“I do not need an escort, my lord. I have nothing worth stealing.”

“Except your good name.” It was out before he could stop it, and he knew he had laid himself open to a sharp retort. He was not disappointed.

“That, my lord, was stolen earlier in the day and by someone I should have been able to trust.”

“It was not stolen. It was freely given,” he said, equal to the challenge.

“Lady Fitz said you were a rake, and how right she was,” she said, ignoring the truth of his remark.

“And you are a tease.” He was angry now. He had thought she was in danger from ruffians, had expected gratitude, not this bitter exchange of accusations. Rake, indeed! “If you behave like a demirep, then you must expect to be treated like one.”

Mistress of Madderlea Harlequin Historical #177—

MARY NICHOLS

was born in Singapore, and came to England when she was three. She has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children and four grandchildren.

Mistress of Madderlea
Mary Nichols

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin® Historical and MARY NICHOLS

The Incomparable Countess #156

Lady Lavinia’s Match #163

A Lady of Consequence #169

Mistress of Madderlea #177

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter One

1817

‘This is no good, no good at all,’ William Hundon muttered, reading a letter which had just been brought to the breakfast table. ‘Something must be done.’

‘My dear, do not frown so,’ his wife said, glancing up from the piece of toast she was buttering to look at him. ‘You will give yourself wrinkles.’

‘Wrinkles!’ he exclaimed. ‘If that were all I had to concern me, I should count myself fortunate…’

‘That is a letter from Mr Sparrow, is it not?’ she went on. ‘Only Mr Sparrow could put you in such an ill humour.’ Although an invalid and a martyr to rheumatics, his wife insisted on coming downstairs in a dressing gown to have breakfast en famille, which included their daughter, Charlotte, and her niece, Sophie, who had lived with them for the last two years.

Sophie, alerted by the mention of Mr Sparrow’s name, looked up at her uncle. ‘Is there something untoward at Madderlea, Uncle William?’

‘There is always something untoward at Madderlea.’ He stopped speaking to tap at the letter with the back of his hand. ‘This time he wants money for repairs to the stable block, last week it was the roof of the west wing that was leaking. I do not know whether he is incompetent or criminal…’

‘Surely not criminal?’ his wife asked, taken aback by his vehemence.

‘Could you not employ another agent to manage Madderlea?’ Sophie asked.

‘And how could I be sure another would be any better? It is a highly unsatisfactory arrangement. We live too far from Madderlea for me to be constantly going to and fro to see that the man is doing his job. Besides, he does not own the place and one cannot expect him to have the same care as the family.’

‘But, Papa, there is no family, except Sophie,’ Charlotte put in, then stopped in confusion when her mother gave her a look of disapproval. The loss of her family was hardly ever mentioned in Sophie’s hearing to save her pain.

‘Precisely,’ he said.

Madderlea Hall was the home of generations of the Roswell family. Her father had always referred to it as home, even when they lived in Brussels, and it was to Madderlea he had taken her when Napoleon’s conquests and tyrannical rule had made living on the continent too dangerous for an Englishman. It had been a terrifying journey for a fifteen-year-old.

Because of the blockade of European ports, they had been obliged to travel eastwards to Gdansk where British ships were bringing guns and ammunition to the Russians who were retreating before Napoleon’s march on Moscow, and she had seen sights which were indelibly printed on her memory. Troops were left to forage for food from a countryside laid waste by its people in order not to feed the invaders. The fields remained untilled or scorched by fire, the livestock slaughtered. Men and horses starved, even during the advance.

It had taken all her father’s savings and her late mother’s jewellery, everything they possessed, except the clothes they wore, to buy food and a passage home in a cargo ship which pitched and tossed on the rough sea until she was sick as a dog. From London, where they landed, Papa had taken her to her uncle, the Earl of Peterborough, and then gone off and got himself killed fighting in Spain.

The experience had made her seem older and wiser than her years, able to take the ordinary ups and downs of life in her stride, resourceful and unafraid. Nor was she often sad; life was too short for that and the serious side of her nature was balanced by a sense of fun.

Uncle Henry had treated her like the daughter he never had and she had loved him and his wife as a second set of parents. It did not diminish the fond memories she had of her mother, who had died years before, nor of her brave and loving father, but Madderlea had become her home too, a safe haven, a beautiful and happy place, the villagers content because the people at the big house cared about them. Until…

She didn’t want to think of that day, but it would always be there in the back of her mind, a day in her life she would never forget, a day which had transformed her from a bright happy young lady looking forward to her first Season, into a quiet, withdrawn woman, who was never free of pain, both physical and mental. Almost two years on, her body had miraculously healed, but the mental images were still with her and would be to the day she died. Even now, sitting at the breakfast table in her Uncle William’s comfortable but unpretentious house, they returned to haunt her.

They had been on their way to London for the Season and she was to have a come-out. She had been full of happy anticipation, making plans, talking about the gowns and fripperies she was going to buy, confident of finding a husband among the many beaux who would attend all the social occasions. Aunt Margaret had assured her she would be the catch of the Season and she had no reason to doubt her.

She did not consider herself beautiful, being rather too tall and slim for the current fashion, and her hair was red-gold at a time when dark locks were favoured, but she carried herself well and her complexion was good. Her greeny-grey eyes were her best feature, or so her aunt had told her. She had been promised a considerable dowry too, provided her choice met the approval of her aunt and uncle, but that was only fair and she had no qualms about it.

The weather had been fine when they set out in the family coach from Madderlea in Norfolk, but by the time they reached Newmarket Heath, black clouds had gathered and it became almost as dark as night. Long before it began to rain, lightning flashed across the heath and thunder rumbled ominously. There was nowhere to stop and take shelter. Her aunt had wanted to turn back but, as Uncle Henry pointed out, the clouds were moving northwards and turning back would mean travelling with them instead of against them; if they kept going they would soon be under clear skies again.

It was the most terrible storm Sophie had ever witnessed and the terrified horses, intent on turning away from the flashes that continually rent the air in front of them, galloped off the road across the rough heath-land, bumping the carriage up and down so that the occupants were hard put to hold onto their seats. They had heard a scream as the coachman was thrown off and though the groom who sat beside him on the box tried to retrieve the reins, he could not. Helplessly, they hung on until a wheel hit a rock and the whole vehicle turned over to the sound of rending wood, screaming horses and cries of terror, hers as well as her aunt’s. And then there was black silence.

How long Sophie had been unconscious she did not know. She had come to her senses when she heard rough voices. ‘They’re dead, every last one of them.’

‘Well, we can’t leave them here. Best find out who they are, send for help.’

It was then she had cried out, unsure whether she had made enough sound to alert them, but then a man’s head peered at her over the edge of the mangled vehicle, where she had been trapped with the dead weight of her aunt on top of her.

‘There’s one alive in here. Help me get her out. There, there, miss, you’re safe now.’

Safe yes, but badly injured. The rest of that day and the weeks that had followed were a blur of pain and misery, but there had come a day when she had woken to find herself in a pretty bed chamber and the sun shining in through the window. Aunt Madeleine, her mother’s sister, had been smiling down at her, her pale face full of gentle concern.

‘How did I come to be here?’

‘We fetched you, just as soon as we heard the dreadful news that you were lying at death’s door in the infirmary at Newmarket.’ Her aunt had lived in England since her marriage and her English was perfect but there still remained a trace of a French accent which reminded Sophie of her mother.

She had a hazy memory of being carried, of being put in a vehicle of some kind, of groaning at the pain and of wishing only to be left alone to die in peace. But then there had been soft sheets and someone stroking her brow and muted voices, of returning consciousness which was too painful to bear and of drifting back into sleep. ‘When?’

‘Two months ago.’

Two months! ‘Uncle Henry? Aunt Margaret?’

‘I’m sorry, Sophie, you were the only one found alive and we thought we might lose you too. Now you are going to get well again. Charlotte will come and sit with you.’

Only later, when they thought she was strong enough, did they tell her that she had inherited Madderlea Hall. ‘It is not entailed,’ Uncle William had told her. ‘Your grandfather had a daughter and when it looked as though he would have no more children, he took steps to break the entail. The irony of it was that his daughter died and then, late in life, he had two sons, your Uncle Henry and your father. Now both are dead and you are a considerable heiress.’

She was mistress of Madderlea! But under the law, being unmarried and female, she could not have control of her inheritance, even if she had been well and strong. Until she married, it had to be administered by a trustee. In his will, her Uncle Henry had appointed William Hundon who, besides being her Aunt Madeleine’s husband, was also a lawyer. Uncle William had employed an agent-cum-steward to live at Madderlea Hall and look after its affairs while she remained with her uncle and aunt and her cousin Charlotte at Upper Corbury, growing stronger day by day.

It was an unsatisfactory position. Madderlea needed more than an agent; it needed someone who cared about it. She ought to live there herself, but when she suggested it, her uncle and aunt threw up their hands in horror. ‘You know that’s not possible, Sophie,’ her uncle said. ‘Even if the law were to allow it, I, as a trustee, certainly should not. You would be the target of every rake and fortune hunter in the country.’

‘But it is such a worry to you, Uncle and I would not, for the world, burden you with it if I could help it. You have done so much for me already.’

‘There is only one sure remedy,’ her aunt put in. ‘You must find a husband.’

A husband. A husband, to have and to hold, for better or worse, to obey, to share her burdens, someone to take over the running of her affairs and manage Madderlea, to produce heirs. But where was she going to find a husband prepared to take on Madderlea, who was not a rake and a fortune hunter in a quiet backwater like Upper Corbury? She could count the eligible bachelors in the county on the fingers of one hand. There were widowers of course…She shuddered.

‘You will have to marry sooner or later, Sophie dear,’ her aunt went on. ‘Now you are fully recovered, I think you should have a Season and William agrees with me.’

‘A Season? In London?’

Her aunt smiled. ‘Yes, London, where else?’

Charlotte, eyes shining, echoed, ‘A Season! Oh, Sophie, how wonderful. I wish…’ She stopped. There was no question that she could be brought out in that way; her parents did not move in those exalted circles and it was unkind of her to express the wish.

‘But, Aunt, surely that will be too much for you?’ Sophie said, knowing her aunt could only walk a few steps and that very slowly with the aid of sticks. ‘I am persuaded it can be very exhausting.’

‘Your aunt will not be going,’ her uncle said. ‘And neither will I. I would not dream of leaving her. Besides, I have an important case on at the County Court and it is set to last all summer.’

‘How, then?’ asked Sophie, mystified.

‘We shall find a lady to take you under her wing and bring you out with her own daughter. It is sometimes done, I believe, in return for a contribution to the expenses.’

‘In other words, I am to pay for my hostess’s daughter as well as myself?’

‘Yes, but you see—’

‘And suppose I do not care for the lady or her daughter?’

‘Sophie, please do not be difficult,’ begged her aunt. ‘It is the only way.’

‘I would much rather pay for Charlotte to accompany me. In truth, I would like that very much. It is not fair leaving her behind and showering money on a stranger.’

‘Oh, Sophie,’ Charlotte breathed. ‘I should like that above everything.’

Sophie gave her an affectionate smile. She loved her cousin dearly. At nineteen, she was almost the same age as Sophie, but shorter and rounder. Her hair was very fair and her eyes blue as the summer sky, giving her an innocent, almost childlike look which was deceptive. Sophie turned back to her uncle. ‘Could you not find a lady without daughters, a widow, perhaps, who would sponsor both of us?’

Her uncle looked doubtful and she added, ‘Please, Uncle William. I am quite determined on it. If you wish to see me married and have the burden of Madderlea lifted from your shoulders, then Charlotte must come too. I do not care how much it costs.’

Charlotte was aghast at the way Sophie had spoken, but her father seemed not to be offended. ‘That sounds very like blackmail, Sophie, or bribery…’ The twinkle in his eye belied his words.

‘Oh, Uncle, I did not mean that. Please forgive me.’

‘Very well. I will try to find a mature lady to take you both under her wing. And the sooner the better. Charlotte, you must look after your mother, while I am away. I shall not be gone above two days, I hope.’ With that he left the table and called his manservant to help him to pack.

Charlotte could not contain her excitement, though Sophie was more subdued. In the previous two years she had become so used to taking life very quietly and avoiding agitation in order to aid her recovery that it had become a habit. No one would have believed she was once animated and brimming over with energy. The family physician had said she would recover her spirits in time, they must all be patient. Now, it seemed he had been right for a little of Charlotte’s enthusiasm was beginning to affect her and she began to be impatient for her uncle’s return.

‘Do let us go out for a walk,’ Sophie suggested when her aunt had been helped back to her room, where she would dress with the help of her maid and sit reading or sewing until the pain in her hands forced her to stop. ‘I shall die of boredom if I’m confined to the house a day longer.’

For the first time that year the air was balmy, the rain which had kept the young ladies indoors all the previous week had lifted and everywhere was fresh and green. Daffodils and gilly flowers were blooming in the garden and Sophie had noticed violets out along the edge of the drive. It was a day for walking and breathing deeply and thanking God you were alive to enjoy it.

‘We’ll walk through the woods,’ Sophie said, as they donned cloaks to cover their light wool morning gowns and buttoned their feet into sturdy boots. ‘Round over Corbury Hill, down through Little Paxton and back through the village. We can call on old Mrs Brown on the way and see how she is. What do you say?’

‘But, Sophie, it’s all of five miles. Are you sure you’re up to it? ‘

‘Of course. I’m perfectly well now, or Uncle William would not have suggested going to London. I am persuaded one needs a great deal of energy for all the balls and soirées and visits to the theatre, not to mention picnics and riding in the park.’

Charlotte laughed as they left the house behind and made for the footpath to the woods which ran alongside the garden. ‘You have left out the most arduous exercise of all, Cousin.’

‘Oh, what is that?’

‘Finding a husband, of course.’

Picking her way carefully over the damp grass, Sophie contemplated the prospect. The only men she had really been close to were her father and her two uncles and the thought of being touched or kissed by anyone else sent a frisson of fear, mixed with a strange surge of excitement, through her whole body. And then she thought of Madderlea and her fortune and knew that those two facts alone would ensure a flock of suitors. But how to choose? How to be sure that whoever offered for her was looking at her for herself and not her inheritance?

‘It will not be easy.’ She sighed. ‘There are times when I almost wish I had no fortune, no Madderlea. It is a weighty responsibility, you know.’

‘How so?’

‘It is not only Madderlea Hall which is old and always in need of repair—there are servants, indoors and out, and the tenants, who look to the Hall to repair their cottages and keep the land in good heart, and the villagers, whose welfare must be considered, and the parson, whose living is in the gift of the Lord of the Manor. I must choose a husband who will be as careful of all those responsibilities as Uncle Henry was, who will love Madderlea as much as I do.’

‘You have not said one word about him loving you. Do you not believe in marrying for love?’

‘Of course I do, but how can I be sure of any man? Madderlea will be a great enticement to deceive, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, Sophie, you must look for love as well. You will be so unhappy if you do not.’

They had entered the woods, taking a well-defined track between the trees. Sophie lifted an overhanging branch, its new leaves glistening with raindrops, and stooped to pass beneath it, holding it for Charlotte to follow.

‘Oh, Charlie, I should not care if he were as poor as a church mouse, if he loved me. In fact, I think I should be averse to a man with a fortune. Men with deep pockets are almost always arrogant and unfeeling and think that money will buy anything, even a wife. I am thankful that money is not one of the attributes I shall be seeking.’

‘Oh, and what qualities would you be looking for in a husband?’

‘He must be handsome and well turned out, but not vain of his appearance as some dandies are. I think it is far more important that he should have an interesting face and be able to converse sensibly without being condescending. He must allow me to be myself and not try to mould me to his idea of womanhood. He must, of course, be honourable in everything he does. He must be good with children, for I should like children, and be kind to his servants.’

Charlotte raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Oh, is that all?’

‘No, he must be considerate and tenderhearted and not haughty or domineering. But not soft. Oh, no, definitely not soft.’

‘Goodness, Sophie, where are you going to find such a paragon? You ask too much.’

Sophie sighed. ‘I know, but I can dream, can I not? Don’t you ever dream?’

‘Yes, but only of Freddie.’

‘Mr Harfield, ah, yes, I had almost forgot him. You will be able to enjoy your Season, safe in the knowledge that you have him to come back to.’

‘I am not so sure, Sophie. Freddie told me that his father wants him to marry someone with a substantial dowry; you know I don’t have that.’

Sophie laughed. ‘I have not heard that Mr Harfield is making any push to obey his papa. He has never so much as looked at anyone else.’

‘No, but Sir Mortimer is the squire of Upper Corbury, which I own is nothing compared to Madderlea, but in our little pool, he is a big fish, and no doubt Freddie will have to give in in the end.’

‘Then he is not the man I took him for,’ Sophie said.

They had come out of the woods on to a lane which wound up and over Corbury Hill. The dark fields, here and there showing the tips of winter wheat, stretched on either side of them. On the skyline, they could see the hunt, galloping behind the yelping hounds.

‘Do you think they’ve found the scent?’ Charlotte asked, as the sound of the hunting horn drifted across to them.

‘I hope not. I feel for the poor fox.’

‘Oh, Sophie, and you a country girl!’ She stopped. ‘There’s Freddie. Don’t you think he is handsome, the way he sits his horse?’

Sophie smiled. ‘I am persuaded that you do.’

The young man had spotted them and turned his horse to meet them, pulling it up in a shower of damp earth, almost at their feet.

‘Freddie!’ Charlotte said, brushing down her cape. ‘You have made us all muddy.’

He grinned, doffing his hat to reveal blond curls. Two years older than they were, he still had the slim figure and round face of a youth, but had been rapidly maturing over the previous two years and would soon have all the mamas for miles around looking at him with an acquisitive eye.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Hundon.’ Then, to Sophie, ‘Miss Roswell.’

Sophie smiled. ‘Mr Harfield.’

‘It is so pleasant to be out after all the rain,’ Charlotte said, teasing him. ‘And we might not be able to do so much longer.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We are both going to London for a Season. What do you think of that?’

‘Season?’ he echoed in dismay. ‘You mean you are to have a come-out and mix with all the eligibles?’

‘I mean exactly that,’ she said, laughing.

He dismounted and walked over to grab both her hands, a gesture which Sophie knew she ought to discourage as being highly improper, but she had no heart to do it.

‘Charlie,’ he said, using the familiar name of childhood. ‘You wouldn’t…Would you?’

‘Now, who’s to say? I might…’

‘Oh, no, please say you are only teasing…’

‘I am only teasing.’ She looked at him with her head on one side, while Sophie pretended to examine something in the hedgerow. ‘But you know, Freddie, if your papa has his way, I should be holding myself back in vain.’

‘I will bring him round. Promise me you will be patient.’ He could hear the hunt fading in the distance. ‘I must go.’ He put her hands to his lips and reluctantly released them. The next minute he was astride his horse and galloping away.

‘You know, that was highly indecorous conduct,’ Sophie said, as they resumed their walk. ‘If anyone had seen you…’

‘But they didn’t, did they?’ Charlotte was smiling at the memory of her swain.

‘No, but it will be very different in London, you know. What might be acceptable behaviour in Upper Corbury would be enough to ruin your reputation in the capital. Do remember that, Charlie.’

‘There is no need to ring a peal over me, Sophie, I know I must be prim and proper when we go to London. Besides, Freddie will not be there and I shall not be tempted to stray.’

Sophie was not so sure. Temptations there would be, she was certain, not only for Charlotte but for her too—she must not allow herself to forget Madderlea and why she was there.

Three weeks later, they set off for London in the family coach, accompanied by Anne, who had been promoted from parlour maid to ladies’ maid, and escorted by Joseph, Mr Hundon’s groom, riding Sophie’s grey stallion. Joseph’s nineteen-year-old son, Luke, was riding Charlotte’s smaller horse. Joseph and the coachman were to return with the carriage immediately because William needed it, but Luke was to stay in London to look after their mounts. They would be relying on their hostess’s equipage to convey them around town.

‘Her name is Lady Fitzpatrick,’ William had told them on his return. ‘She is a distant cousin on my mother’s side. You have not met her because she moved to Ireland on her marriage and we did not correspond. She was widowed some years ago and returned to live in London. I went to ask her advice and she offered to sponsor you herself, which is very agreeable of her and saved me a great deal of time and trouble. She has a town house in Holles Street, not a top-of-the-trees area, but respectable enough.’

‘Some years ago,’ Charlotte echoed. ‘Does that mean she is old, Papa?’

‘No, I would not say old,’ he told them. ‘Mature and well able to deal with high-spirited girls.’

‘A dragon.’

‘Certainly not. In fact, she is a sympathetic sort and will stand well in loco parentis. I believe she might be a little short-sighted, for she uses a quizzing glass all the time, but that is of no account. I am sure you will like her; she impressed me very much with her sensibility and knowledge of what is right and proper.’

This description hardly filled the girls with rapture, but it could not have been easy for him, a country gentleman not used to the haute monde. They were going to London for the Season and that was all that mattered.

‘Now, Sophie, you will have a care, will you not?’ he had said the day before, when they were in the throes of last-minute packing. ‘There will be unscrupulous men about and I do not want you to be gulled. Be guided by Lady Fitzpatrick and, whatever you do, do not commit yourself to anyone until I have seen and approved him. You do understand?’

‘Of course, Uncle.’

‘And the same goes for you, my love,’ he told his daughter. ‘And though you will not be the object of fortune hunters, you are a lovely girl and perhaps susceptible to flattery…’

‘Oh, Papa, I am not such a ninny. Besides, I am going to enjoy myself, not look for a husband. The man I want is in Upper Corbury.’

He had laughed at that and said no more, though Aunt Madeleine, tearfully coming out to the carriage to wave goodbye to them, had reinforced everything he had said and more, extracting a promise from them that they would write every other day.

‘Oh, this is so exciting,’ Charlotte said, when they stopped for their first change of horses. Anne, who was a bad traveller, had curled herself up in the corner and gone to sleep. The girls allowed her to slumber on; it was easier to exchange confidences without eavesdroppers, however unintentional. ‘What time will we arrive, do you think?’

‘With luck, before it becomes dark,’ Sophie said.

‘I do hope Lady Fitzpatrick is not a dragon. I mean to enjoy myself, meeting all the eligibles. It will not hurt Freddie to think he has some competition.’

Sophie envied her cousin her untroubled mind. ‘You may look forward to it, Charlie, but I am not so sanguine.’

‘Why not? You are rich as Croesus. Think of all the splendid gowns you will be able to buy, the pelisses, riding habits, bonnets and silk shawls. A new dress and a new bonnet for every occasion. And you will have all the young men dangling after you. In your shoes, I would be in ecstasies.’

‘I wish you could be in my shoes, Cousin, dear, for I would willingly trade places.’

‘You surely do not mean that.’

‘I do. Then I could choose a husband without him knowing who I am.’

‘And afterwards? He would have to know in the end.’

‘Yes, but by then we should have discovered we suited and he would not mind.’

‘No, I do not suppose he would, considering he had landed an heiress and not the simple country girl he thought he had won. Oh, Sophie, if you go about with that Friday face, you will surely put them all off.’

Sophie laughed, her greeny-grey eyes danced with light and her face lit up with mischief. ‘I must not do that, must I?’

‘Certainly you must not, if you wish to catch that paragon you told me of.’

They talked on as the coach rattled through the countryside, which gradually became more and more inhabited as one village followed another in quick succession. Then they were travelling on cobbles and there were buildings each side of the street, houses and inns and shops, and the streets were crowded with vehicles and people, in spite of the lateness of the hour. They leaned forward eagerly to look about them when they realised they had arrived in the metropolis. Sophie had seen some of it briefly on her way from Europe to Madderlea, but to Charlotte it was new and wonderful.

Fifteen minutes later they turned into Holles Street and the carriage drew to a stop. The girls, peering out, saw a tall narrow house with evenly spaced windows and steps up to the front door, which was thrown open when Joseph lifted the knocker and let it fall with a resounding clang. A footman and a young lad ran down the steps to the carriage and began unloading their luggage, while the girls extricated themselves and made their way, in some trepidation, up the steps and into the front hall, followed by Anne, still half asleep.

‘Ladies, ladies, welcome. Come in. Come in. Is that your maid? Tell her to follow the footman, he will show her your rooms. She can unpack while you take some refreshment. I do hope the journey has not tired you excessively.’

The rush of words ended as suddenly as they had begun and the girls found themselves staring at a dumpy little woman in a mauve satin gown and a black lace cap, who was peering at them through a quizzing glass. Her eyes, small and dark, were almost lost in a face that was as round and rosy as an apple.

‘Good evening, Lady Fitzpatrick.’ Sophie was the first to speak. ‘We—’

‘No, don’t tell me, let me guess,’ their hostess said, lifting her glass closer to her eyes and subjecting them to individual scrutiny. They were dressed similarly in plain travelling dresses and short capes, though Sophie’s was a dark russet, which heightened the red-gold of her hair, and Charlotte’s was rose-pink. Sophie’s bonnet was dark green straw, trimmed with matching velvet ribbon, and Charlotte’s was a chip bonnet, ruched in pale blue silk.

Her close inspection completed, her ladyship pointed her lorgnette at Charlotte, who was standing silently trying not to laugh. ‘You are Miss Roswell. I can tell breeding a mile off.’ She turned to Sophie. ‘And you are the country cousin.’

Charlotte was too busy trying to smother her giggles to contradict her. Sophie dug her sharply in the ribs with her elbow and smiled at their hostess. ‘Why, how clever of you, my lady. I did not think it so obvious.’

‘Sophie!’ breathed Charlotte in alarm, but Sophie ignored her and smiled at Lady Fitzpatrick.

‘I can see that no one could gull you, my lady. Not that we should try, of course. I am, indeed, Miss Hundon.’

Her ladyship leaned towards her, cupping a hand round her ear. ‘You must learn to speak clearly, child, it is no good mumbling. I am sure Miss Roswell does not mumble.’

Sophie realised that, besides having poor eyesight, Lady Fitzpatrick was also hard of hearing. Had Uncle William known that?

‘Charlotte, for goodness’ sake, don’t stand there giggling,’ she murmured. ‘Say something.’

‘What can I say? Oh dear, Sophie, what have you done? You have landed us in a bumblebath and no mistake.’

‘Bath,’ said Lady Fitzpatrick. ‘Of course, you may have a bath. I will order the water to be taken up to your rooms. But first, some refreshment.’ She led the way into the drawing room, where a parlour maid had just arrived with a tea tray which she put on a low table beside a sofa. ‘Now, Sophie, you sit here beside me and Charlotte can sit in the armchair opposite.’

Charlotte obeyed and then gasped when her ladyship looked askance at her. ‘I meant you to sit beside me, my dear, but it is of no real consequence.’

Sophie relinquished her seat and motioned Charlotte to take it. ‘My lady, you have misunderstood,’ she said, speaking very precisely. ‘I am Sophie. This is Charlotte.’

‘Oh, I see. You know, Mr Hundon spoke very quickly and I did not always catch exactly what he said. So Miss Roswell is Charlotte and Miss Hundon is Sophie, not the other way about. No wonder you were amused.’

‘But…’ Charlotte spluttered and then dissolved into the giggles she had been trying so hard to suppress and Sophie found herself laughing. It was the first time for two years that she had really done more than smile a little, and it felt wonderful.

Lady Fitzpatrick, mistaking the cause of their laughter, allowed herself a rueful smile. ‘I have it right now, do I not?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Sophie said, accepting a cup of tea and sipping it. She knew Charlotte was staring askance at her, but refused to look her in the eye.

‘Sophie, whatever are we going to do?’ Charlotte, unable to sleep, had padded along to Sophie’s room in her nightdress. ‘We cannot possibly keep up the pretence.’

‘Why not? Lady Fitzpatrick’s mistake is fortuitous and it would be a shame to disillusion her. You said you would like to be in my shoes, so now you may.’

‘But, Sophie, Anne and Luke know which of us is which…’

‘Oh, I told Anne when she queried why you had been given the best room. I promised her five guineas and assured her she would not be in trouble over it.

‘Five guineas! Why, that is a small fortune to her!’

‘It would not serve to be miserly. As for Luke, he thought it was a great lark, when I offered him the same inducement.’

‘Sophie, I cannot do it, really I can’t. I shall die of mortification when we have to go out and about and meet people.’

Sophie thrust her conscience firmly into the background. Fate had taken a hand in the matter and made Lady Fitzpatrick make that mistake. It could not and should not be ignored. ‘No one knows us in town and you will manage wonderfully. Wouldn’t you like to play the heiress for a few weeks? It will flush out the fortune hunters and we can have a little fun at their expense. And, who knows, I might even meet that paragon.’

‘And when you do?’

‘Why, we will confess the truth and the toadeaters will come home by weeping cross and serve them right.’ She paused. ‘Charlotte, say you will do it. At the first sign our ruse is not working, I shall make a clean breast of it, I promise, and I shall say it was all my doing.’ She could see the idea growing on her cousin and pressed home her advantage. ‘Go on, tell me you are not tempted by the thought of playing the lady and having all the eligibles at your feet. You will, you know, because you are very fetching. You will return to Freddie with such a tale to tell, he will be filled with admiration and no harm done.’

Charlotte laughed and gave in.

Lady Fitzpatrick’s carriage was old, creaky and scuffed and the unmatched horses leaner than they should have been. It took them safely about town to do their shopping but the image it created was certainly not the one Sophie had in mind. Even though she intended to stay in the background, she wanted Charlotte to shine, for how else were they to flush out the fortune hunters as she had so succinctly put it to Charlotte the night before?

Mentally she put a new equipage on their shopping list, though that would have to wait for another day; buying gowns for morning, afternoon, carriage rides and balls, not to mention riding habits, bonnets, pelisses, footwear, fans and underwear took the whole of their first day.

Sophie’s choice of garments, while not exactly dowdy, was certainly not in the first stare of fashion. She chose plain styles and muted colours and let Charlotte be the peacock, encouraged by Lady Fitzpatrick.

‘Charlotte, my dear,’ her ladyship said, as the young lady eagerly pounced on a pale-green crepe open gown over a satin slip, while Sophie chose brown sarcenet, ‘I do not wish to scold…do you not think you could be a little more generous towards your cousin? She is to be brought out, too, you know.’

‘But Sophie is…’ Charlotte, who had been going to say Sophie held the purse strings and could buy whatever she wanted, stopped in confusion.

‘I am quite content, ma’am,’ Sophie said, all innocence. ‘Any man who offered for me must take me as I am. It would be wrong of me to pretend I am of greater consequence than I am.’

‘Sophie, Lady Fitzpatrick is right,’ Charlotte said. ‘It will look mean of me, if you do not choose at least one or two fashionable gowns for special occasions.’ Blue eyes twinkling, she added, ‘Please do not consider the cost, you know I can easily afford it.’

Sophie choked on a laugh; Charlotte was doing better than she had hoped. ‘Very well, but I shall not be extravagant.’

They returned home with the carriage piled high with their purchases and more to be delivered the following day, all to be paid for on Miss Roswell’s account, which would, of course, go to her uncle. The only thing they lacked was that first important invitation.

It arrived the following day. It was for a soirée being given by Lady Gosport, an old friend of Lady Fitzpatrick’s.

‘It will only be a small gathering, but it will set the ball rolling,’ her ladyship said.

The girls looked at each other. The time had come to test their masquerade and they were half-eager, half-fearful.

Chapter Two

The two men had enjoyed a morning gallop across the heath. The horses had gone well and now they were walking them back towards town. Both were tall and sat their mounts with the ease of cavalry officers used to long hours in the saddle; both wore impeccably tailored riding coats of Bath cloth, light brown buckskins and highly polished riding boots. Richard, Viscount Braybrooke, the older at twenty-nine, and slightly the bigger of the two, had been silent ever since they had turned to go back.

‘What ails you, Dick?’ Martin asked. ‘You’ve been in the dismals ever since you went home. You found no trouble there, I hope?’

‘Trouble?’ Richard roused himself from his contemplation of his horse’s ears to answer his friend. ‘No, not trouble exactly.’

‘Then what is wrong? Grandfather not in plump currant?’

‘He says he isn’t, but that’s only to make me toe the line.’

‘What line is that?’

‘Marriage.’

Martin shrugged. ‘Well, it comes to us all in the end.’

‘It’s all very well for you, you haven’t got a dukedom hanging on your choice. It would not be so bad if I had been born to inherit, but Emily was the only child my uncle had and the estate is entailed. My own father, who was the second son, died when I was still in leading strings and my uncle died of a fever while we were in Spain, so I came back to find myself the heir.’

‘You knew it might happen one day.’

‘Of course I did, but I thought I would have plenty of time to look about for a wife. The old man is holding my cousin Emily over my head like the sword of Damocles.’

Martin grinned. ‘Quite a feat for an elderly gentleman. I believe she is quite a large girl.’

Richard smiled in spite of himself. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘She is not to your taste?’

‘She was a child when I went away to war and it is as a child that I think of her, my little cousin to be petted and indulged, not as a wife.’

‘She is of marriageable age now, though.’

‘Seventeen, but her mother has spoiled her abominably and she is still immature, without a sensible thought in her head. I should be miserable leg-shackled to her and so would she.’

‘Has His Grace given you no choice?’

‘Oh, I have a choice. Find a wife of whom he will approve before the end of the Season, or it will have to be Emily.’

‘Why the haste? You have only just returned to civilian life, a year or so enjoying the fruits of peace would not come amiss.’

‘So I told him. I also pointed out that Emily should be allowed more time to grow up and make her own choice, but he says he has no time to waste, even if I think I have. He is an old man and likely to wind up his accounts at any time. He wants to see the next heir before he goes.’

They had arrived at the mews where the horses were stabled and, leaving them in the charge of grooms, set out to walk to Bedford Row where the Duke of Rathbone had a town house.

‘Do you know, I begin to feel sorry for Emily.’

‘So do I. Choosing a wife is not something to do in five minutes at a Society ball. It needs careful consideration. After all, you have to live with your choice for the rest of your life.’

‘Some don’t,’ Martin said, as a footman opened the door of the mansion and they passed into a marble-tiled vestibule. A magnificent oak staircase rose from the middle of it and branched out at a half-landing to go right and left and up to a gallery which overlooked the hall. ‘They marry someone suitable to continue the line and then discreetly take a mistress. Look at the Prince Regent…’

‘I would rather not look at him, if you don’t mind,’ Richard said, before turning to the servant who had admitted them and ordering breakfast for them both before leading the way to the library, a large room lined with bookshelves and containing a reading table and a couple of deep leather armchairs either side of the fireplace. ‘I may be old-fashioned, but I would rather find a wife I could care for and who cared for me. Emily has no feeling for me at all but, with my uncle’s death, my aunt was deprived of her chance to be a duchess and so she is determined on her daughter fulfilling the role. She will hound me to death as soon as she hears of my grandfather’s edict.’

Richard sprawled morosely in one of the chairs and Martin, always at ease in his friend’s company, sat opposite him. ‘Then there is no alternative, my friend—you must mix with Society as one of the eligibles and hope for the best.’

‘The best,’ Richard echoed. ‘Oh, that I could find such a one.’

‘A great deal depends on your expectations, Dick. Tell me, what attributes will you be looking for in a wife?’

Richard gave a short bark of a laugh, as if considering such a thing had never crossed his mind, though he had been thinking of little else since the interview with his grandfather. ‘Let me see. It goes without saying she must come from a good family, or Grandfather will never sanction her. Beautiful? Not necessarily, but she must have a pleasing face, a certain style and presence, so that I can be proud to have her on my arm in public. She must be able to converse intelligently; I should hate anyone vacuous or missish.’

‘An educated wife…that might be asking for trouble.’

‘A little education does no harm, but I wouldn’t want a blue stocking; they are always trying to score points. She must want and like children because the whole object of the exercise is to beget an heir and I do not hold with women who have babies and then hand them over to nurses and governesses to rear.’

‘That’s quite a list.’

‘I haven’t done yet. I would expect her to be considerate towards those beneath her and tenderhearted when they are in trouble, but not soft, not easily gulled. She must enjoy country pursuits because I shall wish to spend much of my time in Hertfordshire on the estate. Not a hoyden, though. Don’t like hoydens above half.’

Martin was smiling at this catalogue of virtues. ‘What about a dowry?’

‘Most important of all she must not be a fortune or a title hunter. In fact, it would be a decided advantage if she had her own fortune.’

‘Why? You are a pretty plump in the pocket already.’

‘I know, but if she has her own fortune, she will not be marrying me for mine, will she? I want someone accustomed to wealth so that she will fall easily into my way of living and not be overawed by it. Besides, I will not be truly wealthy until I inherit and, for all his protestations to the contrary, my grandfather is fit as a flea.

‘It would be better if my wife could afford all the extravagant fripperies she needs without my having to go to him for an increase in my allowance. If she is already independent, she would not fetter me with extravagant demands. She would be prepared to let me go my own way in return for being able to lead her own life, within certain decorous limits, of course.’

‘Do you know, I am sure I heard you say you were not interested in taking a mistress.’

‘I should like to keep the option open.’ He spoke so pompously that Martin burst into laughter. ‘You may laugh,’ Richard told him. ‘You aren’t constrained by other people’s expectations.’

‘It is your own expectations which are the more demanding, old fellow. Such a paragon of virtue does not exist.’

‘More’s the pity.’

A footman came to tell them that breakfast was ready and they got up to go to the small dining room, where a repast of ham, eggs, pickled herrings, boiled tongue and fresh bread was laid out for them.

‘Then you do agree that you must be seen in Society?’ Martin queried, watching Richard fill his plate. His problem seemed to have had no effect on his appetite.

‘I have no choice.’

‘Well, do not sound so reluctant, you will never attract your paragon like that. You must be agreeable and well turned out and…’

‘I know, my friend, I do not need a lecture on how to conduct myself.’

‘Then we’ll start this evening. Mama has arranged a little gathering at home and I promised to attend. It is very early in the Season, but she assures me there are to be several young ladies up for their first Season and a one or two of the competition too, I’ll be bound.’

‘Then I had better do something about my wardrobe. Everything I had before I went into the army is far too tight.’

‘That’s hardly surprising,’ Martin said laconically. ‘You were little more than a boy when you left and a man when you returned.’ He looked critically at his friend’s large frame. ‘Not a small one, either. Do you wish me to accompany you?’

‘No, of course not, I am perfectly able to choose clothes. I’ll meet you at Jackson’s at four. There will just be time for a short bout before dinner at five.’

Martin laughed. ‘Do you expect to have to fight for your lady’s hand?’

Richard smiled. ‘No, but it is always a good thing to maintain one’s ability to defend oneself.’

‘Oh, come, Dick, you have no enemies, a more affable man I have yet to meet.’

‘It would be a fortunate man who managed to go through life without acquiring a few enemies,’ Richard said.

‘Name me one.’

Richard needed time to consider. He was indeed fortunate that he was popular and well-liked by his peers and the men he had commanded, except for those who had flouted the tight discipline he maintained as an officer. ‘There was Sergeant Dawkins,’ he said, remembering the man he had had courtmar-tialled for looting, something Wellington had expressly forbidden.

The offence had been exacerbated by the fact that the goods the man had stolen had come from a Portuguese family who were allies. His defence, which had not been upheld, was that the family had been consorting with the enemy. The sergeant had been flogged and dishonourably discharged. Left to find his own way home from Lisbon, he had threatened Richard with revenge.

‘That threat was made two years ago and in the heat of the moment,’ Martin said. ‘You surely do not think he meant it?’

‘No, of course not, the poor fellow likely never made it back to England. He probably settled down in the Peninsula with a Spanish señorita. You asked for an example and I gave you one.’

‘Point taken. But I hope you will rid yourself of your aggression and ill humour against Gentleman Jackson in the boxing ring this afternoon and present yourself in my mother’s drawing room at seven this evening, in a sweet temper, ready to act the agreeable.’

‘Have no fear, my friend,’ Richard said, as both men left the table. ‘I shall be a model of the man about town.’

Sophie and Charlotte had arrived at Lady Gosport’s in Denmark Place a few minutes after seven to find her drawing room already buzzing with conversation. Most of the company seemed to be of Lady Fitzpatrick’s generation and Sophie’s spirits sank. This was not her idea of London Society at all. She looked across at Charlotte and exchanged a rueful grimace, before their hostess caught sight of them and hurried over to greet them.

‘Harriet, my dear, so glad you could come.’ She kissed Lady Fitzpatrick on both cheeks and then looked at the girls, taking careful note of Charlotte’s white crepe open gown trimmed with silk forget-me-nots over a pale blue slip, and moving on to examine Sophie’s cambric high gown with its overskirt of pale green jaconet, which her ladyship considered more suitable for day than evening wear. ‘So, these are your charges.’

‘Good evening, Beth.’ She took Charlotte’s arm and drew her forward. ‘May I present Miss Charlotte Roswell. The Earl of Peterborough’s niece. God rest his soul.’

‘Indeed, yes. My commiserations, Miss Roswell.’ Reminded of her superior station by a dig in the ribs from Sophie, Charlotte executed a small polite bob, not the deep curtsy she had intended. ‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘You are fully recovered from your ordeal?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ It was obvious that the girl was painfully shy and would have to be brought out of her shell if she were to take well. Her ladyship turned to Sophie. ‘Then you must be Miss Hundon. Miss Roswell’s companion, I collect.’

‘Oh, no,’ Charlotte put in. ‘Sophie is my cousin and friend, not a paid companion. We share everything.’

‘That is to your credit, my dear,’ Lady Gosport said. ‘But you will find that the possession of an estate and great wealth, as I believe you have, will make your advance in Society very unequal.’ Then to Sophie, ‘I do hope, dear Miss Hundon, you have not been led to expect the same attention as your more illustrious cousin?’

‘No, indeed,’ Sophie said, though she longed to bring the lady down to size with some cutting remark. Only the thought of their masquerade being exposed stilled her tongue.

‘Come, let me introduce you to the company.’ There were a few young ladies present, they realised, as they were conducted round the room, and one or two young men, who stood about posing in tight coats and impossibly high pointed cravats, twirling their quizzing glasses in their hands and speaking in affected voices which made the girls want to laugh aloud. Instead, they bowed politely and exchanged greetings and longed to escape.

‘This is quite dreadful,’ Sophie murmured to her cousin when they had done the rounds. ‘If the whole Season is to be like this, I shudder to think how we shall go on.’

‘It is early in the year,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘The Season is not yet under way.’

‘I hope you are right.’

Just then a commotion by the door heralded the arrival of latecomers. ‘Why, it is Martin,’ Lady Gosport cried, hurrying over to drag her son into the room. ‘You are very late. I had quite given you up.’

He gently removed her hand from the sleeve of his green superfine coat and smiled at her. ‘I am sorry, Mama. Pressing business delayed me. May I present my friend, Richard, Viscount Braybrooke?’

The man behind Mr Gosport stepped forward and the whole roomful of people gave a combined sigh, including Sophie, who had told herself she was immune to masculine vanity. If vanity it was. He seemed unaware of the impression he had created, and yet, as she looked more closely she realised he did know, for there was a twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes and a slight twitch to the corners of his mouth.

He was clad in a blue satin coat which fitted him so closely the muscles of his broad shoulders could be detected as he bowed over her ladyship’s hand. His waistcoat was of cream figured brocade and his blue kerseymere trousers, in the latest fashion, reached his shoes and were held down by straps under the instep, making his legs seem impossibly long. His cravat, though nothing like as high and pointed as those she had noticed on the other young men, was so skilfully tied, it drew exclamations of admiration from them.

His dark hair, cut short so that it curled about his ears, was the only slightly dishevelled part of him, but Sophie knew it was a style much favoured among the gentleman of the ton, called Windswept. Here was a tulip of the first order, and tulips were very definitely not what she was looking for, but beneath all that finery she sensed a man of great strength and power. She had a sudden vision of him unclothed, all rippling muscle, and a flood of colour suffused her cheeks.

She turned away to scrabble in her reticule for a handkerchief in order to compose herself. Whatever was the matter with her? She had never ever thought about a man’s nakedness before. Had he deliberately set out to have that effect? It was disgraceful in him if he had and even more disgraceful in her to succumb.

Charlotte, beside her, was openly staring. ‘My, would you look at that peacock,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, goodness, Lady Fitzpatrick is bringing them both over.’

Sophie, struggling to regain her usual serenity, was aware of Lady Fitzpatrick presenting the two men to her cousin. ‘Miss Roswell is the niece and ward of the late Earl of Peterborough,’ she was saying. ‘Being abroad, you will not have heard of the tragedy two years ago which left poor Miss Roswell all alone in the world.’

‘Not quite alone,’ Charlotte said, determined to include Sophie, not only because she felt overwhelmed, but because it wasn’t fair on her cousin to shut her out, as Lady Gosport seemed determined to do. ‘My lord, may I present my cousin, Miss Sophie Hundon?’

Sophie found herself subjected to a brown-eyed scrutiny which made her squirm inside and when he took her small hand in his very large one, she felt trapped like a wild bird in a cage which longed to be free but which hadn’t the sense to fly when the cage door was opened. Here, she knew, was a very dangerous man. Dangerous because he could make her forget the masquerade she and Charlotte had embarked upon, could make her disregard that list of virtues she had extolled as being necessary for the man she chose as her husband, dangerous for her peace of mind. And all in less than a minute!

She hated him for his extravagant clothes, for looking at her in that half-mocking way, for his self-assurance, for making her feel so weak. But no one would have guessed her thoughts as she dropped him a deep curtsy and then raised her eyes to his. ‘My lord.’

‘The cousins are to be brought out together,’ Lady Fitzpatrick told him. ‘Which I hold very generous of Miss Roswell.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, though she could not be sure if he was expressing surprise or agreement.

‘Not at all,’ Charlotte put in, making him turn from Sophie towards her. ‘We have always been very close, ever since…’ She stopped in confusion. She had been going to say ever since Sophie’s accident brought her to Upper Corbury, but checked herself. ‘Since the tragedy.’

‘Your soft heart does you credit, Miss Roswell,’ he said. ‘May I wish you a successful Season?’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ She curtsied to him and he moved off. Sophie breathed again and managed a smile for Mr Gosport as he followed in his friend’s wake.

‘What do you make of that?’ Sophie whispered, watching the backs of the two men as they were introduced to the other young ladies.

Sophie made sure their sponsor had moved out of earshot, which, for her, was not very far. ‘I think Lady Fitz fancies herself as a matchmaker.’

‘Who?’

‘Why, you and Lord Braybrooke, of course.’

‘But she thinks I am you. Oh, Sophie, we are truly in a coil now.’

‘No, we are not. You do not fancy him for a husband, do you?’

‘No, I do not. He is too high in the instep for my taste. Besides, he might already be married—he is surely nearer thirty than twenty.’

‘Yes, but you heard Lady Fitz mention he had been away in the war. And she would not have dragged him over to us if he were not eligible.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Nothing. Enjoy ourselves. If he offers for you, you can always reject him. I’ll wager that will bring him down a peg or two.’

‘You do not like him?’

‘No, I do not think I do.’

‘Why not?’

Sophie was hard put to answer truthfully. Across the room the two men were enjoying a joke with a young lady and her mother to whom they had just been introduced and Sophie felt her heart contract into a tight knot, which she would not recognise as anything but distaste.

‘He doesn’t fit my criteria in any respect.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’

‘I just do.’

The two men were taking their leave. Lady Fitzpatrick returned to the girls after talking to Lady Gosport. ‘What a turn up,’ she said, smiling broadly, making her round face seem even rounder. ‘We could not have hoped for a better start. Lord Braybrooke will undoubtedly be the catch of the Season. He was particularly interested in you, my dear Charlotte.’

‘Oh, no, I think not,’ Charlotte said. ‘He did not say above a dozen words to me and those most condescending…’

‘There you are, then! We must make what plans we can to engage his attention, and soon too, before he is snapped up.’ Sophie burst into laughter and received a look of disapproval. ‘Sophie, finding a husband for such as Miss Roswell is a very serious business and not a subject for mirth.’

Sophie straightened her face and remembered to speak very clearly, close to her ladyship’s ear. ‘You are quite right, my lady, marriage is a solemn undertaking. I beg your pardon.’

‘If you are lucky, you may engage the attention of Mr Gosport, though from what I have seen, he does seem to be tied to his mother’s apron strings and disinclined to wed. I should not say it, of course, for Beth Gosport is my friend.’

Sophie wondered why she had said it, unless it was to emphasise what a difficult task lay ahead in being able to suit the less important of her two charges.

‘I think we can safely take our leave now,’ Lady Fitzpatrick went on. ‘It is polite to arrive a little late and leave early if one means to stamp one’s superiority on to these little gatherings.’

‘As his lordship has done,’ Sophie said, winking at Charlotte, a gesture which was lost on the shortsighted Lady Fitzpatrick or she would have earned another reproof.

‘God, Martin, is that what I have to do to find a wife? I’d as lief forget the whole thing. I would, too, if it didn’t mean falling into a worse case and having to marry Emily.’

The two men were walking towards St James’s Street, where they intended to spend the remainder of the evening at White’s.

‘Oh, it was not as bad as all that,’ his friend said, cheerfully, ‘There was that little filly, Miss Roswell. Pretty little thing, blue eyes, blonde curls and curves in all the right places. And a considerable heiress, to boot. My mother told me the story.’

‘I collect Lady Fitzpatrick saying something about a tragedy.’

‘Yes. Her father, the second son of the second earl, married a Belgian lady and Miss Roswell was born and raised in Belgium…’

‘Really? She does not give the impression of a well-travelled young lady. I would have taken a wager that she has not stirred beyond the shores of England. More, I should have been inclined to say she had never come up to Town before.’

‘How can you possibly tell?’

‘The polish is lacking. She has a simple charm that is more in tune with country life.’

‘That is good, surely? It fits in well with your criteria.’

‘Does it?’ Richard turned to grin at him. ‘And are you going to remind me of that whenever we meet and discuss one of the hopefuls?’

‘Probably.’

‘Then carry on. I might as well know the rest.’

‘I believe her mother died some years ago. Her father brought her to England to stay with her uncle and his wife and then bought himself a commission and died in the Battle of Salamanca, a hero of that engagement, I am told. Her uncle, the Earl of Peterborough, adopted her.’

‘What do we know of him?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary. He was a quiet gentlemen who stayed on his estate most of the time. I have heard nothing against him. On the contrary, he was well respected, even loved, on his home ground.’

‘Go on.’

‘Two years ago they were all travelling to London for Miss Roswell’s come-out when they were caught in a terrible storm; the horses took fright and the carriage turned over. Miss Roswell was the only survivor. Unmarried and seventeen years old, she inherited Madderlea. Quite a catch, my friend.’

‘Then why is she being sponsored by that antidote, Lady Fitzpatrick? Are they related?’

‘I do not think so.’

‘Related to the country cousin, maybe?’

‘I don’t know that either. I suppose it is possible. Since the accident, Miss Roswell has lived with her cousin.’

‘Miss Hundon,’ Richard murmured, finding himself remembering the feel of her small hand in his, the colour in her cheeks and the flash of fire in greeny-grey eyes which had looked straight into his, as if challenging him. She made him feel uncomfortable and he didn’t know why.

‘Yes, but she is of no consequence, not out of the top drawer at all and must be discounted. Your grandfather would not entertain such a one.’

‘No. So, I am to make a play for Miss Roswell, am I?’

‘You could do a great deal worse. It was fortuitous that we went to my mother’s soirée. Unless you make a push she will be snapped up.’

‘I do not intend to make a push. I cannot be so cold-blooded.’ They had arrived at the door of the club and turned to enter. ‘But if, on further acquaintance, I find myself growing fond of her…’

‘Oh, I forgot that love was an item on the list.’

Richard laughed and punched him playfully on the arm.

‘Very well, I shall call on Lady Fitzpatrick tomorrow and suggest a carriage ride in the Park. And now, do you think we can forget the chits and concentrate on a few hands of cards?’

Lady Fitzpatrick and the two young ladies were sitting in the parlour the following morning, discussing the previous evening’s events, when the footman scratched at the door and, flinging it wide, announced in a voice which would have done justice to a drill sergeant, ‘My lady, Lord Braybrooke wishes to know if you are at home.’

‘Braybrooke?’ her ladyship queried, making Sophie wonder if she was losing her memory as well as her other faculties.

‘He was at the gathering last evening, Lady Fitzpatrick,’ Charlotte said. ‘Surely you remember?’

‘Oh, Braybrooke! To be sure. Rathbone’s grandson. Show him in, Lester. At once.’

He disappeared and she turned to Charlotte. ‘Who would have thought he would call so soon? He must have been singularly taken by you. Now, do not be too eager, nor too top-lofty either, my dear. Conduct yourself decorously and coolly.’ Fussily she patted her white curls and adjusted her cap, took several deep breaths and fixed a smile of welcome on her face, just as the footman returned.

‘Viscount Braybrooke, my lady.’

Richard, dressed in buff coat, nankeen breeches and polished hessians, strode into the room and bowed over her hand. ‘My lady.’

‘Good morning, Lord Braybrooke. This is a singular pleasure.’ She waved a plump hand in the general direction of the girls. ‘You remember Miss Roswell and Miss Hundon?’

‘How could I forget such a trio of beauties, my lady? Quite the most brilliant stars in the firmament last evening.’ He turned and caught Sophie’s look of disdainful astonishment before she could manage to wipe it from her face and his own features broke into a grin. He was bamming them in such an obvious way, it made her furious, all the more so because Lady Fitzpatrick was simpering in pleasure and Charlotte’s cheeks were on fire with embarrassment. He plucked Charlotte’s hand from the folds of her muslin gown and raised it to his lips. ‘Miss Roswell, your servant. I hope I see you well.’

‘Quite well, thank you, my lord.’

‘And, Miss Hundon,’ he said, turning to Sophie almost reluctantly, ‘you are well?’

‘Indeed, yes.’ He was having the same effect on her as he had had the previous evening. A night’s sleep and time to consider her reaction had made not a jot of difference. He exuded masculine strength and confidence, so why act the dandy? Why pretend to be other than he was? This thought brought her to her senses with a jolt. She was acting too, wasn’t she?

Lady Fitzpatrick indicated a chair. ‘Please sit down, my lord.’

‘Thank you.’ He flung up the tails of his frockcoat and folded his long length neatly into the chair.

Sophie watched in fascination as he engaged Lady Fitzpatrick in small talk. To begin with he was frequently obliged to repeat himself, but as soon as he realised her ladyship was hard of hearing—a fact she would never admit—he spoke more clearly, enunciating each word carefully, winning her over completely.

Sometimes he addressed his remarks to Charlotte, smiling at her and flattering her, but rarely turned to Sophie. She was glad of that. He was far too conceited for her taste and she sincerely hoped Charlotte would not be such a ninny as to fall for a bag of false charm.

It was several minutes before he could bring himself to speak of the true reason for his visit. It had been a mistake to come, but Martin had nagged at him unmercifully, reminding him of his grandfather’s ultimatum and in the end he had concluded it could do no harm. Little Miss Roswell was pretty; she had a rosy glow about her and an air of insouciance he found at odds with her position as heiress to a great estate.

But the other, the country cousin, disturbed him. Her eyes, intelligent, far-seeing, humorous, seemed to follow his every move, to understand that he was playing a part dictated by Society. He was not behaving like his normal self and he was afraid she would call his bluff and expose him for the clunch he felt himself to be, a feeling with which he was not at all familiar. How could she do this to him?

He had come to ask Miss Roswell to take a carriage ride with him, but she would have to be chaperoned and it was evident that was the role Miss Hundon was to play. Her watchful eyes would be on him every second, protecting her cousin, reducing him to an incompetent swain.

‘My lady,’ he said, addressing Lady Fitzpatrick. ‘I came to ask if you and the young ladies would care to join me in a carriage ride in the park tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Why, how kind of you,’ she said, while both girls remained mute. ‘I should very much like to accept, but…Oh, dear, I am afraid I have undertaken to visit Lady Holland.’ She paused. ‘But I do not see why you should not take the young ladies. Miss Hundon will chaperone Miss Roswell and their groom can ride alongside. If you are agreeable, of course.’

‘I shall look forward to it.’ He rose and bowed his way out, leaving two thunderstruck young ladies and a very self-satisfied matron behind him.

‘Well…’ Lady Fitzpatrick let out her breath in a long sigh. ‘I never thought you would engage the attention of someone so high in Society so soon.’

‘No doubt he has heard of my…’ Sophie paused and hastened to correct herself ‘…my cousin’s fortune. Madderlea is a prize worth a little attention, do you not think?’

Charlotte’s face was bright pink. ‘That is unkind in you, Sophie,’ she said. ‘Do you not think he likes me for myself?’

Sophie was immediately contrite. ‘Of course, he does, my dear, who could not? But you must remember that you, too, are superior and have something to offer.’

‘Quite right,’ her ladyship said, after asking Sophie to repeat herself. ‘Now, we must discuss clothes and what you will say to him, for though it is one thing to attract his attention, it is quite another to keep it.’

‘What do you know of the gentleman, my lady?’ Sophie enquired, for Charlotte seemed to be in a daydream, and someone had to ask. ‘Apart from the fact that he is grandson to the Duke of Rathbone. Is he the heir?’

‘Indeed, he is. His father was a second son and did not expect to inherit, particularly as the heir was married and in good health, but the old Duke outlived both his sons. There is a cousin, I believe, but she is female.’

‘Can she not inherit?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Unlike Madderlea, the estate is entailed. Richard Braybrooke came back from service in the Peninsula to find himself Viscount Braybrooke and his grandfather’s heir.’

‘A position, I am persuaded, he finds singularly uncongenial,’ Sophie put in.

‘Yes, he is a most congenial gentleman,’ Lady Fitzpatrick said, mishearing her. ‘Such superior address and conduct can only be the result of good breeding.’

Sophie choked on a laugh, making Charlotte look at her in alarm. ‘If good breeding means one is insufferably arrogant, then he is, indeed, well-bred,’ she murmured, while wiping tears of mirth from her face with a wisp of a handkerchief.

‘I do not know what ails you, Sophie,’ her ladyship said. ‘Your cousin is also well-bred and she is most certainly not arrogant. Indeed, it were better if she could adopt a more haughty attitude, for she is far too shy.’

‘I cannot change the way I am,’ Charlotte said.

‘Nor should you,’ Sophie said. ‘If the gentleman cannot see that you are sweet and kind and would not hurt the feelings of a fly, then he is blind and does not deserve you.’

The gentleman could see it. He was well aware of Miss Roswell’s virtues and it only made him feel unworthy. She deserved to be wooed for herself, by some young blood who appreciated the very qualities he found so cloying. He wanted and needed someone with more spirit, someone to challenge him as Miss Hundon had done. When he had said as much to Martin, his friend had laughed and reminded him of his list of requirements. Challenge had not been mentioned at all. ‘You have hardly had time to make a reasoned judgement, Dick,’ he had said. But then reasoned judgement and instinct did not go hand in hand.

He called for the young ladies the following afternoon, not at all sure he was going to enjoy the outing. It might be the way Society dictated a man should court a lady, but it was not his way. It was too artificial. He felt a sham, dressed to make a killing in double-breasted frockcoat of dark green superfine, soft buckskin breeches and curly-brimmed top hat. He was not averse to dressing well, but to do so to catch a young lady smacked of hypocrisy.

Sophie and Charlotte were waiting in the drawing room for him. There was still a keen edge to the wind and so Charlotte had chosen to wear a blue carriage dress in fine merino wool which almost exactly matched the colour of her eyes. It was topped by a blue cape and a fetching bonnet trimmed with pink ruched silk in a shade that echoed the rose in her cheeks. She looked delightfully fresh and innocent.

Sophie, on the other hand, determined not to shine, was dressed in grey from head to foot and would not be persuaded to change her mind, when Charlotte said she had made herself look like a poor relation.

‘But that is exactly what I am, Charlotte dear,’ she had said. ‘I am your chaperon, after all.’

There was no time to go back to her room and change, even if she had wanted to, for his lordship was announced at that moment and, after the usual courtesies, they made their way out to his lordship’s barouche. And what a carriage; it made Lady Fitzpatrick’s town coach, which stood beside it ready to convey her ladyship to her appointment, look even shabbier.

It was a shining black affair with the Rathbone coat of arms emblazoned on both doors and seats comfortably upholstered in red velvet. The driver, in impeccable uniform of tailcoat, striped waistcoat and knee breeches, was sitting on the box, whip in hand. His lordship put a hand under Charlotte’s elbow and helped her into her seat, then turned to do the same for Sophie, but she was already climbing in, disdaining his assistance. He smiled at this show of independence and took his own seat and, giving the driver an almost imperceptible nod, they set off, with Luke riding demurely half a head behind on Charlotte’s little mare.

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