The Gamekeeper's Lady

by Ann Lethbridge

  ‘Gloria came out the same year as my oldest son.’ She smiled sadly. ‘My poor John.’ She gazed off into the distance, lost in the past. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew that the loss of her son and his wife to influenza had been a huge blow. The current Lord Radthorn had inherited the title as a minor. But that had been years ago.

  Frederica shifted in her seat. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Lady Radthorn blinked as if clearing her sight. ‘So foolish. What is past cannot be undone.’

  Were all those of Lady Radthorn’s generation prone to quote little homilies? Uncle Mortimer spouted them upon every occasion. She clasped her hands in her lap and tried to look calm. ‘True. Some topics are better avoided.’

  The dowager looked at her askance. ‘What do you mean?’

  Heat licked at Frederica’s cheeks. Oh, why had she said anything at all? ‘The topic of my mother. The Wynchwood Whore.’

  Lady Radthorn clapped her hands to her ears. ‘Child! Such language! Where did you hear such a thing?’ She sounded horrified. And disgusted.

  It might be one way to do away with an unwanted chaperon. Make her think she was utterly beyond the pale. ‘It is the truth, is it not? The reason why no one in the family mentions her name?’

  ‘I’m appalled.’

  Good. Perhaps she’d send her home.

  But Lady Radthorn clearly felt the need to say more. ‘Oh, I’ll admit it was all an embarrassment. But your mother was not…well, not what you said.’

  Frederica stared at her open mouthed. Her heart gave a painful squeeze of longing. A yearning to know her mother and not feel ashamed.

  It could not be true. The elderly lady was simply being kind, trying to make Frederica feel better. Her mother’s wickedness had been drummed into her for too long for it to be sloughed off as a matter of degree. Her voice shook as she spoke. ‘She had a child out of wedlock. I’m a b—’

  ‘Lud, child, say not another word.’

  Frederica snapped her mouth shut. Now she would be sent home in disgrace.

  Lady Radthorn pulled out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. ‘What is Wynchwood thinking, letting you believe this poison? Your mother married Viscount Endersley.’

  The world seemed to spin as if she’d just stepped off a merry-go-round. ‘My father is a viscount?’

  Lady Radthorn coloured. Someone tapped at the door. Lady Radthorn pressed her finger to her lips.

  Her mother was married? The stories she’d heard told of a young woman who bedded men on a whim, no matter their origin. A wicked woman.

  Just as she, Frederica, had bedded Robert, because she couldn’t seem to stop it from happening. Because she was wicked. Like her mother.

  Her hands were clenched so hard, her nails dug into her palms. She opened her fingers and resisted the temptation to wipe them on her skirts while the butler methodically deposited a silver tray loaded with a teapot, pretty china cups and a plate of iced cakes on the table in front of her chair. She wanted to scream at him to go.

  She needed to hear the whole story.

  ‘Thank you, Creedy. That is all,’ Lady Radthorn said. ‘We are expecting Mrs Phillips shortly. Have Digby help her in with her swatches and fabrics.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ He bowed and left.

  ‘Where were we?’

  ‘A v-viscount.’

  ‘Ah, Endersley. Gloria married the old gentleman under duress.’

  ‘Old?’

  The dowager nodded. ‘His only son died unexpectedly and he desperately needed an heir. Gloria had been in and out of love with several young men during her first Season. Her father was in despair, thinking she would never settle on one. Then rumour had it she’d fallen hard for someone he absolutely refused to countenance.’

  ‘Like a coachman? Or a criminal?’ Or an assistant gamekeeper.

  ‘Well, as to that, I couldn’t say. There were rumours.’ Lady Radthorn frowned. ‘All the gentlemen adored her and if they knew this man’s identity, they never said. Gentlemen are like that. But your grandfather, Wynchwood, saw Viscount Endersley’s suit as the answer to a prayer. He was rich, you see, and as usual the Bracewells were balanced at the edge of financial disaster. He bore the expense of your mother’s come-out with the idea she would catch a wealthy man. It was her duty to save them.’

  ‘So she was forced to marry Endersley?’

  ‘Nobility marries for duty,’ the dowager countess pronounced. ‘If one is fortunate, as I was, love grows after a time. If not…’ she shrugged ‘…one endures.’ She let go a sigh. ‘Gloria was not the enduring kind, I’m afraid. Endersley knew the child she carried wasn’t his when you were born three months early.’

  ‘I was born in wedlock?’ She could scarcely believe it. All these years she’d been lectured about her place in life. Lowest of the low. Fortunate the family hadn’t cast her off.

  ‘Few men will accept another man’s love-child as their own. Endersley put the word out that the child Gloria bore was stillborn.’

  They’d said she’d died? She felt sick. ‘And my mother agreed?’

  ‘Gloria was in no case to agree to anything. Milk fever, you know. It killed her soon after you were born.’

  Well, at least that part of the story matched what she knew about her mother. Everyone at Wynchwood saw it as justice for her wicked ways. ‘I don’t know why they didn’t drop me off at an orphanage.’

  Lady Radthorn’s brow crinkled. ‘I wondered about that myself, to be honest. My guess is Endersley paid the financially strapped Wynchwood off on condition he keep you. As a sort of punishment. It would have been like him to exact some sort of payment. Or Wynchwood might have done it for Gloria. He loved the gel. He was deeply saddened by his daughter’s passing. Went into a complete decline. When he died, the title passed to Mortimer, a distant cousin of his, along with your guardianship.’

  The thought of her grandfather grieving for her mother was a shock. It gave Frederica an odd sensation in her chest to think that someone actually cared for her mother. It made her feel a little less of an outcast.

  ‘If Endersley was not my father, who is?’

  The dowager’s wince made Frederica’s heart clench. ‘No one knows.’ Lady Radford shook her head. ‘Gloria couldn’t have been more than eighteen when they announced her betrothal.’ Her old eyes misted. ‘It really wasn’t fair. She rebelled. Said she was going to enjoy herself while she could. Things were different in those days. More free and easy. My son John said there was talk in the clubs. Masquerades at Ranelagh. Footmen. Even a highwayman. It seemed unlikely, but who can say.’

  Criminals and servants? No wonder she’d earned the horrid sobriquet from her family. Nor had she given a thought to the result. An unwanted child. ‘She was wicked.’

  ‘Spoiled, I think. Too adored. I always thought her too finicky to have an affair with a man who was not a gentleman.’

  Robert was a gentleman for all his rough ways. It was possible for a man to be of low birth and gentlemanly. Could her mother have fallen for that kind of man? Or was she completely wanton as Uncle Mortimer said?

  She desperately wanted to believe Lady Radthorn, but feared Uncle Mortimer, a member of the family, was more likely to be privy to the truth.

  The dowager countess was looking at her sadly, as if she felt sympathy for her mother, which was really rather sweet.

  Frederica sat a little straighter in her chair, felt a little less guilty about who she was. An odd feeling filled her chest. ‘Thank you,’ she said. And she meant it. ‘You’ve answered questions I never dared ask.’

  ‘And added some too, I’ll warrant,’ the old lady said kindly.

  Not added, just increased her curiosity and dread. Who was her real father?

  The widow tucked her handkerchief away and smiled. ‘And now it seems your family has decided to let bygones be bygones and bring you out. You know, I never had a daughter and here you are, attending your first ball, and I am to bring you up to scratch. We are going
to have such fun spending your uncle’s blunt. Now, young lady, serve the tea—we have a great deal to do before the seamstress arrives.’

  Frederica poured milk into both cups.

  ‘Ah,’ Lady Radthorn said, ‘a very good start.’

  The next hour proved less arduous than Frederica expected despite Lady Radthorn’s constant verbal stream of instructions.

  ‘Now to deportment,’ Lady Radthorn announced after the butler retired with the tea tray. ‘Let me see you walk across the room.’

  It wasn’t her walking that would cause her trouble, it was her speech, though Lady Radthorn hadn’t said a word about her hesitations. The thought of talking to a herd of strangers made her quake in her shoes.

  None the less, Frederica rose and walked to the window through which she had an excellent view of the park’s formal gardens. They seemed to stretch for miles. If only she could be out there, instead of in here, even if the grey lining to the large fluffy clouds did portend rain.

  ‘Straighten your shoulders, Miss Bracewell. Keep your chin up. Breeding shows in every step. Walk as if you are floating on air, not tramping through a field.’

  On air? She felt like she was sinking into a quagmire. Still, who could resist Lady Radthorn?

  ‘Turn,’ the doughty lady said. ‘No, no. Not like that. As if you had a book on your head. Try again.’

  Frederica did.

  ‘Much better, gel. You’ve your mother’s grace if nothing else.’

  The compliment almost sent her to her knees.

  Her taskmaster tsked. ‘Now you are sagging again. Straighten your spine. Imagine a chord from the top of your head to the ceiling and it is too short. Glide, gel. Glide. As if you were waltzing. You do know how to waltz, or course.’

  Oh, God. More evidence of her lack of breeding. ‘I d-d-d—’

  ‘Do.’ Lady Radthorn flicked her fingers. ‘Of course you do. All young ladies do these days. Wait until you see John, my grandson. He is a wonderful dancer.’

  Another knock at the door diverted Lady Radthorn’s attention and cut off Frederica’s words.

  ‘Mrs Phillips is here, my lady,’ the butler said.

  ‘Show her in at once.’ Lady Radthorn rubbed her blue-veined hands together. ‘Now we will truly enjoy ourselves.’

  And they did, much to Frederica’s astonishment. But who would not be charmed by the array of muslins and laces brought by the seamstress? Best of all, the two ladies consulted Frederica about each item selected, often praising her taste and sense of style. She put it down to her artist’s eye, though she didn’t say that to the two women.

  Informed of the urgency, Mrs Phillips had brought several ready-made gowns from which to choose with the idea of altering them to fit. The riding habit was to be made new, as well as an evening gown.

  ‘Do you think you can manage all of that in three days, Mrs Phillips?’ Lady Radthorn asked, leaning against the sofa back and fanning her face.

  The bird-like Scottish lady smiled. ‘Oh, I think so, your ladyship. I’ll gain some help from a couple of lasses I know.’ She turned to Frederica. ‘And it is pleasure, I assure you, to dress such a lovely young lady.’

  Frederica’s heart jumped. Lovely? Not possible. It must be flattery because they’d spent so much money. Although Robert could not have found her completely unattractive or he wouldn’t have…Oh, heavens. If Lady Radford guessed at the direction of her thoughts, she’d probably dismiss her as worse than her mother and toss her out on her ear. She didn’t want that. She liked the dowager countess. She was the first person who had taken any real interest in her, apart from Robert. She’d do anything to keep her friendship.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Phillips,’ she said. ‘There is one thing we haven’t yet discussed.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Lady Radthorn said. She counted off on her fingers. ‘Three morning dresses, two afternoon dresses, a pelisse, an evening gown and a riding habit.’ She frowned at Frederica. ‘That was all your uncle asked for.’

  ‘The m-masked ball?’ Frederica said.

  ‘Oh, my,’ Mrs Phillips said, her eyes widening. ‘That’s right. A costume. Oh, mercy.’

  ‘Masked?’ Lady Radthorn said. ‘What flummery.’

  Frederica wanted to giggle at her disparaging tone. ‘Simon requested it.’ She rather liked the idea of pretending to be someone else for one night.

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Phillips said, ‘if the young lady is wanting to go as Mary Queen of Scots or some mythical beast, I truly will not have time to make all of these other things as well. A poor body can only do so much, your ladyship.’

  ‘Let me think,’ Lady Radthorn said. ‘I dressed once as Guinevere, and Radthorn was Arthur. All that metal clanking around quite gave me a headache.’

  ‘I had thought of something less complicated,’ Frederica said. ‘Perhaps a Roman lady. It needs no more than a long length of white sheeting.’

  ‘Too plain,’ Lady Radthorn said, narrowing her eyes on Frederica as if she was an exotic weed that had shown up in a bouquet. ‘But, yes, something simple. Something to show off your delicate skin and lovely figure.’

  There was that word lovely again. Frederica felt heat in her cheeks and a bubble of something pleasant in her chest, as if life suddenly held a great deal of promise. Was this part of Uncle Mortimer’s plot? Woo her with gowns and balls, so she would go like a lamb to the slaughter?

  ‘What about Titania?’ Mrs Phillips said. ‘From A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A wisp or two of fabric, some wings and daisy crown. Sure, I could do that in an hour or two.’

  A wisp of fabric? Frederica shivered. ‘I prefer the sheeting.’

  ‘Nonsense. My word, gel, it is the very thing. Caroline Lamb would have eaten her heart out for curves like yours. Titania it is.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘I’ll hear no more from you, miss.’ Lady Radthorn laid the back of her hand against her high forehead. ‘I am exhausted. Ring the bell for Creedy and a footman to help Mrs Phillips out and then take yourself off.’

  When Frederica didn’t move, she sat up. ‘No arguments. Go along, child. Come back tomorrow and we will continue our lessons.’

  In short order, Frederica found herself bundled out of the house and into her uncle’s waiting carriage.

  She collapsed against the squabs. Titania. And she had hoped to spend the ball hiding out in a corner, avoiding Simon. She would have to hide if all they gave her was a wisp of fabric. And Lady Radthorn thought she knew how to waltz.

  There was one person she trusted who knew how, but he had forbidden her to call.

  For Robert, the New Year had come and gone with barely a mention. The next day, collar turned up against the wind, he walked to Wynchwood. The faint grey of dawn was already dimming the stars to the east. He’d grown to love the peace of the early mornings, but today he felt tired. Once again, thoughts of Frederica had kept him tossing and turning on his cot and now if he didn’t hurry he’d be late. Damn the girl for plaguing his nights. The lost look she’d given him when he told her not to come back had been a hard bed mate, particularly when all he’d wanted to do was pull her close and offer comfort.

  As well as seek his own.

  He should never have drunk so much.

  Damnation, he should never have dallied with the girl, innocent or no. But he just couldn’t resist, could he? A wastrel, Father had called him. Dissolute. Perhaps the reason it hurt so much was because he’d been right.

  Making love to her had been incredible, but he still couldn’t believe he’d jeopardised his position here at Wynchwood for the fulfilment of transient lust. From now on, he must ignore her, or better yet frighten her off.

  The trouble with that plan was that she seemed hard to scare. He’d thought she’d run a mile when he called her bluff, but she’d accepted his challenge and he’d forgotten his intentions in the pleasure of her arms.

  Never again.

  The decision lay on his chest, cold and hard, as he strode across the stable yard where the i
mpending visit of London gentry had already made its impact by way of freshly washed cobbles and repaired stable doors.

  Young Bracewell had not been part of his circle of friends, thank God, so there should not be anyone in the party of guests he knew well. For added security, he’d let his beard grow for the past couple of days.

  He knocked on Weatherby’s office door and ducked inside at the gruff permission to enter.

  A lantern on the bench relieved the gloom and gave Weatherby’s weatherbeaten face a rather saturnine cast. ‘I’d almost given you up, Deveril,’ the old man growled. ‘Did you catch our poacher?’

  ‘I think I scared him off when I removed his traps last week. It was likely some poor sod from the village adding a bit of meat to his cooking pot.’

  ‘You are too soft-hearted, my lad. It’s his lordship’s game they’re stealing. If you find him, you’ll deal with him.’

  Robert nodded obediently. If I find him.

  ‘Ah, well, these are the plans for the guests’ hunt. Think you can handle it?’ Weatherby handed Robert a map and gestured him to take a chair.

  Robert pored over the map. Weatherby intended to draw out the fox from Gallows Hill and give the hunters a fair run. So Miss Bracewell’s fox had been spared his traps only to end up fleeing the hounds. She would hate that.

  Damn. What the hell was he doing, thinking about her likes and dislikes instead of his work? ‘When?’

  Bushy brows lowered, Weatherby bent over more maps. ‘Two days from now.’

  ‘We’ll need beaters from the village.’

  ‘Right. Let them know. They won’t want to miss his lordship dropping of a bit of blunt their way, or the chance of a stray rabbit or two. Pass the word down at the Bull and Mouth, would ye.’

  ‘Be glad to.’

  Weatherby reached for another plug of tobacco and stuffed his clay pipe. Robert braced for the choking smoke while Weatherby went over the rest of his duties for the day.

  A half-hour later, he stepped out into a gusty north wind with the brace of pheasant Weatherby deemed ready for his lordship’s table. Storm clouds gathered overhead. Another day, he’d go home soaked to the bone. But at least he had employment.