Tangled Reins and Other Stories

by Stephanie Laurens

  His departure left them in stricken silence, which lasted until he was out of sight. Then they all dissolved into laughter.

  Finally, still flanked by Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe and with Ferdie and Mr Dermont bringing up the rear, the Misses Darent returned to Cavendish Square. On the way their lordships maintained a steady flow of general conversation, including both young ladies impartially. Dorothea suspected that this evidence of impeccable behaviour was a ploy to convince her there had been no impropriety in their actions in the Park. With a reasonable idea of what she and Cecily could expect on future rides, she realised that they would have to make plans to at least minimise the opportunities for such manoeuvres. She was not optimistic of their chances of eliminating such occurrences altogether; their lordships were simply too experienced in such matters.

  Arriving in Cavendish Square, she moved to dismount but was forestalled by Hazelmere, who lifted her down. Holding her for a moment between his hands, he looked down at her lovely face, serious for once. The hazel eyes glinted, then Cecily laughed and the moment was gone. Releasing her, he swept her a bow and, with his usual amused air, said, ‘Au revoir, Miss Darent. I dare say we’ll meet again tonight.’

  Brought back to reality, Dorothea smiled her goodbyes and, finding Cecily at her elbow, entered Merion House.

  Once inside, Mellow informed them that Lady Merion was resting before the ball and had insisted that her granddaughters do likewise. The Duchess of Richmond was entertaining tonight and her ball was one of the highlights of the Season. Held on the first Saturday of April, this was followed by all the coming-out balls. Traditionally the most important of these were held on the Wednesdays and Saturdays during the rest of April, sometimes stretching into May. While there were a number of lesser gatherings scheduled for the next Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, there was only one ball on the following Wednesday night—at Merion House. A few other mothers had originally planned to hold their daughters’ balls on that night too, but, having taken stock of the Darent sisters, these ladies had wisely decided to change their dates. Better to be a bit thinner of company than to have no company at all.

  Her interlude with Hazelmere had given Dorothea food for thought, so, thinking her grandmother’s advice very timely, she and Cecily retired to their respective chambers, supposedly to rest.

  Trimmer, her new maid, was waiting to help her change. Lady Merion and Witchett had decided that Betsy should stay with Cecily, as she was familiar with that young lady’s occasional indispositions. Dorothea’s style was more demanding of the attentions of a first-class dresser. When asked if she knew of any suitable candidate Witchett had eventually produced her niece, Trimmer. Luckily she and Dorothea had got on well, and Trimmer had, as her aunt before her, fallen under the spell of her lovely young mistress.

  Pausing in the middle of the room to draw out the hat pin the Marquis had placed in her hair, Dorothea wished that Trimmer would go away, but did not have the heart to summarily dismiss her. She patiently waited while the attentive maid divested her of her outdoor clothes and left her enveloped in a green silk wrapper before letting her mind shut out the rest of the world and concentrate on the question of what she was to do about the Marquis of Hazelmere.

  Sitting at her dressing-table, she loosened her hair and absent-mindedly brushed the gleaming tresses, staring unseeingly at her reflection in the mirror. From the moment she had first met him Hazelmere had made serious inroads against her heart’s defences. That much, she admitted, was incontrovertible fact. But up until now she had avoided considering the natural outcome of that situation.

  Staring intently into her own green eyes, reflected in the highly polished surface, she sighed. It had taken her some time to understand the novel emotions he aroused in her. But after today she could no longer delude herself. Alone with him in the clearing in the Park, she had been quite sure he would kiss her. And she had wanted him to. Preferably as he had before by the blackberry bush. Scandalous it might have been, but she had been wishing for weeks that he would repeat the performance.

  She laid the brush down and carefully rewound her hair. She knew she looked forward to meeting him wherever they went, and she derived much pleasure from his company, despite his high-handed ways, which still on occasion infuriated her. The disconcerting habit he had of reading her mind merely added spice to their encounters, and she thoroughly enjoyed their highly irregular conversations. When he was not with her, alternately mocking or provoking her, with that certain amused expression in his hazel eyes, she felt sadly flat and found little to please her. The inescapable conclusion was that he had captured her heart. That admitted, what exactly was she to do about it?

  Rising to cross the room, she lay on her bed, idly playing with the tassels of the bedcurtain cord. While she was now sure of her feelings, what had she learnt of his? He certainly seemed genuinely attracted to her. But he was of an age when he would be expected to marry. Maybe he had simply, in his customary high-handed way, decided that she would do. Surely, if that was the case, and his interest in her was illusory, she would be able to tell? But he was a master at this game and she was a novice. In the normal way of things, it seemed certain that he would, at some point, offer for her hand. And, by the same agreed code of behaviour, she would accept him. The trouble was, she loved him. Did he love her?

  She pondered that question for half an hour. Despite his ability to guess most of her thoughts, she felt sure that she had not yet betrayed the depth of her interest in him. It seemed prudent to shield her heart until he gave her some indication of his regard.

  However, the present stage of innocuous dalliance could not last; this afternoon’s events proved that. Perhaps, during one of their numerous interludes, she could find a way of encouraging him to declare himself? The idea of encouraging such a man as Hazelmere brought a grin of amusement to her face. That, at least, should not prove too difficult. Feeling, for no particular reason, more confident, she placed her head on her pillow and, worn out by her cogitations, slept until Trimmer came to dress her for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.

  IF SHE HAD looked out of her window instead of into her mirror Dorothea would have seen Hazelmere, Fanshawe and Ferdie entering Hazelmere House. They left their mounts in the mews behind the mansion and walked back to the front door, deep in discussion of horseflesh. Hazelmere opened the door with his key and crossed the threshold, only to come to an immediate halt. Ferdie, following, cannoned into him and, peering around his shoulders, remarked in wonder, ‘Good lord!’

  Hazelmere brought his quizzing glass to bear on the piles of bandboxes and trunks strewn about his hall. Seeing his butler attempting to approach through the welter of luggage, he enquired in a deceptively sweet voice, ‘Mytton, what exactly is all this?’

  Mytton, knowing that tone, promptly replied, ‘Her ladyship has arrived, m’lord.’

  ‘Which ladyship?’ pursued Hazelmere, assailed by a sudden and revolting thought.

  ‘Why, the Dowager, m’lord!’ replied Mytton, at a loss to understand the strange question.

  ‘Oh, of course!’ said Hazelmere, relieved as enlightenment dawned. ‘For one horrible moment I thought Maria and Susan had come back.’

  This explanation made all clear to the assembled company. Hazelmere’s antipathy towards his elder sisters was common knowledge. This stemmed from an attempt made some years previously by those rigid ladies to manage his matrimonial affairs for him. Their inevitable and ignoble defeat had culminated in their being persona non grata in his various establishments. As they were both married to men well able to provide for them, Hazelmere saw no reason for them to be cluttering up his houses with their meddling, strait-laced ways.

  Absorbed in his own affairs, he had entirely forgotten that his mother, Anthea Henry, the Dowager Marchioness of Hazelmere, always came to town for a few weeks of the Season, and invariably attended the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Again surveying the scene, he asked, ‘How is her ladyship, Mytton?’

  ‘Sh
e has retired to rest, m’lord, but said she would join you for dinner.’

  Hazelmere nodded absently and led the way in between the various trunks and boxes, down the corridor and through the double doors into the beautifully appointed library. Ferdie followed, with Fanshawe bringing up the rear. Closing the doors behind them, Fanshawe turned with a grin. ‘They all seem to move with mountains of luggage, don’t they? Can’t think your mama will need the half of it, but mine’s exactly the same.’

  Hazelmere ruefully agreed. Realising that to dine alone with his sharp-eyed parent might not be all that soothing to his temper, already under strain, he decided to call in reinforcements. ‘Tony, you’ll come to dinner? And you too, Ferdie?’

  Fanshawe nodded his acceptance, but Ferdie replied, ‘Pleased to, but don’t forget I’m to escort the Merion party to the ball, so I’ll have to leave at seven.’

  ‘Well, if you’re leaving at seven we’ll have to leave earlier,’ said Fanshawe. ‘Don’t you dare leave Merion House until the carriage is away from this door!’

  Hazelmere crossed to the bell pull and, when Mytton appeared, gave his orders. ‘And my respects to her ladyship, but we dine at five and are to leave for the ball at seven. See that the carriage is waiting no later than seven.’

  Mytton retreated to convey this unwelcome news to the culinary wizard downstairs. Hazelmere poured glasses of wine and, having handed these around, sank into one of the wing chairs gathered around the marble fireplace. Fanshawe had taken the chair opposite, and Ferdie was elegantly disposed on the chaise. Now that they were comfortably settled, a companionable silence descended. This was broken by Fanshawe. ‘What on earth made you come back from that ride so quickly?’

  Without looking up from his contemplation of the unlit fire, Hazelmere replied, ‘Temptation.’

  ‘What?’

  With a sigh he explained. ‘Remember we agreed we’d have to play by the rules?’ Fanshawe nodded. ‘Well, if we’d stayed any longer in that ride the rules would have flown with the wind. So we came back.’

  Fanshawe nodded sympathetically. ‘All this is turning out a dashed sight more complicated than I’d imagined.’

  That brought Hazelmere’s gaze to his face, but it was Ferdie, all at sea, who spoke. ‘But why is it all so complicated? Would’ve thought it was all pretty much plain sailing, myself, especially for you two. Simply roll up and ask the girls’ guardian, the horrible Herbert, for their hands. Simple! No problem at all.’

  Seeing the expression of amused tolerance this speech elicited, Ferdie realised that he had missed some vital point and waited patiently to be set right. Hazelmere, eyes fixed on the delicate wine glass held in one white hand, eventually explained, ‘The difficulty, Ferdie, lies in divining the true state of the Misses Darents’ affections. To whit, I can’t tell if Miss Darent is merely playing the game or whether her heart is at all engaged by your humble servant.’

  Ferdie regarded him with absolute disbelief, utterly bereft of words. Finally regaining the use of his tongue, he exclaimed, ‘No! Hang it all, Marc! Can’t be true. You, of all people. Must be able to tell.’

  ‘How?’

  Ferdie opened his mouth to answer and then shut it again. He turned to Fanshawe. ‘You too?’

  Fanshawe, head sunk on his chest, merely nodded.

  After a pause while he digested this astonishing intelligence, Ferdie said, ‘But they both seem to enjoy your company.’

  ‘Oh, we know that,’ agreed Hazelmere dismissively. ‘But beyond that, I, for one, can’t tell.’

  ‘True,’ Fanshawe confirmed. ‘Only need to look into those eyes to see they like having us around. Like to talk to us, dance with us. Well, why wouldn’t they, all things considered? Fact of the matter, Ferdie, m’lad, is it’s a very long hop from that to love.’

  The dilemma they were in was now clear to Ferdie. He was considering the possibility of helping them out, when he suddenly found himself the object of the Marquis’s hazel gaze.

  ‘Ferdie,’ said Hazelmere softly, ‘if you so much as breathe a word of this conversation outside this room—’

  ‘We’ll both make your life entirely unbearable,’ finished Fanshawe. This was a standard threat between the three, and Ferdie made haste to assure them that such an idea had never entered his head. He faltered slightly under Hazelmere’s sceptical gaze.

  A dismal silence settled over them, until Fanshawe glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf and stirred. ‘I’d best be off to change. Coming, Ferdie?’

  All three rose. After seeing them out, Hazelmere went upstairs to find Murgatroyd already awaiting him. As Tony had said, it had become a lot more complicated than anticipated.

  OVER THE LIGHT meal they sat down to before the Richmond House ball, Dorothea, prompted by Hazelmere’s comments in the Park, drew out Lady Merion on the relationship between the Marquis, Lord Fanshawe and Ferdie Acheson-Smythe.

  Lady Merion, thinking this a sensible question in the circumstances, was happy to describe the situation as fully as she could. ‘Well, the principal seats of the Hazelmere and Eglemont peerages, held by the Henry and Fanshawe families respectively, lie in Surrey and adjoin each other. The families have always been close allies and friends. Hazelmere and Fanshawe were born only a few weeks apart; Hazelmere is the elder. Both have two older sisters and Hazelmere has a younger sister, too, but neither has any brothers. Consequently it was only natural that the boys grew up together. They went to Eton and Oxford together and have been on the town for … oh, over ten years now. The bond between them is very strong—stronger than if they had in fact been brothers, I suspect.’

  ‘What about Ferdie?’ asked Cecily.

  ‘Ferdie is the son of Hazelmere’s mother’s sister, and so a first cousin to Hazelmere. He is about five years younger than Marc, but he was sent to spend most of his childhood summers at Hazelmere. I don’t quite understand why, for in temperament they seem very dissimilar, and there’s the age difference too, but Ferdie and Hazelmere and Tony Fanshawe are very firm friends indeed. They always help each other out and used to cover up for each other when they were younger and got into scrapes. Ferdie is very sincerely attached to the Marquis and Lord Fanshawe, and they always seem very protective and tolerant of him.’

  By this time they had finished their meal and Lady Merion, glancing at the clock, shooed them off to put the finishing touches to their toilettes, saying, ‘You know Ferdie will not be late and he hates to be kept waiting!’

  LADY MERION was quite correct in telling her granddaughters that the bond between Ferdie and their lordships ran deep. It dated from Ferdie’s first visit to Hazelmere, when, on his first morning there, the shy eleven-year-old had seen his magnificent sixteen-year-old cousin and his friend leave the stableyard for an early-morning ride. He had been in his bedchamber at the time, and had hurriedly dressed and gone down to the stables, thinking to get a horse and catch up with them. Instead, he had fallen victim to two young stable-lads, who, for a joke, had set him on a half-broken Arab stallion. The horse, very fresh, had broken away, Ferdie clinging for dear life to its back. Luckily it had headed in the direction taken by the older boys. In the ensuing chase, Marc and Tony Fanshawe had worked with Ferdie to save both him and the stallion. Sheer good luck and a deal of courage from them all had pulled it off. From that day onwards the three were, as far as their disparate ages and interests allowed, inseparable. Whenever other children had tried to bully Ferdie, they had very quickly learned they had to answer to either Tony or the even more formidable Marc.

  Habits formed in childhood ran deep, and when Ferdie had got into trouble in the petticoat line at Oxford, it was to Marc, rather than to his own scholarly and eccentric father, that he had turned. And Marc had very efficiently sorted the problem out. On his coming on the town, those who belonged to the better of the gentlemen’s clubs had quickly realised that if Ferdie Acheson-Smythe was threatened then Lord Fanshawe and the Marquis of Hazelmere had a habit of materialising behind him. When Ferd
ie got involved in controversy over another gentleman’s efforts at fuzzing the cards and was challenged to a duel, illegal though that practice then was, it was Hazelmere who stepped in and ruthlessly put a stop to it.

  In return, it must be said, their lordships had found that Ferdie possessed a rare talent: he was so very trustworthy that women tended to pour all their secrets into his ear. Thus Ferdie had proved more than useful to them over the past five years. However, as Hazelmere had truthfully told Dorothea, it was quite impossible for Ferdie to view either himself or Tony Fanshawe askance.

  THE DOWAGER MARCHIONESS of Hazelmere descended the stairs of Hazelmere House, thinking how pleasant it would be to have a new Lady Hazelmere to make use of its beautifully proportioned salons. She had come up from Surrey, as was her custom, but this year she had much higher expectations of the Season.

  At just over fifty, she was still a striking woman, tall and willowy, her abundant chestnut hair still retaining much of its glory, and the years had not robbed her face of its piquancy. She had contracted a bronchial complaint some years before and, as this was exacerbated by the fumes of the city, she usually spent only a week or so in London. Her expectations had been fuelled by the extraordinary intelligence conveyed to her by her London correspondents. As well as the carefully worded missive from Hermione Merion, detailing the history of her son’s involvement with Dorothea Darent, she had received no less than six letters from other close friends, all comprehensively describing Hazelmere’s infatuation with Miss Darent. Of these, the most informative had been the most recent, from the Countess of Eglemont. Tony’s parents had returned to London a week earlier and Amelia Fanshawe had dutifully reported how things stood between both her son and Cecily Darent and Hazelmere and Miss Darent. More than anyone else, she would trust Amelia to correctly interpret Marc’s behaviour. And what Amelia had written had been intriguing. Consequently she had been amused rather than surprised to find that her usually cool son had moved dinner forward so he could arrive at the ball ahead of his inamorata.