Louise Allen Historical Collection

by Louise Allen

  She watched the panels, half-expecting Ashley to reappear and tell her that it had been a joke in poor taste, but the door remained closed. Behind her there was a discreet cough.

  ‘Trimble?’ Lina turned to the butler. ‘Surely his lordship is…surely that cannot be correct?’

  The butler looked uneasy. ‘Perhaps I had better tell you about it, Miss Haddon.’ He held open the door to the salon. ‘We will not be disturbed in here.’

  She followed him and closed the door. ‘He says he expects to be shunned by the neighbourhood,’ she said, her voice low as she joined Trimble in the furthest corner of the room. ‘He said he did something quite dreadful.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, refusing to marry his pregnant fiancée is not the action of a gentleman and must bring opprobrium upon any man,’ the butler said, his voice flat.

  ‘He really did such a thing? When?’ Lina stared in horror at the butler, but her mind was full of the picture of Quinn Ashley as she had just seen him. In his deplorably casual version of an English country-gentleman’s riding attire, with his frank speech and his amused smile, it was hard to visualise the new Lord Dreycott as the heartless seducer he freely admitted to being. But of course, to have insinuated himself into the bed of an earl’s daughter, he would hardly look like a ruthless rake.

  ‘Let us sit down, Trimble,’ she said. This was shocking news to absorb standing up. She had already spent one night under the same roof as a dangerous libertine, it seemed. Her mouth felt dry. Seduced, impregnated, abandoned…

  ‘The long-established staff here know the story,’ the butler said, perching uncomfortably on the edge of a chair. ‘His late lordship told us the truth of the matter. It seemed that Mr Ashley, as he then was, abandoned his pregnant fiancée ten years ago. Given that her brother was publicly threatening him with a horsewhip followed by castration, it seemed to his great-uncle that the prudent course of action was to send him off abroad with some haste. Once there, it seems, he decided he liked the life of a traveller and has seldom returned.’

  Lina swallowed. She had no horsewhip-wielding brother to protect her. She had no one except a man whose promise to take care of her now seemed a cruel jest.

  ‘But he was not the father of her child,’ Trimble added with haste, no doubt reading her expression with some accuracy. ‘Please be assured I would not have allowed you to remain in the house if that were so, Miss Haddon.’

  ‘Why did she not marry the man responsible, then?’ she managed, relief making her feel faintly queasy.

  ‘Mr Ashley in those days was a charming, but somewhat unworldly, perhaps even innocent, young man,’ Trimble continued, not answering the question directly. ‘A studious, rather quiet gentleman, just down from university, his head full of books and dreams of exploration, as I recall him. I was only the first footman in those days, you understand. But, as his late lordship said, why would a beautiful, highly eligible young woman throw herself at the rather dull heir to a minor barony?’

  ‘Because she needed a gullible husband as fast as possible?’ Lina hazarded, distracted momentarily by the thought that Quinn Ashley could ever have been described as rather dull.

  ‘Exactly, Miss Haddon. Her parents, when they became aware of her condition, set her to entrap him and, I fear, he was all too willing to fall for her charms and into love. The flaw in their scheme was that they had picked on a romantic, idealistic young man who, when confronted by a passionate young lady positively begging to demonstrate her affection for him by the sacrifice of her virtue, struck a noble attitude—as he told his uncle afterwards—and refused to dishonour his bride-to-be.’

  ‘And then he realised what was happening?’

  ‘Not, so he said, until she ripped all her clothes off and became hysterical. Her father, when subterfuge was obviously impossible, offered Mr Ashley a very substantial dowry to wed her. He refused, broke off the engagement—and so they laid the child at his door and characterised him as a heartless seducer of virtue.’

  ‘But why?’ Lina thought for a moment. ‘Was the true father utterly impossible? Married, perhaps?’

  ‘They were unable to establish which of her father’s grooms it was, I regret to say.’ Lina felt her jaw drop. ‘She would still be in terrible disgrace when her condition became known, but the heir to a barony was a better father for her bastard than a choice of three stable hands.’

  ‘The poor baby,’ Lina murmured. ‘What became of it?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Trimble said, his austere face hardening. ‘She, I believe, was married off with a very large dowry to an obscure Irish peer who needed the money.’

  ‘But Mr Ashley took the blame and did not reveal the worst of her shame,’ Lina said. ‘And that ruined his reputation.’

  ‘Exactly. He challenged Lord Langdown, who refused to meet him, threatening the whip instead. His late lordship attempted to intervene and was caught up in the scandal, his own name blackened by association. So you see, Miss Haddon, why we cannot expect callers from local society.’

  ‘They would have forgotten by now, surely?’ She did not like to think of Ashley ostracised for an injustice done to him ten years ago when his only sin had been to refuse to make an honourable sacrifice of himself. How could he have married the girl? There could have been no trust, no respect, in that marriage.

  But he was a gentleman and a gentleman must not break off an engagement. Could he not have found some way out of the trap without abandoning her so brutally? Doubt began to gnaw at her strangely instinctive support for him. No, she decided after a moment’s thought, against a powerful earl Ashley would have had no leverage at all unless he had been prepared to tell the truth about his fiancée.

  ‘It might have been forgotten, if it were not for the fact that, once abroad, Mr Ashley rapidly set about losing what innocence was left to him, along with any shreds of his reputation,’ Trimble said in a voice scrupulously free from any expression. ‘The learned journals were only too happy to publish his writings from exotic parts of the world—but his late lordship used to read me stories from the scandal sheets with great glee. Not all Mr Ashley’s explorations were of a scholarly nature.’

  ‘What sort of stories?’ Lina asked, not wanting to know and yet drawn with the same terrible curiosity that made a carriage crash impossible to ignore. Harems again?

  ‘I could not possibly recount them to an unmarried lady,’ the butler said. ‘Suffice it to say that they make Lord Byron’s exploits seem tame.’

  ‘So he is not so safe, after all?’ She was fearful, and she knew that she should be, but a shameful inner excitement was fluttering inside her, too. Fool, she admonished herself. Just because he is not a fat lecher with bulging eyes it does not mean that he could not accomplish your ruin just as effectively and twice as ruthlessly.

  ‘I have every confidence that, in his own home and where an unmarried lady under his protection is concerned, we need have no fears about his lordship’s honourable behaviour,’ Trimble pronounced. Was he certain, or was he, a loyal family servant, unable to believe the worst of his new master?

  At least I need have no fear for my reputation, being under his protection, for the world already believes me to be a whore and a jewel thief, Lina thought bitterly. It had taken a while, in the friendly comfort of The Blue Door, for the truth to dawn on her, but by taking refuge in a brothel, she had as comprehensively ruined herself as her mother had—and without having committed any indiscretion in the first place. But what of my virtue? Should she lock her door at night?

  ‘Thank you for confiding in me, Trimble,’ she said with what she thought was passable composure. The doorbell rang. ‘That will be Mr Havers, I have no doubt.’ She had no intention of being seen by the lawyer, a man who might be expected to receive the London newspapers daily and who doubtless studied the reports of crimes with professional interest. A description of the fugitive Celina Shelley would have been in all of them, she was sure.

  The butler went out, leaving her shaken and pre
y to some disturbing imaginings. It was one thing to find herself in a house with a man who looked like the hero of a lurid novel, quite another to discover that he had the reputation to match and was probably as much villain as hero. Last night she must have been mad to exchange banter with him, to try out her inexpert flirtation technique. It was like a mouse laying a crumb of cheese between the cat’s paws and expecting it not to take mouse and cheese both in one mouthful. How he must have laughed at her behind that polite mask.

  Trimble appeared in the doorway. ‘His lordship has requested that the household assemble immediately in the dining room to hear the will read, Miss Haddon.’

  ‘He cannot mean me.’ Lina stayed where she was. ‘I have no possible interest in the document. It is none of my business.’

  ‘He said everyone, Miss Haddon.’

  ‘Very well.’ Perhaps she could slip in at the back and sit behind Peter, the largest of the footmen. Provided she could feel safe and unseen, then it would be interesting to hear Lord Dreycott’s no doubt eccentric dispositions, she reflected, as she followed the butler’s black-clad back, slipping into the dining room behind him. Yes, there was a seat, shielded by the footmen and the epergne on the end of the sideboard.

  Lina settled herself where she could just catch a glimpse of Lord Dreycott, Gregor standing impassively behind his chair. He was drumming his fingers very slowly on the table in front of him and looking across at the portrait of his great-uncle. Lina realised that the faint smile on his lips echoed the painted mouth exactly. It was a very expressive mouth, she thought, wondering if Ashley could school it into immobility when he was playing cards. Unbidden, her imagination presented her with the image of those lips on her fingers, her wrist.

  She clasped her hands together so tightly her nails bit into her palms. She must not think of…

  ‘If everyone is here,’ said a brisk masculine voice, ‘then I will read the last will and testament of Simon Augustus Tremayne Ashley, third Baron Dreycott. To Henry Trimble, in recognition of many long years of loyal and invaluable service, the lifetime occupancy of Covert Cottage, a pension of seventy pounds a year, whichever items of clothing of mine he cares to take, unlimited fuel and game from the estate, the services of the garden staff for the maintenance of his grounds and the stuffed bear which he has always admired.’

  Lina could see the back of Trimble’s neck growing red, whether from emotion or the thought of the stuffed bear—she imagined that was a joke between his old master and himself—she was not certain.

  ‘To Mary Eliza Bishop, in recognition…’

  And so it went on, legacies both generous and eccentric to all the indoor and outdoor staff, even the boot boy. A donation to the church, To replace the cracked tenor bell, which has for so long rendered my Sunday mornings hideous. One hundred pounds to the charity for the widows of fishermen lost along this stretch of coast. Some books to fellow scholars and finally, All that remaining of my possessions and estate not elsewhere disposed of in this document, to my great-nephew and heir Jonathan Quinn Ashley.

  ‘There is, however, a codicil dated five weeks ago.’ The lawyer cleared his throat. ‘To the lady currently a guest in my house; residence at Dreycott Park, with all her expenses met, for the period of six months from the date of my death and, at that date, the sum of one thousand pounds absolutely, in memory of the great affection I bear to her aunt.

  And I further instruct that my great-nephew Jonathan Quinn Ashley shall only inherit my books, maps, papers, parchments and documents provided that he retains full ownership of Dreycott Hall for a period of not less than six months or until he completes the editing and publication of my memoirs which I leave unfinished, whichever is the later. Should this condition not be met then all those papers, books, etc. etc. will pass to the Ashmolean Library, Oxford, absolutely.

  ‘That concludes the will.’ There was a crackling of thick paper as Mr Havers folded the document.

  Chapter Four

  Lina stared up at the enigmatically smiling portrait, stunned. Sanctuary and money beyond her wildest dreams, enough for an independent start whenever she chose to take it, the last generous gift from an old man who had the imagination and compassion to reach out to a total stranger and the generosity to commemorate an old friendship—or an old love. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Can this be broken?’ Quinn Ashley’s voice was utterly devoid of any amusement now. ‘I have no intention of retaining this house and estate any longer than it takes me to pack up the books and papers and place it on the market.’

  ‘No, my lord, it cannot be broken,’ the lawyer said with the firmness of a man who had confronted many an angry heir in the course of his career. ‘The late Lord Dreycott consulted me most carefully to ensure that was the case, as he anticipated your objections. I should further point out that, as the lady has the option to remain here for six months, you will be unable to place this estate on the market until she chooses to leave, whatever your wishes to the contrary.

  ‘Now, if I might ask for the use of a room to interview each of the beneficiaries, I can settle most of the practical issues during the course of the day, my lord.’

  ‘Use the study,’ Ashley said. I will discuss this further with you there now, if you would be so good.’ Despite the distance between them Lina could see that he had his face completely under control, but he could not keep the anger out of his eyes. He met her scrutiny and she felt as though she had just turned the key to imprison a tiger in a cage. The horizontal bars of the chair-back dug into her spine as she pressed herself against them in instinctive retreat.

  Then self-preservation took over from her worries about what Lord Dreycott might think of her now. She had to face the lawyer and he would want her name. Her heart pounding, Lina got up, ducked through the service door at the back of the dining room and hurried to the stairs.

  ‘What the hell was the old devil thinking of?’ Quinn demanded as the study door closed behind them.

  ‘Ensuring that his memoirs are published, my lord,’ Mr Havers said. I believe your great-uncle felt they might be overlooked for some years if you were at liberty to fit them in with your doubtless demanding programme of travels and your own writing.’ He shuffled the papers into various piles on the long table against the wall, obviously indifferent to the fact that his news had set Quinn’s plans for half the year on their head.

  ‘And what is this nonsense with the girl? Is she the reason the estate cannot be sold for six months?’ Quinn asked. ‘Is she his natural daughter? She has no look of him.’

  ‘I think it unlikely. I believe this is a quite genuine gesture in memory of his past attachment to her aunt. What is the young lady’s name? Lord Dreycott was curiously reluctant to give it to me.’

  ‘Haddon.’

  Havers made a note. I am sorry, my lord. But I am afraid you are encumbered with this estate, and Miss Haddon, for the term of six months at a minimum, or you forfeit the library.’

  Quinn placed his hands flat on the desk and leaned on them, staring down at the worn red morocco leather surface. He had intended selling up the estate, moving everything he wanted to retain to his town house and settling down to establish himself in London. There was pleasurable anticipation in combining a sensible business move with the prospect of a long-awaited revenge on polite society.

  He had perfectly respectable reasons to transfer his centre of operations from Constantinople to London—respectable motives to do with trade and scholarship. Now he would have to divide his attention between this easterly parish on the shore, his uncle’s memoirs and his real focus in London.

  It was infuriating, but he knew when to yield to superior force. Great-Uncle Simon’s tactics were, as always, masterly. There was no benefit exhausting himself and his temper in an attempt to get around the will; he was stuck with Dreycott Park until the autumn. And he was stuck with the responsibility for a nervous, flirtatious and puzzling young woman as well. He supposed he could just leave her here to kee
p the place in order for six months.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Quinn said once he had his frustration under control. An outburst of temper would do no good. ‘Feel free to use the desk, Havers. Who do you want first? ‘

  ‘Miss Haddon, I think. Thank you, my lord.’

  Celina was sitting on one of the hard chairs in the empty hall, her hands in her lap, her back straight. The apron had gone and she had enveloped her blonde hair in a thick black snood. She looked even more like an occupant of a nunnery than before.

  She stood up when she saw him, her expression wary. As well it might be, he thought. What am I going to do with you? The option of simply leaving her here to run the house lost savour. His body stirred; it knew exactly what it wanted to do.

  ‘Havers will see you first, Celina.’

  ‘I am very sorry, my lord,’ she said as though he had not spoken.

  ‘For what?’ He was in no mood to be conciliatory.

  ‘For the fact that you cannot carry out your intentions, for the burden of my presence and for the diminution of your inheritance by the legacy to me.’

  That sounded like a prepared speech. ‘The money is in no way an issue, Celina. It was my uncle’s to do with as he pleased and your presence in the household is no burden. If I appear less than pleased with my uncle’s dispositions, it is because of the disruption to my plans.’ And the unaccustomed experience of having my own will thwarted, if truth be told, he added mentally.

  It was salutary, after years of doing what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, to find himself constrained in this way just when he had resolved on a course of action. It was almost as though the old devil had second-guessed him and set out to throw a barrier in his path. Old Simon had been too cynical, and too unconventional, to worry about his own reputation and he would not have wanted Quinn thinking to avenge the slight on his good name.

  ‘Thank you. It is generous of you to reassure me,’ she said, her voice colourless. ‘It will be uncomfortable for you here, if your neighbours will not call.’ She was flushed now, her eyes, as usual, cast down. ‘Trimble told me about the scandal. It is very shocking that a young man could be treated in such a way.’