Regency Scoundrels And Scandals

‘Race?’ Ashe did not wait for a reply, but turned the gelding’s head towards home, conscious of the power gathering itself between his thighs, of the muscled curve of the animal’s neck as it strained against the bit. ‘Get up!’ As the hooves beat a tattoo along the packed chalk of the track, Barrington’s dapple grey thundering behind, he found himself wondering if Bel would enjoy this, whether she enjoyed the countryside, whether he could, after all, hold a house party and invite her.

He beat his estate manager into the yard by a length and reined in, laughing. ‘I’m thinking of holding a house party, Barrington. What do you think?’

‘Lady Dereham would be delighted, I image,’ the other man responded, swinging down out of the saddle and looping his reins through a ring on the wall.

Yes, she would and there was the rub. It was madness to contemplate bringing Bel here. He could not hope to hide their relationship from close scrutiny by his family, especially as his mother would probably consider her a most eligible candidate for his hand. And besides, they were due to go down to Brighton soon. It would cause endless speculation if he reversed those plans.

Sobered, he put his hands in the small of his back and craned to study the sagging ridgeline of the barn roof. ‘Before Christmas, perhaps. This roof, now, is in a poor state,’ he commented. ‘It’ll either have to be done now, quickly, before we want to bring the harvest in or it’ll have to wait the winter out.’

It would surprise Bel if she could see him now, standing in a farmyard and worrying about barn roofs and the harvest. What was she doing? he wondered.

Bel was, for once, not thinking about Ashe. She stood in the middle of Madame Laurent’s elegant dress shop and sighed in exasperation. ‘But don’t you want a new gown Elinor?’

‘I do not need one.’ Elinor set her mouth stubbornly. ‘We came to shop for you, not for me. What use do I have for a full dress outfit? I never get invited to that sort of occasion.’

‘Then buy a half-dress ensemble and work up to it! Something that is not fawn or beige or taupe for a change.’

‘They are practical colours,’ Elinor said calmly.

‘Not for evening wear.’

‘I do not need evening wear.’

They were going around in circles. Madame Laurent had tactfully withdrawn her assistants to the back of the shop when it was obvious that a fullscale debate was about to ensue between one of her most favoured new clients and her drab companion.

‘How are you ever going to meet men if you do not attend evening functions?’ Bel asked in a whisper, driven to a frankness she had intended to avoid.

‘I meet men at lectures and during the day on business. I meet quite enough of them for my purposes—which do not include marriage!’

‘Don’t you want to get married?’ Bel exclaimed, keeping her voice down with difficulty.

‘No. I do not. And you don’t either, you say, so why are you trying to persuade me?’

‘Because I do not think you are happy at your mother’s beck and call and, just because my marriage left me disinclined to repeat the experiment, there is no reason why you should not find a husband you could like.’

What was the matter with her? She wanted to matchmake, to set to couples—yet Elinor was quite correct, she most certainly did not want to remarry herself. But, of course, she had the best of both worlds: the freedom of a widow and the attentions of a lover.

‘I am sorry,’ she said pacifically. ‘I am getting carried away. Perhaps a husband is a step too far. But I am so fond of you and I hate to see you wasting your looks so. Why not wear colours that suit you? Clear greens, ambers, strong, rich browns. Red, even.’ It seemed outrageous that her cousin with her striking colouring should look so drab. ‘Madame?’

‘Your ladyship?’ The modiste hurried forward from the rear of the shop.

‘What do you have that would set off my cousin’s colouring and that would be suitable for a nice, practical walking dress?’

‘I have the very thing my lady, newly come in. Paulette, the ruby twill and the emerald broadcloth.’

Elinor rolled her eyes. ‘I have better things to do with my pin money.’

‘To please me?’ Bel tried again. And Mr Layne, perhaps. She was not going to give up hope. He was not boring, his temper appeared lively yet equitable and he was intelligent and hardworking. Perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that Bel was conscious that, if it were not for Ashe, she might feel a fluttering of her own pulse at any attention from Patrick Layne. As it was, she could indulge in a little harmless, and probably futile, matchmaking and enjoy his company, quite unruffled.

Bel managed to persuade Elinor into a walking dress and a carriage dress and even a new pelisse to go with either. Both were rigorously plain, but a least none of the garments were dun-coloured.

‘Where to now?’ Elinor asked patiently, evidently resigning herself to a further round of shopping.

‘Hookham’s Library.’ Bel’s driver raised his whip in acknowledgment and the ladies settling back on the cream squabs. ‘I hope that is all right with you?’ Elinor nodded, no doubt relieved to be back on safe and familiar ground again. ‘I would like some new novels, but I mainly want to find some directories which will tell me about charitable institutions.’

‘You wish to contribute?’

‘Well, yes, if you mean money. But I want to do more than that, I want to do something practical to help. I feel I live such a frivolous life now I have no responsibilities to the estate. The dilemma is, I cannot choose what type of good cause I wish to support, let alone which one. You would think it would be easy, but there are so many, all no doubt deserving in their way.’

They were still comparing the merits of various types of charity as the barouche swung into Bond Street and began to draw up outside the circulating library. The crowd on the pavement seemed strangely animated, then Bel saw that the porters who opened doors and ushered in customers were attempting to drive away a pair of men in stained uniforms. Both were on crutches, one with the lower part of his right-hand trouser leg pinned up, the other dragging a useless limb.

‘On your way,’ the head porter was ordering. ‘This is a respectable establishment. We don’t want the likes of you begging here.’

‘Outrageous!’ Bel jumped from the carriage without waiting for the steps to be put down and marched up to the group before the doors.

‘Just what I said myself, ma’am.’ The porter turned a harassed face to her, grateful for the apparent support. ‘You go inside, ma’am, quick as you can, we’ll soon move them on, never you fear.’

‘No—you are outrageous, you heartless, ignorant man,’ Bel snapped. ‘What do you mean, the likes of you? These men have been wounded in the service of their country; how dare you insult and abuse them!’

The burly man gaped at her, his glossy tall hat askew from the scuffle. ‘Ma’am, this is Bond Street.’

‘Exactly so. And the reason we are not speaking French in it or on our way to the guillotine is because of men like these, you ignorant bully.’

‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ Elinor chimed in from beside Bel, brandishing her parasol belligerently.

Bel turned her elegant shoulder on the spluttering head porter and smiled at the two soldiers. ‘Here, please take this.’ She took a folded five-pound note from her purse and handed it to the one with the amputated leg. ‘Where do you sleep?’

The man with the dragging leg made a choking sound and she realised he had a badly healed wound on his neck; it must have affected his throat or mouth. ‘No, do not try to talk. Elinor, what money have you? They must go and find a doctor at once.’

Her cousin was already pressing a note into the first man’s hand. He found his voice. ‘God bless you ladies.’

‘Where do you sleep?’ she repeated her question and the man shrugged.

‘Where we can, ma’am. Down in Seven Dials mostly, there’s dossing kens to be had there for coppers.’

Goodness knows what a dossing ken was, but if this accommodation was in Seven Dials, one of the most notorious slums in London, then it was the worst possible place for two men in their condition.

‘Get into the carriage.’ Bel made up her mind suddenly.

‘Bel!’ Elinor gasped.

‘Oh, yes, I am sorry, I should have thought. You had better take the carriage and my footman as escort, Aunt Louisa would not approve. I will take them in a hackney.’

‘Never mind Mama! What are you going to do with them?’

‘Look after them, of course.’ Bel turned back to the men who were staring at her as they might a carnival freak. ‘I have room in the loft over my stables. It is dry and clean and you can bathe, eat and my doctor will tend to you. Will you come with me?’

‘Bel, you cannot! You have no idea of their character…’

‘I have James here.’ She gestured towards the alarmed-looking footman who was trying to interject with protests about what Mr Hedges would say.

‘He’ll have my guts for garters, my lady…’

Both women ignored him. ‘You won’t have a footman if you send him with me in the carriage,’ Elinor said practically. ‘Oh, very well, I will come with you. I agree, something must be done, we cannot leave them here at the mercy of such bigots as this.’ With a glare at the flustered doorman, Elinor climbed back into the barouche and gestured to the soldiers to join her.

‘Come on,’ Bel urged them. ‘If you can face the French, you can cope with two English ladies.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ She received a smart salute and a grin from the one with a voice and a lopsided smile from his companion.

‘Well, give these men a hand up, James,’ Bel ordered.

Her vocal soldier informed Bel that they were Jem Brown and Charlie Lewin of the 14th Battalion. ‘The Bucking-hamshires ma’am,’ Brown explained. Lewin had been hit in the neck at Quatre Bras, the day before Waterloo, but the wound had not seemed serious at first, until he had been wounded at Waterloo. ‘Lying out for twenty-four hours in the mud with your leg shattered doesn’t do much for your wounds, though, ma’am,’ his friend explained. ‘I had it easier; a ball carried mine off nice and neat.’

Bel swallowed hard, wondering what Aunt Louisa was going to say if she returned Elinor in a fainting condition, but her cousin was made of sterner stuff than that. ‘A doctor is the priority, then,’ she said firmly. ‘And to send out for supplies of bandages, gauze and salves.’

They drove round to the mews and Bel sent James running for Hedges and the other footman while her coachman and groom helped the men down. She expected opposition from the butler. Hedges marched into the yard, his face grim, then stood assessing the two men through narrowed eyes. They met his scrutiny with more calm than Bel would have predicted. Hedges grunted. ‘I reckon they’ll do, my lady. Come on, lads, help them up to the hay loft.’

He watched them struggling up the stairs and turned to Bel. ‘I had a nephew, wounded badly at Salamanca. Died later on, after he’d come home, but at least it was in his mother’s arms, warm and comfortable and with those he loved all around. If he’d had no family to go to, he’d have ended up like those two, and it don’t bear thinking about.’ His mouth worked for a moment as though something else was going to burst out, then he was composed again, his face expressionless.

Bel stood back while Hedges organised the staff, sent for the doctor and had the footmen running for hot water and tubs. ‘First thing, get you clean,’ she heard him ordering from the loft. ‘Look at the state of you! I’m not having you on her ladyship’s premises in that state, even if it is only the hay loft. Then you’ll be fit to see the doctor. And then you can eat.’

When the butler came down to the yard again his face was grim. ‘National disgrace it is, the way the army treats its men. They do it better in the navy, that’s for sure.’ He looked up at the long loft, then back to Bel. ‘How many more of them have you got, ladies?’

‘Just the two,’ Elinor said faintly as Mrs Hedges appeared, the kitchen maid at her heels.

‘How many more can we take?’ Bel asked.

‘Up there, my lady? Half a dozen or so.’

‘Well, Elinor,’ Bel said with a rueful smile, ‘It seems I did not have to look far—my charity has found me.’

Ashe remained in Hertfordshire for ten days, surprised at how content he found himself, getting to know the workings of the estate in far greater detail than he had ever done while his father was alive, or while old Simmons, the previous estate manager, had been in charge.

John Barrington was a stimulating companion to work with, his family stopped their overt fussing after a day or two and the sun shone. If it were not for missing Bel, he could have rusticated happily until the start of the hunting season.

But miss her he did, and not, as he had expected, just in his bed. There was that, of course, and on several occasions he had tossed and turned, failing to sleep until he had given up, gone out and swum in the lake in the moonlight. That was some help, until his over-active imagination produced the picture of Bel in there with him, her skin pearly in the silver light, slipping like a fish through the cool water as he dived after her, his hands skimming over her sleek curves.

Ashe missed talking to her. That was the shock. He had not realised just how much time they had spent talking, exchanging opinions and confidences without really being aware of it. He knew she disliked striped fabrics, ormolu and the fad for the Egyptian style and was entirely in agreement with her. He knew she preferred opera to drama and chamber music to orchestral and that there they disagreed. He knew she would like a dog, but not a cat, and that she would rather ride than drive and he had no preferences as far as equestrian exercise was concerned but admitted to a weakness for cats about the house.

Bel declared herself a Whig not a Tory, but expressed distrust of most politicians and was very clear that she preferred short sermons on Sunday, which meant that she would be at odds with several of their neighbours and bored by the Rector. And at that point he realised he was again imagining her at Coppergate, gave himself a brisk mental talking-to and went to discuss pigsty design with the Home Farm stockman.

But despite his attempts at self-control, Ashe was conscious of his heart beating faster as he sifted through the pile of letters, bills and notes that Race retrieved from the Albany porter’s lodge when they arrived back in London. He had written three days ago to tell them to forward on nothing more to Hertfordshire, so there was a considerable stack to flick through.

Yet there was no cryptic little note signed B, to greet him, hinting at a time for their reunion, despite his having sent a letter, ostensibly enquiring if she had any further problems with the house, as he would be able to call any day after this date. Disappointed, Ashe poured himself a glass of Madeira and began to work systematically through the pile, tossing the bills aside to deal with later. He had had almost two weeks of paying careful attention to accounts; he was in no rush to immerse himself in them here yet a while.

Invitations, advertisements, solicitations from tradesmen, more invitations…He opened one letter, addressed in a clear black hand that looked vaguely familiar, and found it was from Bel. Not a hastily scrawled, secretive note, but bold as brass, a formal invitation to take tea tomorrow at three o’clock.

Ashe folded the invitation and sat, absently tapping it against his lips as he tried to divine its meaning. Was Bel about to give him his congé? Or was she becoming much bolder, entertaining him openly in front of her staff? Or…what?

He unfolded the paper and scrutinised it again. No, surely not his dismissal; the tone, although completely harmless if anyone else happened to see it, was warm.

There was the familiar tightening in his loins as he thought of her, but overriding even that, the desire just to see her, to hold her, to talk. What had she been doing? What would she think of how he had spent the past days? He would welcome her opinion about the actions he had taken to advance Frederica’s romance, his ideas for the town house.

‘My lord?’

‘Eh?’ Race was standing by his side, looking faintly martyred. Presumably he had been speaking for some time. ‘Sorry, Race, did you say something?’

‘I enquired which garments you would wish me to put out for this evening, my lord.’

‘I’m going to White’s, I think, so the usual for that. And for tomorrow afternoon, those new kerseymere pantaloons and the dark blue superfine swallowtail coat.’

‘Indeed, my lord. Most suitable to the occasion, if I may say so.’ Race produced a discreet smirk and took himself off before Ashe could retaliate. It really was almost impossible to hide anything from your valet.

Chapter Thirteen

At three on Tuesday afternoon Ashe walked up the steps to what had once been his own familiar front door, knocked and was admitted by Hedges. The butler regarded him with more approval than might be expected, given that on the occasion of their last meeting in Half Moon Street he had been hideously hung over and in the wrong bed.

‘Good afternoon, my lord. Lady Belinda is in the drawing room.’

Ashe handed his hat and gloves to a footman, the butler opened the door, announced ‘Lord Dereham, my lady’, ushered him through and closed it behind him with a soft click.

Bel came towards him, her hand held out, her smiling lips parted as though to speak. He did not give her the chance. His coat was off, thrown to one side as he took two urgent strides across the room, then she was tight in his arms, his mouth crushing down on hers, every soft curve pressed against him as he drank in the taste and the scent of her like a parched man.

She writhed in his arms, inflaming him further; her hands were clenched against his chest, beating a tattoo of desperation every bit as urgent as his. Her mouth was open, working under his searching lips as he swept her further into the room, past the knot of chairs around the hearth and towards the sofa. All he had to do was to get there, although the urge simply to drag her to the floor was overwhelming.

One hand slid down to cup the delicious peach-curve of her buttock; she was so tense, quivering with an excitement that matched his own, struggling in his embrace. They were almost there, almost at the sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, Ashe glimpsed the tea tray on a low table, swerved to avoid it, swept the honey-sweet moistness of Bel’s mouth with his tongue—and froze.

The tea tray was laden with cups and plates and more cakes than two people could eat in a week. The realisation sunk in as Bel’s teeth closed on his tongue in a sharp bite that had him freeing her with a yelp of pain. From behind him a voice like thunder said, ‘Unhand her, you libertine!’

Bel staggered back from Ashe’s arms, panting from her struggles to free herself. His appalled expression contrasted with the outrage on her aunt’s face as Lady James surged to her feet from the depths of the wing armchair, reticule clenched in one mittened hand, intent on saving her niece from masculine assault.

To an onlooker it would have seemed highly amusing, a farce of the first order; all Bel could feel was a sick apprehension. There was absolutely no way this could be explained away, no way that she was not now exposed, before her own aunt, as a loose woman.

‘Explain yourself, sir!’ Ashe turned slowly to face Aunt Louisa. Her face, as she recognised him, was a picture of shocked disbelief. ‘Lord Dereham! What is the meaning of this outrage?’

‘Lady James. I can explain—’

‘I would like to hear you try, sir!’

Bel groped for the high curved end of the sofa and held on to it. Explain? How could he possibly explain that away? How on earth had it happened? She had felt so safe, so happy, and now, in a few seconds, it was tumbling around her ears. She swayed, dizzy, convinced that every ounce of blood had drained out of her face. The back of Ashe’s neck was red, but his voice was steady as he faced the outraged widow.

‘The force of my ardour—’

‘Hah! Is that what you call it, you libertine?’

‘—for Lady Belinda,’ he continued steadily, ‘deceived me into believing that my feelings were reciprocated, and, in coming here today with the intention of proposing marriage, I—’

‘What?’ The question was out of Bel’s mouth before she could stop herself. Neither of the other two answered her, or even appeared to remember that she was standing there.

‘In short, ma’am, the novelty of finding myself, as I thought, alone with Lady Belinda so inflamed my passions that I threw caution to the winds and seized her, wishing to press my suit with more zeal than, I know, is proper.’

‘Proper, indeed! You were about to ravish the poor child upon the sofa, sir. That is not zeal, that is not ardour, that is the action of a ravening beast! You are half-dressed—’

‘Will someone please listen to me?’ Despairing of either of them attending to her, Bel poked Ashe in the ribs so that he half-turned towards her. His neckcloth was askew, his shirt half-untucked and his coat gone.

‘Lord Dereham,’ she said, with as much steadiness as she could command, shock at his words overriding even her shamed confusion, ‘I do not believe that I have, on the few occasions we have met, given you any indication that your suit would be acceptable to me.’

‘I agree, ma’am,’ Ashe responded with equal control. ‘Nothing you have said to me could be construed as encouragement for me, or any other man, to make you an offer of marriage.’

‘Then why—?’

‘You must forgive the ardour of a man seized with feelings too strong to be denied. I had hoped to persuade you.’ Ashe had shifted so that Aunt Louisa could not see his face. His intense expression urged her to agree. His lips moved. Bel strained to read them. Say yes, for goodness’ sake, Bel.

Yes? Marry him? Bel was aware that her mouth was opening and shutting like a carp in a pond and that nothing was coming out.

‘Well, you have achieved your aim, young man,’ Aunt Louisa said wrathfully. ‘Because you are most certainly going to have to marry my niece after this exhibition of unbridled lust.’

‘No!’ The word burst out of her tight throat. ‘No, I am not going to marry him.’ With denial came a kind of awful calm.

‘Of course you must, you foolish gel! Your reputation is at stake.’

‘You must. Bel…Lady Belinda…Think of the scandal.’

‘Considering that my aunt is the sole witness of this débâcle, and knowing that she has only my interests at heart, I fail to see where the scandal is going to come from, my lord,’ Bel said frostily. Over his shoulder her aunt moved and Bel caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her mouth was swollen with Ashe’s kisses, her hair was half-down and the pretty fichu she had arranged at her throat was a wreck. ‘Oh, my God! Look at me.’

‘Lady Belinda.’ Ashe raised his voice over her gasp of horror and Aunt Louisa’s furious mutterings. ‘Please listen to me…’

Bel slapped his face.

She did it without thinking, her hand flashing out in a reflex that dismayed her almost as much as it must have shocked him. ‘How dare you?’ she whispered. ‘How dare you talk about marriage? How dare you try to force me into something I am resolved never to do?’

There was a silence as they stared into each other’s faces. Bel could feel the heat and sting of tears and fought them back. Ashe’s eyes were dark with what she could only assume was thwarted anger at her refusal to bow to the conventions and satisfy what his masculine code of honour told him he must do. And the marks of her fingers branded his cheek, to her shame.

From the hallway there was the murmur of voices, the sound of the front door closing. The drawing room door began to open. The three of them, united suddenly, stared at each other. Then Bel spun round on her heel and ran for the door at the other end, the one that opened on to the service passage. As she whisked through it she heard Hedges announcing,