by M. C. Beaton
The hard lines of his face softened. He drew her gently into his arms and caressed the back of her neck, feeling the long shiver that ran down her body.
“I do not care anymore about your birth. I want you, Emily.”
“As your mistress?”
He gave her a little shake. “As my wife, Emily. As my wife, I will even give houseroom to that damned dog, if you will only say you love me.”
She looked up at him with her heart in her eyes and then threw her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. “I love you, Bart,” she said, her mouth buried against his shirt frill. “I have been so unhappy.”
“You have made me very unhappy too, and you shall pay for it, my love. Kiss me!”
She raised her mouth shyly to his, and he gave a low groan and began to kiss her savagely, bruising her mouth, and holding her so close she thought her bones would break.
At last his kisses became longer and more tender, sending a dizzying sweetness coursing through both of them until they forgot where they were, only burning with an insane need to lose themselves in each other.
Some time later, she lay naked in his arms in front of the library fire and said sleepily, “Why are you laughing?”
“I am laughing, my love, because we both started the evening so miserable and so splendidly dressed, and now look at us!”
Emily seemed to come fully to her senses at last and clutched his shoulders.
“Bart! The servants! What must they be thinking?”
With a touch of his former arrogance, he looked down at her.
“I neither know nor care,” he said haughtily. “The charms of your left breast are infinitely more interesting. Now perhaps if I kiss it you will cease to bother with trivialities….”
The servants of Manley Court sat around the table in the servant’s hall. Rogers eyed the clock. “Still not home yet,” he said.
“I wonder if we dare hope? You see, if Miss Winters does not become married, I am sure she will soon weary of the estate and might even sell it. Now, Lord Storm would look after us. What would happen to us? There are so many bad masters, and perhaps a new owner would not want us. He might even bring his own staff!” A low groan greeted this comment.
And then, from out in the drive, they heard the crunch of wheels.
“That’ll be the mistress back,” said Mrs. Otley. “If only we could ask her point-blank. Perhaps Sam, the groom, will have gleaned something.”
They listened anxiously, and then at last they heard steps on the kitchen stairs and the groom came in, pulling off his cloak.
“Well?” said everyone.
“His Lordship sent the carriage home,” said Sam, grinning, “and said I was to get a good night’s sleep. He gave me a yellow boy and said I was to drink the health of himself and Miss Winters and he hoped I’d wish them well on their wedding day!”
What a cheer went up! Lord Storm was known throughout the county as a good and fair landlord. Their jobs were safe.
“Champagne, I think,” said the beaming Rogers. “Hey, look at Duke. I swear he’s as happy as the rest of us!”
Up on his hind legs, Duke was waltzing slowly around, a grin on his narrow face, while Jimmy jumped up and down.
“He’s worth more’n diamonds,” said Jimmy proudly. “There never was a dog in the whole wide world like our Duke!”
Part II
The French Affair
For my friend,
Mary Ann Bachman,
with love.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 1
Lady Charteris gazed on her countrymen with wide, curious eyes. They were the first French people she had seen since she had come to England at the age of six, seventeen years ago, when Sir George Charteris had rescued her—the last of the noble house of de Fleuris—from the horrors of the French Revolution.
Since her arrival in England, she had lived at Sir George’s home, Marsham Manor in Bedfordshire, where she had been brought up by her kindly rescuer. On her eighteenth birthday, Sir George, then forty years of age, had proposed to her, and she had accepted, finding marriage a gentle continuation of the calm, sheltered life she had always known under his protection. Lady Charteris had never spoken French, except with her tutor, and had never considered France her home.
But when news of a fair being held in Cavendish Square to raise money for the French émigrés who had flocked to London in the thousands to escape the Terror was announced in the morning papers, Delphine, Lady Charteris, had been overcome with a desire to go, despite the protestations of Sir George’s sister, Mrs. Bencastle, a grim widow of uncertain years.
Sir George had died three years ago, and Mrs. Bencastle seemed to think that Delphine was sullying her late husband’s memory by this visit.
“You are English now,” Mrs. Bencastle had grumbled in the carriage on the road to London. “I never could see what George was about, to risk life and limb rescuing those Frenchies from the guillotine. Untrustworthy, that’s what they are.”
Delphine had simply compressed her lips and refrained from replying. She had found long ago that it was best not to enter into any argument with Mrs. Bencastle but simply to go ahead and do what she wanted.
Mrs. Bencastle had made her home with Sir George and Delphine after the death of her husband ten years ago. After the death of her brother, Sir George, she had appointed herself as counselor and companion to Delphine, a situation Delphine bore with the calm patience she bore everything else, from bad harvests to the disapproval of the local county who still considered her a foreigner and also damned her as a “lady farmer,” since she saw to the management of her estates herself.
It was late September. Cavendish Square was full of noise and color. A small sun rode above the smoky pall which always shrouded London, and there was an exhilarating nip in the air.
Although the French émigrés had been in London for over two decades, it was still socially fashionable to support them by giving balls and concerts and fairs such as the one Delphine was attending.
The émigrés who had managed to smuggle out enough wealth to maintain a good position had set up a sort of Faubourg St. Honoré around and in Manchester Square. Those less fortunate huddled in the hundreds in squalid lodgings in St. Paneras, and the ones who made their living by using their wits inhabited Soho. Gently born men and women with no training in earning a livelihood made a gallant shift at self-support by using the accomplishments of happier days. Many became teachers of French, of music, of fencing, of drawing, and of dancing. Some found homes as tutors or governesses, others as dancing masters.
One nobleman set up as a tailor; another stooped to shoemaking; a countess opened a shop for the sale of ices and other dainties; an accomplished gourmet exercised his skill as a salad-dresser for parties. Some faithful servants set up restaurants and kept their old masters on the proceeds. Young people were trained to make artificial flowers and straw hats.
Why the émigrés continued to be loved by society was a mystery to the Mrs. Bencastles of England. The war with France was finally over and that ogre Napoleon was incarcerated on Elba, but their soldiers had taken so many British lives. The poorest of the French émigrés took their superiority to the English for granted. Most never bothered to master the English language. They plumed themselves as missionaries of dress, deportment, taste, and elegance, despising their host John Bull, who “lived on spleen and tea.”
And so, to Mrs. Bencastle, Cavendish Square was thronged with posturing popinjays. But Delphine found herself caught up in the frivolous atmosphere, the intoxicating gaiety. She moved among the booths with their fluttering ribbons, listening to the chatter and rattle of rapid French all about her.
She shyly asked the price of a fan in halting French, and t
hen shook her head in amusement at the exorbitant sum. The pert demoiselle behind the counter promptly mentioned a lower price. Delphine again shook her head. The price went down again, and before she knew it, Delphine found herself haggling away in fluent French while Mrs. Bencastle stood a little apart, glaring in disdain.
Mrs. Bencastle looked, in fact, like a female John Bull. She had a heavy, pugnacious face and a large stomach and bosom formed into one round mass by an Apollo corset. She wore a low-crowned hat, very like a man’s, its severity modified by two tall pheasant’s tail feathers stuck in the band. She was dressed from head to foot in black. She wore, winter and summer, wool on top and flannel underneath. Delphine found that the only reassuring thing about Mrs. Bencastle was that she was always the same—grumpy and critical. There were no wild swings of mood, and Delphine could not once remember having seen Mrs. Bencastle smile.
Mrs. Bencastle held her large umbrella firmly by its heavy ivory handle, which was carved in the shape of a dyspeptic duck, and wondered how soon she could get Delphine to leave. Delphine, she thought sourly, was turning more French by the minute.
Delphine, despite her English upbringing, was French in appearance and manner. She was small and energetic with golden skin and masses of dark hair. Her eyes were large and pansy brown and slightly almond-shaped. She threw back her head and laughed at something the young salesgirl was saying, and Mrs. Bencastle thought bitterly that even her laughter sounded French. Of course, George must have been in his dotage to marry a penniless foreigner hardly out of the schoolroom. Poor George, thought Mrs. Bencastle, heaving a gusty sigh. Little did he think as he lay on his deathbed that his young wife would be laughing in that sickeningly carefree way when he was hardly cold in his grave. The fact that Sir George had died three years ago meant little to Mrs. Bencastle, who had gone into mourning for her own husband and had never come out of it—as far as dress was concerned.
Sir George had once told Delphine that his sister had always been so, that even as a young girl Maria had perpetually looked as if she were prepared to attend a funeral.
At last Delphine purchased the fan and joined Mrs. Bencastle. “Have you seen enough?” asked Mrs. Bencastle crossly.
“Oh, no,” said Delphine. “I really must buy some more things to help these poor people.”
“These ‘poor people,’ as you call them,” snorted Maria Bencastle, “would go farther and fare better if they learned the king’s English. Throwing my brother’s good money to a lot of wastrels …”
Delphine stopped walking. “Enough,” she said in a small, cold voice. “It is because I manage the estates so well and study the latest improvements in agriculture that we have no wants. Sir George left us comfortably enough, but I have trebled his money as even you must admit, Maria. Furthermore, if you are going to persist in being rude and ungracious and in spoiling my day, then we will return to Marsham, and once there, we will discuss your future. You do not need to stay with me, Maria, as well you know. I am prepared to set you up comfortably anywhere you wish.”
“I only said what I thought was right,” mumbled Mrs. Bencastle.
“Then if saying the right thing means being rude, why do you not essay to say the wrong thing once in while,” said Delphine tartly. “You’re a bore, Maria.”
And with that, she twirled her parasol over her shoulder and began to make her way through the crowd.
Mrs. Bencastle stood stock-still and stared after her. Never in her whole life had anyone dared to call Mrs. Bencastle a bore. She was outraged. The local county did not call on Delphine, Lady Charteris, and without her, Maria, where would Delphine be? Mrs. Bencastle conveniently forgot about her gossiping to the local county behind Delphine’s back, about her exaggeration of Delphine’s “Frenchness,” about her own surly temper, which had caused the county to cease calling.
She stalked after Delphine to give that young lady a piece of her mind, forgetting it was very hard for anyone to lecture Delphine. She simply stopped listening.
Today was the first day Delphine had ever shown any signs of temper. Which all came about, thought Maria, from the pernicious influence of all these foreigners.
The very smells seemed foreign to Maria Bencastle’s British nostrils, a combination of musk and perfume and garlic and wine.
She spotted Delphine quite easily. No other lady was wearing a bonnet quite so frivolous or quite so pink. She was standing at the edge of a crowd, craning her neck to see what they were looking at. Maria took up a bulldog stance at Delphine’s elbow.
The crowd swayed and parted, and Delphine quickly nipped through the gap to the front. Maria, not to be outdone, elbowed her way after her.
Delphine, aware of her presence, bit her lip. Maria was tolerable in Marsham Manor in the heart of Bedfordshire, even with her constant grumbling. In the country, Delphine found she hardly noticed this constant rumbling grumble of complaint. But here, among this cosmopolitan crowd, Maria suddenly seemed as welcome as a ball and chain.
Shrugging the irritation away, Delphine turned her attention to the performer who was attracting such a large crowd.
He was an extremely tall, very good-looking man in a rakish, devil-may-care way. Delphine thought he looked English. He was wearing morning dress: blue swallowtail coat with silver buttons, buff breeches, and Hessian boots. His gold hair shone in the pale sunlight, and his eyes were as blue as the country sky.
He seemed, in all, too elegant a creature to be performing at a fair. He was juggling six silver balls with quite amazing dexterity, his long, white fingers nimbly catching them and spinning them around until they seemed to move in a circle of their own volition.
Then he stopped and made a magnificent bow. A tiny urchin with a face of ageless evil, dressed in the shabby livery of a tiger, promptly started passing ‘round the hat. Delphine fumbled in her reticule for a sixpence. Then she noticed that the elbows of the well-pressed morning coat were shiny with wear and that there was a patch at the heel of one of the performer’s boots.
She pulled out a sovereign instead and threw it into the hat.
“Got a yellow boy, guv,” shouted the tiger to his master. “Flash mort over here.” His voice was pure cockney.
The performer looked across quickly. Delphine tried to escape, but the crowd behind her was too thick.
The performer walked towards her and looked down into her eyes. “Thank you, fair lady,” he said in a lazy, sleepy voice. “But a look from your beautiful eyes is worth more to me than all the gold in London.” Delphine stared up at him, unable to drag her eyes away.
He raised her gloved hand and kissed it while Mrs. Bencastle snorted, “Mountebank!” and the crowd cheered.
His voice was English and cultured, carrying the polite, lazy damn-you-to-hell accents of the English ruling class.
Already regretting her generosity, Delphine snatched her hand away and gave a stiff nod. He made her a low bow and went back into the circle formed by the crowd where he began to balance a plate on top of a thin pole on his chin.
Delphine turned away, anxious to be gone.
She did not know him, and yet … and yet she was disappointed in him. That an Englishman of such obvious breeding should make such a clown of himself.
Delphine felt unaccountably depressed. A small wisp of cloud covered the sun. Mrs. Bencastle was mumbling away about the disgrace of seeing an Englishman behaving like a popinjay.
“He is obviously poor,” snapped Delphine. “Clearly he has found he can make a living by his skills. Do not preach so, Maria. You make my head ache!”
Mrs. Bencastle was beginning to feel bewildered and anxious. Twice now the usually placid Lady Charteris had snapped at her.
As they reached the corner of Holles Street, the tiger appeared before them.
He thrust a pink rose at Delphine, said, “From the guvner,” and scampered back into the crowd.
“Throw it away,” said Mrs. Bencastle.
Delphine turned the long-stemmed rose around
in her fingers and did not reply.
Mrs. Bencastle noticed that Delphine still carried the rose as she sat in the carriage on the road back to Bedfordshire. A crease of worry appeared between Maria Bencastle’s thick eyebrows. First there had been Delphine’s unexpected anger. And then this petty mountebank sending her a rose, a rose she still carried. It dawned on Mrs. Bencastle as she cast quick, sly glances at her companion that she had never realized before how pretty Delphine was! Her pretty sprigged muslin gown worn under a fitted pink sarcenet pelisse accentuated her excellent figure. Her pink straw bonnet with its crown of roses shaded a perfect oval of a face.
What if Delphine should marry again? And what if the new husband gave Mrs. Bencastle her marching orders?
For the first time in her life, Mrs. Bencastle realized she would have to set herself out to please. She had no desire to live on her own.
Marsham Manor was comfortable, almost luxurious, although Mrs. Bencastle would not admit, even to herself, that the added luxuries were a result of Delphine’s excellent farm management.
The manor was a small, gracious Caroline mansion of mellow brick, standing in a mere twenty acres of formal garden. Beyond the gardens stretched the rich acres of farmland which Lady Charteris had learned to manage so well.
Although the house had been originally built in 1680, it had been redesigned and renovated in 1750 by Sir George Charteris’s father. At that time, the country had once again become fashionable, and aristocrats no longer looked forward to a visit to their estates with all the enthusiasm they usually reserved for a visit to the dentist.
Farming, instead of being a chore to be turned over to stewards and tenant farmers, became the main interest of the landowner. Sir George had carried on that tradition and had found a willing pupil in Delphine.