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‘The fact that a gentleman speaks to his man of business need not signify that we are under the hatches, Antonia,’ her father said wryly.
‘No, but I am well aware that our income is no longer sufficient to ensure the adequate maintenance of the property. Only look at the sorry state of the gardens, Papa,’ Antonia said, returning to the window and waving her hand in the direction of the gardens which, once immaculate, were now sadly overgrown with grass and weeds. ‘We can no longer afford the services of a gardener, and only last week Abbott informed me that a new hole had appeared in the stable roof.’
‘I have spoken to Mr Ludlow regarding the roof, and he has assured me that there is money enough to see to its repair. As regards your going up to London for the Season, I intend to speak to Ophelia and—’
‘Oh, no, Papa, pray do not!’ Antonia said with a groan. ‘We both know there will be little enough to be gained for your trouble. Aunt Ophelia will not settle any money on me until I am married, and I certainly do not intend to rush into marriage simply to appease her.’
‘You must try not to think too harshly of your aunt, my dear. No doubt Ophelia is only doing what she believes to be in your best interests.’
Antonia’s lips compressed into a narrow line. Lady Farrington, her mother’s eldest sister, was in possession of a considerable sum of money which Antonia’s grandmother had set aside for her dowry—money which would have significantly eased the constraints under which she and her father were currently living. Unfortunately, Lady Farrington now seemed reluctant to part with the money, saying that, as Antonia was nearly twenty, and still showing no inclinations towards marriage, it was incumbent upon her to hold on to the money until such time as she felt her niece was responsible enough to look after it herself. Which meant, of course, being married.
As such, Antonia had endeavoured to forget about her inheritance and to look elsewhere for the funds which would support them. This was why the position of riding master to the Earl of Carlyle’s six-year-old daughter Clara had appealed so much.
Antonia had met the Earl’s daughter a year earlier, at the Christmas party held at the vicarage. Lady Clara, a delicate child with the most astonishing blue eyes Antonia had ever seen, had been brought to the party by her governess in the hopes that the child would meet and mingle with other children her own age. But when Lady Clara had arrived at the entrance to the crowded room and seen upwards of thirty-five little boys and girls, all intent upon their games, she had stopped dead, clearly overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of so many children laughing and playing within.
Fortunately, Antonia had been standing close to the door and had noticed the child’s dismay at once. She had wondered at it too—until she had learned that it was the Earl of Carlyle’s daughter who stood so timidly in the doorway—and then all had become clear. Lady Clara had never been exposed to a Christmas party like this before and, no doubt after the solitude of Ashdean, it had all seemed rather frightening.
With that in mind, Antonia had quickly made her way to one of the sweet tables and selected a piece of gingerbread which had been baked in the shape of a little boy. After exchanging a few words with the child’s governess, Antonia had bent down to greet the Lady Clara, smiling all the while into those wide blue eyes, and had tried to put the child at ease.
At first, Clara had continued to play shy. She had hidden behind her governess’s skirts, peeping out at Antonia with reluctant curiosity, and then ducking back behind Eva’s skirts again. But when the gingerbread man had tentatively been offered, Clara had slowly come forward. Her glance had gone from the face of the pretty lady, to the pastry and then back again, and when, eventually, a chubby little hand had reached out to take the treat, Clara had glanced up at Antonia with those incredible blue eyes—and smiled.
It was a smile which had brought about Antonia’s total capitulation. It had wrapped around her heart, captivating her with its total innocence and convincing her of the child’s heart-wrenching need to be loved.
After that, Antonia had taken pains to visit Lady Clara at Ashdean at least once, and sometimes twice, a week. They would sit together in the nursery and read, or go for long walks through the park. Or sometimes they would just sit in the orchard and look at the clouds drifting by overhead. They had laughed together over the silliest of things, and it was during those early days that the bond between Antonia and Clara had truly been forged.
But it was in more recent days that Antonia had discovered something about the child which had given her genuine cause for alarm. Something she had not even guessed at before.
Clara was afraid of horses. On the few occasions they had walked past the stables, or when they had stood watching the gentle cart horses as they grazed peacefully in a field, Antonia had seen the fear in the child’s eyes, and the way she had held back.
And that had shaken Antonia. Because she knew all too well what it could mean. She had already witnessed, in the most terrifying and personal way possible, what fear could do to a child. Which was why, when Eva had let slip that his lordship was looking for someone to teach Clara how to ride, there had been no question in Antonia’s mind as to what she had to do.
She had to secure the position. It was imperative that she be the one to introduce Clara to horses, and to the art of riding them. Because she had to try to banish the child’s fear. Antonia shuddered to think what might happen if Clara was to be taught by someone who did not recognise that failing in the child, or who tried to force it out of her.
From a practical point of view, the position also offered Antonia a solution to her other dilemma; namely, the finding of additional funds for the ongoing maintenance of Buntings Hill, a problem which, despite her father’s protestations to the contrary, Antonia knew to be of growing concern.
Lastly, it would spare her the tedium of having to sit as a companion to a fussy old lady like Lady Haversham, or to be responsible for the care of a brood of obnoxious, ill-mannered children like Lady Cruikshank’s. Now, if she could only convince her father of its eminent advantages, everything would be just—
‘Antonia, are you listening to me?’
‘Hmm?’ Antonia looked up, and then guiltily shook her head. ‘Forgive me, Papa, I was not. What were you saying?’
‘I was saying, that, quite apart from my reluctance to see you proceed with this, you should be aware that far more formidable objections may arise from the Earl of Carlyle himself. It is well known that he is loathe to take on female servants.’
That was a truism which Antonia had already been forced to consider. Apart from Lady Clara’s governess and Mrs Griffiths, the cook, there was not another female servant in the Earl of Carlyle’s employ, either here, or at his home in London.
‘I realise that the Earl is not generally known for his hiring of female staff,’ Antonia conceded, ‘but in this instance, I cannot help but feel that once he is made aware of all the advantages, he will have to recognise the wisdom of hiring me. For one thing, I am already acquainted with his daughter and get on with her exceedingly well. She trusts me, Papa, and you know how important that trust will be if I am to teach her to ride properly.’
‘I do not take exception to that, my dear, but that does not mean that Lord Carlyle will see it in a similar light. You must be prepared for the fact that he may dash your hopes far more quickly and effectively than I.’
It was an irrefutable point, and one which brought home to Antonia—as reluctant as she was to admit it—just how slim were the chances of her actually securing the position. She had not had any formal training in the teaching of young children, and it was an undeniable fact that nearly all riding masters were men.
She sighed, and clasped her slender hands together in front of her. ‘You are right, Papa. My wishing to work for the Earl does make little sense, and for any number of reasons. It was…foolish of me to bother you with it in the first place.’
‘My dear girl, I never said that you were bothering me. And I am certainly not telling you that you may not go and speak to the Earl, if that is truly what you wish to do.’
‘You are not?’
‘No. Because I know that if I do not allow you to do this, I shall be forced to listen to endless tales of woe regarding Lady Cruikshank’s horrible offspring or Lady Haversham’s appalling habits. And I think that such a litany of grief would be far more wearing on my patience than forbidding you to try for the position in the first place.’ Mr Hadley picked up his pen and fiddled with the nib. ‘I simply thought that…given what happened to…Edwina, you would have felt…differently about the position.’
Antonia glanced at her father, and realised that she had finally discovered what lay at the root of his concerns. ‘Dearest Papa. It is because of what happened to Edwina that I feel so strongly about this. I would hate to think that…but for a lack of training, such a terrible thing could happen to Clara.’
‘Yes, I see that, Antonia, and I can only commend your selflessness for wishing to become involved. I know that it will not be easy. That is why I say you may go and approach the Earl. In the end, he shall be the one to make the decision.’
‘Thank you, Papa, thank you!’ Antonia wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed the top of his head. ‘You are truly the best of fathers!’
‘Yes, well, I am sure there are many who would disagree with your assessment,’ he said ruefully. ‘I only hope that if your mother is looking down upon me now, she is not shaking her head and wondering at my giving you your way—again.’
Antonia smiled affectionately. ‘I do not see how she could be, Papa. You know that Mama always encouraged me to follow my heart. But I promise that you shall have no cause to regret your decision. The Earl is a wealthy man, and if I am fortunate enough to secure the position, I am sure he will be far more generous to his employees than would be either Lady Haversham or Lady Cruikshank.’
‘That remains to be seen, Antonia, as does whether or not you will even be invited to apply,’ Mr Hadley cautioned her. ‘But go and try your luck regardless. I wager I’ll hear soon enough what the Earl has to say.’
As Antonia dashed from the room, Mr Hadley paused in his writings and raised his eyes to the full-length portrait of his wife which hung on the wall opposite his desk. It was a particular favourite of his, for it had captured, at the very peak of her beauty, a woman who had loved deeply, and who had been deeply loved in return.
‘Yes, she is just like you, my dear. Headstrong and impulsive,’ Mr Hadley murmured affectionately. ‘Goodness knows, I could never stop you from doing what you truly wanted to either. But have I made a mistake by allowing her this freedom, Elizabeth? For as admirable as Antonia’s motives are, I fear that she may be in for something of a disappointment when she comes up against the Earl.’ Mr Hadley’s brows flickered a little. ‘Carlyle is not a happy man, beloved, nor an indulgent one. He has been…changed by the tragic events of the past. And I do believe that he is one gentleman who will not allow our dear girl to have her own way, every time she asks for it!’
Not surprisingly, Mr Hadley was not the only one to view his daughter’s choice of occupation with apprehension. Antonia’s closest friend, the Honourable Catherine Shand, was equally flabbergasted by the notion of Antonia seeking employment in the raffish Earl’s household, though for reasons of an entirely different nature.
‘Of course your father would be opposed to you working for the Earl,’ Catherine said as the two of them sat together in the Rose Room at Shand Hall later that day. ‘Apart from the fact that his only daughter is actively seeking employment, he cannot be pleased at knowing that the position she aspires to is in the Earl of Carlyle’s household.’
Antonia sighed. ‘Yes, I know. The Earl is not inclined towards hiring females.’
‘It is not only that, Toni. Lord Carlyle has gained a very bad reputation of late.’
‘A reputation? For what?’
Catherine set her cup down on the tray and moved to sit beside Antonia on the settee. ‘For wicked and dissolute behaviour!’
Antonia’s honey-tipped lashes flew up. ‘No!’
‘Oh, yes. Apparently, he has taken to staying out until all hours of the night, gambling at the very worst of the hells, and frequenting the most notorious of clubs. There were even rumours about his being challenged to a duel by a French Count, though details surrounding that particular contretemps are very difficult to come by.’
A shaft of late-afternoon sunlight suddenly pierced the room, bathing Antonia’s cap of honey-coloured curls in a warm golden light. ‘Is he still accepted by good Society?’ she asked.
‘Oh, to be sure. But when he does attend an event, he flirts with all of the eligible young ladies, but pays not a serious mind to any one of them.’
‘But why would he do such a thing?’ Antonia asked, not even attempting to hide her surprise. ‘Lady Clara has need of a mother—and Carlyle an heir. Surely he wishes to marry again. In fact, did I not hear that he was enamoured of the Lady Helen Cartland?’
‘He might be, but not as enamoured as he is reputed to be of…pretty ballet dancers and actresses,’ Catherine said, blushing hotly.
Antonia gasped. ‘Actresses and ballet dancers! Goodness, Kitty, wherever did you hear such a thing?’
‘From Lady Dalrymple, of course. I overheard her telling Mama that, on her last visit to London, she chanced to see Lord Carlyle going into Covent Garden. He was escorting an exceedingly handsome young woman, but one whose manner of dress and comportment led Lady Dalrymple to believe that she was not a member of respectable Society.’
‘Lady Dalrymple? That old tattlemonger!’ Antonia snapped. ‘I sometimes wonder whether she does not…make up all of her outrageous stories simply in an attempt to draw attention to herself.’
‘I am quite sure that she does, Toni, but not this time I fear. The very next day, Lady Brocklehurst—who, as you know, is a great friend of Lady Dalrymple’s—happened to encounter the same young woman as she was coming out of the very shop which Lady Brocklehurst herself was about to enter. Apparently the young woman was wearing an exquisite ruby necklace. A necklace she hinted, quite boldly, had been given to her by her wealthy and very handsome benefactor!’
Antonia’s smooth brow furrowed. ‘But…if she did not mention Lord Carlyle by name, why would Lady Brocklehurst simply assume that it was the Earl to whom the young woman had been referring? I have heard that many wealthy gentlemen keep—well, that is to say—it could have been any one of a number of…others.’
‘It could. Except that Lord Carlyle’s penchant for giving rubies to…certain types of young women is well known around London.’
‘And I suppose that bit of information was also supplied by Lady Dalrymple?’
At her girlfriend’s nod, Antonia frowned in irritation. At the moment, she was not sure which of the two people she liked less. Lord knew, she was no admirer of Lady Dalrymple. The woman was an insatiable gabble-grinder who Antonia took pains to avoid meeting in the street. But neither was her opinion of Lord Carlyle improved by the information she had just received. Certainly his predilection for pretty young actresses and ladies of…questionable virtue did nothing to lessen her feelings of contempt towards him. If anything, it only served to strengthen her resolve to try to protect Clara from his influence.
Antonia had never actually been introduced to the handsome Earl of Carlyle. Nor—as her father had pointed out—had she had anything to do with him for the past eight or nine years. The last time she had seen him was when she had been just eleven years old, and he had just returned from London after his marriage to the beautiful Lady Violet Pelham.
At the time, the residents of Upper Tipping had been all agog with the news that the young lord was bringing his new bride to Ashdean. Antonia herself had looked forward to the occasion, though she had little recollection of it now. She did remember that the exquisite young lady who had stepped down from the old Earl’s carriage had been dressed all in blue, from the tip of her elegant feathered bonnet to the heels of her soft, kid slippers.
But while the new Viscountess had been undeniably beautiful, it had soon become evident that she was not at all taken with life in the country. She did not like to ride, nor did she enjoy walking along the tree-shaded lanes. Consequently, it had come as no surprise to anyone when, little more than two weeks later, the Viscount and his young wife had packed up their belongings and headed back to Town.
In the years that followed, two significant events had taken place. The first was the death of the old Earl and the ascension of his son to the title. The second was the birth of a daughter to the new Earl and Countess of Carlyle.
The latter news had been greeted with the kind of joy typically reserved for such great occasions, and there had been much celebrating, both in Town and in Upper Tipping. Tragically, however, it was a joy which had been short-lived. The Countess’s health had begun to fail. She had endured a difficult and protracted birthing and, frail creature that she was, had never fully recovered from it. Thus, when she had contracted influenza a few years later, the doctors had known that there was little hope. She had died less than six months after, leaving Carlyle, at nine and twenty, solely responsible for the care of his then four-year-old daughter, Clara.
Not surprisingly, Lord Carlyle had returned to the country at once. He had lavished money on the nursery at Ashdean in preparation for the infant’s stay, and had hired an army of servants to see to her care. But as soon as all of the arrangements had been made, he had returned to London and stayed there, visiting his daughter only when called upon by duty or necessity to do so.
‘Well, I do not care a fig for what Lord Carlyle does,’ Antonia professed. ‘It is his daughter’s welfare that I am concerned with, and since Clara is the one to whom I intend to devote my time, the less I have to do with her father, the better.’
‘I suppose, though he is very handsome, Toni.’ Catherine’s voice took on a wistful quality. ‘Cynthia Prescott told me that she near fainted dead away when she saw him at Almack’s, with all that dark, wavy hair and those incredible blue eyes. She said that the colour reminded her of the sky on a summer’s day.’
‘The sky on a summer—? Really, Kitty, you make Lord Carlyle sound like one of those…heroes in those Gothic novels you are forever reading.’
‘I am only repeating what Cynthia told me,’ Catherine retorted defensively. ‘You can see for yourself when you speak to him about the position.’
Antonia began to fiddle with the lace edging on her sleeve. ‘Actually, I am hoping that I shall not have to see him about it…at all.’
‘Not see him?’ Catherine glanced at her best friend in astonishment. ‘But how can you possibly avoid it?’
Antonia shrugged. ‘I do not think it will be all that difficult, given Lord Carlyle’s antipathy for the country. His steward will likely be handling all of the arrangements.’
‘But surely the Earl will at least wish to see the applicants before the final selection is made,’ Catherine objected. ‘He would hardly commit his daughter to the care of someone he hasn’t even met.’
‘Why not? He was not around much for the first six years of Clara’s life, why would he feel compelled to be around for the next few?’ Antonia argued. ‘All Lord Carlyle requires of a riding master is that he be able to teach his daughter to sit a horse competently and to look good into the bargain. I have no doubt that I can do that as well, or better, than any old riding master from London.’
‘And what about Lord Carlyle’s refusal to employ women?’
‘Ah, now that did give me some cause for concern,’ Antonia confessed, ‘but I do believe I have come up with a rather brilliant idea for circumventing the problem.’
Catherine saw the twinkle in her friend’s eye and warily shook her head. ‘Toni, what scheme are you concocting now? I know that look, and I know that it bodes no good!’
‘Tosh, it is a perfectly splendid idea, and one which will work very well if, as I suspect, Lord Carlyle will not be present for the interviews.’
‘Are you going to tell me what this perfectly splendid idea is?’
‘Not just at the moment. I still have a few more details to work out.’
Clearly disappointed, Catherine’s pretty mouth turned downward. ‘I think you might at least have given me a hint, Toni. After all, I am your closest friend. But what if Lord Carlyle still finds out the truth of your identity, despite your splendid idea?’
Antonia reached towards the tray and took a plain biscuit. ‘I am hoping that by that time, I will have been able to persuade his steward that I am more than capable of filling the position, and that the steward, in turn, will have been able to convince the Earl of the same. Lord Carlyle will not be looking for complications in his life, Kitty. Consequently, it only follows that if matters are proceeding according to plan, and his daughter is happy, it should not matter that the person teaching her how to ride is a woman. Besides which, he is only here for a few days each year.’
‘But what if he chances to see you on one of those days?’
Antonia waved aside her friend’s objection. ‘I shall simply feign an illness and stay at home.’
‘That is all very well, but if the Earl does decide to spend more time in the area, I fear that your carefully formulated plan—whatever it is—will go for nought. Lord Carlyle will be none too pleased when he discovers that he has been the object of a clever little deceit.’
‘Kitty, we are only talking about the enactment of a simple deception, not a plot to overthrow the King,’ Antonia assured her. ‘Personally, I do not think his lordship will mind who teaches his daughter to ride so long as he does not have to be bothered about it. From what you say, he is much more addicted to Town pleasures anyway and, knowing that, I cannot think of any reason why a non pareil like Carlyle would suddenly decide to turn feather and retire to the bucolic tranquillity of Upper Tipping!’
Chapter Two
A suffocating yellow fog had descended upon London, blanketing the City, all but immobilising the steady flow of traffic through the already crowded streets. It hung in the night air like a shroud; stinging the eyes of those foolhardy enough to venture outside without suitable covering and making it nearly impossible for anyone to see more than two feet in front of them.
Standing before the drawing-room window of the elegant house in Park Lane, Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Carlyle, stared out into the murky darkness of the night and felt as though the cursed fog had penetrated into the very room in which he stood. Its silence was oppressive; its heaviness permeating into even the most far-flung corners of the house, causing his head to ache, and his already sagging spirits to plummet like a stone.
God, how he hated this house. Hated the unhappy memories associated with it and the wretched way it made him feel. He grew increasingly restless when forced to reside in it for any length of time; assailed by a boredom that was totally out of keeping with his normally ebullient spirits—which was why he endeavoured to spend as much of his time away from it as possible.
But even that did him no good of late, for the moment he stepped through the front door, he felt the familiar malaise begin to return, settling on him much the same way the cursed fog had settled on London. And the most frustrating part of all was that he had absolutely no idea how to go about ridding himself of it.
Turning away from the window, Sebastian walked towards the elegant sideboard situated between the pink and white marble fireplace and the ornate boule cabinet, and poured himself a generous glass of brandy. He swirled the golden liquid in the bowl, impressed neither by the quality of the Venetian crystal nor by the excellent vintage of the wine. These things he took for granted, as he did everything else about the elegant town house in which he lived; a house which meant so little to him, yet which had meant everything to his late wife; the beautiful and desirable Violet, Countess of Carlyle.
At the thought of the woman to whom he had been married, Sebastian tilted the glass to his lips and drank deeply, feeling the fiery spirit burn a path down his throat. Violet. It was hard to believe that she had been dead over two years. At times, he felt like she was still here, her spirit lingering on in the dark corridors of the vast house like a physical presence.
And why would it not linger? Sebastian acknowledged wryly. There was far more of her here than there was of him. The Ming bowls and the other priceless knick-knacks she had been so fond of collecting—indeed, the house itself, with its Italian marble, and its magnificent crystal chandeliers—meant nothing to him. As Sebastian glanced around the opulent drawing room which had been embellished with nearly as much chinoiserie as the Regent’s pavilion in Brighton, all he could see were the suffocating crowds Violet had filled it with in her endless quest to become London’s most popular and accomplished hostess.
And eventually, she had. But at what cost to him, and to their marriage?
Still, all that was of little consequence now. Sebastian had married the beautiful, but shallow, Lady Violet Pelham, and had elevated her upon his father’s death to the exalted rank of Countess, whereupon she had set out to more than make up for the lack of regard her husband seemed to have for the title. And, in doing so, she had lost him.
Perhaps that’s what this was all about, he reflected sadly. Perhaps regret was the cause of this…malaise which plagued him; dogging his steps, and causing the mouth which had once moved so easily to laughter to twist so cynically. God knew, he had been living a lie for more years than he cared to admit. A lie which had begun shortly after his marriage…and a marriage which had died shortly after it had begun…
‘My lord?’
Sebastian raised the glass to his lips, but he did not turn around. ‘What is it, Royce?’
‘Mr Bingham asks if you might be able to see him.’
Sebastian’s brow furrowed in annoyance. Damn. He wasn’t in a mood to see anyone right now, and certainly not the steward of Ashdean. The man knew him too well. He was one of the few people who could see beyond the barricades Sebastian erected, and who could touch on areas, on emotions, that were best left undiscovered.
