The Daring Debutantes Bundle

by M C Beaton

  MacGregor interrupted her. “I ken exactly what Jeremy says. Sit down, the pair of you!”

  Lucy sat down beside MacGregor. Jeremy joined Hester on the sofa but did not look at her.

  “Now that you are all seated, it’s my turn to make a speech,” said MacGregor.

  He got to his feet and, crossing the room, lifted a small attaché case from behind the sofa. “Let me just show you what I have in this box of surprises. I was expecting your visit, you see.

  “Ah, here we are. By some clever dealing around the city, I managed to buy up all your bills and IOUs, Lady Hester. And yours, Brent. I want them paid now. If they are not paid immediately, I shall take possession of your homes, furniture, jewelry—in fact, everything I can turn into hard cash.”

  Hester and Jeremy were both white-faced.

  At last Hester whispered, “What can I do? I can’t possibly pay. How shall I live?”

  “Hard work,” said MacGregor, closing the case with a snap, “never hurt anyone. Or you can commit suicide and upset everyone’s holiday the way poor Didi upset the house party. Remember your reaction to Didi’s suicide, Lady Hester? ‘What a dead bore, that girl is,’ you said. And then you and Jeremy, here, giggled like mad because after all she was dead.

  “There is, however, one way out.”

  “What?” gasped Hester and Jeremy together.

  “You will make it your life’s work to scotch any rumors about me or my daughter …” —the sorry pair nodded vigorously as hope began to dawn—”… and you will be married as soon as possible. That will stop you from preying on other people.

  “We will make the agreement legal. If you stick to it, I will not foreclose on your debts.”

  “But of course we’ll do anything you say, won’t we?” said Hester to Jeremy.

  Jeremy looked at MacGregor and unconsciously echoed Miss Johnstone. “You old devil,” he said between his teeth. “You know we can’t do anything else.”

  “Good,” said MacGregor briskly. “You shall see my lawyer tomorrow. And may I wish you both a happy marriage.”

  He was still chuckling to himself as the would-be blackmailers left the room.

  “How did you know they would try to blackmail us?” asked Lucy in bewilderment.

  “I can recognize an adventurer or adventuress a mile off,” said MacGregor cheerfully. “And if I can’t, who can?”

  Lucy winced so he hurriedly changed the subject. She was looking peaked. The roses had left her cheeks. She could not stay immured in this monument to the British sanitary system for the rest of her days. He would take her for a walk on the beach early tomorrow when no one was about so she could wear comfortable clothes.

  Lucy agreed with a bright fixed smile on her face, thinking of the last time she had worn comfortable clothes and remembering Didi whose pretty, lively ghost still seemed to haunt the windy walks of Dinard.

  * * *

  When Lucy woke the next morning she was aware of a great change. She lay looking at the canopy of her four-poster bed and then at the tattered and frayed curtains, wishing idly that the benevolent Mr. Jones did not have such a passion for trying to authenticate everything. There were even gunshot holes all over the woodwork, supposed to give it a genuine old worm-eaten look.

  She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes and climbed down from the great bed. Then she realized what the change was. The wind was no longer buffeting and howling around the house.

  She threw open the shutters and the sun poured into the room. Far below, the beautiful aquamarine sea of the Brittany coast crashed in creamy waves on the silver beach. A little of the feeling of loss and emptiness began to leave her.

  Lucy hurried into her clothes, choosing a linen skirt and a striped blouse. She pulled a pair of old sandals on her feet and ran lightly along the corridor past Miss Jones’s room, so that she would not wake her.

  For the incessantly grateful Miss Jones would insist on coming too, fussing over Lucy and making her wear a shawl and carry a parasol.

  MacGregor was already finishing breakfast when she arrived and looked indulgent when Lucy said she was anxious to get out into the sunshine and have her own breakfast later.

  They walked amiably arm in arm toward the silver strip of beach far below, the strong scent of pine reminding them both of home.

  “Have you heard from your mother?” asked MacGregor.

  “I had a letter two days ago,” said Lucy. “She says she forgives me and that she will take the money after all. Father wants to open a pub.”

  “Now I would have thought Mrs. Balfour would have considered a public house a verra sinful business,” grinned MacGregor.

  Lucy smiled back. “Father wanted to do it and he’s the only person who can talk her ‘round. They’re going to call it The Countess of Marysburgh.”

  “Fancy!” said MacGregor. “I can just see the old countess knocking back the pints in the bar and probably scratching her armpits at the same time. The habits that woman has. Did I ever tell you of the time I went into her bedroom and—”

  “Yes,” said Lucy hurriedly.

  They had reached the beach, lying smooth and shining under the hot summer sun.

  “When I was a boy,” said MacGregor, “I used to love making mysterious footsteps on a virgin bit of beach like this. Oh, daft things. For example, if we both hopped together on one foot, your wee foot next to my big one, people would wonder what kind of strange human had emerged from the ocean.”

  “Let’s try,” laughed Lucy.

  “All right.”

  They hung on to each other and, starting at the edge of the sea, hopped up the beach together, concentrating on their footprints.

  As they arrived, panting and breathless, at the edge of some scrubby hillocks of razor grass, a shadow fell across them. Both looked up. Andrew Harvey was standing on one of the hillocks looking down at them. His face was very grim and set.

  MacGregor released Lucy who had begun to tremble.

  Andrew took a deep breath and opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  He had sworn to himself that when he saw Lucy he would throw his arms around her and beg her to marry him. He had pictured the moment. She would be sitting quietly with her sewing at the end of some long room, maybe with a harp nearby to add to the classic picture. Her dress of creamy lace would billow at her small feet. Her little dimpled fingers would drop the embroidery frame and she would take out a wisp of handkerchief and begin to cry….

  He had not expected to come across a very alive girl romping on the beach in an old faded skirt and a pink-and-white-striped blouse. Her feet in the worn sandals were bare and her hands, he noticed, were strong and capable.

  He suddenly felt that he did not know her at all. So he did not make any of his carefully planned speeches.

  He gave a small bow and held out his arm. “May I escort you, Miss Balfour-MacGregor?” he said.

  Lucy nodded wordlessly and put her small sandy hand on his arm. They moved slowly along the beach.

  Andrew stopped. His heart was hammering uncomfortably and something seemed to have happened to his voice.

  “Lucy,” he began, and then faltered. Those wide light-green eyes looked up into his. He gathered his courage.

  “Lucy,” he said softly. “Shall we begin again?”

  He caught her whispered reply of “yes,” and bent his head. Her lips were very cool and salty but they grew warmer and warmer and clung to his so that the world went spinning away as Andrew closed his eyes and folded his arms tightly around her.

  MacGregor stood forgotten at the other end of the beach. He felt his responsibilities as an adopted father very strongly. They should not be kissing in that uninhibited way in full view of anyone who cared to see them. It was just not conventional.

  “Oh, bugger the conventions,” said the irrepressible MacGregor to himself and trotted lightly as a young man, back up the cliff.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The ushers, the croupiers, and the c
ashiers of the famous casino at Monte Carlo shook their heads as Viscount Harvey and his pretty bride left the casino giggling helplessly with laughter and hanging on to each other. They had just lost heavily at baccarat.

  “Oh, Lucy,” cried Andrew when he could speak. “Just think of it. The Highland fairies must have decided that you had money enough. You lost every single game.”

  “I’m so glad,” said Lucy, drying her streaming eyes. “I always felt there was something devilish about my luck at cards. Now your curiosity is satisfied, my dear. I need never see another casino again.”

  Andrew unfurled her parasol for her and took her arm as they strolled along in front of the hotels and cafés overlooking the Mediterranean.

  “Speaking of the devil,” said Andrew, “have you heard from the MacGregor?”

  “I had a postcard this morning,” said Lucy. “He is still in America and seems to be making a fortune on Wall Street. Poor MacGregor! I wonder if he will ever settle down on that bit of land in Scotland he is always dreaming about.”

  “Poor MacGregor, nothing,” snorted Andrew. “He is enjoying himself. Oh, lord! Look who is coming!”

  Lucy glanced quickly along the promenade and then lowered her parasol to hide her face. “It’s Jeremy,” she whispered, “and with some old woman. Quick. Lean over the rail and stare at the beach until they pass.”

  Jeremy and his lady came almost abreast of them and, to Lucy and Andrew’s horror, stopped to continue their quarrel.

  “How many times must I tell you,” said the woman in a waspish voice, “that you are married to me. I will not have you ogling silly little girls. Furthermore, you are going to go on a diet and keep regular hours. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Hester, dear.”

  Hester! Lucy peered from under the cover of her parasol. It was indeed Hester, but a Hester who had jumped into middle age with both feet— in fact with her whole body. Her figure, finally free of diets and stays, bulged comfortably under a loose tea gown. Her hair, free of dye, was pulled back in an iron-gray knot. Her eyes had grown smaller and her chin larger. And her voice held a decidedly militant note.

  The couple began to move away.

  “In fact, dear boy,” Hester was saying, “it is time we moved away from this bustle to the quiet of home, where we will be in more intime surroundings.”

  Jeremy winced and drew away but was firmly anchored to Hester’s side. She had developed an arm like a stevedore.

  Lucy winced as much as Jeremy had done.

  “How terrible for him, Andrew. Do you think our marriage will ever become like that?”

  He drew her close to him and began to kiss her passionately to convince her of how ridiculous her idea was.

  The French promenaders carefully averted their eyes.

  But the couple were English after all. And the English had no sense of decency.

  An outraged Frenchwoman dragged her husband hurriedly past the disgraceful couple and overtook Jeremy and Hester.

  “Imagine,” said the Frenchwoman, “kissing your wife in public!”

  Jeremy looked at Hester. Or anywhere else, he thought sadly.

  Damn MacGregor!

  Annabelle

  M. C. Beaton/Marion Chesney

  Copyright

  Annabelle

  Copyright ©1980 by Marion Chesney

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795319433

  For Harry Scott Gibbons

  And Charles David Bravos Gibbons

  With Love

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  Mr. James Quennell, the rector of Hazeldean, looked thoughtfully across the room at his eldest daughter, Annabelle, and wished for the hundredth time that he had not allowed himself to be coerced into sending the girl to London. This was to be Annabelle’s last evening at home before her departure for the South in the morning.

  If only they weren’t so grindingly poor, if only he hadn’t three other daughters to support, if only his good wife was not—well, why not admit it?—such a forceful and pushing woman.

  And if only Annabelle were not so strikingly beautiful.

  The soft light from the oil lamp in the shabby parlor of Hazeldean rectory cast a warm glow over Annabelle’s features as she bent her head over her mending. She wore a simple round gown of cambric which had seen much wear, but even the shabby dress could not detract from the beauty of her voluptuous figure or take away an ounce of the startling effect of her creamy skin and masses of curly red-gold hair.

  His other daughters, Mary, Susan, and Lisbeth, were all grouped around her. But they were as dark haired as their mother and had also inherited her sallow skin. The rector had timidly put forward the idea that one of the younger girls should go since Annabelle’s beauty might prove to be more of a curse than a blessing, but his energetic wife had pooh-poohed the idea.

  Mrs. Quennell had said in her usual strident manner, “The only thing we have in the bank is one beautiful daughter, and she should be used to the best advantage. Why send one of the others when you know they would not take?” This was all said with Mrs. Quennell’s usual insensitivity to the feelings of her other, less-favored daughters.

  The rector, as always, bowed to his wife’s stronger will. Annabelle was to visit her godmother—a remote aristocratic connection on her mother’s side of the family—and have a Season in London. She must catch a rich husband, or she would not be doing her duty as a Christian. Annabelle had meekly agreed to all plans for her future as she had meekly agreed to her mother’s dictates from the day she was born. Even in the surrounding neighborhood, girls were married off every day to “suitable” gentlemen, and never once did the question of love or mutual esteem arise.

  The only thing to raise doubts of any kind in Annabelle’s eighteen-year-old mind was the fact that her mother shied away from any discussion about Annabelle’s godmother—an unusual attitude in one so generally forthright. Godmother was Lady Emmeline, Dowager Marchioness of Eversley. What was she like? Mrs. Quennell had looked positively furtive. She couldn’t remember. She had not seen the Dowager Marchioness in years.

  Annabelle’s last evening at home seemed like any other. Very few of her belongings had been packed since her godmother had written to say that a new wardrobe would be furnished.

  And apart from the fact that her trunks were lying corded upstairs, no one would have guessed that one of the family was about to make a long and adventurous journey on the morrow.

  Annabelle longed to have someone—anyone—to listen to her fears. What if she did not get married? What if her godmother should take her in dislike? But her sisters had banded together in their usual mutual envy of her beauty, and her mother had called her missish when she had tried to voice some of her doubts. Her father had merely pointed out that God would protect the innocent, leaving poor Annabelle to worry the more. Would He lean down from far above the clouds to protect a young girl during her first Season? Surely He had more important things to take care of than mere frivolities.

  Annabelle looked round the shabby, cluttered parlor, at her three sisters tranquilly sure that life would be the same tomorrow as it was today, and her eyes misted with tears. The wind sighed in the old trees outsi
de, and the grandfather clock in the corner seemed to tick away the seconds, faster and faster and faster, carrying her along on its racing heartbeats into the unknown tomorrow.

  The Squire, Mr. Ralston, had kindly offered the use of his ancient and cumbersome travelling carriage and one of his wife’s maids as chaperone.

  That much, at least, was known. But what of the long miles to London? What of London itself? And what of her mysterious godmother?

  Her detailed measurements and one of her old gowns had been posted to London months ago so that her wardrobe would be ready for her on her arrival. What her mother had written about her, Annabelle did not know, but in one of her letters of reply, the Dowager Marchioness had expressed her relief that the girl was “not an antidote.”

  The hollow chimes of the clock striking the hour roused Annabelle from her troubled thoughts. Her sisters were gathering up their sewing and yawning and stretching.

  Mrs. Quennell indicated that it was time for bed but signalled to Annabelle to remain after her sisters had gone upstairs.

  She then fixed her daughter with her rather protruding stare. “This is the last chance I shall have to talk to you for some time, Annabelle,” she began. “I must make sure that you understand the honor that is being done you. You must—it is imperative that you marry well. God has given you the advantage of beauty, and it must be put to use for the benefit of the family. You will obey your godmother implicity since she has assured me if you do exactly as she says, then you will be affianced by the end of the Season. I trust you have not filled your head with nonsense from romances and expect a young and handsome gentleman to fall in love with you. That is not the way of the world. Often girls of your age are comfortably married to men much older. Believe me, love fades when there is no money.”

  A look of pain passed over the gentle features of the rector. “And did your love fade?” he asked quietly, but his wife paid him not the smallest attention.

  Annabelle shifted restlessly on her seat. She was used to lectures on her duty and young enough to look upon the task of marrying some man despite his age or manner as simply another kind of household chore. But she could not help wondering if her stern mother had ever felt any of the gentler passions. Often when her mother was lecturing her, Annabelle’s mind slid away onto some more pleasant topic, seeing her mother silently forming the words as if on the other side of a thick pane of glass. As usual her brain blocked out the words of the lecture, but this time she studied Mrs. Quennell as if looking at a stranger.