The Gentleman's Daughter

by Bianca M. Schwarz

  William straightened in his chair. “One was sixteen, the other seventeen. Both left two years ago within a month of each other, and they knew each other, but not well. They were both looking for work as domestics, and since the earl is the biggest employer around here, they most likely applied to the castle.”

  Henry wished he could have asked Mary if she had known either of these girls.

  Meanwhile, William carried on his report. “One is blond with green eyes, the other has brown hair and eyes, and according to the men around here, they both have ample charms. Both have family in town, and I met the blond girl’s father, who says they haven’t seen her in two years, but she sends money home every quarter.”

  Henry looked out over the waves and sipped his coffee. Puffy white clouds paraded along the horizon. Perhaps he should go for a walk on the Earl of Warthon’s estate in search of the abandoned abbey. This being England, the weather was unlikely to hold for very much longer.

  “How does she send the money? And what about the other girl?”

  “The man said it comes in a note, so I guess she gets a scribe to write the address on it, since neither she nor her father can write or read. He says he still has some of the notes and that I can have them if I want.”

  Nodding his approval, Henry put salt and pepper on his eggs, and cut himself a wedge of ripe Stilton. “Excellent. See if you can get a similar note from the other family too. I shall make my way up into the South Downs to see if I can find the abbey Mary spoke of.”

  William inspected his employer with a twinkle in his eyes. “How was Mary?”

  Henry grinned from ear to ear. “Most accommodating.” There was a brief pause, then Henry sobered and continued, “But she is baiting the earl and his grandson, and I think it best if I’m not seen in her company again. This may be it, William. This may well be the Snake Pit.”

  William could see the thrill of the hunt in his employer’s eyes. “All right then, I’ll keep an eye on ’er and we’ll see what ’appens.” He finished his coffee and pulled a folded paper out of his pocket. “I thought you might want to see the abbey, so I got you this. Told the stiff at the front desk you like to go on rambles and ’ad ’im mark some popular ones on there. Seems the abbey is a favorite destination for the more adventurous since it’s said to be haunted.”

  Henry took the map and contemplated if he could get away with an eye roll at his age. “Good Lord, this gets better by the minute.”

  Then he did roll his eyes, which made William chuckle, and turned his attention back to his breakfast.

  FOLLOWING THE DIRECTIONS UP WEST Street inland to North Street, Henry took the coach road out of town, then turned onto the footpath east across the Hove Parish line, and up into the Downs. Half an hour later, he passed the marker announcing he was now entering the Earl of Warthon’s land, but judging by the well-maintained path, the earl had no objection to visitors to the abbey.

  Henry walked through shady glades where the ground was covered in bluebells and across sun-drenched meadows filled with poppies and daisies, until he found himself in the ivy-covered Gothic ruins of the abbey. A little oak forest had grown up around the ruins, but curiously the flagstones inside were still visible despite the fact the roof was mostly missing. It was almost as if somebody swept the floors regularly; but then again, it could simply have been the wind constantly being funneled through the nave from the ruined window behind the altar to the missing double doors at the front.

  The eerie sound the wind made as it whistled through the aisles also supported the rumor of the supposed haunting of the abbey, but it didn’t account for the raised hair at the back of Henry’s neck. The walk there had been so pretty and tranquil, it was hard to imagine anything evil could be going on amongst all that pastoral beauty, but it certainly felt like it.

  Henry stood in the center of the nave and turned in a slow circle. There was no denying it: this would be the perfect location for a secret organization to have their clandestine meetings. It was remote enough to discourage people venturing there after dark. The ghost stories further deterred people and explained any noise someone traveling in the area might hear. The abbey was also far enough from the earl’s residence that he could deny any knowledge of any clandestine activity there, and the fact it was a popular destination for pleasure walkers shielded him further. Come to think of it, this was a far better place for a group intent on mischief than even Astor’s dungeon on Hampstead Heath had been.

  If this was a meeting place for the Snake Pit, how did members remain undetected by the woman who would be the focus of any sexual display? The woman would most likely be a prostitute or a girl already destined for the trade, and fear and shame would keep her silent. Still, as proven by the secret room they had found after Astor’s demise and the guests’ reported use of masks, members were careful to shield their identities even from other members.

  The vaulted ceiling remained intact over the altar and the two side chapels, keeping it dry enough for the purpose Henry suspected, and the side chapels were connected to the altar portion of the nave by large, low Gothic windows. The three-part windows looked like they had never had any glass in them and afforded a watcher an unobstructed view of the altar. Henry found several curiously rust-free iron rings embedded in the vault over the altar and on the underside of the altar stone. He also found several dark stains on one end of the sandstone altar. They could have been blood, but he found nothing on the flagstones. On reflection, Henry decided it would be much easier to wash blood off granite than off the porous sandstone, so he gave up on finding more on the floor and concentrated on finding out how members would get themselves to and from the abbey without attracting attention.

  Checking every flagstone for hidden levers, Henry found two of them loose, but no tunnel beneath. The walls, too, turned up nothing, and the outside of the structure was mostly covered in mature ivy. In Hampstead there had been two secret tunnels leading to the fully equipped sex dungeon hidden away far below the Heath. Here there was no odd furniture, no whips, no canes, no spanking bench or chest of drawers with strange and scary toys, but somehow it felt exactly the same. Henry could not dismiss his hunch even though his search turned up no hint of a tunnel, not even a secret path.

  He looked behind every tree and under every bush within a quarter mile of the abbey and still he turned up nothing beyond the stains and the metal rings. The place reeked of power and human suffering, but there was nothing further to be uncovered here without knowing when a meeting was to take place.

  Henry wondered how one joined the Snake Pit, if it still existed. He was a direct descendent of one of the original Knights, and his father, as Astor had pointed out, had been a part of the group. Joining them might be the only way to find out what they were up to, but the idea left a sour taste in Henry’s mouth.

  Eventually, he left the abbey behind and headed toward the ocean.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AS HENRY WALKED AWAY FROM THE EARL’S LAND, the chilly whispers that had followed him around the abbey soon melted away in the early afternoon sun. The last of his trepidation finally blew away with the ocean breeze when he crested the last hill and reached the bluffs near Hove.

  It was beautiful up here. The wildflower meadows gave way to short, intensely green grass sprinkled with tiny daisies. There were no dramatic white chalk cliffs gleaming in the sun here, like there were on the other side of Brighton, but some of the bluffs ended abruptly in sandy cliffs with rocks breaking the waves below. Others turned into sand dunes as they descended to the beach, and the sea’s ever-changing waves of turquoise and blue shimmered in the sun. In the distance to the left, the fanciful domes and turrets of the Royal Pavilion rose out of the haze, and the white cliffs were visible beyond, but the hills to the right seemed unencumbered by civilization, so that was where Henry directed his steps.

  Over the rise of the next bluff, Henry spotted the crown of a tree and resolved to have his lunch there. As it turned out, the tree was a huge
, wind-twisted juniper, granted life by the shelter of the little dip in the cliff top. It was a beautiful tree whose dark foliage contrasted marvelously with the gold of the sandy cliff and the turquoise below. However, the blessed shade under this particular tree was already occupied most charmingly by a lady painter. To Henry’s utter astonishment, the woman sitting on a three-legged stool, muttering angrily at her unfinished painting, was none other than the painter he had observed on the hill above Upavon. The very same artist whose painting he assumed he had bought in Reading.

  Henry hesitated. The lady was seated about twenty paces away, and the juniper surely was big enough to shelter them both, but Henry was loath to interrupt a private moment between her and her painting. She worked at a furious pace, her movements sharp and filled with barely contained frustration, in complete contrast to the fluid competence she had displayed when Henry had last observed her. The painting was a seascape with a sandy cliff to the right in the foreground, but it was the water that seemed to cause all the trouble.

  “Sweet Mother Mary! There are not two alike.”

  The lady briskly brushed a windswept dark curl out of her face and tucked it unceremoniously behind her ear. Henry stepped closer, and once he had reached the outer edge of the tree’s shade, he sat in the grass and fished his apple and cheese out of his pocket. She was younger than he had first assumed, but most decidedly a woman. The wind must have carried the sound of Henry munching his apple away from the charming painter’s ears, for she kept working and muttering to herself, completely unaware of his presence and utterly focused on her work.

  “Come on … if Mr. Turner can do it … oh, for heaven’s sake … ”

  Once he had consumed his meager lunch, Henry stretched out his legs, leaned back on his elbow, and observed the lady in front of him. She was in some dishabille, having discarded not only her hat and fichu, but also her shoes and stockings. Sturdy walking shoes leaned against each other in the short grass behind her, the light cotton stockings carelessly shoved into them.

  Henry couldn’t help but let his eyes drop to the hem of her blue dress and was rewarded by the sight of her bare toes wiggling in the short, cool grass, hinting at sensuality.

  Her wide-brimmed straw hat lay flat on the ground, weighed down by a canvas bag on one side so the wind would not carry it away. The fichu rested on the painter’s knee and was occasionally misused to wipe the sweat from her brow. She wore a light, short-sleeved muslin dress she looked comfortable in. The soft blue color complemented her slightly bronzed skin, while the round-cut neckline showed a pleasing amount of bosom. Henry wondered at her utter disregard for the pale-skinned fashions of the day, but admired her healthy glow.

  Dark, slow-curling hair, haphazardly twisted into a knot at the back of her neck, was speared through with a paintbrush to hold it in place. Henry could see only her profile, but there was something stirring about her. Perhaps it was her passion for her art, or her perseverance in the face of a difficult task. There was also something unexpectedly erotic about the lady’s naked toes, loosened hair, and barely contained temper, all displayed out here in the elements.

  Henry was relatively certain the lady belonged to his class despite her dishabille, her sun-kissed skin, and her lack of a companion. Her state of dress and her skin were easily enough explained by her occupation, and really only noble-born women were encouraged to pursue the arts. Her lack of a companion was explained by her age. Surely she was married and therefore could move abroad more freely.

  But Henry was now acutely aware of his own voyeuristic pleasure in watching the painter, and found he wanted to protect her from anyone else who might come along and observe her without her knowledge. It followed that he had to make his presence known, in order to protect her from himself first. So Henry stood and circled to the left a little, so he wouldn’t approach her from behind.

  At that moment the painter made a big huffing sound, threw her paintbrush and palette to the ground, and stood. “Oh, for all the saints, this is impossible.” Then she threw her hands up in exasperation and turned away from her work, only to come face-to-face with Henry. “And what the devil are you looking at?”

  She immediately clapped both hands over her mouth and stared at him in chagrined disbelief while a broad grin spread across Henry’s face. Seeing his amusement, the lady turned a deep shade of red, but recovered enough to speak. “Oh dear, that was unforgivably rude.”

  Henry waved her concerns away. “Think nothing of it, madam. I startled you.”

  She cocked her head to the side and took his measure. “That’s true enough. You shouldn’t sneak up on a lady.”

  Now that he could finally see her eyes, Henry was transfixed by her gaze, deeper and more blue-green than the ocean behind her. He took off his hat and sketched her a bow. “I didn’t mean to sneak, upon my word! My name is Sir Henry March. May I have the honor of knowing yours?”

  She dipped into a little curtsy, a mere acknowledgement, not truly a courtesy. “I’m Isabella Chancellor.”

  An unwelcome thought furrowed Henry’s brow at the mention of the rather familiar name. “Is Frederick Chancellor your husband, by chance?”

  The assumed Lady Chancellor looked at Henry, slightly taken aback, then laughed. “Good Lord, no. He’s my brother. I’m not married.”

  Seemingly without giving him another thought, the lady carelessly slung her crumpled fichu around her neck and shoved it into her décolletage, then spared her naked toes a dubious glance and shrugged on a little exhale, as if to resign herself to the fact it was too late to worry about her appearance now.

  From the marvelously unaffected gesture, Henry concluded Isabella Chancellor was completely unaware of her charms. Wondering how she had stayed so pure, he found himself grateful, and utterly captivated.

  “Well, I confess to being relieved to hear it, Miss Chancellor.” Henry then chuckled at the thought of a fiery woman like her being married to a hapless puppy like Frederick Chancellor. Come to think of it, it was hard enough to picture them as siblings. “Upon reflection, he does seem a little young for you, but I do remember the good Frederick getting married not too long ago.”

  Miss Chancellor drew herself up to her full height, and the light of battle glowed in her eyes. She may have been unconcerned about her looks, but she was not above taking exception to comments about her age. “I’ll have you know Freddy is a full year older than me, sir.”

  Henry, realizing his error, raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “Oh, please don’t be offended, I didn’t mean to imply you seem older, just more mature.”

  Itching the side of her slightly too prominent nose with the knuckle of her index finger so she wouldn’t spread paint all over her face, Miss Chancellor regarded Henry with unveiled curiosity. Then she dissolved into a delighted peal of laughter. “I am fairly certain in the salons and ballrooms of London, old and mature are considered synonymous.”

  Henry acknowledged her with a little bow, glad she could laugh at herself.

  “But you are right,” she went on. “Freddy got married to a charming little ninny who, at eighteen years of age, has already presented him with his heir. I, on the other hand, at four and twenty am firmly on the shelf, even if my mother has taken it into her head to parade me around Brighton for the summer.”

  She eyed her shoes as if trying to make up her mind about something. “Would you mind turning around please, Sir Henry?” She gestured to the shoes and made a circular motion with her hand.

  Feeling positively in charity with the world at the news she was looking for a husband, Henry turned and contemplated the ever-changing sea. But remembering her lack of a chaperone, he asked, “Where is your maid, Miss Chancellor?”

  Miss Chancellor, having lost no time returning her feet to a state of respectability, informed him he could turn back around.

  Packing up her painting utensils, she dismissed the idea of a maid with a wave of her hand. “My maid informed me two years ago she was happy to accomp
any me on visits and to the shops, but if I wanted to go traipsing around the countryside I could just as well take a groom. The trouble is, the grooms have even less patience than Sally, and so, for my last birthday, I granted myself the freedom of going out to paint without huffing servants to contend with.”

  Henry couldn’t quite like it, no matter how beyond danger she thought she was. “But surely, Miss Chancellor, you should have a care for your safety as well as your virtue, especially if you are here to find a husband.”

  Her eyes flashed again, this time with annoyance, but there was also sadness in them. “My mother came here to try to marry me off. I only came because I’d never seen the ocean and wanted to paint it.”

  Henry admired her fire, but he also saw the sadness and very much wanted to find out where it came from. So, even though he knew this conversation to be unusual at best, and downright improper in the eyes of most, he asked, “Are you saying you don’t wish to be married, to have children?”

  Isabella was no less aware of the impropriety of the conversation; in fact, she knew well the shrieks of distress her mother would have issued had she been present, but she saw genuine interest in Sir Henry’s eyes and liked it, so she tried to explain.

  “It’s not that I don’t like children, sir. I like them very much, but I already have three nieces and a nephew and am content to be an aunt. As for marriage, I have never met a man I wanted to marry, and at my age, I don’t expect to.” This last was said somewhat carefully, and she peered up at Henry as if she expected him to find fault with her view on things.

  Henry was suddenly acutely aware his reaction to the lady’s statement mattered greatly to her and wished he knew what her sudden reticence signified. In absence of a crystal ball, Henry opted for honesty. “Finding a spouse does seem to be inordinately difficult. One wants to find, at the very least, someone one can respect. But wouldn’t marriage afford you more freedom?”