Regency House

by Elizabeth Moss

  Michael nodded. He could readily believe that. His host was a Quaker and a pacifist, and did not believe in the pursuit of violent ends. He himself abhorred violence but was aware that sometimes there was no alternative, if peace was to be preserved.

  He thought of the woman in breeches, her superb riding, the shock on her face when she realised he had seen her.

  And the pistol she had dropped.

  ‘A duel on the common, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The butler hesitated in the doorway, about to withdraw. ‘Though the coalman said there was some dispute over who fired the fatal shot.’

  ‘His opponent, surely?’

  ‘One would imagine so. But apparently not.’ The butler bowed in the doorway. ‘I must attend to the master. But I shall have my wife bring through a fresh pot of coffee, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Alone again, he stood before the fire for a while, enjoying its heat after the chill of the mist-wreathed garden. There was a card on the mantel, partly tucked behind the clock, reminding his host of the grand meeting of the abolitionists that evening in Clapham.

  He would be attending too, which was precisely why he had come to stay with his friend for a few days. It was rumoured that William Wilberforce himself would be at the meeting. He glanced impatiently at the clock and wondered when his friend would rise from his bed. There was still much to be done before the meeting.

  He thought of Sir Tobias, and his smile faded.

  He was determined to nail that bastard one day, and all his cruel kind, even if it meant losing his own money in the process. Yes, it was a dangerous business, daring to take on these powerful men and the government ministers they seemed to control like puppets. But he could not stand idly by while hundreds of thousands of innocent Africans were enslaved, abused and even illegally murdered by these slavers and plantation owners.

  He and his friends seemed to have been campaigning for years. And the tide of public opinion was turning in their direction at last. They had made the international slave trade illegal. That victory had felt so sweet at the time. But the legislation was next to toothless when it came to trying to enforce that law on the high seas, and besides, it was still not illegal to own a slave outside these isles. Until they had managed to outlaw the way the plantations were run, on the blood, sweat and tears of enslaved Africans, that Parliamentary Act would only ever be a hollow victory.

  They had gone after the slavers, and won. But now they must go after the owners too or it would all be for nothing.

  The mantel clock ticked gently but insistently. Michael looked at its ornate gold face without really seeing it.

  Who was that woman with the pistol, wearing men’s clothing? And why the deuce had she ridden out here to shoot a man this morning? A man who was very possibly about to be shot in a duel anyway?

  It made no sense.

  But he would recognise that woman if he ever saw her again. Of that he was sure.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ROLLO

  Rollo waited on the white steps of St George’s Church, hands clasped behind his back, his cane safely in his best groomsman’s keeping until after the ceremony. The vast Corinthian columns of the portico stood smooth and stately, but the vaulted interior of the church was garlanded with holly and pine, the air fragrant and lit by hundreds of flickering church candles set at every level, every row of pews wreathed with green and gold in age-old fashion. The high altar itself stood rather more bare, yet beautiful nonetheless, ready for the celebration of the Christmastide feast in only a few days. Already the clerics were there, some waiting in their long robes for the service to begin, others setting out hymnals and ceremonial sheets on every pew.

  According to Farraway tradition, he ought to have collected his prospective bride at her father’s home, then walked or driven to church with her in the old manner, perhaps in an open carriage decorated with holly and mistletoe, white and red berries adorning each side, as the season dictated.

  But since Caroline’s mother was long-dead and Lord Lewis preferred the new ways to the old – or perhaps thought an open carriage ill-advised for his daughter in such chilly weather – Rollo found himself instead waiting for his bride to arrive at church.

  People had begun to gather around the steps soon after he arrived. The strangers among them stood at a discreet distance, waiting for any largesse to be thrown by Rollo from the bridal carriage after the ceremony, or perhaps just eager for a glimpse of a blushing Christmas bride.

  It was still hard to believe that appalling débâcle at the duel yesterday morning. How was it even possible?

  The magistrate had come to call on Lord Farraway yesterday, and affirmed to his father that he was satisfied Rollo had not fired his pistol, nor been involved in any foul play. Some other person had fired the fatal shot, from a hidden vantage point. For reasons unknown.

  Alonso’s second had vanished, his lodgings cleared out by the time the Bow Street Runners arrived to question him. And Alonso was dead. A man he had not known except for the briefest spell, and under the worst possible circumstances. It was hard to mourn him. Yet it was equally hard to dismiss the image of that crumpled body on the ground, the spreading stain on his white shirt …

  It could so easily have been him lying there, devoid of life.

  And what of Alonso’s strange sister? In Tom’s view, she had not been his sister at all but some woman of dubious morals set on to instigate their quarrel. Again, her reasons were unknown. Though clearly someone had wished him dead.

  His father had been furious, of course.

  ‘A duel?’ he had spluttered, as though Rollo were still a schoolboy. ‘You fought a duel over some disreputable Italian female? Behind my back?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father.’

  ‘And what good does sorry do me?’ He had reined in his temper with difficulty at the time, then exploded as soon as the magistrate had left the premises. ‘I have stood by without comment at your extravagant mistresses and foreign opera dancers, Rollo. A man cannot deny his nature, after all. But your wedding is tomorrow, unless you had forgotten.’

  ‘I am well aware of it, Father.’

  ‘I only pray Lord Lewis does not call the match off when he hears of this latest escapade. Do you have no sense of propriety, you young fool?

  ‘I can only ask you to forgive me,’ he had repeated stiffly. ‘It was an error of judgement.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt.’

  ‘It will never happen again.’

  ‘I should hope that you will be more careful of your company in future, boy. Good God, do you know how near to death you came? This tale of an unknown marksman … My fear is that one of my enemies wished to harm my family, and thrust this quarrel on you in order to bring about your death. But somehow they were thwarted, and thank God for that mercy.’

  Rollo had agreed with his father, but silently. He dearly wished to know why his father had enemies though. His father, however, was not a man who would ever share such a confidence with him. Though Lord Farraway had often said that no man of rank could escape making enemies, and his eldest son would discover this truth for himself in time.

  ‘I cannot keep this from your stepmother,’ his father had warned him, his cheeks still flushed with temper. ‘The gossipmongers will be busy and she will soon hear of it from another source if I do not tell her. As for your bride … Well, I only trust she is a forgiving woman.’

  But of course Caroline was a forgiving woman, Rollo thought.

  He watched as the ribbon-adorned Lewis carriage approached at a gentle trot, surrounded by unkempt street children all cheering and clapping their hands. Hoping for a penny or two, no doubt. The carriage came to a halt before the church. As soon as the steps were let down, the ragamuffins were there, waiting for the bride to descend. Lord Lewis and the driver of the carriage pushed them aside with loud exclamations, and the driver even raised his whip at one point.

  But Caroline, his soft-hearted Caroline, exclaim
ed in horror at such treatment and put a restraining hand on her father’s arm.

  Some of the children looked quite thin and dirty, their faces pinched with hunger. He was not surprised when Caroline reached into her white-beaded reticule and dropped a penny or two into some of the nearest outstretched hands.

  ‘Time to go, old thing,’ his groomsman said in his ear. ‘We must wait by the altar until she enters the church.’

  But Rollo shook his head.

  ‘I shall wait for my bride here,’ he replied, planting his feet apart and ignoring the pain in his bad leg. ‘It may not be the modern way, but it is an old family tradition for the groom to accompany the bride into the church, so both may approach the altar as equals. I allowed Lord Lewis to escort his daughter to the church. But he must relinquish her to my care now.’

  At that moment, Caroline looked up at him. Her face had been veiled, but now she lifted both hands to the veil and drew it back, smiling at her husband-to-be.

  It was the first time she had smiled at him in such a way. It was an inviting smile. No, more than that. A smile of promise.

  Rollo felt an unexpected stab of arousal, looking at the soft curving line of his betrothed’s mouth. He thought of the wedding night ahead, and his breath suddenly constricted. She was still looking at him, a question in her wide eyes. He tried to smile back, to reassure her, but did not wish to show his desire too openly.

  He held out both hands to her. ‘Caroline, will you walk into church with me in the old tradition?’

  He watched in admiration as his bride nodded, handed her cloak to an attendant, then climbed the steps carefully. One white-gloved hand clasped her heavy skirts, the other on her father’s arm.

  She must be freezing, he thought.

  But what a glorious sight. Her specially-made bridal gown was a splendid creation of several translucent and shimmering layers of muslin, flapping about her legs in the wind, revealing as much of her neat figure as it concealed. It was low-cut too, quite shockingly for a bride. But he had to admit he had never seen Caroline so handsome, her smooth-skinned bosom on deliberate show, and her pale arms too, right down to the elbow, where a pair of thin white lace gloves gave her an almost ethereal look.

  As she reached him, Rollo saw the flush in her cheeks, the hint of tears in her eyes. He had thought his bride of convenience a placid creature on their few previous meetings, incapable of strong emotions and physical desire. That had not displeased him, for she was likely to make a good wife and mother. But he had thought that meant she would not be passionate in bed, for a steady wife has different qualities to that of a pleasing mistress.

  But seeing her physical response to their wedding day, he thought perhaps he had been mistaken about Caroline. He very much hoped so, for it would make their arranged marriage easier for both parties if she proved passionate as well as a capable society hostess.

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  Her smile became tremulous. ‘Thank you. So do you.’

  Rollo almost let out a bark of laughter at that compliment. But he restrained it, seeing her father’s disapproving look. A wedding was supposed to be a serious affair, he reminded himself. At least before it had taken place. Afterwards, once the contract had been sworn and agreed upon before a church full of witnesses, some display of joy might be in order.

  Besides, they were not in love. And he had not yet secured her. Nor she him.

  ‘Let us go inside,’ he said instead, and held out his arm to her. ‘Together?’

  But a sudden gust of wind snagged some fold of her intricate gown on her reticule, so Caroline had to pause and untangle it without damaging the delicate material. It did seem a very beautiful gown, he thought, and one which deserved to be seen by the congregation rather than snarled up with her black pumps and pretty white stockings showing. She handed the reticule to her bridesmaid, a young solemn-eyed girl of about twelve years, then bent to straighten her hem.

  Standing patiently to one side, Rollo glanced up as a sudden movement caught his eye. Someone in the waiting crowd by the church door had tried to walk away, and been forced back by the press of onlookers, so had turned across their path in hope of escape the other way.

  It was a woman in a dark, sweeping cloak who stared back at him. Dark-eyed, a handsome brunette with smooth, olive-coloured skin under a pretty green bonnet, her face was a little apprehensive. Yet defiant too. As though to say, I have every right to cross the path of the bride and groom if they foolishly stop before reaching the church door.

  He bowed, and waved her across with a faint smile. Dressed in the first stare of fashion, he did not know her, but supposed her to be a gentlewoman. Perhaps even nobility, for her dress and cloak were both very fine.

  The young woman walked past them, unhurried, studying first him and then Caroline with those intent dark eyes. Then, at the last second, he could have sworn she winked at him.

  Caroline set her hand on his arm. ‘Forgive me. This sharp wind would have my bonnet off in a trice if it were not firmly pinned down.’

  He glanced down at her, not really hearing what Caroline was saying, still taken aback by the girl’s wink.

  ‘Rollo, what is it? Did you see someone you knew?’

  ‘No,’ he said truthfully.

  He looked round, but the girl in the green bonnet was lost, swallowed up by the jostling crowd on the other side of the steps. He searched in vain for that green bonnet, his eyes narrowed. All he saw was destitution. Children with starving faces. Old soldiers in faded uniforms leaning on sticks, crippled like him but in serving their country, not from some accident of birth. Some of the older women were openly begging for money in high cracked voices, some barefoot even in this icy season, filthy gowns torn at the shoulder and breast, displaying unwashed flesh beneath.

  The smell assaulting his nostrils was not pleasant.

  And his bride-to-be was still waiting beside him in her thin muslin gown, standing out here in this cold wind while he stared like a fool after another woman.

  ‘Forgive me, Caroline,’ he said roughly, and heard a touch of anger in his voice. ‘I was a world away.’

  Caroline looked up at him in surprise, then studied the ragged beggars on all sides around the steps of the church.

  ‘But you are right, there are too many poor and destitute on our streets these days,’ she murmured, no doubt having mistaken his expression for shock at their plight. ‘And at Christmastide too, when everyone should have the right to be at home with their family, to keep warm beside a welcoming hearth and have meat on the table. I fear our English laws have grown too punitive, and the people suffer terribly.’

  It was his turn to be surprised. Was his quiet bride a political creature? There was barely one woman in twenty in the ton who showed any interest in political and social affairs at the lavish balls and soirées every season. Though perhaps the ladies were merely careful to ensure the gentlemen did not hear them discussing such issues before they had been captured in matrimony.

  Rollo almost smiled. He would have to warn her not to discuss matters of class in front of his father, for Lord Farraway held strong and unyielding views on the poor and their treatment.

  ‘Perhaps when you become a lord,’ she continued, watching him, ‘and take your place in the House, you will be able to change those laws, Rollo. Work some good for the common people of England, not merely the aristocracy.’

  ‘Let us hope so,’ he agreed fervently, then lifted her gloved hand to his lips. ‘But first, the congregation awaits us. And after that, it will be the traditional dash to the bridal carriage … I trust you do not mind being showered with shoes by hordes of my younger friends and relations. They believe it brings luck.’

  ‘If I stumble or lack the courage to go on, you can always carry me to the carriage,’ she whispered, smiling, then froze abruptly, her face grown pale, her smile fled. ‘Oh pray forgive me. I … I forgot.’

  He did not understand her distress at first, then realised with horror
to what she was referring. She had forgotten his bad leg. His disability. You can always carry me to the carriage. Except that he could not carry her anywhere, in fact, and in that instance would have to call upon some muscular friend to carry his new bride to their waiting carriage.

  Merciful heavens.

  Rollo held his breath, counting slowly to ten while his anger and hurt slowly subsided. It was a technique he found most helpful at moments like this. Then he placed his hand over hers, and managed a determined smile.

  His pleasure this morning at his bride’s intelligence, her trim figure and political interest had all vanished, replaced by the stark realisation that she still saw him as less than a man. A wealthy member of the aristocracy, yes. An eligible husband for a marriage of convenience, yes. But less than a man.

  He said nothing, however. He would show no pain or distress. This was her wedding day, and Caroline must be happy. Whatever it cost him, she would be happy today.

  The bells were pealing in the church tower above them.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said lightly.

  Thank you so much for choosing to read REGENCY HOUSE. Your download is appreciated!

  Enjoyed this episode of REGENCY HOUSE?

  You may wish to read REGENCY HOUSE: Episode 2, Season One, due to be published January 2015.

  In the next episode of REGENCY HOUSE …

  Rollo and Caroline’s brand-new marriage is in trouble within hours of their Christmas wedding, while Lord Farraway launches an investigation into the duel that nearly killed his son. Horrified by the discovery of another shocking secret about her family, Sophia runs away from home. And Michael is deeply conflicted when he comes face to face with the unknown murderess from Clapham Common. Should he hand the dark beauty over to the authorities, knowing she must hang for her crime?