Regency Brides Series: A Historical Regency Romance Box Set

by Laura Locke

  “We might visit it,” Francis said quickly.

  “Capital,” the parson agreed. “A fine place. I'm sure Lady Melissa would be more than happy to host you. A very proper, respectable lady, so she is.”

  “We will certainly pay our respects,” Pauline said politely.

  When they left, they were both high-spirited with relief.

  “We did it!” Francis said, laughing.

  “I can't believe it!”

  Pauline looked at him, and he grinned back. She twirled in the street, a little dance of relief. He laughed and clapped her on the shoulder. Together they hurried back to the inn.

  “I wonder if it would be better if I accompany you?” Francis asked as they ducked into the dining-room of the inn, looking around.

  “I'm not sure,” Pauline agreed. “If I'm there to ask about a delicate matter, and I'm supposed to be related to them, perhaps I'll be better able to glean information alone?”

  “Quite so,” Francis nodded. “I agree. I think they're more likely to trust you.”

  “Though a dashing man in the military inspires trust,” Pauline grinned and he flushed.

  “Well, yes. You said dashing. Not sure I count.”

  “Nonsense,” Pauline pulled a face. He chuckled.

  They went up to the first floor, their plan decided. Pauline and Francis would ride to Dashwood Manor together, then he would leave her at the drive and ride back to the inn. She would make the inquiries herself and then return. If she was not returned after two hours, he was to come and find her.

  “Cornelia?” Pauline called, tapping gently on the door. There was no answer, so she knocked again.

  “Cornelia? Cousin? I'm back.”

  “Pauline?” a sleepy voice called. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” Pauline called, and the door opened. Cornelia appeared in a nightgown.

  “Come in quickly,” she said and stood back, letting Pauline slip inside. “Where's Francis? Do you have news?”

  Pauline smiled into her eager eyes. “Slow down,” she laughed. “I'll tell you. Yes, we have news. We found the family – the Dashwoods. I am going to visit them now. Francis will ride part of the way with me. Would you like to come too?”

  Cornelia nodded, eyes shining. “Oh, yes, Pauline! Very much indeed.”

  They helped each other dress. Pauline had brought her white riding gown and she arranged her hair carefully. I hope I make a good impression.

  Cornelia gasped. “You look lovely, Pauline!” she breathed.

  “And you look so pretty I'm tempted to bring you with me,” Pauline said fondly. “I think you'd soften the hardest hearts.”

  Cornelia glowed. “Aw, Pauline. You're too kind.”

  “Nonsense,” Pauline said, thinking how alike her cousin and Francis were – both so modest and direct. Then she headed breathlessly to the stables.

  “Oh!” Francis' face flushed when he saw Cornelia. “I have company for the way back.”

  “Yes, Francis,” Cornelia said shyly. Pauline smiled.

  “Off we go.”

  The manor loomed up out of the surrounding parkland, a tall, stone edifice set in extensive park, conifers like ranks of troops flanking its high walls.

  “It has a gloomy look to it.” She suppressed a shiver.

  “It does,” Francis nodded. “You're sure about this, Pauline?”

  “I'm sure,” she said bravely. “See you in two hours.”

  “Goodbye!”

  Her companions rode away, leaving her there.

  Pauline swallowed hard. Something about the place seemed to push her away. Don't come here, the tall building seemed to say. Go. You're not welcome.

  Pauline shuddered and then sat up straight. “You're just worried. That's why your head is full of this fanciful stuff,” she told herself. “Off you go.”

  She nudged her horse along the path and they set off to the main building. She passed gardeners who watched her curiously as she rode along, but did not seek to hinder her. All the same, she caught sight of one of them running to the shed and had a feeling she had been spotted and would soon be challenged. She was right.

  “My lady. What do you seek at Dashwood Manor?”

  Pauline looked down at the man who stood before her. He was solid and steadfast and looked up at her with no ire, but also no welcome. She coughed, clearing her throat.

  “I am Marguerite Lancer,” she said quickly. “I come from Upton. I'm here seeking Lady Dashwood?”

  “Wait here,” the man said gruffly. He went up to the front door and knocked. Pauline stared after him, a frown creasing her brow.

  This is the first house where I have been challenged on arrival. Any other house would wait for me to knock before they did that!

  Feeling a rising unease, Pauline slipped from the saddle and stood beside her hired horse, the bridle loosely held in her fingers. The man returned to face her.

  “Welcome,” he said. “Please, enter.”

  “Thank you,” said Pauline a trifle stiffly. She walked past, head held high.

  It's so dark.

  That was her first thought. The entrance hall was rather grand in its own way, a Tudor style that spoke of past glories. But it had an air of neglect and the air smelled of mortar and damp. She shivered.

  “My lady,” a man in a black coat said politely. “Lady Melissa is in the parlor. If you'd follow me?”

  “Of course,” Pauline agreed. As she went up the stairs she reminded herself of who she was and what she was doing here, the better to consolidate the story.

  I am Marguerite Lancer. A Captain's daughter. My mother was Emma Dashwood.

  She had no idea if there was such a person. All she could do was hope that there was another Dashwood family somewhere and that she could pass it off as an innocent mistake when the truth arose.

  I'm just here to find out what I can. If I'm lucky, all will go well. As they went, she looked around, shivering in the dark paneled hallway, the same scent of mortar pervading the upper floor also.

  “My lady?”

  “Yes?” a stiff voice called.

  “A visitor. Marguerite Lancer.”

  “Oh?” the voice said, cold and flat. “I know of no such person.”

  Pauline closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, the butler faced her.

  “I know you do not know me, my lady,” she said, taking the plunge and entering unasked-for. “That is because I am here seeking news of my late mother, Emma Dashwood. I have reason to believe she might be a relation of yours?”

  “Oh?”

  Pauline's eyes adjusted to the gloom. They fell on a woman in an ocher dress, her hair covered with a lacy bonnet, an unmoving, cold face below the cap and stray curls. She turned to look at Pauline and she shivered as those gray eyes raked her. She felt as if she was addressing someone who had long ago gone to the grave.

  She swallowed hard, fighting to contain the rising panic. “I am sorry to impose,” she said levelly. “I simply wish to find whatever trace I can of my mother. If you would be so kind as to perhaps look over the family chart with me?”

  The woman blinked, a task she managed without disrupting the eerie stiffness of her face. “Very well.”

  Pauline shivered. “Thank you.”

  “Westgate? Bring us tea?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Pauline shivered as the woman gestured her to a seat, and took it.

  “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. She had been prepared to have to feign nervousness – after all, she was playing the part of a captain's daughter visiting a Marchioness. As it was, the nerves were the most realistic part of her performance. She was terrified.

  “Not at all,” the woman said flatly. She stood and went across to the bell-rope. A maid appeared, also wearing black. “Harling? Fetch the chart from the library. The one over the mantel. The chart of the Dashwood family.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Pauline waited for her to return and then cleared her t
hroat.

  “The Marquis is away?” she asked. She winced as she said it, realizing that he might be deceased. “I mean...” she trailed away as the woman interrupted.

  “My husband is riding,” she said firmly. “He always rides between breakfast and luncheon. He will return within the hour.”

  “Oh,” Pauline said, not knowing what else she might say. It had been a question designed to begin conversing, but she lacked inspiration.

  The butler brought tea and she took some with a steady hand. She was surprised she wasn't shaking. She sipped the sweet, dark drink gratefully, struggling for calm.

  Lady Melissa took a seat opposite her, her face severe. Pauline shivered and looked into her tea-cup, trying to think of something – anything at all – she might say.

  “The weather is pleasant,” she said carefully.

  “Mm,” the lady replied, sipping her tea. “Though too many fluctuations in the temperature are devilish for the health. Only continuity and sameness are truly to be recommended. Yes?”

  Pauline blinked. “Mayhap, yes.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes fractionally, but said nothing. Pauline shivered.

  The silence stretched on.

  When Pauline thought she would have to try another question, the maid arrived.

  “My lady, the chart.”

  “Thank you,” Lady Dashwood said levelly. “You may go.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey and hurried out. Pauline leaned forward, interested, as the lady placed the chart before her.

  “This is my husband, Giles Dashwood,” she said, pointing to the name grandly. “And here is his father, Richard.”

  “Yes,” Pauline nodded.

  “Your mother, I presume, would have been here, somewhere,” she added, pointing to the offspring of Richard and his wife. There were five of them – three boys and two girls. No Emma. As Pauline had expected.

  “There were brothers of Richard?” she asked. In answer, the woman pointed to the names alongside his. There were four brothers. None of their offspring were Emma, either. Pauline sighed. This was all going faster than she expected. She had an idea.

  “Oh,” she blinked back a tear. “How terribly disappointing. I shall have to tell my father the good Dashwoods had no help for us.”

  “No information,” the woman said quickly. “Not no help.”

  “Well, you could tell me nothing,” Pauline pointed out frankly. As she had predicted, the woman's cheeks reddened with anger.

  “That is insolent,” she snapped. “You come here with no warning. Were we to have time, perhaps we could gather our information. You must stay to ask my husband. He might know more.”

  Whew, Pauline thought. “Thank you, my lady,” she said humbly. “You are most kind.” She looked at her hands demurely.

  The woman's voice softened. “Thank you. We try our best,” she said warmly.

  You might have fooled me.

  Pauline sat up straight. “You were praised highly by the parson,” she elaborated.

  “Oh.” The woman looked quite pleased. “The parson is most kind.”

  Pauline wasn't sure what to say to that, so she smiled and looked at her hands. “Your husband rides in the surrounding woodlands?” she asked politely. “They seem a good place to ride.”

  “My husband rides every afternoon, or walks, even in bitter cold. He believes that subjugating the flesh moves us closer to purity,” she said piously.

  Charming. “I see,” she said.

  “He should be back at any moment, in which case we shall proceed downstairs to the dining-room. “Westgate?” she called. She stood and, looking out of the window, gave a tight smile. “Ah. Here he is. We should go down.”

  Pauline nodded. “Thank you,” she said humbly.

  She followed Lady Melissa down the hallway and back down the stairs, turning left this time. She found herself in a drafty room, its high ceilings and long windows doing little to alleviate the gloom that pervaded the place. She shivered.

  “Giles should be in at any moment. Ah! Westgate?”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Will you tell Marsden we're ready to dine?”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  Pauline stood awkwardly, waiting for some kind of indication of action. Lady Melissa stood where she was behind her chair. A moment later, she heard a firm footfall in the hallway. She turned round.

  “Ah. Giles,” Lady Melissa sang out. “Welcome. We have a visitor.”

  “Oh?”

  The man in the doorway could have been Melissa's brother rather than her husband – certainly he was as gaunt and seeming-dead as she. Where her eyes were blank slate gray, his were palest blue, however. Steely, too, where hers were simply lifeless. Pauline shivered.

  I don't know when I have seen such a frightening person.

  She swallowed and remembered her manners, curtseying hastily to the Marquis.

  “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  “Hmph.” He bowed to her. “Good afternoon.”

  Pauline felt his gaze on her – questioning, assessing. Judging. She shrank back.

  “Giles,” his wife said thinly. “This is Marguerite Lancer. She's here to learn about her family. She's descended from a...what did you say, my child? Amelia?”

  “Emma,” Pauline corrected quickly. “Emma Dashwood.”

  “Oh?” The man's brows shot up. “Well, I remember no such. Mayhap younger minds than mine recall things better. Romilly?”

  Pauline followed his gaze. A young woman was in the doorway. Chestnut-haired, with high cheekbones and a sensitive, fragile face, the young woman seemed as out of place here as a ghost would be in a cave of lions. She stared in at them, hanging back in the doorway, uncertainly, as if unsure she would be permitted to come inside.

  “F...f...father?” the girl stammered. She looked terrified. Then her eyes fell on Pauline. Like the eyes of a frightened horse, they widened, then narrowed. Then they locked with Pauline's.

  Pauline stared back. “Hello, Romilly,” she said gently. She was good with horses. Knew how to calm them from that wild, roiling terror to trust again. “I'm Marguerite. Honored to meet you.”

  She curtseyed, but did not bow her head, keeping her eyes level and locked with those of the frightened young woman. Romilly flushed.

  “Romilly D..dashwood,” she said in a rush.

  Pauline felt the marquis shift where he stood, but she did not look at him. She remained looking at his daughter.

  “It's lovely weather, isn't it?” she said in the same low, level voice she used when talking to a spooked horse. “Just the sort of day for going outdoors.”

  “I...I don't go outdoors,” Romilly said, then looked up at her mother as if expecting a bad reaction.

  Her mother raised her brows, her cheeks coloring much the same as they had when Pauline thought to question her.

  “Child!” she said warningly. Romilly flinched. Pauline caught the interaction and frowned. Why was her mother so aggressive? Why should Romilly not tell me she did not venture out?

  Lord Dashwood moved slightly and his wife seemed to relent. “Come,” she said quickly. “Let's sit down to luncheon.”

  Pauline took a place beside the lady, which sat her opposite Lord Dashwood and his daughter. She looked across the table and felt her heart ache. The girl's face was strangely youthful, her skin like a china doll. But her eyes were haunted far beyond her years. Pauline guessed her to be about her own age, perhaps four or five years younger at the most.

  She has clearly seen much of suffering in those twenty odd years of life.

  “Let us pray,” Lord Dashwood said. Pauline obediently bowed her head. Though her family attended mass sporadically, they were not particularly observant and almost never said grace. This family was obviously different. As Lord Dashwood said the grace she risked peeping.

  Lady Melissa sat with her hands clasped, mouth turned down in a grim-faced piety that seemed to s
ay more of suffering than gratitude. Beside her, Romilly was crying. She wasn't making any sound, but the tears were there, coursing silently down her cheeks. Pauline felt a sudden surge of anger.

  How dare these people keep this girl here, a virtual prisoner? Seeing them with their heads bowed, convinced they were virtuous people, juxtaposed with the girl's suffering made her want to spit.

  “Amen,” Lord Dashwood said, and Pauline squeezed her eyes shut again, not wanting them to know she had been covertly studying the family instead of praying.

  “Amen,” she echoed.

  She looked up as the butler came in with the meal.

  “We dine on simple fare, here, Miss Lancer,” Lady Melissa said piously. “For the greater the suffering of the flesh, the greater the glories of the soul.”

  Pauline raised a brow. “I find it hard to think of matters of the soul when I am starving,” she said.

  Lady Melissa looked as if she had just been slapped. Her china-doll eyes widened in shock and her mouth dropped open. She instantly recovered, glaring at Pauline. Lord Dashwood held up a hand and she stopped whatever she had been about to say.

  “Calm, my lady, is a virtue,” he said piously. Lady Melissa subsided and Pauline found it in her heart to feel sorry for her. Of the two of them, I'm not sure who is the more odious. Her, or him.

  She looked up to find Romilly's eyes on her again. Brown and huge, like a deer's, they studied her with wary wisdom.

  She's not displeased with my argument, I think. Pauline hid her triumphant smile and lifted her soup-spoon. The soup was tepid, flavored mildly with leek. She ate it slowly, pretending it tasted less like water than it did. Whatever she discovered here, she knew one thing for certain. She was going to help Romilly any manner she could.

  “You have brothers and sisters?” Lady Melissa asked Pauline, giving her pause. “A sister and a brother,” she said quickly.

  “Your parents must have been sorry to have only three,” Lady Melissa said softly. “It is our greatest sadness that we have only Romilly. It is our duty to provide more good Christian souls to the world, Miss Lancer.”

  “Amen,” Pauline said, and if they did not notice the heavy irony it wasn't because it was not there. She saw Romilly's eyes catch her own and the younger girl smiled.