Fenella Miller (10 page)

‘Will there be many participants in the races?’

‘Yes, Marianne; it is surprising, is it not, that so many can afford the entry fee? But the prize purse is substantial, and you know how gentlemen love to gamble. There will be thousands of pounds won and lost today of that you can be sure.’

Marianne shivered as an image of her would be abductor filled her head. He was a hardened gambler, or so John had told her. Lady Grierson, mistaking her sudden silence for nervousness, smiled and patted Marianne’s hands.

‘Do not fret, my love, you no longer need to feel ashamed of your appearance. I have noticed all the admiring glances you have been receiving from the gentlemen we have passed. You will be the talk the village by tonight. Having another beautiful heiress to pursue will occupy them wonderfully.’

Marianne stared at her in horror. She had come to this rural backwater to hide from prying eyes, not to be the centre of attention. With so many fashionable houses holding house parties, it would only be a matter of time before word of her whereabouts filtered back to Sir James.

‘I have no wish to be pursued, Mama. In fact, I think I would like to go home. I do not feel at all the thing.’

‘Nonsense, my dear, you will enjoy it. We have no gazetted fortune hunters here, just a handful of young bachelors from good families hoping to meet a suitable young woman to marry.’

‘I am sorry, Lady Grierson, but I really feel unwell. I have a sick headache and I need to go back.’

Lady Grierson looked more closely. ‘You do look peaky. I don’t know how we shall Manage. I am afraid that you will have to wait until we can disembark, then your Tom can drive you to Frating Hall.’

Marianne felt as if a million eyes were fixed on her and all knew who she was. Using her middle names was a thin disguise after all. Amongst so many, how could there not be someone who would recognize her? She closed her eyes and forced herself to relax, to force the nausea down.

She remembered the conversation she had had with John before he left for London the previous day after receiving an urgent summons from her lawyers. He had reminded her that as she was her description would no longer fit that of Miss Martha Frasier. Slowly her rebellious digestion subsided and her colour returned.

She pushed herself up in the seat and risked a glance at Lady Grierson, relieved she was occupied waving and nodding to her many acquaintances. Resplendent in dark-yellow damask and matching turban, her adopted Mama was revelling in the
chagrin
of her peers when they saw her.

‘I am feeling better, Mama. The nausea has passed; it will not be necessary to go back.’

‘Excellent. It is as I thought—no more than apprehension. For you are not used to going about in company are you, my dear?’

‘I am not.’ Her rides and walk in Bath could hardly count as society. ‘Good heavens! I can see stilt-walkers and jugglers.’ Marianne twisted round in order to get a better look.

‘No, you must not do that, Marianne,’ Emily remonstrated. ‘It is vulgar to gawp; Mama is always saying so.’

Marianne reluctantly did as she was bid. ‘Do the races start immediately? Will we have time to walk around the stalls and watch the entertainers?’

Lady Grierson laughed. ‘The first race, which is for small ponies, starts at once. It has taken so long to get here that we are late. There will be ample time after Charles has ridden to explore all the delights of the fair.’

The carriage was stationary and, as Tom prepared to negotiate the turn into the yard of The Lion, Cousin Theo, astride his stallion Lucifer, came alongside.

‘There is no room in there, ladies. You would do better to disembark here and then Tom can leave the carriage at Bentley Hall.’

Lady Grierson simpered. ‘Thank you, Sir Theodore; we will do as you advise. Come along girls, if we hurry we can join your papa to watch the pony race.’

‘Cousin Theo, why have you brought that animal here? He is likely to lash out at any moment.’

Theo bowed in Marianne’s direction. ‘Lud, my dear, I can hardly run after the other horses on foot, that would make me a laughing stock!’

‘You are racing? Oh dear—Bess will never beat your stallion. Charles will be so disappointed.’

Emily intervened. ‘He will not, Marianne. Charles knows he cannot win, it is his ambition merely to acquit himself well.’

Marianne was unconvinced. ‘But he has been talking so passionately about winning—how can you be sure he will be resigned to losing?’

‘Allow me to know my own brother, Marianne. He was disappointed to pull up short of the finish last time—he completed only two circuits and did not even start the third. It will be enough for him to arrive in the first wave of competitors.’

* * * *

Theo had hardly listened to this exchange. He had been unable to drag his eyes from his ward who had metamorphosed overnight into a diamond of the first water. He had been aware she was a pretty little thing but dressed as she was—she was breathtaking. He shook his head angrily. He was here to find a traitor before he could betray England’s troops into the grasping hands of Napoleon.

He could not allow himself to be distracted; he must suppress his feelings. After all he had only been acquainted with the chit for a week; hardly time to become enamoured, surely? What he felt was transitory—a passing fancy—no more.

Lucifer threw his head up almost unseating him and recalling him sharply to the present. He smiled down at Marianne. ‘I must leave you now. I need to settle this brute down before our race. I have spoken to Lord Grierson and it is arranged that you will be dining at Bentley Hall this evening.’ Seeing Lady Grierson opening her mouth to protest he quickly added. ‘It is to be a buffet supper, served outside, quite informal; there will be no need for anyone to dress.’

Lady Grierson smiled. ‘In that case, sir, we shall look forward to joining you. It is some years since I had the pleasure of visiting Bentley Hall. After Lady Devenish died Sir James became something of a recluse and did not receive.’

Marianne turned her back on Lucifer in order to admire two pairs of matched greys, pulling a high-perch phaeton. The stallion stretched out his head and snatched at her bonnet sending it down over her eyes, temporarily obscuring her vision.

‘Devil take it, Marianne, what have you done to your glorious hair?’

Emily going to her rescue deftly undid the bow and removed the bonnet, thus revealing a head of golden curls.

Marianne turned, bonnet in one hand, and smiled somewhat tentatively up at him. ‘I had it cut off, Cousin.’

‘Good God, I am not blind, I can see that,’ Theo snapped. ‘Whatever possessed you to do such a stupid thing? All women should have long hair—it is the way things are.’

‘That is fustian, Cousin. If gentlemen can arrange their locks as they please, then so can we. And Lord and Lady Grierson approve and I love it.’

Lady Grierson and Emily watched this lively exchange with astonishment. Why Sir Theodore seemed quite animated, not at all his usual languid self. Too late he realized his mistake and did his best to repair the damage.

‘Lady Grierson, I do beg your pardon for my intemperate outburst, so fatiguing being cross, is it not? It was such a shock. Marianne had such very lovely golden tresses, and, do you know, I was thinking seriously of composing an ode to their beauty.’ Marianne snorted inelegantly into her bonnet and he was hard-pressed to keep a straight face.

‘I own, Sir Theodore, you surprised me by your vehemence. I thought you such an amiable gentleman.’

He bowed, a difficult feat whilst sitting astride a plunging horse, and at the same time wishing to give the impression you were a jackanapes who wrote poetry. ‘It is the muse, my dear Lady Grierson, when it strikes I am consumed by a burning desire to write, and now I have been brutally deprived. I am disappointed in you, Cousin Marianne. I shall have more to say on the subject when we meet for dinner this evening.’

Marianne rammed her hat back on her head and nodded politely. ‘Good luck in the race, Cousin Theo. I do hope you have no mishap.’ They both knew she meant exactly the opposite.

* * * *

Emily re-tied the bow under Marianne’s chin and tilted her head to one side. ‘Having less hair has, I am afraid, made your bonnet too big. I am sure it would not have tipped forward so readily otherwise.’

‘You are right. I must ask Mrs Dawkins to alter them when she comes with the remainder of our order.’

A roar from behind them made the girls spin round. Lady Grierson took her youngest daughters’ hands. ‘Quickly girls—that was the ponies on their way. We must join Edward and Papa or we shall miss the finish.’

They hurried across the track that curved round the edge of the vast green and threaded their way through the crowd to the spot Lord Grierson had chosen to watch his son race. Marianne was dismayed to see the Hawksmiths were stationed right beside him and the earl was staring at her in a most unsettling manner.

Chapter Nine

‘Ah, there you are my dears, I was becoming quite anxious,’ Lord Grierson called as they approached. ‘You have missed the start but the ponies will be finishing here as well—they only make one circuit.’

The crowd obligingly moved apart to allow the three women to stand at the rope barrier. Marianne could see the horses about to take part in the main event milling about in a rudimentary collecting ring a little distance away. Emily tapped her arm and whispered to her.

‘Arabella’s parents are standing next to Mama. It is time I introduced you to them for, after all, Arabella is my dearest friend and you are now my sister.’

Marianne nodded and automatically stiffened her spine, adjusted her gown and checked her bonnet was secure. Emily waited until her parents had completed their greetings before leading her forward.

‘Lady Hawksmith, I would like to introduce to my new sister, Miss Marianne Devenish, she is to make a home with us in future.’ Marianne curtsied and Lady Hawksmith nodded frostily. ‘Lord Hawksmith, may I introduce Miss Devenish to you?’

Emily smiled and Marianne curtsied uncomfortably aware Arabella’s father was staring at her again.

‘Good heavens, Miss Devenish, do you know you are the image of a young lady I used to know many years ago.’ He frowned as he tried to recollect the name. ‘I have it—Amelia Stanton—that was it. I forget who she married but I am certain it was not a Devenish.’ He smiled. ‘It will come back to me. I have no doubt your family is linked somehow to Miss Stanton’s, because the resemblance is too close for there not to be a connection.’

The crowd roared as the ponies came into sight and Marianne was able to slip backwards through the spectators unnoticed. She had to escape, to get away, before he revealed her as Martha Frasier. Lord Hawksmith could remember at any minute to whom her mother had been married.

Where could she go? Frantically she looked round for refuge and caught sight of the church tower behind The Lion inn and recalled her guardian had said that he walked to the service on Sunday. Yes! She would go to Bentley Hall; it could not be more than a short distance from The Lion.

She heard the cheers as the winning pony galloped past the finishing line just as she hurried into the bustling forecourt. She guessed there would be a wicket gate somewhere for her to use which would lead her into the church yard. She was obliged to hide as a group of young officers staggered from the building brimming ale pots in their hands. She had no wish to be accosted as, without a maid or male companion, she might be mistaken for something she was not. Gentlemen in their cups could behave in a way they might bitterly regret when sober.

She hovered behind a convenient diligence praying the problem would walk itself away. To her relief the officers, laughing and shouting, set off in the direction of the starting line. The main race came next. Charles and Cousin Theo would be competing, but she had no desire to watch. All she wanted was to hide away from Lord Hawksmith. She wished John had not gone to London, he would know what to do. If Sir James turned up, her new family would reject her out of hand. No daughter of theirs would have such a vile acquaintance.

Her passage was clear so she continued towards the rear of the inn hoping her conjecture was correct and there would be a way through. In the distance she heard the loud shouting of the race goers as the main event began, but in her agitation it meant nothing to her.

She rounded the large building avoiding ostlers and grooms who, not unnaturally, viewed the intrusion of a lovely, fashionably attired, and unchaperoned young lady, as a bonus.

‘Excuse me, but are you lost, miss?’ An ostler, bent with age, asked.

‘I sincerely hope not. I am expecting to find a way through to the church. I pray there is one?’

‘Yes, if you come with me, miss, I’ll show you.’ Grateful for his escort she followed him and there, in the far corner, was the wicket gate she sought.

‘Thank you. I shall be able to continue safely from here on my own.’ She fumbled in her reticule finally drawing out a silver sixpence with which to recompense him. On light feet she ran to the gate and slipped out from the noise into the peaceful churchyard.

The imposing roof of Bentley Hall could be seen from where she was. All she had to do was follow the grassy path between the tombstones until she found the exit that would lead in to the grounds of the Hall.

The sounds of the race were becoming fainter but a sudden escalation of shouting, followed by what might have been women screaming, made her pause. Had there been an accident? Should she go back? No, she had problems enough of her own. She resumed her journey and thirty minutes later was sipping a welcome glass of fresh lemonade in the same room she had used on her arrival in Great Bentley just over a week ago.

* * * *

Theo could not take his eyes from Marianne. What was wrong with him? He must not allow a pair of beautiful blue eyes to divert him from his purpose. Lucifer bucked and he swore. By the time he had regained control and was free to glance across to the Grierson party his ward had vanished. He stood in his stirrups and scanned the crowd and was rewarded with a glimpse of an eau-de-nil bonnet weaving in and out of the spectators and heading in the direction of the inn.