Her tone was curt and Roxanne recoiled slightly. The thought crossed her mind that it was a strange thing to say.
“The way the old Master doted on that good-for-nothing.”
Mrs. Dawson looked at Roxanne and her expression was as bitter as her tone of voice.
“Master Bevin was the first-born, more’s the pity. There’s no telling where a parent’s love will fall, is there now?”
Roxanne nodded.
“The old Master ignored Master Julian and Miss Sophia. He had eyes only for the eldest. He was blind to the boy’s faults. Beautiful, Master Bevin was. Just beautiful. But rotten to the core. Very bad blood! The face of an angel hiding the soul of the devil.”
She waved her arm expansively around her. “That’s why the place is in this state.”
“What state?” Roxanne asked, feeling rather stupid.
The room was comfortable and the furnishings of excellent quality. Mrs. Dawson, responding to her captive and interested audience, settled her ample rear onto the end of the bed. Roxanne felt slightly ashamed to be engaging the woman in family gossip. However, her interest was piqued by her enigmatic, handsome rescuer whose family history seemed to be steeped in a drama as riveting as a novel.
“No, not Miss Sophia’s room, of course. The young Master had that done as soon as he could, so it’ll be nice for when she visits.” The housekeeper cast a gloomy glance at Roxanne. “If she’ll ever set foot in here again.” She sighed.
“You’ll see the rest of the place when you’re up and about. Dozens of rooms closed up, the furniture under covers and the good pictures stored away. What the woodworm didn’t get, the moth has eaten. The house needs to be redone from top to toe. The old Master let it go to rack and ruin. Not that there was any money to spare after Master Bevin had come with his bills and creditors beating a path all the way down here. There wasn’t a penny for Miss Sophia’s coming out and all that a young lady needs for her début. Ball gowns, day dresses, evening gowns, shoes, hats, stockings and the like.”
Her voice rambled on as the housekeeper reviewed what had evidently been an important event.
“It was only thanks to the old Master’s sister Semphronia that poor Miss Sophia got the chance to make a fine match. She swept down here like a whirling tornado and fetched Miss Sophia a few years after the Mistress died, in spite of the old Master’s arguments. Brought her up and paid for it all as well without grudging a groat.”
The housekeeper snorted and folded her arms, an angry frown crinkling her brow.
“I know Mr. Trevallon is the present earl, but what happened to the older brother?” Roxanne probed.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish!” Mrs. Dawson snapped. “He broke his neck trying to take a very high hedge. Hadn’t Simmonds—that’s the second groom and a lad what knows about horses—and Skelton, the young Master’s groom, both warned Master Bevin. He took the young Master’s horse. A beautiful animal it was, if I say so meself, and I’m not one who’s fond of big creatures. Give me a small dog or a cat. Anyway, it was a chestnut and he called it a funny name.” She thought for a moment. “Sirrus! Or some such fancy name out of an old story. Pardon me, Miss, but I’m not one for too much book learning.”
“Sirius?” Roxanne volunteered.
“That’s it. Master Bevin took the horse and forced it at the hedge. The poor animal refused, like any sensible creature, and he beat it, pressing it onwards. You could see the whip marks afterwards on its sides. Sirrus fell on the other side, with his leg broken and Master Bevin’s neck. Serves him right.”
She got up and bustled about the room, picking up the tray.
“I know one mustn’t speak ill of the dead but it’s good that Master Julian’s got his birthright, although it’s going to cost him a pretty penny to set it to rights, which he will.”
Roxanne lay back on the pillows, her mind crowded with thoughts. What a story. It rivalled her own sad tale. As Mrs. Dawson advised her to rest and get her strength back, a wave of fatigue swept over Roxanne and she sank into a mercifully deep sleep.
Chapter Four
The next day, Roxanne felt fit enough to make her way downstairs after luncheon. The doctor had visited in the morning and pronounced her well on the road to recovery. Although he advised her to keep her arm in a sling for a day longer, Roxanne dispensed with it. The mouse-like Becky proved to be most helpful in her impromptu role of dresser. She laid out a garment for Roxanne on the bed.
“Becky?” Roxanne was surprised to see a dress that was definitely not hers.
“Yes, Miss?” squeaked Becky, with a polite bob.
“I think you’ve made a mistake.” Roxanne pointed to the garment. “That’s not mine.”
“No, Miss,” said Becky with another bob. “It’s on the Master’s orders. Yer gown seemed to be a bit spoiled with yer…er…accident and the Master says Miss Sophia’s got more dresses than she knows what to do with.”
Roxanne frowned.
Becky looked embarrassed.
“That’s wot ’e said,” she whispered. “Then ’e said since you might be short of a few things seeing as ye come with only a small bag, Mrs. Dawson was to pick out some nice dresses to suit yer.”
She opened the wardrobe that fairly bulged with a variety of stylish garments.
Roxanne was dumbfounded.
“I cannot wear someone else’s clothes,” she announced firmly. She picked the dress off the bed and thrust it into Becky’s arms.
“Put it back at once. I will wear my own gown.”
“Please, Miss!”
The terrified Becky made a series of frantic bobs and then burst into tears.
“Ye canna wear the other one!” she sobbed.
She rushed to the wardrobe and pointed to the array of dresses.
“They’s not worn at all. All brand-new. Miss Sophia was well fitted out with ’er troussoo and all by the Dook wot she married and by the Master’s aunt. She ’as no need of ’em and ’as prob’ly forgotten ’em says Mrs. Dawson. And the Master will be so angry that I didn’t do my job if ye don’t wear this that I’ll get the sack. Ye’re to meet ’im in the library as soon as yer ready.”
Roxanne eyed the stylish dress Becky clutched with a young woman’s natural pleasure. Since her own dress was missing and probably was being cleaned, she might as well wear the one offered. Besides, she did not want Becky to lose her job because of her stubbornness.
Becky had unpacked her comb and other necessary items of a lady’s toilette and set them out on the dressing table. Roxanne was grateful for Becky’s help in arranging her hair. Her arm still ached when she lifted it. The pale amber, high-necked gown in a plain style, with long sleeves and a small ruffle at the hem, became her admirably and enhanced her moss-green eyes. The bodice, trimmed with small knots of satin ribbon, fitted as if made for her. Becky reverently draped a Norwich silk shawl over Roxanne’s shoulders.
Pensive, Roxanne stared at her reflection. With her hair in her usual simple style, and a few stray curls falling about her ears, she seemed exactly the same as before. Two faint patches of colour glowed on her cheeks. There was no sign of the terrified, bedraggled creature she had been two nights ago, when she had fought and won her survival. It seemed impossible to picture that dreadful scene of near rape and assault.
Perhaps because the bruises and bites are covered, it seems as if nothing happened. My scars are on the inside.
Becky’s clumsy curtsey reminded her that her host awaited her in the library. Becky guided her down the grand winding staircase and led her to the library door. With a shy dip, she disappeared. Roxanne looked around. Mrs. Dawson was right. The house seemed very large and probably had been magnificent in its heyday, but the wall hangings were faded, the panelling showed signs of damage in several places, and much of the furniture she observed looked old and quite outdated. The carpets were positively shabby and showed distinct signs that large teeth had been at the fringes. The earl needed a lot of money and some time if he wa
nted to restore his heritage.
She pushed open the door and entered what was evidently a library of many years standing, judging by the state of the battered leather chairs, a moth-eaten sofa, and worn velvet curtains that had been a fine burgundy hue in their time, but were now faded to an indeterminate purplish colour.
The earl stood at the window, gazing out at the gardens. Alerted by the sound of Roxanne’s step on the floorboards, an enormous grey hound hurtled towards her, ears and tail flying. This was evidently the carpet-chewing culprit.
“Rufus!” The earl’s voice sounded like a whiplash.
“What a handsome beast!” Roxanne exclaimed.
The hound chose to ignore his master’s reproof and ally himself with their perceptive visitor. Skidding to a halt at her feet, he opened his giant jaws, displaying rows of large white teeth. A long red tongue unfurled itself from somewhere inside the cavernous mouth and licked her hand. Roxanne knelt down and stroked his whiskered face. Large chocolate-brown eyes gazed meltingly into hers.
“What a magnificent dog.” She fondled his ears. “Aren’t you a friendly fellow?”
Rufus responded to her affectionate behaviour by immediately exchanging his guise of dreadful hound for that of appealing lap-dog. He abased himself at Roxanne’s feet, pawing her hands for more ear-stroking.
Julian strode up to the pair and cast a stern look at his dog. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth although he tried to maintain his austere appearance.
“Rufus! Heel, I say!”
Rufus looked sheepish, but did not budge.
“I fear you have claimed my dog’s affections.” Julian laughed, trying to glare at Rufus. “I am amazed you’re not frightened of him. Visitors usually are.”
“Oh, not at all.” Roxanne rose to her feet. “Anyone who knows animals can see in one glance that his demeanour is curious, not aggressive.”
She looked down at the large grey mound, now rolling on his back to encourage his new friend to advance her skills to the level of stomach-scratching.
“He looks quite young. He’s still very playful.”
“We’ve always had a Rufus at Penrose,” remarked her host. “Ever since I can remember. This one must be Rufus the Hundredth by now. My great-grandfather liked the breed. He’s an Irish wolfhound. A large dog is supposed to be good at repelling invaders. I can see this is not the case with Rufus.”
“I’m sure if you had a real intruder he’d prove himself.” Roxanne gave the dog a last pat.
“Kitchen!” Julian ordered and Rufus slunk out, casting a mournful glance backwards in the hope that Roxanne could be persuaded to follow. Julian shut the door behind the large shaggy tail and walked back to where Roxanne stood awkwardly clasping and unclasping her hands. The pale swords of February sunlight struggled through the leaded panes and haloed her russet curls in a fiery glow. Julian gazed at her.
“Let me say that you look wonderful…er…wonderfully well, Miss Chesney.”
Roxanne stared back at her host, noting the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was amused, the chiselled features, the mobile mouth that smiled so easily when addressing her, and the sun-streaked golden hair that made him seem an Apollo before her. He reached out his hand and took hers.
“Miss Chesney.” He blinked, as if remembering his manners, and raised her hand to his lips. “I am delighted to see you so recovered from your ordeal.”
His brisk tone jolted Roxanne back to reality.
“Thank you,” she replied. “And it is thanks to you I am even alive.”
Julian waved a dismissive hand and went over to a cabinet where he poured liquid from a crystal decanter into two glasses.
“I am sure you would like a little refreshment.” He smiled. “No, not brandy this time. Just a little ratafia which I know you will enjoy.”
Roxanne accepted his offering, grateful for the chance to sit down and take stock of herself and her surroundings. She took a sip of the sweet drink and then placed her glass on a small side table next to her as she sat down on the sofa.
“I must discuss something of great importance with you, Mr. Trevallon,” she announced.
“I suspect I am about to be scolded,” he remarked with a mock sigh. “And that something is?”
As Julian sat down beside her, Roxanne felt the ease with which he behaved in her company, his masculine aura enhanced by the faint aroma of spiced cologne, and the extremely manly figure he cut in snugly fitting fawn riding breeches and a brown coat. He looked the affluent country gentleman, at home in his castle and pleased to be there.
“This!” Her hand indicated her dress.
Julian gave an approving nod. “Yes, it is most fetching. I cannot imagine why Sophia made such a disastrous choice in colour for herself, although the style is very becoming. However, I think it suits you to perfection.”
Roxanne opened her mouth in astonishment. He looked at her with lifted eyebrows.
“Whatever is the matter, Miss Chesney? Sophia is a blonde and you have an exquisite Titian tinge to your hair. Naturally the colour flatters you more than it would my sister.”
Red patches flared on her cheeks. “Are you making fun of me, Mr. Trevallon?”
“Not at all.” His tone was bewildered. “Why on earth would I do such a thing?”
Roxanne folded her arms in displeasure.
“I think it very strange that you have made available to me the contents of the wardrobe in my bedroom. A wardrobe full of your sister’s clothes.”
He laughed. “Didn’t Becky make it clear? My dear, scatterbrained sister has more dresses than any human being deserves and she had acquired so much baggage for her trousseau that Silverton very sensibly told her to take the best and leave the rest.”
He gave a wry smile.
“Sophia does not have a discerning eye and will always pick what’s in fashion, not what suits her. When Aunt Semphronia kindly kitted her out, I think the old lady overdid it, possibly remembering her youth and wanting to recapture some of the excitement of shopping.”
He looked at her quizzically. “Have you never longed to shop and buy just what you wanted?”
“I have never had the opportunity, sir,” Roxanne replied.
Julian swallowed a rueful smile. “I stand corrected and chastised. I can see that whatever we considered to be penurious circumstances at Penrose in no way compares with the stringent economies you have had to practise.”
Roxanne clasped her trembling hands tightly in her lap to hide her agitation. He could not know, and Roxanne would never tell him, just how stringent those economies had been. Horace Chesney had been a gentleman blessed with an abundance of intelligence, but a sad lack of common sense. The former led him into the intriguing paths of scholarly pursuits, namely the history of the Roman occupation of Britain; the latter, alas, resulted in the erosion of what had previously been a comfortable income. Things had improved a little once Roxanne was old enough to manage their household funds. Her economy and sense meant that they lived carefully, but were able to afford small luxuries now and then. For Horace, this meant yet another book and for Roxanne, a length of muslin which the local dressmaker made into a simple gown. They even managed to afford a woman from the village for the heavy work and laundry. Still, her father’s indifference to financial matters had resulted in that disastrous marriage which had been forced upon her.
After an awkward silence, Julian said, “Miss Chesney, when Mrs. Dawson unpacked your bag she noticed that you had very little with you, possibly because you did not intend to stay long in London, and your dress was dreadfully marked with…” His voice died away.
Roxanne shuddered, remembering what he was too tactful to mention. To cover the uncomfortable moment, she sipped her ratafia.
“Anyhow, it was her suggestion that since Sophia had abandoned a perfectly good wardrobe of fine clothing, as yet unworn, it made sense to make the items available to you during your stay here. I hope you will not be offended. It was a thou
ght with only your best interests at heart.”
Roxanne bit her lip. He was quite right, of course. Deep down she knew she could never wear the mulberry dress again.
Julian seemed to read her mind. “I hope you don’t object, but Mrs. Dawson said the stains on your dress were impossible to remove so she…er…burned it. And besides, this dress looks far prettier on you than it ever would on Sophia.”
Roxanne shot him an amused glance.
He coughed. “Anyway, the colour of the other dress did not suit you.”
Roxanne thought she detected a twinkle in his eyes. Mollified, she could not help breaking into a smile at his expression.
“You are too kind, Mr. Trevallon, and I fear my pride has made me selfish. I wanted to go to an inn when you insisted on taking me up in your curricle. I refused help even then. I am churlish and I pray you will forgive me for not being more cooperative.”
Feeling ashamed of her ingratitude, she looked at the rows of books to avoid his piercing gaze. Her appreciative eye caught sight of some familiar titles. He looked pleased that she admired his collection of volumes.
“Please feel free to make friends with any book of your choice, for as long as you are here. My father built on what Grandfather acquired and I have added my favourites as well.”
Roxanne felt the urgency of her situation hit home once more. She had to tell him now that she must leave as soon as she could. But Julian spoke before she could open her mouth.
“There is something I would like to propose to you, Miss Chesney, something that would assist me immensely and earn my undying gratitude.”
Roxanne fixed him with an intense gaze. “Anything. I am in your debt.”
He motioned with his hand as if to dismiss the thought of indebtedness and a small frown creased his brow.
“Before you agree, you must hear my proposition. Do not feel obliged. It is a matter of some delicacy and would need complete commitment and honesty between us if you agree.”
Mystified and intrigued, her ratafia forgotten, Roxanne leaned forward. “Tell me what it is.”
Married at Midnight: An Authentic Regency Romance Page 4