by Candice Hern
A Proper Companion
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 22
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A PROPER COMPANION
by Candice Hern
Copyright 2011 by Candice Hern
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. With the exception of real historical figures and events that may be mentioned, all names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Prologue
London, June 1785
"Whose is it?" the Countess Pentwick asked for probably the hundredth time. She paced her daughter's bedroom, thoroughly disgusted with the girl. "Whose is it?"
Only this morning an indiscreet chambermaid had been overheard by the countess to say that Lady Gwendolyn had been sick every morning for the last week. Her mother was no fool. She would know that Gwen was increasing.
Ignoring Gwen's silence, the countess continued pacing. "How could you be so stupid? And so ungrateful. After all the plans and money spent to give you a fine Season, you toss it all in our faces by bringing disgrace and scandal upon your family." Lady Pentwick turned to face her daughter, who sat in her bed, staring out the window.
Gwen had not spoken a word since her mother had charged into the room. What could she say?
"Gwendolyn, look at me when I speak to you!" the countess roared. "It's that rogue Townsend's bastard, isn't it? Isn't it?" she shrieked, shaking her daughter by the shoulders.
Gwen turned her head, batting back tears, and refused to speak.
"So. It is Townsend's." The countess sighed as she sank into a chair. "There is no doubt this will be difficult to cover up, even with your father's influence. Good God, girl, the man's a rogue! A gambler, a younger son with no prospects, and, worst of all, a Catholic. Where was your good sense?" Lady Pentwick dropped her head into her hands and did not speak for several minutes.
When she lifted her head, Gwen recognized the look of determination on her mother's face. Lady Pentwick stood and clasped her hands at her waist.
"Well, my girl," the countess said, her lip curling in a sneer, "since you are not fit to run your own life, I will make sure that it is run for you. Your father will see to it that you are married at once." At Gwen's look of hopefulness, she added, "Not to Townsend, you ninny! You cannot imagine your father would countenance a connection to a Catholic. Especially one whose father fought for that pathetic Pretender. You know how your father feels about traitors."
Gwen sank back against the pillows, gripping the linens so tightly that she felt a seam ripping near the edge. My God, she thought, what is going to happen to me? She was not long in finding out.
"Viscount Tarbolton will do nicely, I think," the countess said. "He has a fine old title despite his lack of fortune. In fact, his lack of fortune is a mark in his favor. He can be convinced by appropriately generous settlements from your father to take on a soiled bride. And I'm sure he can be persuaded to accept the babe as his own." The countess's mouth twisted in disgust. "In the meantime you will remain locked in this room until the wedding plans are made. You shall not stir from these four walls until such time as your father has a license in hand and a vicar in the chapel." The countess turned on her heel and marched out of the room.
Lady Gwen jumped out of bed and began pacing the room in much the same manner as her mother. What on earth was she going to do? She would not marry Lord Tarbolton. Why, he was old enough to be her father, was quite fat, and frequently sent showers of spittle flying as he spoke. Gwen shivered in disgust as she contemplated marriage to the man.
She must contact Walter. He loved her. He would not allow her to marry some obnoxious old man and present him with Walter's child. She quickly penned a note to Walter begging him to come for her. She knew he would not fail. Often enough he had talked about wanting to run away with her. Surely he would make good his promises now that she needed him most.
Later, when her maid Molly brought a tray of bread and water for dinner, she slipped her the note, asking her to deliver it to Mr. Townsend, with orders not let to anyone see her leave. It was urgent that the note be delivered tonight. Molly, an empty- headed flibbertigibbet, was nevertheless very loyal to her young mistress and happily agreed to play a part in such a romantic escapade. She returned later that evening and slipped a note under Gwen's door.
It was from Walter! He had agreed to her plan! He would be waiting for her beneath her window at three A.M. If she could contrive to climb out her window, he would take her away to Gretna, and they would be married. Gwen hugged the note to her breast and danced around the room. She then packed a few clothes in a small bandbox. She threw in her jewel case as well. After all, they would probably need the money. She spent the next few hours fashioning a rope from the bed linens, which she attached to the sturdy post of her bed.
At three o'clock she went to the window and saw Walter below. He smiled and blew her a kiss. She threw her bandbox down to him. Then she tossed her makeshift rope over the sill and climbed out the window without a backward glance.
Chapter 1
Bath, May 1812
"Damn and blast!" The dowager Countess Bradleigh leaped from her chair, nearly upsetting the tea table, crumpled the latest copy of the Gazette, and flung it furiously across the room. "The idiot!" she said through clenched teeth. "The insolent fool! What can have possessed him?" she bellowed as she paced the morning room, nearly treading on the pug Charlemagne. He whimpered and scurried to safety beneath the sofa.
Emily Townsend eyed her elderly employer with caution. The dowager had a notoriously sharp tongue and a biting wit. At age seventy-eight, Lady Bradleigh still took a youthful interest in all the activities of the ton and participated in as many of those as she found to be interesting or scintillating. A hint of scandal was known to put her in the most cheerful of moods for weeks. She was seldom given to emotional outbursts, however. In fact, in the year of Emily's employment with the dowager, she could not recall ever having heard her curse.
"Which insolent fool has done what idiot thing, my lady?" Emily asked as she coaxed the whimpering Charlemagne from beneath the sofa. She picked up the pug, placed him on her lap, and began to scratch his belly.
The dowager turned to Emily and stretched her thin frame to its full height. "My odious grandson, Bradleigh," she said, "has announced his betrothal." She paused, thrusting her chin at an indignant angle. "To the daughter of that twit Lady Windhurst!"
This was not exactly the sort of devastating news Emily had expected. "But, my lady," she said, her brows
lifting in question, "surely you are pleased that Lord Bradleigh has finally decided to marry?"
Emily was well aware that Lady Bradleigh was very fond of her eldest grandson, despite his rackety reputation. Even prior to her employment with the dowager countess, Emily had heard shocking tales of the rakish Earl of Bradleigh. She had been at first amazed and then amused to note that whenever the dowager was presented with a new on-dit involving her grandson, she usually laughed aloud, enjoying his rather scandalous notoriety. Emily could also remember at least as many occasions, however, when the dowager complained that her grandson should stop racketing about and think of producing an heir. She was therefore somewhat puzzled at the dowager's reaction to the news of his betrothal.
"I do not object to his marrying," the dowager snapped, "but I cannot countenance his selection of a bride! The Windhurst chit, of all people!" The dowager sank back into her chair and expelled a gusty sigh.
Emily quietly rose and tucked Charlemagne into his favorite chair, walked to the corner of the room, and retrieved the Gazette from behind the fire screen. She scanned the open page until she found the opprobrious announcement, which she read aloud. " 'Benjamin Lord Windhurst and Lady Windhurst announce the betrothal of their only daughter, Miss Augusta Windhurst, to Robert James Frederick Cameron, ninth Earl of Bradleigh.' So, my lady, you find Miss Windhurst, or perhaps her family, objectionable?"
"My dear Emily," the dowager drawled, "you cannot begin to imagine how objectionable. Lord Windhurst can, of course, be disregarded as merely a spineless milquetoast, but Lady Windhurst is a harridan unequaled in all the ton. The very thought of her enlarging our family circle is enough to cause palpitations. She is the former Margaret Pinkerton, whose father was a captain in the army—the infantry, my dear—and whose mother was the daughter of a cit." The dowager snorted in a most unladylike manner. Emily bit her lower lip to stifle a giggle as she watched the dowager's face screw up as if she had just smelled something very unpleasant.
"Margaret was notorious in her day for her attempt to crack the beau monde," the dowager continued. "My God, what a toad-eater she was! And still is, from what I have heard. How she managed to snare Windhurst, I've never known. More than likely compromised him!"
Emily's hand flew to her mouth as she bit back a hastily suppressed snort of laughter.
"Well," the dowager said with a resigned shrug of her thin shoulders, "I understand the daughter is a beauty. And Lady Windhurst has thrown all her weight behind obtaining a fine title for the child. But how on earth can Bradleigh have succumbed to her vile machinations? How dare he align the Camerons with that odious family? Oh, the impudent scoundrel!"
The dowager was up and pacing again. "And of course he's well and truly stuck with her now. A public announcement already! How could he be such a fool?" Her voice rose, and her pacing quickened. "Well, I can assure you that shrill-voiced, vulgar, encroaching mushroom of a shrew shall never cross my threshold! I shall never receive her. Or even acknowledge this ill-considered connection. In fact, I shall tell Bradleigh to his head that I intend to sever all contact with him if he proceeds with a marriage to that common harpy's daughter."
Emily gasped. Her spine stiffened, and she looked away. "You do not really mean that, my lady," she said in a soft, chilly voice.
Emily was extremely sensitive to the idea of family estrangement and knew firsthand the pain resulting from such cruelty. Her own mother had suffered total estrangement from her family as a result of her runaway marriage to Walter Townsend. Emily had never understood the heartlessness that could cause parents to abandon their own child. Her mother had never completely overcome the pain of her estrangement, despite the fact that she was very happy in her marriage to Townsend. That pain had turned to anger in her daughter.
Lady Bradleigh flushed with embarrassment as she must have realized the impact of her words. She reached over and grabbed Emily's hand. "Of course I did not mean it, my dear. It was only my anger and disappointment speaking. You must know that I could never bear to lose contact with Robert. Or with any of my grandchildren."
Emily turned back to face the dowager, smiled, and squeezed her hand. She was really quite fond of the older woman.
"Nevertheless," the dowager said, patting Emily's hand, "I cannot help but regret the Windhurst connection. God's teeth! I will probably be forced to actually sit down to dinner with the woman. Oh, it is beyond enduring. You know, my dear, I could accept almost anyone else as Robert's wife. Anyone. Anyone at all." Lady Bradleigh rose and started to pace again, but stopped at one of the windows overlooking the River Avon, the turmoil of her thoughts written clearly on her face.
Emily bit back a smile as she considered that there were probably hundreds or even thousands of women who would be even more objectionable than Miss Windhurst—opera dancers, actresses, prostitutes, tradesmen's daughters—but she kept her tongue between her teeth.
* * *
The dowager continued to gaze out at the river. Anyone else, anyone else at all, she thought. Why, even someone like Emily would be a better choice. In fact, now that she thought on it, Emily would be an excellent choice for Robert. She was certainly beautiful, with her honey-gold coloring and patrician bones, though she tried to hide behind plain, dark gowns and severe hairstyles. She was, of course, no longer in her first blush of youth, being all of six and twenty; but then, Robert was no young pup, either. He would probably rub along better with a more mature woman than with some naive debutante. As for Emily's background, it was really quite respectable. Lady Bradleigh was one of the few people who knew that Emily's mother had been the daughter of the Earl of Pentwick. Despite the estrangement, the connection was there and must be seen in Emily's favor. And even though her father had been a Catholic, Emily had been raised by her mother in the Anglican faith; so religion was not an issue. As for her lack of fortune, it was only a minor concern, especially when a rich man was involved.
Indeed, it had been the dowager's hope when she had first employed Emily that she would be able to act as a matchmaker and find Emily some nice gentleman in Bath with whom she could settle down. Unfortunately eligible bachelors did not abound in Bath. Even so, Emily had from the first shown a strong disinclination for such maneuvers. The dowager had sensed her discomfort and had thereafter ceased to make an effort. She had, however, developed a deep affection for Emily during the past year. In fact, she already thought of Emily as family, so it required no great leap of the imagination to see her as Robert's wife. Ah, well, she thought, it was only a foolish daydream. Robert would never stoop to notice a paid companion. Nevertheless, she knew that there must be other more acceptable debs on the market this Season. She must find one to take his attention away from the Windhurst girl.
There was, of course, the minor detail of Robert's betrothal. He would be honor-bound to go through with the marriage, unless Miss Windhurst cried off. Although a woman always had the option of canceling an engagement, a gentleman was committed once an offer was made. Their blasted gentleman's code of honor did not allow a man to back down, regardless of the circumstances. Those few men who defied that code of honor and jilted their fiancées were completely ostracized from Society.
So, mused the dowager, she must take it upon herself to somehow get the Windhurst chit to cry off. How that could be done need not be determined as yet. The first order of business was to get to London.
"Emily," she suddenly declared, "pack your bags. We are going to London."
* * *
A knock on the morning room door interrupted whatever response Emily might have offered, as Barnes, the imperious butler, opened the door. "His Lordship, the Earl of Bradleigh," he announced.
Emily looked up to see the earl as he stood framed in the doorway. She sucked in her breath as she gazed at one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. He was quite tall and broad of shoulder, fairly dwarfing the elderly Barnes. His dark chestnut brown hair fell in a deep wave over one brow. He was still covered with the dust of the road,
which, together with the mischievous gleam in his brown eyes and his boyish grin, gave him an appearance more youthful than his thirty-five years.
He had relinquished his greatcoat to Barnes along with his curly brimmed beaver. Though slightly ruffled from the drive, he nevertheless appeared quite appealing in his dark blue superfine coat of impeccable cut, buckskin breeches, and top boots. His cravat was simply tied and his shirtpoints were conservatively low. Although he obviously patronized an excellent tailor, his dress spoke more of comfort than of high fashion.
Emily stared openly at this man of whom she had heard so many tales. He was no doubt handsome enough for a rake, but there was also a certain boyishness about him which was most appealing.
"My dear boy!" exclaimed the dowager as she stretched out her arms to her grandson. In two quick long strides Lord Bradleigh was at her side, clasped her to him in a fierce bear hug, and then swung her through the air like a young girl.
"Put me down, you fool! I am an old woman!" she snapped, although her eyes gleamed with delight.
Lord Bradleigh returned his grandmother to earth and planted an affectionate kiss upon her cheek. "Old woman?" He grinned. "Ha! You are forever young, my dear heart. You look wonderful."
"You have not lost your charm, I see." The dowager glared up at him, still somewhat breathless. Without warning her eyes darkened, and she reached up and soundly boxed his ears. "How dare you!" she said.
Completely startled, Lord Bradleigh stammered, "W-what is this?" while he rubbed his stinging ears.
"As if you did not know. Emily, show him."