by Sandra Heath
THE PILFERED PLUME
Sandra Heath
Chapter 1
Ivystone House was the lakeland residence of Miss Edith Minton, an elderly lady of excellent family and comfortable means. It was set picturesquely on a wooded, west-facing slope between the high fells and beautiful Grasmere Lake, in the heart of the Lake District, and enjoyed matchless views over the brooding, romantic countryside that made this part of northwest England the resort of poets, artists, writers, and travelers alike. But it hadn’t been the fashionable scenery that had brought heiress Linnet Carlisle so far away from her mansion in Mayfair, it had been a broken heart, and the desperate need for the comfort and understanding offered by her great-aunt, Miss Minton.
A year had passed since Linnet’s flight from London, it was June again, and the new nineteenth century had begun, but still she lingered in the quiet and seclusion of Ivystone House. She was loath to return to the capital, for it was full of painful memories that might still prove too much to endure. In London she’d again encounter the man who’d broken her heart and betrayed her trust, Nicholas Fenton, Lord Fane. Time was said to be a great healer, and there was now a new love in her life, but there were still nights when she dreamed of all that had befallen her the year before, and the hurt clung to her when she awoke the next morning.
Nicholas was undoubtedly the most dangerously attractive man in London. He possessed looks, wit, charm, and wealth enough to lure any woman he chose, and was horseman, swordsman, and shot enough to make him much liked and respected by his own sex; but to Linnet he’d proved faithless, callous, and totally without principle, and finding out the cold truth about him had been the most devastating experience of her life.
She’d already been grieving over the sudden death of her beloved uncle and guardian, Joseph Carlisle, and then had suffered the humiliation of Nicholas’s affair with a certain Judith Jordan, a notorious demi-mondaine who was known throughout society as the Bird of Paradise because of the dyed and decorated plumes she always wore in her golden hair. And, as if all this had not been enough to endure, there had been the revelation that Nicholas had cheated her uncle in a game of cards and had acquired the Carlisle family estate in Essex, Radleigh Hall.
However, it was one thing to know that Radleigh Hall had been stolen by sleight of hand, but quite another to prove it in a court of law, and all Linnet had had was her late uncle’s word. She’d adored Joseph Carlisle, but he hadn’t always been a paragon of virtue, having led a rather dissolute life in his youth. He’d been involved in at least two duels, escaping from both by chance rather than accuracy as a shot. The first had been with a cuckolded husband, the second with a guards officer who’d accused him of dealing from the bottom of the pack. Inevitably, this latter incident had immediately sprung to society’s mind when the matter of Radleigh Hall came to light, and Linnet had known that without substantial and irrefutable proof, her late uncle’s word would never be accepted above that of Nicholas, whose honor had, until then, never been in question.
She’d faced Nicholas with her accusations, but he hadn’t deigned to reply, a fact which in her eyes damned him completely. If he was innocent of an affair with the Bird of Paradise, and innocent of cheating over Radleigh Hall, why hadn’t he said so? Society’s attitude made her position impossible, for it chose to take his side over Radleigh Hall, and was much amused that he may have deceived her with an infamous Cyprian. It had all proved too much for her, and on impulse she’d fled to her great-aunt in the Lake District, there to try to overcome the misery that had so cruelly engulfed her.
There had been those who’d taken her side, however, especially her closest friend and confidante, Venetia, Lady Hartley. At twenty-two, Venetia was one year Linnet’s senior, and was also very much a woman of the world. At nineteen, she’d made a dazzling match with Lord Hartley, a very wealthy gentleman, but it had been an unhappy marriage, and on his death a year later, his young widow hadn’t grieved for long before setting out to enjoy her wealth and freedom to the full. One of her great pleasures was being the hostess, and her select dinner parties were among the most recherché in London. She was lovely, lighthearted, and vivacious, and was much sought after by a string of hopeful suitors, especially a very wealthy young Cornish landowner called Freddy Grainger.
To Linnet, Venetia had been a jewel among friends, frequently making the tedious journey north in order to pay a visit at Ivystone House. During these stays she’d acquainted Linnet with all the latest gossip, and had endeavored to persuade her to return to London, but in this latter purpose she’d always been defeated. On one visit, however, she’d brought with her her half-brother, Benedict Gresham, who’d recently returned from Madras, and he had very swiftly become the new love in Linnet’s life.
Benedict was thirty years old, dashing, good-looking to a fault, and flatteringly smitten with Linnet from the first moment he’d seen her. He’d hesitated to court her, however, for his financial affairs were in confusion because of immense legal difficulty is transferring his affairs from Madras, and he was forced to reside under Venetia’s roof while everything was sorted out, but Linnet had been drawn to him, and in the end he’d confessed his love for her. She’d welcomed the confession, and had gladly granted him permission to call upon her whenever he could.
On a particularly fine June afternoon, when the sun shone down from a flawless blue sky, Linnet strolled in the terraced gardens of Ivystone House. She was deep in thought because Benedict and Venetia were due to arrive again that very day, and she knew they’d press her to return to London with them. She also knew that her great-aunt would counsel her to remain where she was, for the old lady didn’t think Linnet was ready yet to resume her place in society. There was bound to be conflict, and Linnet knew she had to decide for herself. She had to make a sensible decision, and not succumb to the sometimes-impetuous side of her nature, a side that went only too well with the fiery shade of her hair.
Her long-sleeved gown was made of delicate white muslin, and had a low, scooped neckline. There was a wide yellow ribbon around the high waistline, immediately beneath her breasts, and the gown’s train was held up from the grass by a dainty golden cord that was fixed behind her right shoulder. It was last year’s gown, but still very modish, for fashion hadn’t changed much over the past twelve months. Her long chestnut hair was swept up beneath a straw gypsy hat that was tied on with another yellow ribbon, and she carried a closed white parasol in her white-gloved hand.
She walked slowly, her brown eyes downcast as she considered the problem from every angle. Her great-aunt’s roses were in their full summer glory, filling the warm air with scent, and the hill stream flowing down through the garden babbled contentedly. The water was cold and clear, and reflected her slender figure moving along the grassy bank. She found that her thoughts were becoming just as clear. Nicholas didn’t matter to her anymore, but Benedict did, and it would be Benedict who’d be at her side now if she returned to London. Perhaps such a return was the very thing to restore her spirits…
Near the end of the garden the land dished slightly, causing the stream to form a pool before spilling over a ledge of rock and plunging down toward Grasmere Lake far below. From here the view was at its most spectacular, and could be enjoyed from a wrought iron bench on the other bank, where climbing roses formed an arbor. Stepping stones had been placed in the shallow water, and Linnet gathered her skirts to tiptoe across.
She’d almost reached the other bank when the cord supporting her train gave way suddenly and her hem fell into the water. With a cry of dismay, she hurried over the final stones, reaching the safety of the bank and then picking up the train to try to wring it out. As she did so, she revealed an improper amount of leg and the daringly low scoop o
f her neckline.
“Upon my soul,” drawled an amused and appreciative male voice. “It’s worth dragging myself up here to the sticks if I’m to be afforded glimpses of such rare and delectable lakeland views!”
She straightened, at once embarrassed and delighted. “Benedict! I didn’t think you’d arrive quite as early as this.”
“So I see,” he murmured, allowing his gaze to move slowly over her.
She quickly dropped the hem, conscious of a swift flush warming her cheeks.
Sketching an elaborate bow, he smiled. He was a little above medium height, with dark-brown curly hair and warm, long-lashed hazel eyes. His coat was sky-blue, his waistcoat of an excellent gray silk, and his gray cord breeches of a particularly tight fit. The pearl pin on the knot of his starched neckcloth shone as he nonchalantly tossed his top hat onto the grass and then stood facing her, his expression a little reproving. “I called you three times, madam, but you failed to hear me.”
“I—I was thinking,” she replied.
“That much is obvious. Well, since you are now well and truly aware of my presence, and since you are, er, decorous again, shall we observe the civilities? Good afternoon, Miss Carlisle.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gresham.”
“Are you pleased to see me?”
“Very,” she admitted frankly.
“Then I shall be very bold and presumptuous, and not ask permission before joining you.” He swiftly crossed the stepping stones, taking her parasol and placing it on the bench. Then he seized her hands, looking ardently into her soft brown eyes. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his voice warm with longing.
“And I’ve missed you.”
Slipping an arm around her waist, he pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. It was a passionate kiss, filled with desire, and she responded, linking her arms around his neck.
His eyes were dark as he drew back. “How long are you going to languish up here in the back of beyond? Haven’t you been able to put Fane behind you once and for all?”
“He is behind me.”
“Then, don’t I matter enough to you?” He cupped her face in his hands.
“You know that you do.”
“Prove it by coming back to town with me this time.”
“I—I think I may do just that,” she said slowly.
His eyes brightened, and he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, still cupping her face. “Do you really mean it?”
“Yes.”
He lowered his hands, his joy fading a little. “But what of the dreaded Great-Aunt Minton? She will do her utmost to dissuade you.”
“She has my best interests at heart.”
“Does she? Or is it simply that she loathes me, and likes Venetia little better?”
Linnet felt uncomfortable, for what he said was only too true, her contrary great-aunt did dislike them both. The old lady didn’t believe a word he said, and viewed poor Venetia as some sort of snake in the grass, even though Venetia had been so strongly supportive over the past year.
Benedict drew a long breath. “It’s very disagreeable to know that your one and only relative views me as being little better than Fane.”
“She just wants to protect me. You must understand that.”
“Protect you from what? I’d never treat you as he did, and, to be honest, I rather resent her constant insinuations that I would.”
“She’ll come around when she knows you properly.”
He smiled, pulling her close again. “I love you, Linnet.”
“And I love you.”
Thoughts of Nicholas swept over him again. “Damn the fellow’s eyes! Whenever I encounter him in town, which is often, it’s all I can do not to call him out for what he did to you.”
“You mustn’t think about him, and you certainly mustn’t call him out, he’s…”
“A better swordsman and shot than me?” he interrupted.
She smiled a little ruefully. “Something of the sort.”
“You do mean it when you say you’re over him, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Now, then, come and sit down.” She went to the wrought iron bench, sitting down carefully, and arranging the damp train of her gown. “I trust Venetia is well?”
“She is, if a little exhausted after the journey,” he replied, joining her.
“How are the improvements coming on at Berkeley Square?”
He hesitated. “They aren’t.”
“Aren’t? What do you mean?”
“She doesn’t reside there anymore. She moved suddenly two weeks ago to a new house in Fane Crescent.”
Linnet’s brown eyes widened. “Fane Crescent?” she said slowly.
“She did it against my advice.”
“She’s free to live wherever she chooses, Benedict,” Linnet replied, wondering why Venetia had made such a move without saying anything to her. The crescent was undoubtedly one of the most exclusive addresses in Mayfair, and was built in the grounds of Fane House itself. The entrance was guarded by gates and a lodge, and no one was permitted to pass unless authorized to do so. The crescent and house faced each other across a large sunken garden of considerable beauty, and to have purchased a residence there must have cost Venetia a small fortune.
Benedict looked uncomfortable. “She now resides at number sixteen, which is in the very center of the crescent, facing directly across at Fane House. I don’t know why she felt she had to reside there, for she must have known it would hurt you.”
“It really doesn’t matter, Benedict. As I said, Venetia is free to live wherever she chooses.”
“She showed little thought when she chose that of all addresses, but then, given the way she’s been behaving of late, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Linnet looked at him in surprise. “Whatever has she been up to for you to speak of her like that?”
“She’s been treating poor Freddy Grainger very badly, and he has no idea what, if anything, he’s done to deserve it. It first began at a ball at Holland House. Freddy confided in me that he’d proposed to her the night before, and she’d intimated that she might well accept him. At the ball, however, she virtually cut him, and after a while I noticed that she was spending a great deal of time with a gentleman I didn’t then know anything about.”
“But you do now?”
“Oh, yes, I do now.” He got up from the bench, going to look at the view. “Can you see Town End from here?” he asked suddenly.
Startled by the apparent change of subject, she gave a quick laugh. “Why, no, it’s just around that headland over there. How on earth have you heard of such a tiny hamlet?”
“I understand a Mr. Wordsworth lives there.”
“The poet? Yes, he does. He and his sister, Miss Wordsworth, took the old Dove and Olive Branch Inn just before last Christmas. It’s just a cottage now.” She thought of the rather unconventional and odd poet. “You surely aren’t saying that he was the gentleman at the ball?”
“No, not quite. He and a certain Mr. Coleridge wrote a collection of verse entitled Lyrical Ballads, which has become very fashionable, did they not?”
“Yes. It’s really very good. I have a volume myself.”
“Have you ever seen Coleridge? I understand he visits Wordsworth quite frequently.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. It was on a Sunday morning outside Grasmere church. Everyone at the Wordsworths’ cottage had been at an all-night picnic on the island in the lake, and he was with them.” She called to mind the pale, rather slender, intense-looking young man.
Benedict looked at the view again. “Well, he was the man at the Holland House ball. You will admit that he is an attractive enough fellow?”
“Yes,” she said slowly, “but as to whether she would turn away from Freddy on account of him…”
“She certainly acquired a copy of Lyrical Balads after the ball, and she began to subscribe to the Morning Chronicle, for which newspaper he just happens to be the theater critic.” He p
aused. “I am also of the opinion that on a number of occasions she chose the times of her visits here to you to coincide with visits he happened to be paying to Wordsworth. I have every reason to believe he’s there now.”
Linnet sat back, a little bemused. “Well, if you’re right,” she said after a moment, “there isn’t a great deal you can do about it. She’s a widow and a free agent, and he’s hardly all that unacceptable, is he?”
“You obviously don’t know, do you?” he said softly, returning to stand before her.
“Know what?”
“The knave’s married, and has a family.”
Linnet stared at him in dismay. “No, I didn’t know.”
“Now perhaps you see why I’m so concerned. I can’t believe she’s actually turning her back on a catch like Freddy Grainger in order to indulge in a liaison with another woman’s husband. Linnet, I know my half-sister can be difficult, scheming, single-minded to a fault, and as stubborn a creature as ever lived, and I know, too, that you’re the last person to interfere in anyone’s private affairs…”
“But that’s exactly what you’re going to ask me to do?” she finished for him.
“I know it’s a great deal to ask, but you are her closest friend.”
“She won’t thank me—or you for telling me.”
“All I want you to do is talk to her.”
“I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.”
He smiled, reaching down to take her hand, and drawing her up into his arms again. “You’re the most adorable creature in all the world,” he murmured, kissing her again.
She pulled determinedly away. “I think we’d better return to the house, before my great-aunt begins to wonder what we’re up to.”
He sighed, and nodded. “Oh, very well. I vow I can’t wait to spirit you away from here, and leave the old besom to her own devices.”
Still holding her hand, he retrieved her parasol, and then they stepped back over the stones to the other side. A few minutes later, they were walking up toward the house.