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Authors: Jean R. Ewing

Tags: #Regency Romance

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BOOK: Scandal's Reward
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Well, she didn’t see how any of it could possibly affect her. Devil Dagonet was not expected to show his face on Exmoor again. His cousin, now Sir George Montagu, lived in London, as did the widowed sister, Charlotte—Mr. Clay had died soon after Dagonet had left England. Their father, Sir Henry Montagu, had collapsed of the apoplexy just the previous winter leaving Lady Montagu a widow, alone at Lion Court. And so she had approached Catherine one Sunday after church to offer her the post of companion.

Lady Montagu was certainly a little pathetic, but only lonely and vulnerable. The arrangement seemed acceptable, and—as Catherine had never tried to hide—very preferable to Mr. Crucible’s absurd and unwelcome attentions. But as she had not admitted to Amelia, it was indeed her sister’s impending marriage to Captain David Morris that had led her finally to accept the post. Her pride alone forbade her from staying on at home. Besides, Annie was growing up, the vicarage was small, and at twenty-two the eldest should move out to make room for her little sisters.

Mrs. Hunter rose to her feet. “Well, I shall go up to poor Annabella, she has probably cried enough by now.”

“Then I’ll come up with you, Mama.” Amelia kissed her father on his balding pate. “Captain Morris is to take me out in his curricle tomorrow and I must look my best.”

When they had gone, Catherine turned to her father. He seemed lost in thought.

“Sir Henry Montagu believed Millicent Trumble’s death was Dagonet’s fault, didn’t he? And the marquis? No wonder they flew up into the boughs and he was cast off by the family! I remember, when I was quite a little girl, you used to go up to Lion Court to tutor the cousins in their Latin and Greek. What manner of boy was this Charles de Dagonet? Did you think he would grow up to be capable of ruining a girl and then drowning her?”

The Reverend Hunter smiled at her. Catherine did not quite realize that he hadn’t really answered her when he said, “It was a great tragedy, my dear. Charles de Dagonet was a remarkable young man. He was capable of anything.”

Ten minutes later, Catherine was brushing out her hair, which now shone a deep russet brown in the candlelight. Her sister watched her across the little bedchamber that they shared. Amelia’s dimpled chin was resting on her folded arms, supported by her knees beneath the quilted cover of her bed.

“I wish I could have met him,” she said to her sister.

“Who?” Catherine was not thinking about the conversation they had exchanged downstairs, but about her father. Six daughters were a dreadful burden for a country vicar. She had definitely made the right decision. Indeed, she should have acted before, instead of waiting at home in the vain hope that a Prince Charming would turn up for her, as he had for Amelia.

“Devil Dagonet, of course.”

“Amy! He sounds like a complete renegade. He was said to be quite ruthless.”

“But don’t you think it’s really the most romantic thing? That our own neighbor should grow up to be so profligate and be disinherited? Suppose he should come back to fight Sir George Montagu for Lion Court!”

Catherine laughed aloud. “Amy, we are living in the nineteenth century and this is England. I should not imagine that Devil Dagonet will ever come back to Exmoor. Anyway, it’s not in the least romantic. He must have been dreadful to earn such a name.”

“No, just the opposite, according to Polly.” Amelia’s blush wasn’t that different from her little sister Annie’s. “I asked her before I came up to bed. The country people and the servants all liked him. It was only because of his reputation with the ladies that they called him Devil Dagonet.”

“Well, it can hardly matter now what kind of a libertine he turned out to be.” Catherine slipped between her covers and blew out the candles. Her next remark was made to the sweet summer darkness that filled the air like a fluid. “I think we can be certain that none of us will ever have the misfortune to meet him.”

* * * *

Some days later, Catherine tied the strings of her chip bonnet firmly under her chin and, climbing up out of Fernbridge, headed for the moor. The morning sky shone bright and clear, and the heather-scented heights beckoned. It was the last day of August and her final day of freedom before she began what she firmly expected to be an extremely uneventful time at Lion Court. Within a couple of hours, she had reached the slopes of Stag Hill overlooking the entire Rye Water valley and the Lion Court estates.

There was one better vantage point on Eagle Beacon itself, but it was a steep scramble from where she was standing, through the swamps at the head of Rye Water. The track that led there was extremely hazardous unless you knew it well, which was why Catherine was so surprised to see that a horseman was cantering that way with careless abandon. He wore a serviceable dark coat over plain buckskin breeches; leather saddle bags and a sword case were strapped behind him. Since she had never seen such a magnificent gray Thoroughbred before, she knew that it must be a stranger. Unless he slowed his pace, he was putting both himself and his mount in considerable danger.

Casting caution to the wind, she called out and began to run down the rock-strewn slope toward him. “Sir! Sir! Pray stop! You will be in the bog!”

She tore off her bonnet and waved it wildly in one hand as she ran. He must notice her! With an extra burst of effort, she managed to reach the track just as the gray spun around a bend toward her. There was a little slope of short grass just above the muddy path, and as the heel of her boot struck it, her feet went from under her, so that she sprawled onto the track at the very feet of the horse. The Thoroughbred reared, giving her an uncomfortable view of his iron-shod hooves, but the rider expertly spun him away and pulled him to a halt just three feet from her shoulder.

“Good God, you little idiot! Whatever do you think you’re doing?”

Catherine sat up and tried to regain some sense of dignity. She was displaying an unconscionable length of white petticoat and silk stocking, now splattered with mud. She had never felt herself to be at such an awkward disadvantage.

“You’re a stranger here, sir. This track is dangerous and I thought to warn you.”

“The only danger is caused by your impetuous and unnecessary interference. You could have been killed.”

The tanned face that looked down at her seemed carved from stone. Brilliant green eyes under straight black brows gazed directly into her face, but he made no move to help her.

She stared back up at him. Really, he had the longest black eyelashes she had ever seen on a man!

“I think you might dismount and offer me some assistance.”

His face was instantly transformed by a charming smile. “You seem to be unhurt and able to regain your feet by yourself,” he said lightly. “My close proximity is usually considered perilous to unchaperoned young ladies.”

“What?” she shot back without thinking. “Do you make a habit of ravishing any female that crosses your path?” She struggled to her feet. She had entirely smashed her straw bonnet when she fell, so she was unable to put it back on. Instead, she thrust it behind her. There was a smear of green right down the side of her muslin skirt, and one of the flounces was torn.

He raised an eyebrow and the emerald gaze swept over her in the most insolent manner. “Only those who are capable of displaying some feminine charm, alas, not a hoyden who flings herself at my feet like some screaming dervish.”

“I am not a dervish.” Catherine became uncomfortably aware that this was not at all a proper conversation for her to be having with a stranger. She attempted to return to safer ground. “The moor is full of hidden traps for a horseman. The bogs cannot be seen until you are in them. You might thank me for my efforts.”

“Cassandra also received no thanks for her warnings of doom.”

“Like Cassandra, I am only trying to save you from disaster.”

With a grim laugh he turned his mount away from her. “I may need saving, young lady, but not from the hazards of riding a horse. Good day!”

With that, he touched his horse with his leg and the gray bounded away, leaving Catherine standing speechless with anger on the path. What an insufferably rude and arrogant man! Well, he was probably no more than some officer passing through on his return from France. England was full of retired soldiers now that Napoleon was safely imprisoned on Elba. Nevertheless, he should not get away with the parting shot.

“I hope you drown in Rye Combe Bog!” she shouted at the retreating back.

 

Chapter 2

 

Lion Court was a pleasant, ivy-covered edifice that had been, at the time of Good Queen Bess, the home of a wealthy wool merchant. The house, solidly built of the local stone, enclosed three sides of a courtyard and presided over several topiary box bushes like a hen with her chicks. The stone lions which had given the house its name had weathered and crumbled until they had the rounded, toothless look of pug dog puppies, begging.

Catherine loved the place. To the north she could just catch a glimpse of the sea in the Bristol Channel, with the hills of Wales faintly shadowing the horizon. To the south rose the purple tops of Exmoor, home to wild ponies and red deer. Out of sight to the west lay the whitewashed village and church of Fernbridge by its pebbled beach, where her father had his living. And, a little farther along the coast, stood small, elegant Stagshead, set back from the road in its ancient grounds: the home of Captain David Morris who, returning from the Peninsular Campaign when Napoleon was defeated, had come into his inheritance and won her sister’s heart.

Up behind Lion Court marched woods of beech and oak, ash and birch, and below and through them, like a slash in a bread loaf, tumbled Rye Water, carrying the rain from the moor to the sea. The stretch of Rye Water which ran past the house had been tamed with plantings and little iron railings. There was an artificial grotto with a marble nymph forever pouring water from an urn, where she and Amelia had been caught trespassing as children. Within half a mile upstream of the curved ornamental bridge and the water lilies, however, the stream coursed wild through its craggy little gorge, full of mosses and light-shading ferns, from the boggy heights of Eagle Beacon. And at one place, below the stables and barns, past the birch spinney, Rye Water emptied into the pleasant leaf-shaded lake where poor Millicent Trumble had been found drowned seven years before.

Lady Montagu was not elderly, perhaps only fifty-six or seven, but she was bored and faint-hearted. Catherine read to her in the evenings, or played hour upon hour at the piano and sang. In the day she would accompany her mistress in little drives in a dog cart, or on sketching expeditions around the estate, or perhaps just fetch and carry, while Lady Montagu worked listlessly at embroidery or drawn-thread work.

The house and grounds entranced her. It was an old-fashioned house, full of interesting nooks and crannies. Over the centuries, various owners had carried out their improvement schemes, so that the withdrawing and dining rooms boasted beautiful Jacobean plaster ceilings, while the great hall downstairs still displayed its massive Tudor beams, curving away into the roof space. There was an eclectic collection of furnishings, representing much of the past two hundred years, but each piece settled in next to its neighbor in complete harmony. It seemed to Catherine that the house had always been loved by its occupants, except perhaps by Sir Henry Montagu. No one could claim that the atmosphere had been happy after he had moved in with his family—what?—seventeen years ago. Even now that he was gone the lovely rooms still seemed forlorn and sad. The house must once have resounded to the laughter of large families and good fellowship. Even though Sir Henry had been dead for over a year, it was as if the Queen Anne dressers and Persian carpets still couldn’t quite shake off his baleful influence.

* * * *

Catherine had been at Lion Court for less than a week, when one afternoon she heard the rattle of a large carriage as it pulled into the courtyard, accompanied by outriders and followed by a baggage cart. She and Lady Montagu had just come in from a walk on the terrace, past the glorious display of flowers in the gardens, and Catherine had walked upstairs to remove her bonnet. From the head of the stairs, she heard loud voices and squeals of feminine delight, followed by the gruff tones of a man.

“By the Devil, don’t take on so, Mama! You’ll bring on palpitations. Anyone would think you hadn’t seen me in years. Deuced miserable journey, rained all the way from London to Bath. Dashed if I wasn’t ready to turn around more than once, but Charlotte wouldn’t hear of it.”

A tall, thin lady who could only be the widowed Mrs. Clay pecked Lady Montagu on the cheek.

“George is the most impossible traveling companion, Mama. I declare he takes a delight in discomfort and complaint. Dear Mr. Clay was always so proficient in arranging everything to one’s satisfaction when traveling.”

“Good God, Charlotte! If I hear one more word about your sainted husband, I shall go mad. Dear Mr. Clay this, beloved Mr. Clay that! It’s enough to send a fellow to perdition, and damme if the chap hasn’t been dead these seven years and was a dreadful dull stick when he was alive.”

An attack of the vapors was the only possible response to that, so Catherine decided that it was an opportune moment to make herself known. She moved down the stairs and approached the little group. Charlotte Clay had begun to gasp and clutch at her throat, but at the interruption, she immediately swung around and peered at Catherine through her quizzing glass.

“So this is your companion from the vicarage, Mama? How quaint! Of course I should see hiring a female companion as an affront to the memory of dear Mr. Clay, the only true soulmate I shall have in this life. How do you do, Miss Hunter? I declare you quite tower over Lady Montagu, and that is not a flattering gown. But don’t mind me! I believe in plain speaking; Mr. Clay always advised plain speaking.”

With another absent peck at her mother’s cheek, Charlotte Clay swept away up the stairs to her room.

Catherine fought to keep a straight face. Charlotte was ten years her brother’s senior, so perhaps they could not expect to be particularly close. And, as Reverend Hunter had explained, Charlotte had, to the dismay of her parents, run away to be married at the tender age of seventeen, three years before the family had come to live at Lion Court. That Mr. Clay had unexpectedly inherited a great deal of money must have done much to soothe the ruffled feelings of Sir Henry and Lady Montagu, and then when he had shown the good grace to die and leave his wife the fortune, the fact that their only daughter had eloped was entirely forgotten.

BOOK: Scandal's Reward
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