by Regina Darcy
“I promise,” George replied meekly.
“I ought not to leave you unchaperoned,” Great Aunt Elspeth said as she strode through the room, “but as the two of you have already shattered conventions left and right, I don’t see that shattering one more will matter. Especially as you are getting married anyway.”
“You see,” George said after Great Aunt Elspeth left like a tornado, her vigour belying her age. “She’s not a harpy at all.”
“No,” Frederica agreed. “All the same, I am glad that you were here during the introductions. I have a feeling the questions might have been more direct.”
“I thought you would like to know that I have already heard from the Crown. The Prince Regent is most grateful that this dreadful plot has been exposed and the true culprit named. He was distressed to find out that Lord Dalton was part of a plot to assassinate him.”
“It sounds very complicated. My brother is still guilty?”
“Oh, quite guilty. Overton, Dalton, your brother, they all had a part to play in this. Each man had his own motive but the intention was the same: to kill the Regent. Your brother would, I think, have blackmailed him rather than kill him and thus, by owning the Regent, have owned the government as well. It’s a nefarious plot and the threads are still being untangled.”
“But no one except the Crown and Summersby knows that you are an agent.”
“No one.”
“So there is no impediment to our marrying? No reason for delay?”
“None at all. I told Great Aunt Elspeth that we would marry before year’s end. In the meantime, we must subject ourselves to an engagement ball. Great Aunt Elspeth has had it in mind for some time now. But then I must keep a promise that I made to her.”
“What promise?”
“She made me vow that I would be a most attentive husband, so that you will produce an heir without delay. I consented to fulfil my husbandly duties with diligence.”
Frederica blushed. “I am happy to hear, my lord, that you will keep this promise to your great aunt. And what promise do you make to me?”
George took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “I promise never to bore you,” he said. “And what do you promise?”
“I already promised you that I will be your partner as well as your wife and I will share in your adventures. I also promise that M’sieur de Bois will write more frequently. And I will never bore you.”
He kissed her hand. Then her forearm. Then her elbow. “I think, my love, that between the two of us,” he whispered, “We shall surely chase boredom away.”
The End
5. An unusual proposal
Copyright © Regina Darcy 2020
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
PREVIEW: FOR THE LOVE OF A SCOUNDREL (6 STORY BOX SET) – THE ARRANGEMENT
ONE
What was it, Theodosia Patten wondered, that made other folks behave as if December, assuredly as bleak a month as ever the calendar could produce, was a capital way to end the year? At least barren November, dismal January, and abbreviated February—a month so unforthcoming in appeal that it must needs run short on days—knew that they were slaves of the forbidding season of winter and they did not aspire to anything but cold, chilly air, a desolate landscape, a staleness of spirit that mirrored the closed-in air of life lived inside the walls of one’s residence, and an absolute dearth of anything to look forward to.
But December, duplicitous and fraudulent December, with its promise that the month would be devoted to joy and frivolity. December was the liar month, a seducer of the gullible who wanted to believe that dreams would come true.
“They do not,” Theodosia said aloud.
She put down her cup of tea; the beverage had turned cold while she mulled over the prospects of her Christmas celebration, or lack of, and rose from her chair. Her rooms were simple and perhaps, shabby, but what could a spinster, with a minimal inheritance which provided for her rudimentary needs but did not allow for extravagances expect, do? Mother and Father had provided for her as their own means allowed, but their unexpected death on Christmas Eve, returning from a visit to neighbours in the county near their home had curtailed her own prospects.
Her failed three seasons suddenly loomed before her as a social death knell as she battled to build a life of her own, one in which her independence need not fetter her.
Now, at the age of six-and-twenty, Theodosia was, even by the most charitable of descriptions, a spinster without prospects. Matrimonial prospects, to be specific.
She was Lady Theodosia Patten, but what use was a title when there was no longer the means to employ it to advantage.
She had been forced to let the estate to strangers because she could not afford its upkeep. Instead, she had chosen to live in rented rooms in London. Her address was in Mayfair, which was at least in her favour, but marriageable young ladies did not live on their own in rented rooms. She had decided to manage without hired help and once she made that decision, she had taught herself to cook and to clean, to shop for her provisions and to tell a good cut of meat from a bad. She mended her own clothing and if doing so meant that she extended the life span of clothing which was no longer in the very pink of fashion, she took pride in the fact that well-made clothing bought some years before was still of use now.
What did it matter now? She had no need of elegant frocks, or ribbons and bonnets and stylish fripperies. She had only recently come out of mourning attire for her parents’ death and her wardrobe held no attraction for her. It never would again, she was sure. Now, what mattered was to find the best bargain at the butcher shop so that her limited budget could stretch as far as possible. The small plot of land behind the lodging house where she lived provided her with vegetables during the growing season; now, it too was no more than a reminder that winter would hold off spring for weeks to come.
As she left the room which served as her drawing-room and parlour and music room and dining room, she noticed that the afternoon post had arrived. There would not be any invitations to balls or suppers in the pile; of that, she was certain. She studied the missives which had arrived.
There was a notice from Mr Evers, the banker in the county who managed her business affairs, confirming that the tenants had paid their rent for the month. They were reliable tenants, fortunately; it was their rent which provided Theodosia with her own income. She sighed at the familiar handwriting on the envelope from Mrs Keane, the vicar’s wife, asking for a donation for the poor. Mrs Keane had not quite acclimated to the fact that Theodosia was now precariously close to being one of the poor who needed assistance from the well off. No, Theodosia corrected herself. She could afford her rooms, and firewood to keep her warm in the cold months, as long as she did not begin to light the fires until October and stopped in April.
But she was far better off than many, she knew, and she resolved to instruct Mr Evers to send a small donation to the village Benevolence Society. In happier days, she and her mother had taken baskets of food to the poor; it was their duty, Mama had said, because they were so blessed that they must tend to the needs of others who were less fortunate. Mama and Papa had never envi
sioned a future in which their daughter would need to manage her finances so strictly that sending a meagre donation to help the less fortunate would strain her income.
Sighing, Theodosia picked up the remaining letter. It was from Cousin Tabitha. Cousin Tabitha was now the Viscountess of Randstand. Tabitha was a dear, and generous as well; she would have been even more generous had Theodosia permitted it. But she could not rely upon the charity of her relations. She would not do so.
Tabitha’s writing scrawled across the page.
Dearest Theodosia,
You must come to Henton for Christmas. Do not, I pray you, deny me the pleasure of your company for the holidays, for I will not accept no for an answer. Arthur is in agreement with me. I know, dear Theo, that the Christmas season is not one which stirs within you a light heart, but I will not allow you to remain alone in London with your grief and your sad memories.
Uncle Theodore would not have wanted you to remain locked within your grief, and Aunt Estelle would be grieved herself to think of you living apart. I remember well how strong were the bonds of affection among the three of you and I can barely conceive of what it must be like to be deprived of such close ties. And then of course, I know that your heart was broken again by Lord Bantry, but you must learn to put aside those disappointments. It was most peculiar of him to vanish without a trace or a word, and you would not want to be wed to a man notable for being peculiar, now, would you, Theo? It would prove to be a most distressing marriage and I cannot but think that you must surely be better off without him.
So you must come to Henton. We shall have the usual festivities and of course the ball; it is quite the tradition here and the entire county comes to it. You do not know the local set, but you shall find them diverting, I am sure. There are the Misses Pettigrew, Clara and Sarah; they are twins, but not identical, yet they will dress alike as if they were and I declare they seem quite disappointed when no one has any difficulty at all in telling them apart. You shall meet Colonel Colchester, who served in India and has such fascinating stories of his days there; he really is a dear man and not at all a martinet, as one might expect of a military officer. His wife is quite the most engaging of women, for she travelled with him to India and to all his postings and I believe she finds England quite dull now that he has retired his commission and settled down to country life. Their daughter, Fredericka Albert, lives with them; poor woman, she was widowed young and has been raising her son without a father, although of course, the Colonel has seen to it that the boy has proper schooling. You will enjoy Miss Camilla Andrews; she is very learned and quite able to speak on so many topics; I am sure that you and she will share many conversations together. Oh, and the Marquess will be there.
The Marquess of Marquenson. You might have heard tales of him but do not, I beg you, give them credence, for he has reformed most admirably. He is no longer a young rake but a mature man of one-and-forty, still quite handsome, and so very droll. I believe he is one of those men whose past indulgences have made him quite philosophical. His father was a hard, cold man who spent his time in London and his mother was, I believe, an invalid by choice who lived in the country, but David is not at all like either of them.
I suspect that he now refrains from indulgence; perhaps he recognises that such habits are harmful in body and in spirit. Arthur thinks that I put too much upon it and says that David, having done everything he wanted to do but should not have before he was thirty, is bored by depravity. He always comes to the Christmas balls, and he is quite entertaining in his conversation. In short, although we are quite rustic here in the country, we do enjoy one another’s company and I know that you will quickly come to feel as though you are one of us, for so you shall be.
Arthur wonders why you do not come to live with us, for he is sure that you would find yourself at home here and he knows how fond you and I are of one another. I say this not to encumber you with a choice, but to demonstrate how sincerely we both welcome your presence. Do not let this news dissuade you from coming, for I know that you are very intent on your independence and your determination not to be a burden to anyone—as if you ever could be—but do come for the Christmas holiday. It would be jolly to share the season with you and, I hope, to give you some happy memories with which to warm you as the cold of winter commences.
Your devoted cousin,
Tabitha
Theodosia stood in the chilly entrance to her rooms; there was a fireplace in the room but she did not wish to squander her precious fuel on this chamber. The letter dropped to the floor as she reflected upon its contents.
She wanted to decline. Even though she knew that the invitation sprang out of authentic affection and Tabitha’s heartfelt yearning to do something for her, it was a reminder that there were people who spent the month of December in a glorious state of anticipation. Christmas balls, holiday fetes, manor houses decorated in the timeless traditions of pine boughs and mistletoe, rich, fragrant aromas wafting up from the kitchen, where delicious cakes and sweets were baking, the warm suspense of gifts bought and hidden until they should be revealed on Christmas day . . . or so it had been when her parents were alive and would be, she guessed at Henton. So it would be, in truth, all over England.
She had lost her parents at Christmas and the mourning had driven away the mirth as if she had been cast from Eden and could no longer return as if angels with flaming swords stood guard over that sacred temple of remembrance and denied her entry.
She had expected to be a bride, just last year, when Lord Bantry had whispered his proposal in her ear as they danced at Christmastide, and she had accepted. He had assured her that he loved her and that he would make her the happiest of women and she had believed him. But the proposal had come to nothing, for Lord Bantry had disappeared from London without warning one winter day and had not come back. Not only was she the luckless debutante who had failed to snatch a beau through three seasons, but she was the doomed spinster whose sole hope of marriage had disappeared.
Why stir from her despondency? Why punish herself by sojourning in a place where people would make merry in their anticipation of the month’s jubilation? Why, when she was beginning to accept the limitations of her existence, should she rip out the roots that were tying her to her fate and travel to Henton?
Because Tabitha wished it and Tabitha was fretting. That was why.
Tabitha was a soft-hearted woman who longed to see all the world restored to happiness and she could not bear her cousin’s sadness. The two were as close as sisters, perhaps closer, for neither had any siblings. They had spent much time together in their younger days, joined by the family blood ties and by the similarities that made them friends as well as kin. They had shared one another’s favourite books and whispered the foolish, harmless secrets of young innocent girls who knew nothing of life beyond the closely-knit circle of their family. They had practiced their dancing, Theodosia pretending to be the male partner because Tabitha was diminutive in height. Theodosia’s love of music and drawing was shared by her cousin and the girls would often go outside with their sketch pads when the summer was at its warmest and they could savour the sweet air as they drew scenes from the landscape that surrounded them, bursting with colour and life. They had come back from their time outside with skin glowing from the sun; Mama or Aunt, depending upon which house they were at, would scold them for not keeping their bonnets on their heads and leaving their skin unprotected. Then they would be obliged to hurry upstairs; Mama would order lemons from the kitchen so that the girls could rub the juice on their faces and arms in order to ward off the threat of ruining the ivory tones of their skin.
How silly it all seemed now. As if skin that had been protected from the effects of the sun mattered in the least. Had she failed to succeed during her seasons because her skin was a shade less white than that of another? What utter rot it all was, in the end.
But, despite herself, a smile played upon her lips as she recalled those two younger versions of herself and
Tabitha, neither knowing what lay in store for them and so, unshackled by knowledge, they had confidently expected the happy days to last forever. The days did not, but there was truth in Tabitha’s words. What had she written?
Theodosia bent to the floor and picked up the letter that had fallen from her hands. She shifted through the pages until she found the words: I hope, to give you some happy memories with which to warm you as the cold of winter commences.
Happy memories that would warm the cold of winter. Theodosia’s eyes fell to the empty grate in the fireplace. It occurred to her that the cold room was not so merely because she had not lit a fire in the fireplace. If she continued in this fashion, the room would be cold at the height of July, because the temperature would not have anything to do with the season or the appropriate fuel. It would be because she too, had become cold.
Theodosia returned to her drawing-room and sat at her writing desk, where she took out ink, paper, and a pen.
Dear Tabitha, she wrote,
I accept your invitation to come to Henton for the Christmas holidays. I shall look forward to seeing you and meeting your neighbours.
Thank you for your kind thoughts and your warm invitation.
Your cousin,
Theodosia.
P.S. she added:
I shall be very glad to see you again.
For of course, she would. Her present state of contemplation did not prevent her from treasuring her cousin’s affection or presence.
The letter written, the deed done, Theodosia rose and went to the window. Moving the thick bronze-coloured drapery aside, she stared out at the street beyond. Passers-by, intent upon their errands, hurried by, enveloped in thick cloaks, their heads almost concealed by their hats and their arms sheltered by gloves and muffs. Above them, the sullen sky threatened snow, each grey cloud a separate repository for the endless possibilities of weather that winter could host. There was no sun, no balmy breeze, no fragrance of blossoms to scent the air in December. There was only the cold.