And, for a short while, stupidly in love with him. Her cheeks grew warm with shame and resentment at the memory of their last encounter. How she had hated him after that…!

“I hope the coach is not delayed by the weather. Would you like me to make enquiries?”

Hester pulled herself together and spoke as civilly as she could. “Thank you, but we were early. It wasn’t due before the hour. But please—you mustn’t let us delay you. We are quite safe and comfortable here. The landlord is an old friend.”

“So I have observed. Very well, I shall finish my ale, and then be on my way.”

She was hard put to it to disguise her relief. Though the violent emotions of six years before had long been mastered and then forgotten, she still disliked and distrusted this man. She would be glad to see him go. Unfortunately, at that moment Henrietta scrambled from the window-seat and ran to the door, calling Lowell’s name. Hester sighed. Dungarran would now be bound to stay a short while longer.

“But I think I know your brother already, Miss Perceval,” he said when she had introduced them. He turned to Lowell. “I’ve seen you at White’s with Hugo, but we didn’t have an opportunity to speak. But tell me, are you still up at Cambridge?”

Lowell flushed with pleasure at this evidence that the great man had taken notice of him. “No, I came down some time ago,” he replied. “But I still have friends there. In fact I’ve just been arranging to share rooms with one of them when he comes to London in the spring. At the moment I’m living at Hugo’s lodgings when I’m in town.”

“Why haven’t we met more often?”

“Oh, Hugo’s mode of life is a touch above mine, Lord Dungarran. We each go our own way.”

Dungarran nodded. “All the same, we must meet again in London.”

In spite of her unease, Hester was amused at her brother’s efforts to imitate the elegance of Dungarran’s manner—Lowell was normally loudly self-confident, boisterous even. It was proof, if any were needed, of Dungarran’s status in the closed world of London society. But the next moment she was horrified to hear her brother say somewhat shyly, “Are you staying long in Northampton, sir? I am sure my family would be pleased to receive you at Abbot Quincey.”

She breathed again when she heard Dungarran expressing regret that he had to be on his way. “I merely called in at the Receiving Office here. I had some enquiries to make. Miss Perceval, it was a pleasure to meet you again. Will you be joining your cousin in London for the Season?”

This harmless question roused a storm of protest in Hester’s breast but she replied calmly. “I am not sure, but I doubt it, Lord Dungarran. There’s…there’s always so much to occupy me at Abbot Quincey.” Then, she could not help adding, “I’m sure you will be kind to Robina—she is very young.”

He gave her a sharp look then bowed, took smiling leave of the rest and left. Hester breathed a huge sigh of relief and prepared to gather her party together for the journey home.

Later, after they had deposited the three girls at the Vicarage in Abbot Quincey and were rolling up the drive to Perceval Hall, Lowell said, “He’s a great chap, Hester.”

“Please, Lowell, can we now leave the subject of Dungarran! Ever since we left Northampton the girls have talked of nothing but the polish of his address, the attraction of his looks, the elegance of his clothes, till I was sick of hearing his name. Surely there are more interesting topics of conversation?”

Lowell looked curiously at her. “Come, it wasn’t as bad as all that. I thought they talked quite as much about their shopping, and the dresses they were having made. What’s wrong, Hes?”

Hester could not reply. The unexpected encounter with Dungarran had stirred up feelings she thought she had conquered years before. Anger and humiliation were choking her, six years’ peaceful reconstruction of her pride and confidence were momentarily forgotten. Lowell waited patiently. He and Hester were very close. With just one year between them, they had always been allies, both fond of Hugo, their elder brother, but both somewhat in awe of him. It was natural enough—Hugo was five years older, a born leader, a touch autocratic, rather conscious of his position as the eldest of all the Perceval children, cousins included. When Hugo went off to London, the two younger ones had become even closer. Hester defended Lowell whenever one of his mad escapades had drawn his parents’ wrath down on his head. And when Hester had come back from London in disgrace Lowell had been her chief support.

They were almost at the house before Hester said finally, “I’m sorry, Lowell. Seeing Dungarran again reminded me of London. It’s wrong to allow myself to be so affected after all these years. I apologise.”

“There’s no need for that. But since you mention London…What did you mean when you told him you weren’t going there this year? Has Mama given in?”

“Not yet. But I’m still hoping.”

“I doubt she’ll change her mind. And if she did, Papa would still have to be convinced. They seem set on giving you another Season, Hes.”

“It’s absurd!” said Hester forcefully. “There’s only one reason for taking an unmarried daughter to London for the Season. And since I neither need nor want a husband, the whole exercise will be a waste of money—money the estate can ill afford!”

Lowell put a consoling hand on her arm. “You might manage to persuade them—but if you don’t, things will be different, you’ll see. For a start, I’ll be there!”

“Oh, that will make all the difference! If I had known the great Lowell Perceval was going to be in London this spring, I would never have argued with Mama. Not for a moment.”

“Hester!”

She smiled at him affectionately. “I hope you’ll have better things to do in London, Lowell, my love, than escort a spinster sister to dances she doesn’t wish to attend, or soirées she’d rather die than be seen at! That would be no fun at all, not for you and not for me. No, we can only hope that I am able to change Mama’s mind before April comes.”

Meanwhile Robert Dungarran was on the road to London. The weather remained inclement and it was proving a most unpleasant journey. Jolted and tossed as the chaise slipped on the ice and snow, and progress was reduced to walking pace, he had plenty of time to consider. The trip had altogether proved a disappointment. Hunting in the mist, rain and snow of Leicestershire had been dismal, and the society there even less attractive. His trip to Northampton had been a waste of time—he had learned nothing from the Receiving Office. However, it wasn’t a matter of great importance, he could put it out of his mind. What was more annoying was the meeting with Hester Perceval…How strange that he hadn’t recognised her! When he had first seen her coming round the corner with her cousins she had seemed a different creature altogether. Laughing, animated, capable. It had taken a minute or two to remember what a bore she had been—and the devilishly awkward circumstances of their last meeting…Still, if what she had said about not coming to town for the Season was right, he wouldn’t have to see her again…How did Hugo, the most polished of men, and a damned amusing companion, come to have such a dull stick for a sister? Dungarran settled back more comfortably against the squabs and composed himself for sleep…

But sleep eluded him. Memories of Hester Perceval flitted about his mind like ghosts. She was very young, of course, about seventeen. Straight from school. Hugo hadn’t wanted her to come to London so early, but the parents had insisted. When was it? 1805—the year of Trafalgar? No, Trafalgar had been the year before. It was 1806…

She had been so quiet at first, a watcher, an observer, with no conversation. They had all wondered what the devil her school had been about. Hugo had said proudly that she was a prize pupil, but the girl hadn’t the slightest notion of how to behave in company. She had none of the usual female accomplishments, not even an elementary knowledge of dancing. Out of sympathy for Hugo he had done his best to teach her that, at least. None of the others had volunteered and Hugo had been desperate. Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t all that bad. She could be amusing on occasion, and she picked things up quite quickly. You didn’t have to tell her anything twice…Except when she refused to listen. He shook his head. She’d been a prize pupil, all right! Before long she had revealed herself as a prize, pigheaded, obstinate little know-all. She was finished after that, of course…

He shifted and made himself more comfortable. They would surely reach Dunstable soon, and then there would be only another day of this nightmare journey. He closed his eyes…

But the memories refused to go away…He hadn’t been there when Hugo Perceval’s little sister suddenly turned herself into some sort of crusader, bent on reforming the world. Trouble at Portsmouth had kept him out of the capital for a week or two. But when he got back, poor Lady Perceval was distraught, and Hugo was furious.

To begin with everyone was astonished at her impertinence. He grinned as he recalled Lady Scarsdale’s outrage,

“Do you know, Robert, that…that chit of a girl had the effrontery to ask about the mill in Matlock! I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea what goes on up there, we only visit Derbyshire once or twice a year, and what Arkwright does with his mill is surely his own business. But this…this snip of seventeen—I don’t know why I call her a snip, for she’s taller than I am—this pole of a girl had the audacity to suggest that I ought to know how he treats his workers! What on earth is Lady Perceval thinking of, letting such a turniphead loose in society?”

Most of the younger members of the Ton, including himself, just laughed at Hester Perceval—it was impossible to take her seriously. Out of friendship for Hugo, and a sneaking sympathy for the girl, he had done his best to guide her into less stormy waters, but even he had given up in despair. She was bent on her own downfall, stubbornly refusing to listen to hints or even plain speaking. In the end most of the world simply avoided her company. And then had come the Great Scandal, and London had seen her no more.

Shouts and cries made him aware that they had drawn up before the Sugar Loaf in Dunstable. At last! He got out and stretched himself. He would order a decent meal in a private parlour, have a good night’s rest and be in Curzon Street well before dark tomorrow.

The first two of these were accomplished successfully, and Robert Dungarran set off the next day in a better mood. His comfortable home with its self-contained bachelor existence was within reach. But to his annoyance he was unable to rid his mind of the events which had led to Hester Perceval’s banishment in 1806…

Society was bored, amused, offended by Miss Perceval, but in the end they had all been deeply shocked by the events at the Sutherlands’ ball. He smiled cynically. The gossip hadn’t done Canford any good, either, but he deserved what he had got. He should have known better than to complain to the world about a ruined coat after pressing his attentions on an unwilling girl less than a third his age. The man was dead now, but he had been no credit to himself or anyone else. But what, Robert Dungarran wondered, what would society have said if they had known what happened in the Duchess of Sutherland’s library after the episode with Canford? No one did. No one but Hester Perceval and himself. Thinking back, he had perhaps been harsh with the girl, but encouraging her would have been even more unkind. He shifted uncomfortably, the scene six years before vivid in his mind’s eye.

When Dungarran had arrived at the door of the library Canford had practically knocked him over as he stormed out, swearing vengeance. The noble earl was in a sorry state, his cravat, shirt and velvet coat soaked in wine. Apparently the girl had emptied a glass of the best Bordeaux over him. It looked more like the contents of a decanter. Inside the library he was met with a scene to send any young man of fashion running for cover. Hugo, who was usually calm in all circumstances, had lost his temper spectacularly. Hester, standing in the middle of the room, her bodice torn, and her hair halfway down her back, had been reduced by his words to hysterics. The situation was clearly desperate. When Hugo saw his friend standing in the door he had pleaded, “Robert, would you take care of this sister of mine? I’ll send my mother to her as soon as I can, but she can’t leave the room in the state she’s in, and I must go after Canford straight away to see what can be done to avoid a scandal.”

With the greatest possible reluctance, Robert, observing the state of both Percevals, had to agree. It was vital that Canford’s tirade should be stemmed before too many people heard it, and the girl could not be left alone. Hugo hurried out and he and Hester were left in the room.

“Miss Perceval—”

Hester was now calm enough to speak between her sobs. “It’s all your fault!” she shouted. “I would never have gone with that…that monster if you had been kinder.”

“Miss Perceval, let me fetch you something to calm you. I’m sorry—”

“I won’t listen to your excuses! You all laughed at me, I heard you tonight with your friends! All laughing at me! You’re no better than a fashion plate, a pasteboard figure without heart or mind! God might have given you brains, but lack of use has caused them to…to wither away! Don’t speak to me! I don’t want to hear your excuses!”

Robert Dungarran bowed. “I was not aware that I had done anything to excuse. But I won’t say another word, if that is what you wish.”

“Look at you!” she went on stormily. “Elegantly empty! You don’t care whose heart you break! Making me fall in love with you—”

“Oh no!” This was too much, even for a man of Robert Dungarran’s equable temperament. “That cannot be so. I have never given you the slightest reason to—”

“Of course you did! Why else would you spend so long teaching me to dance, taking me for drives, saying how pretty I looked, when I know very well I am not at all pretty? You are all the same, all of you. Just like Lord Canford—” She was working herself up into hysteria again. Robert had done the only thing possible. He had slapped her, not particularly gently. Eyes wide with shock, she had stared at him.

“You…you monster!” she stuttered. “To hit a lady…”

“A lady!” he said derisively. “You! Listen to me, Miss Perceval! You are as close to being a lady as I am to being the Great Cham of China! You are, in fact, an obstinate, conceited, ignorant child. My sympathies, such as they are, are with Hugo. How he came to have such a fool of a sister I cannot imagine. I am sorry the conversation you overheard tonight distressed you, but I would not retract one word from its message. You would do well to persuade your mother to take you away from London to somewhere where you can learn manners and sense in decent obscurity. And now, if you don’t mind, I shall guard the door outside until your mother arrives.”

The chaise was passing Hyde Park. He was nearly home, thank God. It was as well. Remembering what he had said to Hester Perceval all those years ago was not a pleasant exercise. The girl had been an appalling nuisance, but he shouldn’t have been quite so hard on her. He got out and stretched. Bates, his butler and steward in Curzon Street, was already outside the house, organising the footmen, paying off the chaise and generally being his usual supremely efficient self. It was time to forget Hester Perceval. With any luck he needn’t meet her again.

Chapter Two

A few weeks after the trip to Northampton the weather had changed for the better. It was even quite warm. Hester Perceval paid her usual morning calls in Abbot Quincey village, then walked slowly back up the drive to the Hall, which was bathed in early spring sunshine. It was a lovely building of old rose brick decorated with a porch and pilasters of pale grey stone. A wide, graceful flight of steps in the same grey stone led up to its main entrance and two wings of rose brick curved gently to either side. Lawns and tall trees—chestnuts, oaks, ash and holly—surrounded it, though at this time of year most of the trees were bare. But there was a promise of spring in daffodils dancing along the drive, and in the faint haze of green in the hawthorn hedges on the edge of the park.

Hester gazed at it wistfully. Short of a miracle she would soon have to leave the Hall to spend two months or more in the capital. Lady Perceval, normally the most understanding of mothers, had refused to abandon her plan to take her daughter to town in an effort to acquire a husband for her. It was ridiculous! She didn’t want a husband—and what was more, she would be extremely surprised if she could find one. But however much she had pleaded, reasoned, even argued, it had been in vain. And now time was scarce. In a few weeks Sir James and Lady Perceval would leave for London, accompanied by their daughter, to take part in the annual carnival which called itself the London Season…Hester quickened her pace up the drive. She must make one last effort to bring her mother to see reason.

But half an hour later Hester was no nearer to success. Her mother was unshaken in her determination, and was growing quite upset by her daughter’s obstinate refusal to accept her decision.

“You’re a good, clever girl and your father and I love you dearly, Hester. Surely you don’t believe that we wish to make you unhappy? Or that we haven’t your best interests at heart?” Lady Perceval’s voice trembled and her daughter quickly reassured her.

“Of course not, Mama! No one could ask for kinder or more generous parents. It’s just…I really don’t want another London Season. The last one was enough for me. And surely I’m old enough to know my own mind…”

“Exactly so. You’ll be twenty-four in November, Hester! Twenty-four and not a single prospect in view. I did have hopes of Wyndham for you at one time, though he’s hardly ever been at Bredington recently. But I hear he has found someone else. And now dear India is married, and Beatrice Roade, too—both very advantageously…”

“But I don’t want a husband, Mama! Oh, I wish you would believe me. I could remain a perfectly happy spinster, leading my own life in my own way, if only you would let me.”

“My dear, I’ve heard all these arguments before, and I assure you yet again, that the only secure future for a woman is in marriage. Or would you prefer to be Hugo’s pensioner, once your father and I are no longer here?”

“In no way! Hugo and I would be at odds before the month was out! But in any case that must be a very distant prospect. And I’m sure you could persuade Papa to settle a small amount of money on me instead of taking me to London—” Hester moved over to sit down on the sofa by her mother. She took her hand and looked pleadingly into her parent’s unusually determined face. “If he would give me just a small sum—enough to give me a very modest income—I should be happy to live by myself.”

“Alone?”

“With a maid or…or even a companion if you insisted.”

“Hester, I wouldn’t even dream of passing on such a ridiculous notion to your father. And if I did he would laugh it out of court! It’s our duty to see you safely married, and a London Season is the best way of doing it.” She looked appraisingly at her daughter. “You could be quite a good-looking girl, if you would only make the effort. Your dowry, I know, is not large, but there must be someone somewhere who would want to marry you!”

This was too much for Hester’s very ready sense of humour. Her mouth twitched as she said demurely, “Why thank you, Mama! A widower, perhaps, with six children and a wooden leg? He might just be persuaded to take me on.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, as you very well know. You are a wicked girl to tease me so. But an older man might be the answer?”

Hester was instantly serious again. “No, Mama! I do not wish for a husband of any kind—old, young, widowed, single, decrepit, healthy…To put it absolutely plainly, I do not want to marry anyone.”

Lady Perceval looked helplessly at her daughter. “But why, Hester?”

“Because I don’t believe there’s anyone in the world whom I could respect, and who would be willing to treat me in return as someone capable of rational thought! The polite world is singularly lacking in such men. At least it was six years ago, and I cannot suppose things have changed very much since then. In my experience gentlemen in London only want a pretty face to pay empty compliments to, a graceful partner to dance and flirt with, a…a mirror to tell them in return how witty, how handsome, how elegant they are. And I daresay when they eventually condescend to marry some poor girl, they will treat her like…like a piece of furniture—there to provide an heir and manage the household, while they go their selfish, masculine way, hunting, fishing, shooting and gambling into the night.”

“Hester! Stop, stop! That’s quite enough of your nonsense. I won’t allow you to say such things when your father is everything that is kind and considerate—you know he is! What other father would allow you to do very much as you please here in Abbot Quincey? Many another would have married you off to some country squire long before now. As it is, he has always respected your wish to live quietly with your books. He is even proud of your work in sorting your grandpapa’s papers. He is taking us to London mainly because he honestly believes—as I do—that you would be happier with an establishment and family of your own. We wish to find a husband for you before it is too late.”

“Papa is an exceptional man, Mama, and I admit he has been very patient with me—”

“Well then,” said Lady Perceval, “why don’t you please him—and me—by overcoming your reluctance for another London Season?”

“That wouldn’t guarantee a husband for me! Men don’t find women like me attractive, Mama. I don’t have to remind you of what happened six years ago—you were there.”

Lady Perceval shuddered. “I was,” she replied with feeling.

“The so-called gentlemen made fun of me! I may have been inept and…and, yes, stupid! But they were so unkind! They made no effort to understand. They couldn’t believe that a woman might want to ask questions or debate issues which went beyond the cut of a sleeve or who was whose latest flirt.” She frowned, then shrugged her shoulders and smiled wryly. “I was foolish to try. The last thing they wanted to do was to be required to think.”

“I’ve always felt that a lot of the blame was mine, my dear. You were very young. Hugo always advised against taking you straight from Mrs Guarding’s Academy into the fashionable world, and he was right. You weren’t prepared for it.”

“Mrs Guarding is a wonderful woman. I…”

“I know about Mrs Guarding’s advanced views on educating young women. She may be a wonderful teacher, but her ideas do not exactly prepare girls for success in society! You were stuffed full of half-digested notions of saving the world. Praiseworthy, no doubt, but hardly appropriate for the drawing-rooms of the Ton. And then the scandal with Lord Canford ruined everything—”

Hester shuddered. “Please don’t, Mama! If you only knew what that episode did to my self-esteem!”

“I do know! You didn’t have a chance after that. I was never so shocked in all my life as when I heard how Canford had behaved at the Sutherlands’ ball. Thank heaven Hugo was there to rescue you!”

“He may have saved me from Canford’s attentions, but he didn’t exactly spare my feelings afterwards—especially when the noble lord aired his grievance to anyone who cared to listen.” A giggle escaped her. “Mind you, Canford had some cause. If he really believed I had encouraged him, it must have come as a shock when I emptied the glass of wine over him. His coat was ruined. What he must have felt when Hugo came in and caught him chasing me round the room…!”

“I am surprised Canford had so much vitality. He must have been sixty if he was a day!”

“He had a quite remarkable turn of speed. And then Hugo got caught in Canford’s walking stick and they both came down. Thank God neither was badly hurt. The scandal would have been even greater if such a prominent member of the aristocracy had been lamed for life by my brother! But Canford limped away quite nimbly in the end. Soaked in wine and cursing.” There was a pause. Then Hester added, “Looking back now, it was a relief that you were more or less forced to bring me back to Northamptonshire afterwards…I had had enough of London, and Hugo had certainly had enough of me.”

“He was disappointed that his efforts to launch you had failed so disastrously. He suffered too, Hester.”

“My dear Mama, Hugo was far more concerned about his own dignity than he was about my reputation. I’d apparently let him down in front of…in front of…his friends.”

“I’m sure he had forgotten that Dungarran was there when he gave you such a dressing-down. He would never normally have done such a thing in front of anyone else.”

“You believe not?”

“I am sure he wouldn’t. It was most unfortunate. You haven’t really been friends with him since, have you, my dear?”

“No. And he comes so seldom to Abbot Quincey now, that there’s never an opportunity for us to put things right. Lowell is here quite often, but Hugo never comes.”

Lady Perceval said firmly, “Hugo is like every other young man of his age—he enjoys life in society. He’ll come when he is ready—you’ll see. He’s thirty in July, and that’s when he always said he would settle down.”

“He was so unkind to me! But I miss him, all the same. We were good friends when we were young…” Hester got up, went to the window and gazed at the peaceful scene outside without really seeing it. There was a silence. Then she added bitterly, “Is it so surprising that I never want to see London again?”

Lady Perceval sighed. “I am sure things will be different now,” she said persuasively. “Canford died two years ago. And memories are short.”

“Perhaps. But men still like pretty faces, and dainty, appealing ways in the young women they marry. They don’t look for argument or debate. Well, I have never been either pretty or dainty. I’m too tall. And now I’m six years older and my bloom, such as it was, has faded. And, worst of all, though I’ve lost my passion to change the world, I still enjoy using the brains the Lord gave me in a good argument.” Hester came back to her mother and knelt down beside her. “Oh Mama, I am convinced that I would never find a husband to please me. I’m perfectly content here in Abbot Quincey. Please, please will you not speak to Papa?”

Lady Perceval shook her head. “I would not at this moment even think of making the attempt. Not while there is still time for you to see how wrong you are. Listen to me, Hester,” she went on, gently taking both Hester’s hands in hers and speaking very seriously. “It may surprise you to learn that large numbers of women with considerable intelligence are clever enough to keep themselves and their husbands happy simply by disguising the fact! At seventeen you could be forgiven for not realising this, but not now, Hester. Not now. Look around you! The idea that it is impossible to find happiness in marriage is absurd! I have always been very happy with your dear Papa. And look at Beatrice Roade—a very clever, sensible girl—but since her marriage at Christmas she positively radiates happiness!”

“No one could possibly deny that. But she was lucky. She and Harry Ravensden are exactly right for each other—and Harry doesn’t just put up with Mr Roade’s eccentricities, he positively delights in them! No, there’s no doubt about that marriage, I agree. But that does not change my mind, Mama!”

“And I shall not change mine, Hester. We are going to London for the coming Season.” There was a pause while she looked at her daughter’s downcast face. Then her voice softened. “If nothing has changed by the time we return from London, then we shall see what can be done.”

“Oh, thank you, Mama—”

“But first, you must give yourself another chance,” Lady Perceval said firmly. “Is it a bargain? Will you promise me to keep an open mind? Will you try to mend fences with Hugo, and forget any grudges from the past? Will you do that?”

“I’ll try, Mama,” Hester sighed, “but it won’t be easy.”

“There’s my good girl! And now I expect you want to escape to that attic of yours for the rest of the morning, though I’m not at all sure it’s good for you to spend so much time alone up there. Wait, Hester! Did you take Mrs Hardwick the eggs when you were in the village? Is she any better?”

“Not yet. But Dr Pettifer will come this afternoon. And the eggs were welcome. They had almost run out.”

“That’s good. Off you go, then. You might spend some time reflecting on what I have said. Marriage is a woman’s best chance of happiness.”

The way to her attic was long and took her past some of the most beautiful rooms in the house. The family lived in only a small section of the main block, together with a suite of rooms in the west wing occupied by Hester’s grandmother. The Dowager Lady Perceval was away at the moment and the rest of the house was silent and unused, the furniture under holland covers, and pictures and ornaments packed away or even sold. Perceval Hall had been built in wealthier times, but Sanford Perceval, Hester’s great-grandfather, had been a gambler and a wastrel. Fortunately he died young, before he had entirely run through the handsome fortune left him by his father. The Percevals no longer owned the vast acres of former days, but they had managed to hold on to the Hall, and their name still counted for something. They were among the county’s oldest and most respected landowners, and a Perceval could marry anyone. It was a pity, thought Hester, as she passed large, beautifully proportioned rooms and went up the handsome marble staircase, it was really very unfortunate, that since that London disaster she had been quite unable to imagine sharing her life with any man.

She came at length to her attic. This was her special place, her refuge. She had discovered it years ago, and had made it her own as soon as she found her grandfather’s comfortable old chair, and a bureau stuffed full of his books and papers stored there. And when she had returned from London in disgrace, at odds with the world, and out of charity with her much admired elder brother, this was where she had taken refuge. Her parents believed that she was putting her grandfather’s papers in order, possibly with a view to publication, and were happy to leave her to it. But, though that was how it had begun, it was far more than that.

For the last five years Hester, wary of exposing herself to yet more mockery for her “unfeminine” studies, had lived a double life. In public she did what was expected of the daughter of a prominent local family. Though she was regarded as something of a recluse, she rode and walked, worked in the still-room, supported her mother in her charitable work, had frequently visited India Rushford before her marriage to Lord Isham. She was quite often seen in company with her other cousins at the Vicarage. But whenever she could she escaped to her attic. The work on the Perceval papers was nearly finished. But this was not all she did here. And she owed her new occupation to Lowell.

In an effort to rouse Hester from her depression and apathy six years before, Lowell had taken out a subscription for her to Mr Garimond’s Journal of the New Scientific and Philosophical Society. The fact that the Society was exclusively for gentlemen was disregarded.

Even he could not have foreseen its effect. Hester read it eagerly, and then, greatly daring, sent in a short article on the use of mathematics in ciphers. Lowell had helped to keep her identity secret by delivering it in London himself. To her delight, the article was accepted and for some years now, with Lowell’s help, Hester had been sending articles in quite regularly. She called herself “Euclid”, for Mr Garimond insisted that all his contributors used the names of famous mathematicians of the past.

For the past year or more Euclid had been engaged in a duel of wits with “Zeno”, the Journal’s senior contributor. Zeno usually wrote scholarly articles on the philosophy of mathematics, but in response to something Hester had written in that first article he had set Euclid a cipher puzzle. He challenged “him’ to solve it before the month was out. This was now a regular feature, Mr Garimond acting as receiving office and umpire. Hester had just finished deciphering the latest, and it would soon go with Lowell to the Society’s offices in London.

Lowell was waiting for her in her attic. “Any luck? Have you managed to persuade Mama? I heard the discussion as I came up.”

“No,” Hester said in a resigned tone. “I’m to be frizzed and primped and dressed up and paraded in London, somewhat long in the tooth, but apparently still hoping for a husband. Why, pray? So that some man can take me off home and assume he has the right to tell me how to act and what to think. I truly think the world is mad—to condemn, as it does, half of the human race to mindless nonentity. Things will change eventually I suppose—women won’t tolerate it for ever. But it won’t be in time to save me.”

“Hold on, old thing! Not all men are unreasonable—as you ought to know.” He spoke reproachfully. She went to him and hugged him.

“Oh, don’t pay any attention to me, Lowell, I’m just totally out of humour at the idea of going to London again. I’m an ungrateful beast. You’ve been wonderful. I don’t know what I would have done without you. But you wait and see! You’re only twenty-two—still reasonably young. Another couple of years in society and you’ll be like all the rest.”

“No, I won’t,” he said stoutly. “But people do change in six years, you know. Perhaps some of those fellows might look at you differently now.” Then he added casually, “I know you have this prejudice about Dungarran, but he seemed very pleasant when we met him in Northampton. He’s probably forgotten what happened six years ago.” When his sister remained silent he went on, “Hester, he can’t have been as bad as you think him. Why do you mind him so much? Or was there something more? Something you haven’t told me.”

Hester’s voice was muffled as she bent over the bureau, searching through her papers. “Whatever could there be? He was one of Hugo’s friends and he did what Hugo asked him. He was kind enough to me until it all went wrong.” She emerged from the bureau, somewhat flushed. “Did you want something, Lowell?”

“Well, I came to hear Mama’s verdict. And I wondered if you had anything for the Journal. I’m out for the rest of the day and off to London early tomorrow morning. Have you anything for Garimond? If so, I could deliver it on Friday.”

“Where are you going now?”

“To collect Henrietta from her dancing lesson. I expect I’ll spend the rest of the day at the Vicarage.”

Hester suppressed a grin. Lowell had avoided his baby cousin like the plague only months ago, but he was now fascinated by her recent transformation into a very pretty young lady of fashion. She decided not to tease him, but said merely, “I have something but it isn’t quite ready yet. I’ll leave it in your room.”

“What is it this time? Another article?”

“No, it’s a new cipher they sent me, and I’ve finally cracked it. I’m rather pleased with myself, it was quite difficult. You see this line—”

“Don’t try to explain, Hes!” Lowell said hastily. “I’ll take your word for it. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Hester looked at him in some amusement. “Lowell, however do you convince Garimond that you’re the author of these communications? You must meet him occasionally.”

“Never. He’s a bit of a mysterious bird himself. But I don’t claim to be the author. I just deliver the envelope to an elderly cove at the Society’s office in St James’s Square.”

“Lucky for us! It saves a few explanations—especially as you are so determined not to be another mathematician!”

“Lord, Hes, I wouldn’t know how! But I’d give a lot to know what those clever codgers in St James’s Square would say if they knew Euclid was a woman.”

“It would give them all an apoplectic fit! But do take care not to let it out, Lowell—I don’t give a pin for their apoplectic fits, but it would mean an end to my fun, too.”

“I won’t,” her brother said confidently. “I like a bit of cloak-and-dagger work. When will the new stuff be ready?”

“It only wants a few corrections and then I’ll write it out in my Euclid hand. I’ll put it inside your overcoat before I go to bed.”

“Right-eeo.”

Lowell disappeared with a great deal of clattering down the stairs. Hester shook her head, then smiled fondly. He was a good brother.

She sat down at the bureau, took out her papers and put on her grandfather’s spectacles which she had found with his things, and which she now found useful for close work. They never left the attic. But after a few minutes she took them off again and sat back. She was finding it difficult to concentrate. It was Lowell’s fault for mentioning Dungarran’s name. That and the knowledge that she could not avoid seeing the man again in London…Lowell was right. She hadn’t told him everything. There was one scene that no one knew of. No one but herself and Dungarran. It wasn’t surprising that she had wished never to face him again. He had appeared to be so kind, so interested in her—until she had found him out. It had very nearly broken her heart to find that her idol had feet of such poor clay…And even then she had refused to accept it. Hester’s eyes strayed to the tiny window, but what she saw was not the green fields and trees of Northamptonshire but the drawing-rooms and streets of London in 1806…

Hester Perceval’s preparation for her début at seventeen was unusual. Her talents in the drawing-room were no more than adequate, but Mrs Guarding, a woman with advanced views on the education of women, had taken great pride in Hester’s gift for languages and her agile mind. She had encouraged Hester to believe that an intelligent, informed woman could create interest in badly needed reforms, bring the rich, particularly those in London and the south, to appreciate the difficulties of the poor in the north.

An older and wiser Hester now knew better. Mrs Guarding was usually the most astute of women, but in Hester’s case her enthusiasm had overcome her judgement. Social change has been brought about by intelligent women. But such women have been mature, sophisticated matrons with an established position, women of tact and experience who know their world, not naïve seventeen-year-olds with a strong sense of mission and no idea how to handle it.

All had gone well for the first few weeks after Hester’s arrival in London in the spring of 1806. Her adored brother Hugo was ready to look after her and introduce her to his circle of friends, all of them prominent in the Ton. Feminine enough to enjoy the pretty dresses her mother had provided for her, she accepted with pleased surprise the compliments the gentlemen paid her on her appearance. Fascinated by life in the metropolis, at first she spoke little and observed much. She soon came to the conclusion that Mrs Guarding was right. Though society had been kind to her, it was all too frivolous, too uncaring. As soon as she had found her feet, she would start her campaign…

Meanwhile it was very pleasant to be looked after by Hugo’s friends. It took a little time for her to become accustomed to their languid drawls, their refusal to take anything seriously, but it was flattering to a girl not yet eighteen to be attended by some of the most eligible young men in society. Even Dungarran, famous for his reluctance to put himself out for anyone—“Too fatiguin’!” was his favourite phrase—spent time teaching her the dance steps she had ignored at Mrs Guarding’s. Elegant, handsome, with dark hair and cool grey eyes, he spoke less than the others, seldom paying her the pretty compliments she came to expect, but this did him no harm in Hester’s opinion. There was an occasional glimmer of amusement in his eyes which intrigued her, but it was usually quickly replaced by his normal, indifferent courtesy. Though he evaded all her attempts at serious conversation, Hester was certain that behind the idle man of fashion there was an intelligence, an intellect she could respect. Inevitably, sadly, she was soon on the way to falling in love with him. She found herself listening for his lazy drawl, searching the crowds for a sight of his tall figure, always so immaculately dressed, rivalling Hugo in his calm self-possession. But though he was instantly welcome wherever he went, invited to every function, he was not always to be found. He seemed to come and go very much as he pleased. And as time went on he became even more elusive. Without him, life in London soon became very boring to Hester.

After a month, finding most conversations, even the compliments, tediously repetitive, she began her campaign. She would interrupt a frivolous discussion on the newest fashion for a collar, or Beau Brummell’s latest bon mot, in order to comment on the condition of the workers in the north, or the passage of a bill for reform through Parliament. This was met with blank stares. When invited out for a drive she took to lecturing her companion on the greater role women could, and would, play in public life, or expressing a desire to be taken to the poorer districts of London in order to observe living conditions there. Needless to say, no one ever took her, but even the request caused the lifting of eyebrows…

Her mother saw what was happening but found herself powerless to stop it. Her remonstrances, her pleas to Hester to stop trying to reform society until she was better informed of its manners and customs, fell on deaf ears. Hugo warned her, his closer friends did their best to deflect her, but Hester remained obstinately idealistic, stubbornly sure that intelligent discussion could solve the problems of the world…The result was inevitable. Society began to ignore, then neglect her. The flow of compliments, the invitations to drive or ride, dried up quite suddenly as Miss Perceval was pronounced guilty of the worst sin of all. She was a bore. And not even a pretty one.

Chapter Three

At first Hester was puzzled rather than distressed. The young men around her had listened so charmingly. They had paid her such pretty compliments, taken such pleasure in her company. What was wrong? Why didn’t they want to listen to her?

The awakening was painful. Alone, as she so often was, on a balcony overlooking one of the rooms in the Duchess of Sutherland’s mansion, half hidden by long curtains, she heard a burst of laughter from below and then voices.

“I don’t believe it! You must be making it up, Brummell! Are you trying to tell us that Hester Perceval actually took Addington to task on the question of Catholic emancipation? Addington!”

“My dear chap, every word of it is true, I swear.” Hester looked cautiously over the balcony. Seven or eight young gentlemen were gathered underneath. She drew quickly back.

“Oh God!” There was despair in Hugo’s voice. “What has she done now? What did he say?”

George Brummell was a born mimic. Addington’s self-important tones were captured perfectly. “My dear Miss Perceval, how you can think I would discuss policies of His Majesty’s Government with an impertinent chit of a girl I cannot imagine. And why the devil you should see fit to mention such a subject in Lady O’Connell’s drawing-room has me even more at a loss.”

Shouts of laughter, and applause. Then Hester strained forward as she heard Robert Dungarran’s drawl.

“Poor girl! I know that blistering tone of Addington’s.”

“Come, come, Robert! Little Miss Cure-all deserved the set-down. She’s an impudent ninny. What have politics to do with a woman? Their little brains simply aren’t up to it!”

“Do tell me, George—are yours?”

More laughter, and the good-natured reply. “I’ve never tried t’ fathom them—even if my health permitted me to try. Fatiguin’ things, politics. All the same, Hugo, isn’t it time you did something about the girl?”

“Quite right, Brummell!” The interruption came from Tom Beckenwaite. “Dammit, when I’m with a woman I don’t want to think—that’s not what they’re for!” He gave a low laugh, which was followed by a chorus of ribald remarks. Hester was shocked. She had always regarded Lord Beckenwaite as a true gentleman. A fool, but a gentlemanly fool. He spoke again.

“The fact is, Hugo, old dear, you are wasting your time. Your little sister is incurable. And un-marriageable. Demme, there’s a limit to what a fellow can stand! I’m as ready as the next man to do a friend a favour, but your sister is demned hard work, and that’s not something I look for. She never stops talkin’! Ridin’, drivin’, dancin’—it’s all the same! Talk, talk, talk!”

“Hugo—” Hester leaned forward again. This was Dungarran speaking. She smiled in anticipation. He would defend her against these asses. He seldom spoke but when he did it was always to the point. They would listen to him. His drawl was more pronounced than ever. “Hugo, I’m sorry to say it, but it’s time you did something!”

“Not you too, Robert!” Hugo said resignedly.

“Have a word with Lady Perceval, old chap. Your wretched sister’s behaviour is doing neither herself, nor anyone else, much good. She is too young, and much too foolish for life here. Get your mother to take her back to Nottingham, or Northampton or wherever it is you all come from. Perhaps the country air will blow away some of her silly notions. Bring her back when she’s learned how to behave. But, please, not before.”

Hugo said stiffly, “She never used to be like this, and I’m sorry for it. I don’t know what my mother was thinking of, bringing her to London with her head full of such nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense, exactly. Just absurd coming from your sister.” Dungarran again. “It would be better suited to a graybeard with a corporation than a child out of the schoolroom. A girl into the bargain.”

“I don’t know what to say to you all. She’s my sister and I love her, I suppose. But believe me, when I asked you all to give her a good start to the Season I never imagined it would be such hard work. You’ve been Trojans.”

“Well, from now on, dear boy, your sister can lecture someone else. This Trojan is retiring to his tent. Wounded in the course of duty, you might say. Shall we look for the card-room?” A chorus of agreement faded as they went away, leaving Hester sitting in her chair staring into space. How could they talk of her like that! How dare they! Shallow, stupid…It was as if a veil had been ripped from her eyes. She could now see that their smiles 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 surrounded him with vain, empty-headed young men with ridiculous names, caricatures of the men she had met in London—even Hugo had not escaped. The Marquis of Rapeall, Sir Hugely Perfect, Viscount Windyhead—he had hardly deserved her malice, he had been scarcely older than herself—Lord Baconwit, the dandy Beau Broombrain and—Lord Dunthinkin.

Which brought her back to Dungarran. Hester straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. At seventeen she had gone to London expecting the world to fall at her feet. At twenty-four she expected very little—merely to get through the Season with as little trouble as possible. Then she would return and continue her relationship with the only man she respected—Zeno. He was the man for her.

Lady Perceval was delighted when her daughter agreed to accompany them to London without further protest. She launched into a frenzy of discussions with the local dressmakers—already working at full capacity on Robina Perceval’s wardrobe. The house was swamped in samples and pattern books. It soon became clear that they would unfortunately not get to town in time for Sophia Cleeve’s come-out ball. This was held in March, and it was the middle of April before Sir James brought his wife and daughter to the house Hugo had found for them off Berkeley Square.

“Very pleasant!” pronounced Lady Perceval, looking round her as the family entered the spacious salon on the first floor. “How clever of you, Hugo dear, to find such a pleasant house in such a convenient situation. Hester, do you not agree?”

Mindful of her promise, Hester smiled at her brother and offered her cheek. “I would expect nothing less,” she said, as he kissed it. “I’m glad to see you, brother. You’re looking well—and very elegant.”

“I was delighted to hear you had agreed to come, Hester. I think we can do better this time, don’t you?”

Hester sighed. “I’ll try, Hugo. I’ll try. I can at least promise not to make a nuisance of myself.”

“We’ll do better than that,” he promised, smiling down at her with a glint in his eye. Her heart warmed to him. When Hugo forgot he was a nonpareil with a position to uphold, there was no one kinder or more affectionate. The older brother she had loved was still there, underneath the man of fashion.

Lowell came bounding up the stairs, falling over some valises on the way, and the mood of family unity was disturbed.

“I’m sorry, Mama, Papa,” he gasped. “I meant to be here when you arrived.”

“Ma’am,” said Hugo impatiently, turning to his mother. “Ma’am, I wish you would persuade your younger son to be less…less noisy! It’s like having a Great Dane in the drawing-room!”

Sir James laughed. “Let him be, Hugo! He’ll learn. How are you, my boy?”

“Well, sir, very well. I find London greatly to my taste—especially since I moved out of Sir Hugely Perfect’s rooms. Sharing with Gaines is much more fun.”

Hester’s start of surprise fortunately went unnoticed as Sir James said disapprovingly, “What was that you said? Sir Hugely Perfect? That is not amusing, Lowell. It doesn’t do to call your brother names.”

“Oh, I’m not alone, sir! That’s how he is known here in London.”

“Sir Hugely Perfect?” Lady Perceval went over to her son. “Hugo! How unkind! Are you really called so?”

The colour had risen in Hugo’s cheeks, but he shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “Not by everyone, only Lowell and his cronies. The rest of my acquaintance are not so childish.”

Hester cleared her throat. “Where…where did such a name come from, Lowell? Mama is right. It isn’t kind.”

“It’s from a book,” Hugo answered for Lowell, who had hesitated. “A piece of rubbish which came on the scene a month or two ago. But no one of any sense could possibly take it seriously.”

“A book?”

Lowell held his sister’s eyes. “A book called The Wicked Marquis. And Hugo is mistaken. It’s not just my set. The whole of the beau-monde is talking about it.”

Lady Perceval was looking bewildered. “Hugo? A wicked marquis? What are you talking about, Lowell?”

“Hugo isn’t the wicked marquis, Mama. He’s just a character in the book. One of a great number.”

Hester said faintly, “Mama, I should quite like to see my room. I feel sadly dishevelled, and…and I have a touch of the headache.”

“My poor child! I thought you seemed rather pale—we rose so early this morning, Hugo. I dare swear you were not even awake when we left Perceval Hall. Come, my dear!” At the door she paused. “I hope to see you later, Hugo. Are you dining here?”

“Certainly! I couldn’t neglect you all on your first evening in town. I must bring you up to date! Sophia Cleeve’s ball was a huge success, by the way. No expense spared, naturally. And in her quiet way little Robina is doing very well.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” Sir James beamed with pleasure.

His wife was equally pleased. She left Hester and came back into the room to join Hugo and her husband. “What a relief for her mother!” she exclaimed. “Elizabeth was so worried at the expense of it all, but if Robina can make a reasonable match, the prospect for her sisters is vastly improved. She is, of course, a very pretty girl. Do you know who…?”

Hester seized her opportunity. She pulled Lowell out into the hall and pushed him into a side room, shutting the door firmly behind them. Then she turned.

“What have you done, Lowell?” she hissed.

“I don’t know what you m—”

Hester gave her brother a most unladylike shake.

“Yes you do, you little toad! How did you find it? And what did you do with it?”

“Oh, you mean The Wicked Marquis? I sold it.”

“You what?”

“I sold it. I showed it to a friend of mine in Cambridge and he was as keen as mustard about it. He knew where to go to get it printed, and…”

“You…you sold it? For publication? You’re trying to hoax me, Lowell—no respectable publisher would handle a thing like that!”

“Well, no. That’s where old Marbury was so useful. He knew a fellow who dealt with the other kind.”

“Lowell!” Hester was horrified, but Lowell was too full of enthusiasm to notice.

He went on, “It needed spicing up a bit for that kind of trade, of course, so I did that. I brought it up to date as well. I didn’t do at all a bad job, either. The chap I sold it to was quite impressed.”

“You…you traitor, Lowell! How could you! How dare you!”

He looked injured. “I thought you’d be pleased. It wasn’t doing any good in that dusty old cupboard, and now it’s a huge success. Don’t listen to what Hugo says. It’s not just my set—everyone is talking about it.”

“Oh God!” she said in despair, pacing up and down in a fever of anxiety. “Oh, Lowell! How could you? We’re ruined!”

“Nonsense! For one thing, no one knows who the author is—”

“But they’re bound to find out! It wouldn’t be difficult to work out who wrote it—all the people in it were the ones I knew. I’m surprised Hugo hasn’t worked it out already.”

“That’s where my bits came in,” said her brother proudly. “I think you’ll find that I’ve obscured the tracks enough.”

“I must see it—immediately. Tonight!”

“I don’t think so, Hes. Gaines and I are off to Astley’s tonight. Tomorrow.”

“You’ll bring it tonight, you snake—”

“Hester!” Lady Perceval came into the room. “I thought you had gone upstairs. Whatever are you doing here? And Lowell!”

“I…I…er…I have some messages for Lowell. From the Vicarage.”

“Henrietta, perhaps?” asked her mother with a significant smile. “I won’t ask what they are—you obviously want to deliver them in private. Lowell, shall we see you tonight?”

Her two children answered at the same time. “Yes!” said Hester. “No, unfortunately not,” said Lowell with an apologetic smile. Sir James, hearing this, was annoyed.

“What’s this, sir? Your mother and I would have liked you to be here!”

“Sorry, Papa! It’s Gaines. He’s leaving town tomorrow. He has to go down to Devon for a few weeks. Tonight’s the only night we can go and we’ve been promising ourselves this treat for ages. I’ll be here tomorrow morning—about noon.”

With this his parents had to be content, though they were not best pleased. As they turned to go Hester, who had been thinking furiously, said, “Mama, Lowell has suggested we go for a short walk. He thought that might relieve my headache better than lying in a stuffy room. I should dearly like to see where he lives. I know it isn’t far. Just round the corner…almost.” She gave Lowell a sweet smile. Only he could sense the determination behind it.

“Well…”

“I’m sure he’ll look after me, Mama. Won’t you, Lowell?”

“Of course! If you’re sure you want to…”

“I want to. May I, Mama?”

A few moments later Hester was accompanying Lowell to Half Moon Street. After a silence she said, “You haven’t told me yet how you discovered it.”

Lowell had had time to reflect on Hester’s reaction. He had genuinely thought that it was a wonderful jest to have her book published, but now he was no longer so sure. It was a long time since he had seen Hester in such a rage.

“I…I was waiting for you in the attic. This was some time ago, Hes. You were a long time coming. So…so I explored. The key was on top of the cupboard, and…and…”

“You opened it. And stole the manuscript.”

“Don’t say that! I read it on the spot. It isn’t very long, as you know. If you had come in then I daresay I shouldn’t have done anything with it. But you were held up in the village or something, so I had plenty of time to finish it. I couldn’t stop laughing. It was brilliant!”

“Laughing!” Hester exclaimed bitterly.

“Well, I daresay you didn’t feel like laughing when you wrote it. But your caricatures were hilarious to an outsider. And one or two of them hit the nail right on the head. That’s why it’s such a wild success. All London is laughing. I don’t know why you’re taking it so badly, Hester!”

“Lowell! If it ever comes out that I wrote the thing then I am dished—completely. For ever! London won’t laugh then. They’ll hunt me out of town.”

“They won’t find out. I told you, I altered it to disguise your part. And…and…”

“Continue, little brother,” said Hester ominously when Lowell hesitated.

“Well, I put things in it that a respectable girl couldn’t possibly know about. You’d mentioned some of Sywell’s escapades—you remember that party no one would talk about, until I got old Silas to tell? And the business with Abel Bardon’s daughters? You didn’t know the details—no one would tell you, of course, so you’d used your imagination. Well, I just added a few of the real facts. No one could possibly believe you knew anything about those.”

Hester stopped and put her hands over her face. “Lowell, this is the worst thing you have ever done to me. I can’t bear it!” she said.

Lowell took her arm, aware of the curious glances directed at them both. He said in a low voice, “The situation isn’t nearly as bad as you think, Hester. Look! We’re nearly at my place—come in and I’ll give you something—a glass of wine, perhaps? Gaines has some first-class burgundy.”

Hester allowed herself to be shepherded into the small house in Half Moon Street where Lowell had his rooms. “I’d like to drown you in it. But I’ll have some water, or possibly some tea. Not wine.”

“I say, Hester! That’s not fair! I did it for a lark!”

“That’s what you always say, Lowell! But this is no lark!” Her brother’s air of injured innocence, rather like that of a hurt puppy, was having its usual effect. Hester was never able to stay angry with Lowell for long. But when she looked at the book which Lowell put into her hands a few minutes later she exploded again.

“This is disgusting!”

“Well, yes. They did spread themselves on the cover. The Marquis is being really astonishingly wicked.” As Lowell looked at it he started to grin appreciatively. “I don’t know how the devil he managed that position, though.”

“Lowell!! You shouldn’t be showing me this…this filth! You shouldn’t even be mentioning such things to me! Oh Lord! I can’t believe this is happening to me. Not another disaster, not again!” Hester was distraught. She walked up and down the room in agitation.

“Oh come, Hester! I may have spiced the novel up a little—”

“A little! If this is anything to go by…”

“A lot, then. But you can’t go all prunes and prisms on me. After all, you thought it all up. I only embellished it.”

“Oh no!”

“And the cover is the worst thing about it. It’s really not so lurid inside. Read it and see for yourself. I promise you, it will make you laugh.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort!” She stopped short. Then she wailed, “I shall have to read the confounded thing! Tonight, if possible. I must see what you’ve done to it. Lowell, I shall never forgive you for this, never! Here, take the book and wrap it up—properly, mind! I don’t want it to come undone before I can hide it in my room.”

Lowell was now so anxious to please that he wrapped the offending book into a small parcel and handed it over. “I’ll escort you back,” he said contritely.

“No! I don’t want your company! I’m used to walking alone, and it’s only a step.”

“But I must—”

“Lowell,” said Hester with awful calm. “Don’t argue with me. I shall scream if I have to say another word to you! I need to walk back to Bruton Street alone! I just might be able to speak to you tomorrow, but don’t count on it.” She turned and left him standing on the door step. He waited irresolutely, then shrugged his shoulders and went in.

Hester walked swiftly back up towards Berkeley Square. She was seething with an explosive mixture of anger and apprehension. How dare Lowell do such an outrageous thing! What would become of her—and her family—if London ever found her out? The parcel in her hand seemed to burn through to her fingers; she wanted to drop it, but dared not let it go. She reached the top of Half Moon Street and turned in the direction of Berkeley Square, head down, still clutching her parcel—and collided with a tall gentleman who was coming towards her. She dropped her parcel and with a gasp of dismay bent down to pick it up. A hand came out to prevent her.

“You must allow me,” said a deep, drawling voice.

Hester groaned inwardly. Fate was always against her on such occasions. It was inevitable that out of all the gentlemen in society she should meet this one, just when she least wanted to. She summoned up her courage. “Lord Dungarran!” she exclaimed. “How…how…pleasant to meet you again!”

Chapter Four

Surprise, a fleeting expression of resignation, and then a faint hint of reproof—Hester saw all of these cross Dungarran’s face before he resumed his normal calm.

“Miss Perceval. What an unexpected pleasure!”

The words were conventional, and were not supported by any warmth in his voice. Hester’s eyes dropped. He must not be allowed to see the panic into which Lowell’s revelations had thrown her. Not this man.

“Thank you for coming once again to my rescue, sir,” she said stiffly and held out her hand for the parcel.

He smiled briefly, but did not hand it over. “At least it isn’t wet.” His eyes surveyed the street. “But…are you once again in need of an escort, Miss Perceval?”

“Not in the slightest. I am making for Berkeley Square. It isn’t far.”

“All the same,” he said decidedly, “I will accompany you.” He offered her his arm.

“It really isn’t necessary, Lord Dungarran. If you will give me my parcel I am perfectly able to walk the few yards to the square.”

He frowned. “Miss Perceval, I have no wish to force my company on you, believe me. But you may be assured that if your parents or Hugo knew that you were walking the streets of London without a maid or footman they would be as…surprised as I am. It is bad enough in Northampton. In London it is unheard of. Come!” He presented his arm again.

The colour rose in Hester’s cheeks. There was so much she wanted to say, none of it polite. So she remained silent, her eyes fixed anxiously on the parcel which he still carried in his other hand. She was faintly surprised not to see signs of scorching on its wrappings. As they walked along Curzon Street he held it out and said, “What is it this time, Miss Perceval? Not muslin or satin—it is too hard for that. Or should I not ask? It feels like a book.”

Hester swallowed and tried to smile. “It…it is a book. Lowell has lent me a book of…of…poetry. B—ballads.”

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