Regency Rumours/A Scandalous Mistress/Dishonour And Desire

by Juliet Landon

  Keeping an eye on the darkening sky, she walked as far as the Royal Crescent before turning back, intending to call in at both subscription libraries, Fisher’s and Donaldson’s, on her return to the Castle Inn. The rain had stopped again as she emerged with her books, and it was no more than curiosity about the stabling of Lady Dorna’s precious greys that led her along North Street to New Road where the Castle’s new stables had recently been extended.

  There, under the carriage shelter, was the showy pink post-chaise with a group of admirers pointing out its crane-neck springs, its blinds and sword-case, its polished brass chains and leather straps. Keeping out of the way of busy grooms, she sidled into the stable as another burst of rain sent everyone running for cover. The glossy white rumps of Lady Dorna’s pair were easily seen in the long row of stalls.

  Waiting for the hard roar of rain to abate, she looked along the line of silky tails, noticing a quartet of pale blonde belonging to chestnut hindquarters, her heart skipping a beat at the shock of recognition. Sir Chase’s team and curricle? Already? No, how could they be? Had Lady Dorna told him, after all?

  ‘Whose are the four chestnuts?’ she asked an elderly ostler.

  His grin was leathery. ‘You ‘oping to buy ‘em, miss?’ he said. ‘They’ll cost you. Sir Chase Boston’s they are. He knows ‘is ‘orse-flesh, does that one. As fine a whip as ever I’ve seen, and I’ve seen some. Used to be down ‘ere a lot when he was in the Prince’s regiment. Takes ‘im just over four hours to get ‘ere from London. Mind you, pulling a curricle behind a four-in-hand must be like pulling a salt-pot.’ He laughed at her expression, mistaking it for astonishment. ‘He’s somewhere hereabouts,’ he said, weaving his head from side to side. ‘But perhaps he’s … oh … well, then.’ Turning back to his young audience, he was just in time to see her dash through the rain out of the yard, one hand clamped firmly over her bonnet, the other clinging to her packet of library books.

  Mercifully, she was able to reach her room at the inn, squeezing past the latest influx of damp guests and managing to avoid any sight of Sir Chase, but thoroughly shaken by the discovery that he was not inclined to allow her any of the space he must have known she had come here to find. Undoubtedly, the tulip-pink post-chaise would have helped in his enquiries. He may already have quizzed the two postilions who would be taking it back tomorrow, and they would see no reason not to tell him which day they would be coming to collect her.

  Angrily, she pulled off her wet shoes, prepared to tell Millie that they must either find alternative lodgings or return to Richmond the very next morning. But Millie’s flushed face and racking cough had every resemblance to her old bronchial problems, and while the poor maid struggled to keep up the pretence of being well, helping her mistress to change and assuring her that nothing was amiss, Caterina had not the heart to send her out to find another place to stay. Nor did she wish to search for the postilions who might be anywhere in Brighton by now, for the result of her return to Richmond would mean premature recriminations of a sort she didn’t wish to think about. It would be better for her to stick to her original plan as far as possible, keeping Millie in the warm and pleasant bedroom and herself well out of sight.

  This was not as easy as it sounded, the inn being like a well-stocked beehive with comings and goings along every passageway and entrance. The inn boasted a ballroom, two dining-rooms and several private parlours, one of which Caterina would like to have reserved, if she had brought funds to match.

  After an hour or so of tangled reflection about how best to handle this unexpected complication, she began to suspect that, if Sir Chase had wanted to confront her immediately, whether to insist on taking her back to Richmond or to stay with her here at Brighton, he would surely have marched upstairs to tell her so by now. He must know which room she was occupying; he must have discovered on his arrival exactly who was with her and that she had intended to stay with her governess, since that is what, in passing, she had told the obliging proprietor. Perhaps then, as at Sevrington Hall, he was allowing her to dictate the pace and, if she desired his company, he would be on hand to oblige. Otherwise, he would stay near enough to be there if needed, quite a comforting notion in view of the bevy of young officers who had followed her from the library hoping to find out where she was staying.

  Nevertheless, she was not so blind to the reason for Sir Chase’s prompt appearance at Brighton, which was to prevent her escape. For a man whose offer of marriage had just been accepted, he appeared to be taking her unorthodox behaviour with more equanimity than many others would have done. Mischievously, she wondered how far she could push him before his unusual tolerance wore out.

  Dinner that first evening was taken in her room with several copies of Ackermann’s Repository magazine to keep her company, and a small book on Old Sarum and Salisbury, about which she had learned so little on her recent visit.

  Sleeping in a small bed in the alcove, Millie had passed a restless night but, even so, would have gone with her mistress to the shore early next morning if Caterina had allowed it. The two Chester sisters had always made a point of bathing in the sea during their summer visits to Miss Vincent, the one favourite activity where Caterina knew she would be quite undisturbed.

  Her short walk from the Steyne down the cliff path to the bathing-machine, even at that deserted hour, was straightforward enough, though the cramped wooden cabin was dark and uncomfortably damp. The ladder was taken up, the horse led across the beach to the water, turned round and backed-up, the steps replaced and the doors opened to reveal Caterina wearing her linen bathing-gown, in no mood to be either assisted or dunked by the two titanic ‘dippers’ who stood waist-high in the water. ‘Tide’s coming in, miss,’ one of them said, ‘and the pebbles slope down very steeply here, you know. You sure you can manage alone? It gets deep.’

  Caterina had done it before, and now there was almost a sense of desperation in her need for independence. This might, for all she knew, be her last chance to strike off on her own with not even Sara to caution her. Impulsively, she spurned their advice. ‘Thank you, but I can swim. I’ve been here before.’

  The ice-cold waves leapt relentlessly up her thighs and front, instantly soaking the gown and making her gasp with shock as it stuck coldly to her skin. Shifting stones underfoot caused her to stumble before she plunged headlong into the incoming tide and struck out into the open sea, feeling the lift under her body and the exhilaration of freedom, the salty taste on her lips and the clean sharp sting of coldness engulfing her. There were very few others bathing, their bathing-machines well away from hers and no one to observe except two people walking their dogs and throwing sticks for them to chase after.

  Strongly, she took a delight in pitting herself against the tide, using all her energy to make some headway, taking little notice of time or tiredness, thinking of the man whose energy would match hers on every level, and revelling in the exertions that emptied her mind of recent cares.

  Panting, she turned on to her back and saw to her horror that the bathing-machine was now no more than a dot on the distant shore. It was only then that her tiredness became apparent: her arms ached, her lungs felt tight with effort and a sickening wave of panic surged through the utter weariness, preventing her limbs from responding to her orders, thrashing them madly through the heavy water. For a few wild and terrifying moments, her energy fell apart at the possibility that she would not have strength enough to reach safety, but the tide was still in her favour and she must not give in to such fears, she told herself. She must … she must get back.

  Through the deepening waves, she kept her attention fixed on the tiny bathing-machine, but the swell knocked her sideways and the encumbrance of the linen gown dragged and ballooned with each laborious stroke, holding her back. How she wished she had swum naked. She would have shed the offending garment, but she needed both arms to stay afloat, and the pain and cold were numbing her, becoming unbearable. The bathing-machine had now disappeared from view, her fee
t and legs losing all feeling, her cries gobbled up by the threatening waves. Then she knew what it was to be truly alone, and that to survive was something she must do with nothing more than her good lungs, courage, and solid determination to help her.

  Racing and tumbling crazily through her mind were thoughts of what she would miss by losing her hold on life now, of all times, just when the promise of a future with that amazing and exciting man was hers for the taking. So near. So close. Within her grasp. No, she could not let it go when she had only just tasted its sweetness, his arms, his kisses. Keep going, she told herself, sobbing with the pain. Another stroke … then another … and another.

  Through a haze of agony, gasping with burning lungs at every breath, she caught sight of the black sleek head of a man at her side, but dismissed it as a dream of him, no more than a fantasy to keep her going. Shining with sea water, he yelled at her not to give up, that he would stay with her, to keep on, that it was not far … not far … nearly there … come on … come on, girl. Confused, too tired to think, she responded, pushing herself beyond the limit, vaguely feeling some release where the waterlogged gown had been, making her more efficient in the water. Once or twice she felt the touch of him upon her arm as they collided, saw his wet face close to hers, shouting at her that she could do it, that she must do it. Then at last the waves became rollers, lifting her, washing her in a final surge towards the steps of the bathing-machine, and she scarcely felt the grab of a hand on the back of her linen shift, lifting her like a netted fish, supporting her until she was sprawling face-down upon the cabin floor.

  Gasping, moaning with exhaustion, she lay there as the door slammed shut, while outside the sounds of the man with the horse and his impatient commands echoed eerily through her head. The cabin was not where she had left it but had been moved further back as the tide moved in, and she had been obliged to swim further to reach it. Now it lurched crazily through the pebbles with a roar, swilling the water across the floor on to her face, floating her shoes upon it.

  To dry herself and change into her clothes, weakened and trembling, took far longer than usual, and the two ‘dippers’ had knocked several times upon the door before she could assure them that she was managing, after a fashion.

  ‘Good thing you had a bit of help, young lady,’ said one of the beefy-armed women, eyeing Caterina’s bedraggled state. ‘If that gen’leman hadn’t come to your aid, I reckon you’d ‘a been a goner out there. Here, let me fasten you up. You were much too far out, you know.’

  Caterina stared, still dazed and dizzy. ‘Gentleman?’ she wheezed. ‘There was a man?’ Her chest burned with the effort of speaking.

  ‘Aye. Did ye not see him? He raced across from over there,’ the woman said, pointing towards the Steyne, ‘throwing ‘is clothes off as ‘e went. What a runner, too. Great big strapping chap with black hair, ran straight in and fair sped through the water, he did. Brought you back, holding you up by your shift. Don’t know ‘ow he managed it, mind, but ‘e did. Deserves a medal, ‘e does.’

  ‘Where is he? Has he gone?’

  ‘Aye. Just picked up ‘is clothes and walked off, putting ‘em on as ‘e went. Now that’s a gen’leman for you.’

  Caterina paid the man with the horse, and the two women, making her way on legs made of jelly slowly across to the shallow cliff, dragging herself painfully to the top before resting. There was no sign of her rescuer, and only a few early strollers out to raise an eyebrow at her unkempt appearance.

  The dramatic life-threatening events of that morning were too significant to be dismissed as simply a lucky escape or an act of bravado by Sir Chase, for she was in no doubt about the identity of the man who had leapt into the sea for her safety and for no other reason. Now she was forced to appreciate that his presence here could not be ignored when she owed her life to him and, at the very least, her thanks and cooperation. She would rather not have been beholden to him while the terms of her acceptance were still so offensive to her, but she was a grown woman and the time for childish petulance was over. She could no longer use incivility or ungraciousness as a weapon against him.

  Clucking like a hen over her chick at the state of her mistress, Millie scolded at her extreme fatigue and shaking legs, telling her that the water must still be like ice at this time of the day, no matter what the physicians recommended. Her hair, she said, rubbing at the sticky strands, was going to be impossible to comb out.

  ‘Then cut if off,’ Caterina sighed, clutching at the blanket around her shoulders. ‘Just cut it, Millie. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Like Lady Caroline Lamb’s, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, I think it will suit. Short hair is fashionable now, and so much easier to manage.’ She screwed up her face at the burning sensation in her windpipe. ‘Use my embroidery scissors.’

  Curl by curl, the chestnut locks fell under Millie’s skilful fingers and the neat shape of Caterina’s head was revealed looking, at first, like a spiny sea urchin. Washed in warm water and rubbed dry, however, she was transformed by short curls that coiled like springs to make a tumbling mop just long enough to soften her high forehead and nestle into the back of her neck, enhancing the graceful tilt of her head.

  Warmed, rested and reclothed, she rehearsed what must be said to Sir Chase. Then she promptly changed her mind. ‘Go down,’ she told Millie, ‘and request that a message be given to Sir Chase Boston immediately. Would he please meet Miss Caterina Chester in the main parlour as soon as he is able? And I would like you to wait for a reply, if you please.’

  If Millie was surprised by this development, she concealed it well.

  Studying herself in the mirror over the mantelshelf, she wondered how one tackled the unique experience of thanking someone for saving one’s life. He had walked away afterwards as if to show that the two of them were quite unconnected until she chose of her own volition to make that connection willingly and in person. Either he was very sure of her, and himself, or he minded little which way she decided—in which case, she reminded herself, he would hardly have taken the trouble to follow her to Brighton or to watch what she did that morning. Would he? Well, whatever his shortcomings, he could never be accused of not trying hard enough to win his wager, though it was hard for her to understand why he should be feeling any sympathy for her father’s predicament.

  Millie returned, smiling. ‘I met Sir Chase downstairs,’ she said, ‘just about to enter his private parlour. So I gave him your message. He’s waiting for you.’

  ‘But I cannot be seen knocking on the door of his private …’

  ‘Outside here,’ said Millie, pointing to the door, ‘in the passage.’

  Caterina’s hand flew to her breast to quell the sudden pounding. He had seen her as good as naked in a clinging wet linen shift. He had held it bundled around her middle, using it as a handle to lift her like a rag doll into the cabin. She owed him an explanation.

  The hand moved to her cheek, touching a tiny pearl earring. ‘Am I …?’

  Millie prinked at the fine frill of blue muslin around her mistress’s neck. ‘You look amazing, Miss Caterina,’ she whispered, lifting the paisley shawl a little higher. ‘He was glad to get your message, I could tell.’ She opened the door.

  The narrow passageway had windows along one side and three steps down to his level, and when she laid her hands in his, she could feel again the rock hardness of his support and the shakiness in her legs as she descended. His hair was still damp, roughly raked back, but already springing onto his forehead, his skin fresh and healthily glowing, his changeable gemstone eyes filled with concern and relief. As always, his attire was immaculate, as if he’d spent hours with his valet choosing, fitting, arranging and polishing.

  She hesitated on the bottom step while she was still above herself yet not above him. ‘Sir Chase,’ she whispered, ‘I owe you an explanation.’ Fascinated, she saw his eyes wander in admiration over her new fashionable hairstyle and return to her face. She was paler than usual, her voice pitched
to a more husky tone, and they were on the brink of presenting quite a different picture to each other, a new side to their characters and a new phase to their relationship.

  His hands pulled, gently, his eyes unable to hide his triumph. Their lips met, comforting each other briefly for the hazard they had shared. She could not begrudge him that. ‘You do indeed, Miss Chester,’ he said. ‘Shall we go down? Will you take my arm? We’ll go slowly.’

  He might, she thought, have been referring to their future dealings together. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ Not a word of censure from him. No frowns of disapproval at her latest mutinous expression of independence.

  ‘Shall I send for some tea … chocolate?’ he said, closing the door of the parlour. ‘Have you taken food since …?’

  ‘Since my swim? Yes, some soup. But I didn’t taste it.’ She sank gratefully into the chair to which he led her, smiling inwardly as he placed a soft chenille rug over her knees. ‘A cup of chocolate would be good.’

  He rang the bell. ‘A day of rest, I think. Don’t you agree? Perhaps a gentle stroll later on to keep the legs moving, then a good night’s rest.’ Requesting a pot of chocolate and some cakes, he placed himself opposite her in a high-winged armchair, looking for all the world as if a fast sprint, an exhausting swim and the rescue of a maiden in distress were his daily diet.

  ‘Sir Chase,’ she said, finding that the words flowed quite easily, after all, ‘I owe you my thanks as well as an explanation. I would never have made it back to the shore without you. I feel very foolish. I was not trying to … well … I was simply enjoying myself, you see, not thinking of anything … much.’ It was not strictly true. She had been thinking of him. She had thought of him ever since. ‘If you had not been there, I’m sure I would not have been able to manage alone.’