Jack Chiltern's Wife (1999)

by Nichols, Mary

  She scrambled off the bed and crossed the room to a small walnut escritoire, where she rifled through the drawers for James’s last letter. She found it and took it to the candle to read it. The light was almost unnecessary for she had it almost by heart. Written from Florence, it was full of enthusiasm for his travels. He wrote well, filling his prose with light and colour, peopling the pages with the strange characters he had met.

  ‘I think I shall visit Paris on my way home,’ he wrote. ‘I am curious to see if it has changed much since the Revolution.’ The letter had been written several months before and since then there had been news of riots and beheadings and, worst of all, the imprisonment and coming trial of King Louis.

  James, who could be more than a little rash at times, would not be so foolish as to embroil himself in other people’s troubles and would surely return by sea. On the other hand, perhaps it was only Paris that was dangerous and the rest of the country was peaceful, in which case, travelling overland would be the safest. Safest of all would be to stay where he was until the troubles came to an end.

  He seemed to be enjoying Florence and wrote at length about its antiquities and the hospitality of the people and the social occasions he had attended. That, she knew, was a reference to the young ladies he had met. Had he kissed any of them as Edward had kissed her, for the fun of it?

  That was what was so unfair about being a woman; you could not have even the tiniest flirtation, however innocent, without you were branded a wanton. What was it Alice had called her? A harlot. She had only a vague idea of what a harlot was, but she knew it could not be anything but bad, especially as the remark had drawn an exclamation of remonstrance from her uncle.

  She wished she were a man; life would be so much more fun. A man could travel the world, without the worry of abigails and chaperons; he could get involved in all sorts of adventures and everyone labelled him a jolly good fellow. Why couldn’t a woman do that?

  Why not? Why not leave home—it would be better than marrying against her will, wouldn’t it? Other women did it, why couldn’t she? Alice wanted to be rid of her. She would be rid of her, but not to Scotland.

  The prospect began to excite her and she paced the room, trying to think of a way in which it could be accomplished. Her uncle would never agree to let her go and to travel you needed money, a great deal of it.

  She had the money her mother had left her, but she could not draw on that until she married and then it would be given to her husband. That was something else that wasn’t fair. Her uncle gave her a monthly allowance from the trust her father had set up, but that was only pin money and he could stop it at any time. Could she borrow and, if so, from whom? The idea, when it came to her, was so outrageous, she knew she had to try it.

  Judith had long since retired to her own bed and would certainly try to dissuade her from going if she was roused. No one must know where she had gone, no one at all, because she would be fetched back and Alice would have her way about sending her to Scotland. That would be worse than marrying Edward.

  She would be sorry to leave the rectory, but lately it had become more a place of confinement than a home, and she would be sorry to leave Judith and little Johnny, whom she loved, but staying would be intolerable whether she agreed to marry Edward or not.

  She had to get out of her ballgown and its petticoats, something her uncle had obviously not thought about when he dismissed the maid. It had tiny buttons down the back which she could not reach and after struggling for a few minutes, she took a pair of scissors from her needlework drawer and cut herself out of it. Poor Judith, she had spent hours stitching the lace round the sleeves and neckline and pressing the yards of silk in the skirt; goodness knows what she would say when she saw it had been ruined.

  But there was no time to think of that. A coach, on its way from Bath to London, called at the King’s Head in Beresford village every morning at five-thirty and she meant to be on it.

  It was still dark when she let herself out of the house, wearing a simple blue wool dress and caraco jacket, topped by a blue cloak with a fur-lined hood, for it was bitterly cold. Her feet were encased in half-boots. She carried a small handbag in one gloved hand and a carpet bag containing a change of clothes in the other.

  Stealthily she made her way down the steps and along the drive to the London road, hoping no one would go to her room and discover the note she had left on her pillow until she was well on her way.

  She had never been about at that time of day before, and never alone, so that the experience was both exhilarating and frightening, except, of course, that the step she was taking was irrevocable and she had no idea what the future held in store for her.

  She arrived at the King’s Head just as the coach rattled into the yard, its mud-begrimed wheels and sweating horses proclaiming that it had been driven hard through the night in order to reach the metropolis by daybreak. Kitty, having paid her fare, climbed aboard and settled into her seat, while the horses were changed, then they were off, galloping through the countryside as dawn lightened the sky and the domes and spires of London appeared in the distance.

  Beresford village was only an hour’s ride from the capital, and it was still barely light when she left the coach at the Golden Cross and set out to look for a hackney. It was still very early but already, as she walked up Haymarket, which supplied the nearby stables of the Royal Mews with hay and straw, towards Piccadilly, the streets were becoming busy.

  Two milkmaids, their yokes slung across their shoulders, hurried to Green Park where their charges waited patiently to be relieved of their overnight burden. A chimney sweep, with his brushes over his shoulder and his little climbing boy trotting reluctantly at his side, made his way to his first call. Errand boys, clerks, washerwomen passed her, giving her a glance of curiosity, but no more than that.

  She crossed the road to avoid a drunk rolling homewards and turned the corner into Piccadilly just as a hire carriage approached. Without thinking, she held up her hand and stepped into the road. The driver, half asleep, pulled on the reins so sharply the horse nearly fell back on its haunches.

  ‘Lunatic!’ he yelled. ‘D’yer want to be killed?’

  ‘I wish to hire your cab.’

  He looked down at what he had taken to be a servant girl on an errand for her mistress and found himself gazing at a raven-haired beauty who, though young and very petite, was obviously not a servant. Her complexion was pale and her oval features perfectly proportioned, framed by the hood of her cloak, which was too expensive a garment for a servant to be wearing. Her agitated manner and the bag in her hand gave away the fact that she was running away. He was not sure he wanted to be any part of that.

  ‘Ain’t for hire,’ he said, preparing to move on. ‘‘Bin up all night, just going home to me bed.’

  ‘I’ll pay you double.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘For goodness sake, man,’ said a male voice at her elbow. ‘Don’t dilly-dally, can you not see the lady is in great haste?’

  Kitty spun round to see who had spoken and found herself looking into a broad chest which sported the most vivid waistcoat she had ever seen. It was of bright blue velvet, embroidered all over with gold and silver thread and trimmed with scarlet braid. And she was prepared to wager the little buttons cascading down its front like teardrops were diamonds.

  Slowly she raised her head to look up over a flamboyantly tied cravat, which spilled over the waistcoat, to the face of its owner. He was handsome … my, he was handsome, dark as a gypsy with a firm chin, almost black eyes which held a hint of amusement, and black hair tied back with a blue velvet ribbon to match the waistcoat. A many-caped overcoat was slung carelessly across his shoulders, as if keeping out the cold was the least of its uses.

  Smiling, he reached across her to open the door of the cab. ‘Be my guest, ma’am.’

  She hesitated, not at all sure how she ought to behave, but then, remembering that the reason she was on the streets of London at this ungo
dly hour was because she had not behaved as she ought, she decided she might as well continue in the same vein. Her life with her uncle and stepmother had ended the minute she had stepped out of the house; whatever lay before her was of her own making. She smiled, thanked him coolly and stepped up into the vehicle, leaving him to hand in her bag.

  The driver, sitting with his hands on the reins, looked on in undisguised amusement as the man stood in the road, still holding the door open, so they could not proceed.

  ‘Where do you wish to go, Miss—?’the stranger queried.

  ‘To Brook Street,’ she said, settling herself in her seat and ignoring the hint that she should provide her name.

  ‘What a coincidence, that’s just my destination,’ he said, jumping in beside her, flinging his coat on the opposite seat and revealing a cutaway jacket. ‘We can travel together.’ He rapped on the roof with his cane and they were away.

  Kitty inched herself as far away from him as she could—which wasn’t far, considering the narrowness of the vehicle—her body tense with nerves. What had she done? Supposing he abducted her, or took her for the harlot her stepmother had called her—what could she do? Would it do any good to shout for help?

  The few people who were about on the street had seen her climb willingly into the vehicle and were continuing on their way, minding their own business; they would not interfere. It was less than two hours since she left home and already she was in a quandary. She did not look at him, but gazed out of the window as if there was something of great interest to be seen in the road.

  ‘You are nervous,’ he said. ‘Are you afraid of me?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Then perhaps you ought to be.’

  She gasped and turned to look at him. ‘Why?’

  He smiled. She was an innocent. ‘No, you are right. You have nothing to fear from me. I am not in the habit of abduction and I would be a fool to molest a schoolgirl, however pretty and desirable.’

  ‘Sir, you are impertinent. And I am nothing of the sort.’

  ‘Not a schoolgirl, or not pretty and desirable? The first I can only guess at, the other I can certainly vouch for.’

  She did not answer, knowing that she should never have entered into conversation with him in the first place. Was he flirting with her?

  ‘Am I to assume you are running away from home?’

  She remained silent and was disconcerted when he laughed. ‘Your silence is more eloquent than any reply. Why are you running away?’

  ‘I am not running away. I am going to visit Sir George Lampeter in Brook Street,’ she said, deciding that mentioning Edward’s father might add more respectability to her errand.

  ‘Sir George, eh? He with the handsome son? You are surely not eloping? I must say, it is less than gallant of the gentleman to expect you to call for him. I had always thought it usual for lovesick swains to climb ladders to bedroom windows to rescue those they love from wicked stepmothers.’

  She turned to him in surprise. ‘What do you know of it?’

  So, that was the way of it. He assumed a serious expression; it would not do to laugh at her. ‘Nothing, nothing at all, my dear, I was just teasing.’

  ‘Then I beg of you to desist. I am not eloping. It is my uncle’s wish that I should marry Edward Lampeter.’

  ‘Your uncle’s wish?’

  ‘My guardian.’

  ‘And you and you uncle have crossed swords over it?’

  ‘You could say that. On the other hand, it is none of your business.’

  ‘My, we are sharp, are we not? And so early in the morning too. Have you no liking for Mr Lampeter? I am not acquainted with the gentleman but I know of him, he is personable enough. And eligible.’

  ‘I did not say I did not like him. I like him well enough.’

  He sighed melodramatically, enjoying the encounter. ‘Ah, then he has done something to annoy you. Stolen a kiss, perhaps?’

  She felt the colour flare in her cheeks. How could he possibly know that? ‘Sir, you are presumptuous.’

  He chuckled. ‘When a beautiful young lady is in distress, then I do presume, it would be unchivalrous not to. Tell me, if he has not upset you, why have you no wish to marry him? I assume that is what this is all about.’

  ‘I do not love him.’

  ‘Ah, love!’ He leaned back in his seat and surveyed her, from her dark curls, tied back with a velvet ribbon because she had had no one to help her arrange them, to flushed cheeks which gave her a sort of gamine charm, from a sturdy little chin to a slim figure which was far from childish. ‘He’s a lucky fellow.’

  ‘Edward?’

  ‘No, the man who has your heart.’

  ‘There is no one.’ With cheeks flaming, she turned to look out of the window again, wishing she had never allowed herself to be drawn into conversation with him, wishing she had refused to enter the coach.

  ‘Impossible!’ He laughed. ‘Young ladies are always falling in and out of love, that is why their elders and betters have to help them make up their minds.’

  ‘You do not understand,’ she cried, before she could stop herself. ‘It is not like that at all. I do not want to marry anyone.’

  ‘Never?’ he teased.

  ‘Not until I meet the right man.’

  ‘Then you are going to Lampeter to give him his congé. You know, I could almost feel sorry for him, except that it might be a blessing. In my experience, young ladies are not renowned for their steadfastness. The smallest difficulty and they fly into the boughs and stamp their pretty little feet …’

  She gurgled with laughter. ‘Quite a difficult accomplishment, stamping one’s feet while sitting in a tree. I am sure I could never do it.’

  He smiled lopsidedly. So the minx had a sense of humour, even when she was in trouble. Unless he missed his guess, she would need it if she really had run away.

  ‘Is Lampeter expecting you at such an early hour? The house will hardly be astir.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You propose to go alone and ring the front-door bell?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? My dear Miss …’ He paused, still smiling. ‘You did not tell me your name, but no matter, I can understand your reluctance. You will set the household on its head if you do anything so outrageous. Do you know what you are about?’ He paused and turned in his seat so that he was almost facing her and his knees, clad in slim-fitting breeches and white silk stockings, brushed her skirts, sending a little frisson of alarm through her. ‘But perhaps that is your intention. Perhaps you want a scandal?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then, if you would allow me, I might be able to help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I could go to the door and fetch Lampeter out of the house on some pretext or other and bring him to you. It would be better than going to him, don’t you think?’ He was looking at her with his head on one side and broad grin on his face.

  ‘It is not funny!’

  He assumed an expression of severity which was even more comical and Kitty, in spite of her annoyance with him, found herself smiling in response.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘You have a beautiful smile. I cannot think how Lampeter could fail to be moved by it. Now, will you allow me to come to your aid?’

  ‘No.’ But it was not a very firm negative.

  The carriage turned into Brook Street and slowed to a halt. ‘Where to exac’ly?’ the driver called, leaning over so that his head was hanging upside down above the window.

  ‘Wait,’ his male passenger commanded, then, to Kitty, said, ‘Well? Do you want me to fetch the lucky fellow out to you?’

  ‘No … Yes … I don’t know.’ To Kitty, who had not made up her mind how she was going to make the opportunity of speaking to Edward alone, the stranger seemed the answer to her problem. But did she really wish to be indebted to him? She did not even know his name. He might be the devil himself. Come to think of it, he did look rather devilish with hi
s dark looks, dark hair and equally dark eyes. But the eyes had a glint of gold … and would the devil wear an embroidered blue waistcoat and a mulberry suit?

  ‘What kind of an answer is that?’

  ‘Very well. I shall be much obliged if you would fetch Mr Lampeter here, to me. The house is the one on the far corner.’

  Having told the cab driver to wait, he disappeared, leaving Kitty to contemplate her folly, a course which left her feeling more lonely and vulnerable than ever. She sighed heavily. The die had been cast and the only thing she could do was carry through her plan with all the resolve she could muster.

  The wait seemed interminable, but just when she thought Edward must have refused to come, or he had perhaps not returned to London after the ball, although he had told her that was his intention, she heard the sound of footsteps and he climbed into the carriage beside her and shut the door.

  ‘Where is …?’ She did not know the dark stranger’s name and surprised herself by even mentioning him, when there were more important things to be discussed.

  ‘Gone on his way. I must say, Kitty, you do have the most extraordinary calling cards.’

  ‘He seemed a perfectly ordinary gentleman to me.’ She was conscious of the irony, even as she spoke. The man was far from ordinary.

  ‘That waistcoat! Did you ever see such a garment? Not one to hide his light under a bushel, is he?’

  ‘You know him?’ She was sorry he had not returned; she had not thanked him properly for his trouble. But this was no time to be worrying about a stranger; she had some persuading to do.

  ‘I’ve seen him at the gaming tables on occasion,’ he said. ‘Devilish lucky fellow, too, and known for a hard man. The ladies seem to like him, though I can’t say why they should. Ain’t sure he’s even a gentleman. How did you come to meet him?’ He looked at her, as a suspicion crossed his mind. ‘He’s not … Oh, Kitty, I never took you for a …’ He paused, unwilling to utter the word.