The Danbury Scandals

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Recompense?’ Her voice was a thread of a whisper. What was the matter with her? Could she be falling in love, in love with someone she knew nothing about and, what was worse, a probable enemy of her family? The idea was preposterous.

  ‘For losing you to another.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her lips, gently at first, light as a butterfly, and like a butterfly her heart fluttered beneath his hand. The pressure of his mouth on hers grew harder, more demanding until her lips were forced to part. She tried to think coherently, but could not; she was drowning in a sensuous delight which took no heed of time and place, carrying her helplessly to heights she had never even dreamed of and depths she never knew existed. She rode a see-saw, a whirlpool, a carousel. She did not want it to stop.

  Suddenly he was wrenched from her and Mark’s voice, venomous with anger, hissed, ‘Go back to the others, Maryanne, and leave him to me.’

  She could not move and watched in horror as Mark let fly with a clenched fist. Adam put up a hand as blood poured from his nose, but he did nothing to defend himself. Mark stood with feet apart and hands raised in a belligerent attitude. ‘Come on, man, fight if you have any guts. I demand satisfaction.’

  Adam smiled. ‘Here and now? Is that wise?’

  ‘No!’ Maryanne cried, trying to put herself between them. ‘Please, don’t fight.’ She turned to Mark. ‘It was truly nothing, please forget it.’

  ‘Forget it? He has insulted you. I demand satisfaction.’ He turned back to Adam. ‘If you will not fight me now, name your seconds.’

  ‘I have no quarrel with you,’ Adam said, mopping up the blood with his handkerchief. ‘And if the lady does not wish to shed your blood...’

  ‘My blood!’ Mark was puce with fury. ‘It will not be my blood that is shed.’

  ‘I assure you,’ Adam said, with a calmness that only aggravated the other’s anger, ‘I can well take care of myself.’

  Maryanne believed that. She tried once again to interpose herself between them. Adam took her arm and gently turned her aside.

  ‘You will not fight?’ Mark demanded.

  ‘No.’

  Mark was nonplussed. ‘Have you no honour, sir? Are you content that everyone should call you coward?’ It was unheard-of for a gentleman to refuse a challenge on his honour and yet Adam was clearly doing so. Why? Was he a coward? Maryanne did not believe that for a moment, but she was glad that there would be no duel; she did not want anyone killed or wounded on her account.

  Adam’s brown eyes turned dark and the scar on his forehead stood out with the tensing of his muscles as he fought to control his anger. He looked from Mark to Maryanne and bowed low to her. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’ Then he turned and walked away.

  Standing miserably beside Mark, she watched him go. Was that the last she would see of him? Did it matter? Yes, she told herself, it mattered terribly. Underlying their light-hearted banter had been a seriousness which both had recognised and neither acknowledged. Whatever they had had between them was over before it had begun.

  She pulled herself together and went over to take Mark’s arm. ‘Please, Mark, think no more of it. It was as much my fault as his and meant nothing.’ She was aware of the untruth as she said it.

  He shrugged her off. ‘I told you to go back inside. What were you thinking of to come out here in the first place?’

  ‘I was hot and I felt faint.’

  He snorted. ‘And a kiss like that was meant to cool you, I suppose.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Good God, Maryanne, don’t you know how this makes me feel? I must take that fellow’s insult and do nothing because he is too much of a coward to stand up to me.’

  ‘You should not have challenged him in the first place.’

  ‘I had no choice. Finding you like that.’ He was hustling her back into the ballroom as he spoke. ‘Did you not know I meant to propose to you myself?’

  ‘No.’ She was too agitated to stop and consider the meaning of what he had said. ‘And that is hardly a romantic proposal.’

  He laughed harshly. ‘You did not give me the opportunity for that, did you?’

  ‘And now you have changed your mind.’ She turned to the attack. ‘How fickle you are! But at least it will save me having to turn you down.’

  He stopped in the doorway to stare down at her. ‘Would you have turned me down?’

  ‘I should certainly have thanked you for the honour you did me, but I would also have asked for time to think about it.’

  ‘Hm.’ He took her arm and led her through the couples who were forming a quadrille, smiling to right and left at acquaintances, pretending all was well. ‘We must dance or the old gabblegrinders will have a field day.’ He found a set wanting a couple and pulled Maryanne into it. ‘Smile!’ he commanded, bowing over her hand as the music began. ‘We are in love, so play your part, if you ever want to hold your head up in Society again.’

  She curtsied and smiled, danced up and down, bowed this way and that, laughed and pretended to enjoy herself, but all the time she was asking herself, Where has he gone? What was he going to tell me? Why do I ache inside so much that I must hurt Mark, who loves me enough to protect me from scandal?

  She had no answer and was glad when Mark said they could leave without comment being made, though it was still an hour or two before dawn. Caroline, who was flirting with half a dozen young men at once, all of whom had drunk more than enough, was understandably reluctant to leave.

  ‘I had Cousin Henry eating out of my hand,’ she said. ‘He was on the point of agreeing to have a ball at Wiltshire House and now I shall have to sweet talk him all over again...’ She followed reluctantly as they went to find their hostess to thank her.

  Mark saw them all into the carriage, but instead of climbing in beside them he turned and went back into the house. He felt angry and let down, but, what was worse, his carefully laid plans looked set to be overturned. And for what? A no-good Frenchman. How long had Maryanne known him? It was the man he had seen leaving Beckford Church; he was almost sure of it. Who was he? Not a gentleman, that was certain, for he had not come out of the encounter with any honour. Well, the world would soon know about it; the tale would go round, though he must be careful not to tarnish Maryanne’s reputation in the process, and the fellow would not dare to show his face again.

  He went upstairs and into the card-room, where the gentlemen who did not dance could be found at the tables. The room was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of good French brandy which, with the end of the war, was coming into the country legally again, much to the chagrin of the smugglers. There was ribaldry and laughter, except at those tables where the play was too serious to admit of anything but the greatest concentration. Seeing the Duke of Wiltshire at one of these, Mark went over to him.

  His Grace was corpulent to the extent of being gross; his tight coat of satin was stretched across a belly that was obviously confined by stays tight enough to make it almost impossible for him to bend. His purple waistcoat was heavily embroidered with gold thread and his frilled shirt was topped by a collar whose points threatened to scratch his cheeks whenever he moved his head. Beneath this, held by a jewelled pin, was a voluminous spotted cravat. He beamed at Mark. ‘Come and join us, me boy. Hunter is just quitting.’

  ‘Cleaned out, I’m afraid,’ Lord Hunter said, rising from the table. ‘Perhaps you’ll have better luck.’

  Mark sat down and a new game was started, but he was still too cut up to concentrate and had soon lost a great deal, and it was no good applying to His Grace, because he had lost even more. Lord Markham and Lord Boscombe sat with a growing heap of coins at their elbows.

  ‘I’ll have to give you a note,’ His Grace said. ‘Pockets empty. Didn’t intend to gamble tonight. Got drawn into it by a fit of the blue devils. Not an eligible girl in sight, except me cousin Caroline.’

  ‘Caroline!’ Mark said in surprise.

  ‘Why not? Seems to me she’ll do very well.’

  ‘You can’t mean it.’
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br />   ‘Never more serious in me life. Young, healthy and willing...’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Why not? She’ll jump at the chance to be a duchess, ‘specially if I don’t keep her on too tight a rein. All I ask is discretion and care. Don’t want to play parent to anyone else’s by-blows.’

  ‘Have you asked her?’

  ‘Not formally, but I will. She wants to have a ball at Wiltshire House -well, so she shall - an engagement ball.’

  Mark opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it, and they continued to play, but now he had something else to occupy his mind besides Maryanne.

  Somehow he had to stop the Duke from marrying Caroline. If they married and she had a son, it would put paid to his own hopes of the dukedom. The problem concentrated his mind wonderfully and he was soon winning again, while His Grace found himself even deeper in debt and the two baronets were just breaking even.

  ‘I’ll make you a proposition,’ Mark said, when it looked as though the game was coming to an end, because even the Duke realised he had gone as far as he dared; the spectre of his mother’s wrath was large in his mind. ‘Double or quits on a little race.’

  ‘What kind of race?’ the Duke asked guardedly. Mark shuffled the cards, watching his face carefully. ‘You’ve got a new rig, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, bang up, and the best cattle in the country.’

  ‘Then I’ll put my rig against yours over a measured five miles. If you win, your debt is cleared; if you lose...’H shrugged, as if it were nothing ‘...the debt is doubled.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Henry,’ Lord Boscombe said. ‘The young shaver is a first-class whip.’

  ‘And so am I,’ His Grace said. He turned to Mark. ‘ I’ll take you on, young fellow, if you throw in the rigs as part of the stake.’

  ‘Done.’

  They shook hands and left the table together. ‘Give you a ride home, me boy?’ the Duke offered.

  Mark laughed. ‘Thank you, Cousin, it will give me a chance to see what I’ll be getting when I win.’

  ‘If you win, young fellow. If.’ Arm in arm, they went downstairs and out of the front door. A footman offered to fetch his carriage, but His Grace waved him aside. ‘Get it ourselves.’

  As the two men reached the stables, a groom came out leading a riding horse, a great, restive bay which threw back its head as if wanting to rid itself of the hand that held the snaffle. ‘Easy, easy, ol’ fellow,’ the groom soothed, then, seeing the Duke, he added, ‘I’ll have yours harnessed in a shake, Your Grace.’ He tethered the horse and turned to go back to the stables, passing a man coming out.

  Mark stopped in his tracks when he saw who it was. ‘You!’ he said, taking a step towards him. ‘You dare to stay around here!’

  ‘I have no quarrel with my hostess,’ Adam said calmly, going to pass him. ‘Nor yet with you, if you would but believe it.’

  ‘You, Sir, are a coward,’ Mark went on. ‘And if that will not make you fight I shall continue to say it all over the country until you do.’

  ‘Hey, what’s afoot?’ His Grace asked, looking from one angry man to the other.

  ‘It is a private matter,’ Adam said.

  The Duke laughed. ‘Lady, was it?’

  ‘This gentleman...’ Mark’s voice was heavy with sarcasm ‘...has insulted a lady for whom I have a high regard. I called him out, but he will not fight.’

  ‘Strange, I would not have put him down for a coward,’ His Grace said. ‘Markham said he had served with distinction in the war.’

  ‘Yes?’ Mark sneered. ‘In whose army?’ He smiled suddenly as an idea came to him; there was a way to kill two birds with one stone. He turned to Adam. ‘If you haven’t the stomach for a fight, will you accept another kind of challenge?’

  ‘I will accept any challenge which does not involve the unnecessary shedding of blood.’

  ‘A race. Have you cattle and a curricle?’

  ‘No, but I can get them.’

  ‘Five miles,’ Mark said. ‘Where and when to be decided. Do you accept?’

  Adam smiled. ‘With pleasure. And I’ll back myself to the tune of a thousand guineas. That should make it worth the effort.’

  ‘Done,’ said Mark, not daring to think what might happen if his plans went awry and he lost. ‘Though you will understand if I prefer not to shake hands on it. You will learn time and place by letter.’

  ‘You may contact me with the details at the home of my lawyer, Mr Robert Rudge, at Adelphi Terrace.’ Adam bowed to the Duke. ‘Your Grace.’ Then he strode over to the bay, unhitched it and leapt into the saddle.

  He did not feel like returning to Robert, with whom he was staying; he needed to think. He set off to ride on the heath until his anger cooled.

  It was directed more at himself than Mark Danbury. He had been a fool to allow himself to get into a situation where he could not defend his honour, and all because of a girl. He smiled to himself. But what a girl! He hadn’t meant to kiss her again but simply to talk to her, to try to explain his dilemma. Instead... Sacre Dieu! Why did she have to be a Danbury? Why, when he had almost decided to leave well alone and return to France, did he have to meet her? She made him feel light-hearted in a way he had not felt since his happy childhood had been shattered by the Terror. He forced himself to think about it, to remind himself of why he had come to England.

  He remembered Louis Saint-Pierre, the only father he had ever known, pleading with Maman to take the boy to England. ‘I have made provision for you there,’ he had said. ‘Go to Joseph Rudge and I will join you when I can.’

  She had refused and then the Committee of Public Safety - what a misnomer! - had sent men to arrest them, and there had only been time to push the twelve-year-old Adam into a cupboard and exhort him not to come out until it was safe, before they were dragged away and the house ransacked. His secure, contented life had ended in that cupboard and he would bear the inner scars of it to his death. He had not dared to come out for hours and by then all the servants but old Henri Garonne had fled. The old man had urged him to leave the area. ‘They will be back for you,’ he said. ‘They won’t leave any aristo alive, you can be sure.’

  But Adam could not tear himself away from home and those he loved, and he had been beside the rough guillotine when Louis Saint-Pierre was brought out to his death. He had run and flung himself into his father’s arms, trying to hold him back, wrestling with the guards, crying, ‘No! No! No!’ until Papa had made him stand back.

  ‘Go to England,’ he had whispered. ‘Find Mr Rudge. Tell him what has happened.’

  ‘And Maman?’

  ‘I don’t know. They separated us. Pray God they were merciful.’ Then he had been dragged up the steps by his bloodthirsty captors and his head had been severed from his body.

  The memory of that terrible scene could never be erased by anything that happened afterwards, however appalling or however pleasant. Twelve years old and alone in the world, he had set off for Paris, a city teeming with beggars and orphans, as he soon discovered. Wary and untamed as a wild animal, he had learned to live on his wits, to trust no one. He had never allowed his emotions to get the better of him since then - not until now - and no woman had held his affection. Why should Maryanne Paynter be the exception? Was she worth being called a coward for?

  He could never have accepted Mark’s challenge to a duel; he was prepared to wager the young man had never heard a shot fired in anger and had never faced a rapier that wasn’t cork-tipped. If he had agreed to fight and killed him, the truth would have come out and he would have been vilified the length and breadth of the country and, what was worse, he would never have been able to live with himself afterwards. And not even the sparkling blue eyes and soft lips of the only girl who had ever made his heart beat faster could alter that. He should never have come to England, never started to pry, never gone to Beckford or Castle Cedars; it solved nothing. He smiled suddenly. Then he would never have met Maryanne and that he coul
d not regret, even if it did increase his dilemma. But the curricle race would have to be his Parthian shot, so he had better win it.

  Chapter Four

  His lordship, clad in a full-length burgundy satin dressing-gown and with his dark hair brushed but not dressed, was sitting alone eating his breakfast when Maryanne went down next morning. She had always risen betimes and could not lie abed as Caroline did, not even after a late night. And, besides, she had not slept well; it was a relief when morning came and she could get up, though she knew she would have to face his lordship’s displeasure. Mark had told him what had happened before they left the ball; he was too angry to keep silent on the subject and, in all fairness, his lordship had a right to know.

  She hesitated in the doorway before taking a deep breath and moving forward to make her curtsy. ‘My lord...’

  ‘Good morning, Maryanne. Come and have breakfast with me. I want to talk to you.’

  She sat down next to him but made no effort to help herself from the many dishes set out on a side table. ‘My lord, I am sorry if I have disappointed you...’

  He smiled. ‘Mark flew into the boughs over nothing, is that what you were about to say?’

  ‘It was all so silly. If Mark had not come along, I...’ She hesitated, remembering that kiss and how she had lost herself in the pleasure of it. ‘I could have dealt with him.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘A stranger? Maryanne, you astound me.’

  ‘He wasn’t exactly a stranger. I had seen him before, several times.’

  ‘Where and when?’

  She told him everything, including her doubts, finishing, ‘I am sorry, my lord, I should have come to you before, but I could not see that he was doing any harm. I still don’t think so.’