The Danbury Scandals (5 page)

‘Don’t be a
ninny, Carrie,’ Mark said. ‘You’re only eighteen, there is plenty of time yet.’

‘Most of my
friends are already spoken for and I have not even been introduced to anyone I
half like,’ his sister went on. ‘And I should like a title. You will be a
Viscount one day, but unless I marry one...’

‘Oh, I have my
eyes on more than that,’ the young man said airily. ‘If Cousin Henry don’t have
an heir, Father will become Duke of Wiltshire and I will be a Marquis and next
in line for the dukedom. And you will be Lady Caroline in your own right.’

‘Should you be
speaking so about the Duke?’ Maryanne asked mildly. ‘It is only natural he
should want an heir.’

‘You don’t know
him, Maryanne,’ Mark said. ‘He’s fat and drinks too much and no pretty girl is
safe anywhere near him. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to marry him.’

‘Cousin Jane
did,’ Caroline said.

‘Yes, poor
dote, but that was before she knew what her portion was - the life of a brood
mare. How any girl could contemplate that I can’t imagine.’

‘Oh, I don’t
know,’ Caroline said with a laugh. ‘With money and a title, most things can be
endured and a wealthy wife can always take a handsome lover.’

‘I say, Sis,
you wouldn’t marry him, would you?’ he said anxiously. ‘You don’t fancy being
the next Duchess of Wiltshire? You’d end up like Cousin Jane, in your grave,
alongside half a dozen dead babies.’

‘Do you think
His Grace will allow us to have our own reception at Wiltshire House?’ she
said, ignoring his question. ‘Oh, that would be bang up!’

He shrugged.
‘If he thought it would find him another wife, I fancy he might.’

‘Then I shall
suggest it.’ She turned to Maryanne. ‘Wiltshire House is much grander than
Danbury House - almost a palace - and it has the most elegant ballroom. We must
have an orchestra and a tenor to sing the latest ditties.’ She whirled round in
excitement. ‘And there must be flowers everywhere and piles of exotic fruit.
There will be no difficulty now the war is over and all those horrid blockades
are done with.’ She sat down at the
escritoire
and drew some sheets of
paper towards her. ‘Mark, you must tell me the names of all the handsome young
officers back from the campaigns. Some of them come from good families, don’t
they?’

‘If you are
looking for plump pockets, you’ll not find many in the army,’ he said
laconically. ‘You should be considering a nabob or a merchantman, someone who
has grown rich by the war.’

‘Mark, what
nonsense you talk! I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. When I marry it will be
someone of breeding as well as wealth.’

‘I can see you
are going to be difficult to please,’ he said, then, turning to Maryanne, ‘What
about you, Maryanne? What do you look for in a husband?’

‘Me?’ she said,
feeling the warmth flood into her face. ‘A man I can love and one who loves
me.’

‘And must he
also be rich and handsome?’

‘No, just
good.’

‘Good?’ queried
Caroline with a squeal of laughter. ‘I have yet to meet a man I could describe
in those terms, and, besides, how dull life would be.’ For the first time she
noticed what Maryanne was doing. ‘What have you got there?’

‘It is a
hassock cover from the church. I hate to be idle and I have so much spare time
nowadays, I thought I would repair all the hassocks. I brought this one home
last Sunday.’

‘The village
women do that sort of thing. You should not stoop so low, Maryanne.’

‘I do not call
beautifying the church stooping, Caroline.’

‘Oh, spare me
the sermon, Maryanne. What will you wear for Lady Markham’s ball?’

‘I do not
dance, so I haven’t given it a thought.’

‘Don’t dance!’
Caroline exclaimed, then, ‘No, of course not; the Reverend Mr Cudlipp would
hardly consider dancing a suitable pastime, would he? How dreary for you to
have to stay at home when we go.’

‘She will not
stay at home,’ Mark said. ‘I shall teach her the steps, including the waltz.
She will not be left out.’

‘It is very
kind of you,’ Maryanne murmured. ‘But really I would rather not put you to the
bother.’

‘Stuff!’ he
said. ‘It will be my privilege. I will not hear of your being left behind. And,
to be sure, I shall be hard pressed to cut out all the suitors who will
doubtless be dangling after you.’

‘Oh, Mark, what
humbug you do talk,’ Caroline said. ‘One would think you intended to offer for
her yourself.’

‘If you want to
talk about me as if I were not here,’ Maryanne said, getting up from her seat
abruptly, ‘I will make it easy for you and take my leave. Goodnight to you
both. She collected up her sewing in the surprised silence that followed and
left them.

She ran up to
her own room and shut the door behind her. Caroline was the outside of enough!
If it were not for her determination to keep the peace and her complete
indifference to the hierarchy of Society she would show that spoiled young miss
just how a lady should behave. Not that she agreed with the half of it; it was
all a sham, this business of bringing out young ladies and parading them in
front of all the eligible young men, like so many animals at market. She fully
intended to hold herself aloof from it. They would call her toplofty, as Jack
Daw had done, but she didn’t care.

She crossed to
the window and drew aside the curtains so that she could look out on the
starlit night. Sitting in the window-seat, she leaned her head against the
wall, a smile hovering round her lips. She wasn’t against balls and if the man
of her dreams were to arrive at one and ask her to dance, then she would not
turn him away. The man of her dreams. Who was he?

She found her
thoughts wandering to the handsome stranger she had first met in Beckford
woods; thinking about him took her mind off Caroline’s ungracious behaviour. In
the privacy of her room she could weave romantic stories about him, and it
didn’t matter in the least how fanciful they were because she was unlikely ever
to discover the truth about him. Even so, her cheeks still burned when she
thought of that kiss; how could she have been so unthinking as to let it
happen? And the worst of it was, she had liked it.

Almost as if
conjuring him up, she saw a dark figure cross the park down by the lake, and
leaned forward in her seat to see the better, conscious of the quickening of
her heartbeat. He was striding quite purposefully towards the bank of trees
which began a little above the water to her left. When he reached them, he
paused and turned to look up at the house. She shrank back into the shadows and
peered out at him from behind the curtains. What was he looking at? Had he seen
her? Did he mean to harm anyone in the house? Again she wondered if she ought
to tell his lordship or Mark about him. If she did, his lordship would ask a
great many questions about when she had seen him before, why she had not
mentioned it and why she thought a man doing nothing in particular constituted
a threat. Was he a threat? She wasn’t sure. If they hunted him down, he would
be dragged up before a magistrate, and what harm had he done, except hold her
in his arms and kiss away her tears?

Out of humour
with herself for being such a ninny as to remember a kiss he had undoubtedly
forgotten, she twitched the curtains across and turned back into the room to
prepare for bed, forgetting, as she so often did, to ring for her maid to help
her. The man was probably poaching, and, though she ought not to condone that,
she didn’t see how his lordship could begrudge an odd rabbit now and again; he
had certainly not complained that poaching was any great problem. Besides, they
would all leave for London in a few days and she need think no more of him and
what he was up to. She climbed into bed and blew out the candle.

The next
morning was warmer than any day of the year so far and Maryanne decided to walk
to the church to return the newly repaired hassock and fetch another. His
lordship had ridden out to Castle Cedars; Caroline, never one to rise early,
was still abed, and Mark had gone out to the home farm, which was his
particular responsibility, so she set out alone, taking the path across the
park and round the lake. She was alert for Jack Daw, telling herself that she
would not let him surprise her for a third time with his sudden appearance, but
she reached the village street without seeing any sign of him and let herself
into the church, wondering why she felt so downcast.

It was dim and
cool and she shivered slightly as she replaced the hassock in his lordship’s
pew and selected another for her attentions. Turning to leave, she noticed the
vestry door was open and, wondering at the rector’s being so careless, moved
over to shut it. Jack Daw was standing at the table with the parish register
open in front of him, running his finger down the page as he scanned it.

‘Mr Daw!’ She
could not say his name without smiling, however hard she tried. ‘What are you
doing here?’

He whirled
round to face her, his hand reaching for the dagger in his belt, but when he
saw her his belligerent attitude changed suddenly to an elegant bow accompanied
by a broad smile. ‘Good morning,
Mam’selle
Paynter; a fine morning, is
it not? You, too, like to be up betimes, I see.’

‘I asked you a
question,’ she said, determined to keep cool and not allow her swiftly beating
heart to betray her. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for a
past.’

‘Whose past?
Yours? Lord Danbury’s?’

He looked at
her sharply and the humour went from his eyes; they became hard and
unrelenting. ‘Why did you mention Lord Danbury?’

‘No reason,
except that whenever I see you, you are on Danbury land. I have a mind to speak
to his lordship about you...’

‘Do you mean
you have not already done so?’ he asked in surprise.

She coloured.
‘You asked me not to.’

He took a step
towards her and laid a hand on her arm. ‘Is that reason enough, when you so
obviously think I am up to no good?’

‘I didn’t say
that.’

‘A poacher or a
spy, I think you said.’

‘The war is
over.’

‘For the
moment,’ he said, and there was a grim sound to his voice which made her look
up at him sharply.

‘What do you
mean? Napoleon has capitulated.’

‘He does what
is expedient at the time, as any good general does; it is dangerous to be
complacent.’

She gasped.
‘You do not think he is beaten?’

He shrugged.
‘Who can tell? He has promised to return with the violets.’

‘Are you a
spy?’

He laughed
suddenly. ‘An’ I were, why come here? There is nothing here to interest
Napoleon Bonaparte. And that leaves only the poaching.’ He took her chin in his
hand and tilted her face up to his. ‘Do I look like a poacher?’

His eyes were
burning into hers, searching out her deepest thoughts, and that embarrassed her
because at that moment she was thinking of that kiss and wondering if he was
going to repeat it, and what she would do if he did. Her limbs were trembling,
but she met his gaze steadfastly. ‘I do not know that poachers have anything in
their looks to make them stand out. If they did, there would be many more
arrests.’

‘
Touché
!’
He laughed and she realised that it was his light-heartedness which she found
so attractive. He made her feel happy.

‘You have not
answered my question,’ she said. ‘What are you doing in Beckford?’

‘Where else can
I feast my eyes on such loveliness?’

She drew
herself up to her full five feet four. ‘Mr Daw, I do not find your remarks
amusing.’

He chuckled. ‘I
can see through your bravado, you know. You are standing there affecting to be
unafraid but really quaking in your shoes lest I try and take liberties again.’

‘How arrogant
you are!’

‘No, honest.’
His voice dropped until it was little more than a whisper. ‘Are you afraid of
me?’

‘No. ‘

‘Why not?
Anyone else would have been swooning or screaming for help by now.’

‘I am made of
sterner stuff,’ she said, clasping her hands round the hassock so that he would
not see them trembling. ‘If you meant to harm me, you would have done so before
now.’

‘Of course I
won’t harm you. Why should I? But I won’t promise not to kiss you again.’ He
paused and lifted a hand to touch her cheek with a gentle finger. Startled by
the sensations that evoked, she stepped back out of his reach. ‘You are
different from the others...’

‘Have there
been many others?’ she asked before she could stop herself. ‘I should not like
to be counted one of many.’

‘You are
unique,’ he said, laughing. ‘But I was referring to other young ladies of
fashion, like the Honourable Caroline Danbury.’ He turned his head on one side
to survey her from her brown kid boots to her plain straw bonnet, tied on with
ribbon which exactly matched her candid blue eyes, from small strong hands to
pink cheeks now flaming with colour. ‘Could it be the difference between a
hot-house bloom and an English rose?’