Lysander's Lady

by Patricia Ormsby

  LYSANDER’S LADY

  Patricia Ormsby

  Winner take all, they had said

  And all included the beautiful Katherine Honeywell!

  The Marquis of Wayleigh had challenged Katherine’s beloved Lysander Derwent to a wild and dangerous curricle race. She trembled in fear at the knowledge that the marquis was a man without honor or scruples, who would stoop to any foul means to gain his desires.

  He had already caused the ruin of Katherine’s cousin. Would he now destroy Lysander—and take Katherine as his prize?

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  The Dowager Lady Glendower was dozing comfortably by a cheerful fire, her book fallen to the floor and her cap askew upon her head, when her butler coughed gently to apprise her of his presence.

  ‘The post, m’lady, only just arrived. Delayed by the weather, no doubt. A letter from foreign parts, m’lady.’

  ‘What foreign parts?’ Startled, Lady Glendower groped wildly for her reticule. ‘My spectacles—where have I—?’

  ‘On the table, m’lady.’

  ‘Thank you, Bates.’

  Her ladyship set her spectacles upon her nose, then with great dignity twitched her Paisley shawl up about her shoulders and extended a languid hand to accept the letter proffered her upon a silver salvor. A graceful inclination of the head dismissed her butler who, reflecting that he ought to know better than to expect any confidences when his mistress was awaking from a nap and was in a proper maggoty mood, withdrew and made his stately way downstairs.

  Arrived in the hall, he was admirably placed to witness the entry of a young gentleman in many-caped greatcoat who erupted in from the street with a flurry of snow at his heels.

  ‘Devil take it, Bates, did ever you know such villainous weather for March? Is my mother in—no need to ask! She’d not set foot outside on such a day.’

  ‘Her ladyship is in her boudoir, Mr. Lysander. Allow me, sir.’

  Deftly Bates removed the snow-flecked greatcoat, then reverently laid the glossy beaver, gold-topped cane and York tan gloves upon a marble-topped table, while their owner directed a cursory glance at his appearance in one of the large gilt-framed mirrors that lined the hall. Running his fingers carelessly through his fashionably cropped tawny locks, he turned to go upstairs but paused with his hand on the balustrade.

  ‘Did you venture a wager on Ploughboy yesterday, Bates?’

  Over the butler’s stolid countenance there spread a grin of pure delight. ‘That I did, sir, and thank you for tipping me the wink!’

  The Honourable Lysander Derwent nodded as if well satisfied and ascended the stairs as speedily as his elegant legs would carry him. Bates, looking after him, mused that never would the present Lord Glendower act in so free a manner towards his staff, yet, for all that, more heed was taken of Mr. Lysander’s lightest word than of his elder brother’s often imperious commands. Then he reminded himself that that was no way to be thinking of his lordship who was laid upon his bed recovering from a hunting accident, and in no condition to issue commands, imperious or otherwise, poor gentleman. And, sighing, he bore his young master’s coat away to be dried.

  Heralding his arrival by a perfunctory tap, Mr. Derwent entered the room to be greeted by a faint shriek from his parent.

  ‘Lysander, thank God you are home! It is all too distressing...’

  ‘What, mama, is so particularly distressing—apart from the climate?’ enquired Mr. Derwent in the resigned tone of one who has encountered this opening gambit on previous occasions and knows himself to be obliged to hear it to its conclusion.

  ‘It’s Athenia, my dear Athenia Chadwick—Honeywell, I should say. And now the poor man is dead and I never knew him.’

  Mr. Derwent, while endeavouring to unravel this tangled confidence, placed himself with his back to the fire, coat-tails well hoisted to obtain the full benefit of the heat.

  ‘Don’t do that, Lysander,’ implored her ladyship distractedly. ‘You know your father always said it brought on the rheumatics in later years.’

  ‘I’ll risk future agony for present bliss!’ remarked her son, seating himself smartly on the nearest chair. ‘It’s uncommon cold outside. Now what’s all this about Athenia Chadwick? Should I know the lady?’

  ‘But of course you do! She was my dearest friend and she went out to the Cape at the invitation of Anne Barnard when Lady Anne was at Government House, acting as hostess for Lord Macartney. Everyone thought it just the thing for Athenia, she was close on thirty years of age and at her last prayers—though you must not suppose she had not had her chances. However, be that as it may, she met and married this Colonel Honeywell within weeks of setting foot in the Cape. You must remember, Lysander!’

  ‘Dearest mama, I daresay that was all of twenty years ago!’ he reminded her, an imp of mischief dancing in his fine grey eyes.

  ‘Well, you are—twenty-eight, isn’t it?’ she asked doubtfully. He smiled, not a whit put out by this display of maternal forgetfulness.

  ‘And small boys of eight rarely pay much heed to the doings of their elders unless such doings directly concern them.’

  ‘No—o, I suppose not.’ The Dowager’s attention was once more directed upon her letter, so he sat back to await further revelations.

  This forbearance seemed strangely out of character, for Mr. Derwent had an air about him that hinted at a lack of tolerance towards those less perceptive than himself. In appearance he was a little above the average in height, with good shoulders and a slim, well-proportioned figure that displayed to advantage in an admirably cut coat and impeccable pantaloons. His features were strong and regular, his eyes cool and searching in their regard, and his mouth determined. In short, Mr. Derwent looked, and was, an ill man to cross. Though his manners and address could rarely be faulted, his icy courtesy when delivering a set-down to any person whose pretensions he deplored had earned him the reputation of being deuced high in the instep. To Lady Glendower, however, he was her rather tiresome younger son who devoted far too much time and money to his horses and other sporting pursuits when he should have been thinking of settling down to an ordered connubial existence.

  ‘Really,’ she sighed, ‘Athenia so crosses her lines that I can scarce make out her story. It appears that they were on an expedition into the interior—for whatever reason I cannot conceive—and were set upon by savages. Though the attack was successfully repulsed and they made their way back to the coast where they found aid, yet the severity of his wounds, and the privations he had to endure before being succoured, proved too great for her husband’s resolution, and he expired at the home of the gentleman to whose house they had been conveyed. This person—a Mr. Callister, I think it is—was known to Colonel Honeywell and has behaved in a truly Christian manner to my poor Athenia in making her as comfortable as her circumstances permit.’

  She paused to draw breath but, Mr. Derwent making no comment, she continued. ‘She goes on to say that, while for herself life holds little of interest, she must take thought for her unfortunate child, Katherine, my goddaughter, who was mercifully preserved during this terrible assault. She proposes to send the girl to England and begs that I will interest myself in the chit, and do all possible to help arrange an eligible alliance for her—oh, great heavens!’

  Mr. Derwent, seeing her ladyship’s pretty, soft countenance pucker in distress and the tears overspill from her large blue eyes, came at once to comfort her, removing the letter from her trembling hold. The first thing his eye fell upon was a lengthy postscript, written in a very different hand to that of Mrs. Honeywell, and signed ‘G. Callister’.

  ‘Your ladyship will be concerned to learn’, he read, ‘that, shortly after penning the above lines, Mrs. Honeywell, being much weakened
by her recent sad experiences, contracted a putrid fever. Though, happily, she has survived the attack, she has been much reduced in health and I am doing what I can to put her affairs into good order. As her expressed wish is that Miss Kate should go to England without further delay, if it is in my power I shall despatch her on the first available ship and so ease the unfortunate lady’s concern for her only child.’

  ‘Oh, the poor unhappy girl!’ wailed the Dowager, uncorking her vinaigrette and sniffing damply.

  Mr. Derwent was studying the letter with deep interest. ‘Why have I never heard of this godchild of yours?’ he asked.

  ‘It was all done by proxy,’ explained her ladyship vaguely. ‘Athenia being so far away and then never returning home after her marriage, the connection became a trifle—’

  ‘Nebulous?’ supplied Mr. Derwent helpfully.

  ‘That’s it!’ agreed his mother, relieved at his ready understanding of the matter. ‘Which makes it all the more imperative that I should do something now.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He sounded unconvinced. ‘What age is she?’

  ‘Age? I cannot be perfectly certain—what a wretched godmama I have been!—but she must be—let me see,’ Lady Glendower did some rapid mental arithmetic, ‘she must be at least nineteen, I should suppose.’

  ‘And her expectations?’ pursued Mr. Derwent.

  ‘I have always understood Colonel Honeywell to be a man of substance. He sold out of the army soon after he married Athenia and took to farming. She, too, would have had a comfortable portion and a deal more when her parents died.’

  Mr. Derwent folded the letter and tapped it thoughtfully against a thumbnail before pronouncing judgment. ‘I agree you must receive her,’ he said, ‘but until all her circumstances are made plain, I advise against burdening yourself with the task of finding her a husband.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ said his mama doubtfully. ‘Someone will have to do it and who is there to push the girl off other than myself?’ Her face brightened. ‘If you should not dislike it too excessively, Lysander, I could have her to stay here for a time. Think what pleasure it will be for me to acquire so delightful a companion.’

  Her son looked slightly sceptical but refrained from reminding her that, as yet, they had no reason to believe that Miss Honeywell would be at all delightful. He did, however, point out that the letter he was holding in his hand had been written in December, and they were now in mid-March.

  ‘Should Mr. Callister fulfil his intention of putting Miss Honeywell on the first available ship, her arrival here could be imminent.’

  The Dowager raised her eyes to Heaven, as if imploring divine assistance. ‘And what is to be done with the girl, I beg you will tell me!’

  ‘The usual things, I should suppose,’ he murmured absently. ‘Take her to a few balls and ton parties.’

  ‘Balls and ton parties, indeed! ’Pon my word, Lysander, you treat of the matter very coolly! Straight from the depths of Africa, having lost her father not six months since—there can be no question of her come-out this season. And how I am going to support the fatigue of such an undertaking, let alone the expense, I am sure I do not know.’ Clearly the Dowager had already cast herself in the role of chaperone to the young lady which, in view of the lack of any other claimant to that title, looked to be a very likely outcome.

  ‘She’s not, I should suppose, got a rag to wear, poor child, that’s not years out of the mode,’ her ladyship continued to lament. ‘And I hardly know what customs obtain in the Cape. I must see to it that she knows how to conduct herself.’

  ‘Apply a bit of town-bronze, you mean, as distinct from African sun?’

  ‘Oh, pray she may not be as brown-skinned as a native! No, no, I don’t mean that, of course! Her parents’ lineage was unquestionable. Perhaps some oil of cacao or Balm of Mecca would answer? And crushed strawberries in the summer?’ These cosmetic conjectures were of small interest to Mr. Derwent, who rose to kick back a log that threatened to scatter over the hearth.

  ‘I had the intention of seeking your advice this evening, ma’am, upon a matter of family concern,’ said he, taking out a fine tortoiseshell snuff-box inlaid with gold, and opening it with a practised click.

  Her ladyship eyed him in some trepidation. To be consulted upon any matter of importance was not a thing to which she was accustomed, nor, indeed, did she welcome it since it presaged her having to make a decision, and such action was utterly foreign to her indolent nature. Lysander, who knew her rather better than she suspected and who, despite her failings, held her in the strongest affection, helped himself to a pinch of snuff and replaced the box in his pocket without any appearance of concern; though to an acute observer his actions might have seemed over-deliberate, as if he was seeking the right words with which to express himself.

  ‘As I reminded you a few minutes since,’ he resumed, head bent and face turned slightly away from her, ‘I am twenty-eight years of age. It is time, I believe, for me to be thinking of setting up my own establishment.’

  A gasp, compounded in almost equal parts of relief and astonishment, escaped the Dowager. ‘Th-this is so unexpected, Lysander!’ she stammered. ‘H-how far has your intention progressed?’ A sudden doubt assailed her. ‘You’re never going to offer for the Radlett girl?’

  ‘Good lord, no! Whatever made you think it?’

  ‘Sarah Radlett’s been going about these past weeks boasting of her daughter’s conquest,’ explained her ladyship, who kept her ear close to the ground in all matters of social significance. Lysander looked mildly sceptical.

  ‘I cannot conceive why she should,’ he said flatly.

  ‘You stood up with her twice at Almack’s,’ his mother informed him, ‘and at the Weatherbys’ ball, but that’s beside the point. Who is the young lady on whom your choice has fallen?’

  He laughed a shade self-consciously. ‘That’s just it, mama. I cannot make up my mind and hoped you would do it for me!’

  Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him in dismay. ‘But, Lysander, you cannot be asking me to choose your wife for you!’

  ‘Not precisely,’ he agreed. ‘Just to assist me in my choice. To tell truth I have narrowed the field down to two runners.’

  She gulped like a stranded fish. ‘Let me tell you that eligible young females are not accustomed to being spoken of as entrants in a steeplechase!’

  ‘But that is just what they are, ma’am. Fillies engaged in the Matrimonial Stakes!’

  ‘Well, yes,’ she allowed. ‘I daresay they are in a way. But it is not at all the same thing to—well, never mind! May I know the names of the two—er, runners?’

  ‘Miss Emma Whitfield, whose parents I believe are not unknown to you, and Lady Sophia Trennick.’

  ‘Lady Sophia Trennick?’ she repeated. ‘But she is Edmonton’s daughter.’

  ‘His third daughter,’ he corrected her. ‘The two elder being already married.’

  ‘But—a Duke’s daughter,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Will she have you, Lysander?’

  ‘Flying too high, d’you suppose?’ he enquired caustically, but she had already supplied the answer to her own query.

  ‘Why should she not, indeed? With such a family His Grace must be thankful for any comfortable alliance. What a fortunate circumstance that your uncle chose to leave you his entire estate!’

  Mr. Derwent’s lips quivered slightly at recollection of her ladyship’s high indignation when she had learned that every penny of her brother-in-law’s considerable fortune had been left to her younger son, but he forbore to remind her of it. ‘So you advise me to pay my addresses to Lady Sophia?’

  ‘Yes, but—Lysander! Surely you have a preference?’

  ‘They are both perfectly amiable ladies, mama. Perhaps Lady Sophia has the edge, being, as you say, a Duke’s daughter. Though rank should not be of the first importance in choosing a wife, some degree of breeding is, I allow, desirable.’

  The Dowager sat bolt upright, a suspicious gleam in her eye.<
br />
  ‘Why this sudden decision to be married?’ she demanded to be told. ‘You haven’t suffered a reverse in an affair of the heart, have you? Depend upon it, to rush headlong into an ill-considered marriage is no remedy for that malaise.’

  A look of faint distaste passed over his face. ‘No, mama, my heart has never been sufficiently touched to drive me to such extremes.’

  ‘That I can well believe!’ she snapped. ‘When I think of the foolish young women who have worn the willow for you—doubtless the Radlett chit will add to their number.’

  ‘Mama!’ he chided her. ‘How often have I heard you declare that love marriages are suitable only for the lower orders?’

  ‘Very true,’ she admitted, ‘but I am persuaded that in Glendower’s case the match would not have turned out half so well had he not had a decided tendre for dear Jane.’

  The mention of his brother put Mr. Derwent in mind of something else. ‘I have the intention of going down to Mansell tomorrow to see how Jack goes on.’

  His mother beamed her approval. ‘Now that is what I like in you, Lysander, you are never behindhand in any attention to your family. Poor Glendower! How it must irk him to be laid on his bed for so long! Do you think that perhaps I should accompany you to Mansell?’

  ‘In this weather? Not to be thought on, mama, unless you wish for Dr. Paris’s vis-a-vis to be calling at your door.’

  She sighed in visible relief, for to be visiting a sickroom was, above all things, what she least liked. ‘That man! Can you imagine, Lysander, those last pills he prescribed for me were made of cobwebs!’

  ‘I can!’ he promised her, but her volatile brain had already turned to another project.

  ‘I must write to Jane. Depend upon it, if she should take an interest in the Honeywell girl my task would be greatly eased. If you could convey my letter to her it would answer very well.’