Regency Debutantes (43 page)

Kathryn’s fingers plucked at the muslin of her skirt, and her lashes swept low before she answered, ‘They didn’t approve of my parents’ marriage. I’ve never met them.’

‘I see.’ Lady Maybury raised her quizzing glass once more. ‘And why are you not yet married?’

Kathryn blushed. ‘There was never time for that.’ She did not speak of the pain of nursing her mother and sister, nor of
the years of caring for her grief-stricken father. Neither did she mention the torment of her father’s death. ‘And now I’m my cousin’s companion.’

A tutting sound escaped the crinkled lips. ‘Stuff and nonsense! No time indeed!’

On seeing the deepening hue of Kathryn’s cheeks, Ravensmede came to her rescue. ‘You mustn’t tease Miss Marchant so, Grandmama. It really is quite cruel of you.’ Besides he didn’t want his relative getting ideas about arranging a marriage for the girl with the first convenient man; not when he had other plans for Kathryn Marchant.

Of all his family Ravensmede was closest to his paternal grandmother. Even so, that did not mean he was blind to her tendency for bossy dominance and interfering in matters that did not concern her. Not that it was a family trait by any means, or so he told himself. He made a mental note to have a word with her at a more opportune moment.

The dowager snorted, but changed the subject all the same.

They stopped on several occasions to allow Lady Maybury to converse with other ladies, to all of whom she insisted on introducing Miss Marchant. The afternoon was progressing splendidly and even Kathryn had begun to relax and enjoy the bright sunshine and wonderful cooling breeze when the unfortunate incident occurred.

The tiny ragged figure appeared as if from thin air to materialise directly in front of Lord Ravensmede’s barouche. Even with the wealth of his driving experience and his renowned skill with the ribbons, there was little that Ravensmede could do to stop the team in time. As it was, his expertise allowed him to pull the team hard to the right-hand side of the path and, in all probability, it was this reflex that prevented the collision and saved the child’s life. As the horses ground to a halt, he glanced round to check that his passengers had not been dislodged by the abruptness of his stopping. Kathryn was tucking the blanket
around his grandmother, who was complaining in a most querulous tone of voice. Her gaze met his as he heard the soft murmur of her voice reassure the old lady.

He moved quickly, reaching the child in a matter of seconds. With firm but gentle hands he examined the body lying so still upon the ground before him. She was a small girl, three or four years of age at the most. Her hair was dark and matted; her clothes dirty and ragged. There was no blood, and no lacerations of the skin. Neither were her limbs twisted. She looked unhurt, as if she were just sleeping. He heard the commotion as his grandmother struggled to climb down from the carriage. ‘Stay where you are, Grandmama. The child does not appear badly injured, but I don’t yet know the extent of the damage caused. You may find it distressing.’

Lady Maybury spluttered her indignation. ‘Fiddlesticks! If you’re bent on shaking me around this carriage as if I’m a bowl of dried peas, then at least have the decency to allow my curiosity!’

Ravensmede recognised the stubborn tone of her voice. Resistance would be futile, and more to the point, a waste of time. With a barely stifled sigh of frustration he ignored her comments and turned his attention once more to the child, only to find Miss Marchant crouched on the opposite side of the poor motionless body. And the concern clear in the gaze that met his caused a peculiar sensation within his chest.

Her darned gloves were unceremoniously cast aside and two little work-worn hands were engaged in feeling the length of the child’s body to measure the extent of the hurts, just as he had done. Upon her face was a look of such focused intensity of which Ravensmede had never seen the like. He heard the movement of his grandmother behind him; felt her hand touch briefly to his arm.

‘Is the child…?’

Kathryn glanced up for the briefest of moments. ‘Thank the Lord, she’s not dead. But I fear that she may have broken her
leg.’ She raised the little girl’s skirts to expose her ankles and shins. ‘See how swollen and red it is below her knee. Mercifully she’s fainted and so cannot feel the pain.’

‘It’s fortunate indeed that she was thrown clear. She ran straight in front of me. There wasn’t much I could do.’ A frown wrinkled Ravensmede’s brow. ‘She should be seen by a doctor. Let’s hope that the leg is not broken.’

A moan escaped the little girl’s lips.

‘Hush, child. You’re safe now.’ Kathryn rubbed the child’s dirty, scrawny arms. ‘You’ve had an accident and hurt your leg, but everything is going to be fine. Can you tell me your name?’

‘Maggie,’ the child whispered, scarcely loud enough to be heard.

‘Well, Maggie, just you lie still until we can get your leg mended. Be a brave girl.’

Ravensmede watched in amazement while Kathryn gently stroked the child’s filthy hair, her voice crooning softly to calm the little girl’s panic. That a grubby, unknown street child could engender such a tender, caring response! Most young ladies of the
ton
would have run a mile rather than touch such an offensive specimen of the lower classes. But then, again, why should he expect Miss Kathryn Marchant to be like most young ladies, when she had so far proven herself quite dissimilar in every aspect? It seemed she was determined to provide him with further evidence of her rather unique qualities as she began to strip off first her spencer, then her fichu.

He felt the flicker of the familiar hunger that he’d come to associate with her. Without thinking, he licked his lips. Anticipation hardened the angles of his face. And then he remembered where he was, and that his grandmother was at his shoulder. ‘Miss Marchant, what do you think you’re…?’ The question trailed off unfinished as he watched her wrap the garments around the child’s body.

‘No doubt it’s the shock that has chased the warmth from
her. We mustn’t allow her to become chilled.’ Kathryn appeared to be so completely focused upon the little girl that she betrayed not the slightest inhibition at her partially disrobed state and spoke as if tending an injured child was an everyday occurrence in her life.

Lord Ravensmede stared at what had been exposed by the missing fichu. He stared at the tender skin above the shabby dress’s neckline. He stared as he had never stared at any woman before. And the expression on his face was not one of lust or desire; rather, shock more aptly described the sensation. Shock that was rapidly progressing to anger. For Kathryn Marchant’s skin bore marks that should adorn no woman.

‘Nicholas.’ A firm hand touched to his shoulder. Elderly green eyes gazed down into his, and he saw in them the reflection of what he felt. Lady Maybury gave a barely perceptible nod of her head before subtly drawing her grandson’s attention to the rapidly massing crowd.

An indefinable curse growled from the Viscount of Ravensmede before he hastily shrugged off his coat and swept it around Kathryn’s shoulders.

Wide grey eyes met his with blatant surprise. ‘My lord? There is no—’

Ravensmede smoothly cut her off. ‘It would not do for
you
to catch a chill, Miss Marchant.’

‘But it’s a warm day and…’

The full force of his powerful gaze turned upon her. Anger spurred his actions and hardened his voice. Those marks, in faded hues of blue and purple, green and yellow, were still vivid enough against the white of her skin. Bruising. Made perhaps a week or so ago. Made by cruel fingers, if the patterning was anything to go by. What the hell had happened to her? Who was the scoundrel that had hit her? He slammed the brakes on the route his thoughts were taking. Hyde Park was neither the time nor the place.

He was brought back to reality by his grandmother’s voice.
‘Wrap the child in one of my travelling blankets. There’s plenty warmth in those.’

His eyes fleetingly met Kathryn Marchant’s once more, before he gathered up the urchin in his arms, complete with Miss Marchant’s draping clothing, and walked to the carriage. ‘I’ll have Dr Porter treat the child at the house.’ And, so saying, he deposited the small bundle into one of his grandmother’s travelling blankets, ensured that both ladies were safely aboard, and set off for Berkeley Square.

Kathryn’s eyes opened wide at the magnificent mansion before her. Ravensmede House was quite the grandest abode she had ever seen. And this was only one of his lordship’s properties. She did not dare to think of all of his other houses. The image of one of London’s most infamous rake-hells carrying the swaddled bundle with such care up the grand stone stairs would stay with her for ever. In that moment it seemed that the summer breeze had stilled, and her breathing too. The liquid warmth of tenderness erupted in her heart. It was obvious that there was very much more to Lord Ravensmede than his reputation suggested.

Ravensmede withdrew the toe of his boot from the fender and his elbow from the mantelpiece, and turned to face the drawing room chairs in which both Kathryn Marchant and his grandmother were seated. ‘Dr Porter has been up there for some considerable time. I hope that the child’s injuries are not worse than we thought.’

The dowager arched a quizzical eyebrow at her grandson.

Ravensmede seemed not to notice. ‘Little Maggie seemed most reassured by Miss Marchant. Perhaps if Miss Marchant were to go to her…But no, I’m being too presumptuous…’

Kathryn carefully replaced the fine china cup upon the ornate saucer. ‘No, not at all, Lord Ravensmede. I should have thought of such a thing myself. It was very kind of your housekeeper to
sit with Maggie, but the poor child will be feeling frightened and alone.’ She brushed down her skirts and rose, all the while remembering similar feelings from the years following her mother and sister’s deaths. It was not something that she was content to let any child suffer. She pushed the memories away and concentrated on the child lying up in one of Lord Ravensmede’s guest bedchambers. ‘If you do not mind, I will stay with her until the doctor is finished.’

‘Of course, Miss Marchant,’ Ravensmede said politely. ‘It’s for the best.’

He reached over and rang the bell.

He did not speak again until the maid had arrived and escorted Kathryn from the drawing room.

‘Well?’ the dowager enquired of her grandson.

Ravensmede moved to sit on the sofa close by his grandmother’s chair. ‘Well,’ he threw back at her. ‘Judging from the bruises covering her neck and chest, I think that someone has tried to throttle Miss Marchant.’

‘I’m not blind, boy!’ she snorted. ‘I saw them all right. I’m quite sure half of London did too when she whipped off her spencer and fichu in the middle of Hyde Park!’

‘She was trying to help the child.’

‘And exposing herself in the process.’

‘She was unaware of what she was doing.’ Ravensmede’s eyes darkened. ‘It would seem that I’m required once more to call upon Henry Marchant. The man is in need of guidance when it comes to his treatment of Miss Marchant.’ He cracked his knuckles and balled one hand to a fist.’

‘And have the whole of London gossip as to why the bachelor Viscount of Ravensmede is intervening in that man’s treatment of his niece. Damn it, Nick, you don’t even know if Henry Marchant’s your man. She might have got the bruises elsewhere.’ Lady Maybury drained the tea from her cup and swiftly refilled it.

‘Indeed she might have. But as her uncle, it’s his responsibility to ensure her safety. Whether he lifted his hands to her or not, the blame still lies with him.’

The dowager watched her grandson closely.

‘I’ll be damned if I just deliver her back into his hands. I suspect that his wife lies behind the problem. Mrs Marchant had her niece in the kitchen and laundering the bed-linen, as if she were a blasted maid of all.’ Belatedly he remembered to whom he was talking. ‘Please excuse my language,’ he muttered.

Nothing had stirred Nicholas to such a passion in a very long time. Lady Maybury’s focus sharpened. ‘You seem to have developed rather a concern with Miss Marchant.’

Ravensmede lay back languidly and stretched his legs out before him. ‘What I’m concerned with is righting an injustice,’ he said in a lazy tone. ‘Hitting a woman goes far beyond the pale for any man, least of all the most charitable Mr Henry Marchant.’

‘I agree entirely, but you had no notion of Kathryn’s bruises when you asked me to act as chaperon.’

‘I enjoy her company. She’s an interesting woman.’

‘And an attractive one.’

‘A very attractive one.’ Ravensmede met his grandmother’s gaze.

‘Her mother was a Thornley of Overton,’ she said. ‘Kathryn Marchant is a lady. And a young, unmarried lady at that.’

Ravensmede knew the turn the dowager’s thoughts were taking. ‘She is indeed. I do not mean to ruin her, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Then what exactly is your interest in the gel? Marriage?’

A dark eyebrow quirked in disbelief. ‘Certainly not. I like Miss Marchant, and suspected her situation was unhappy, although I had no notion of the extent of her mistreatment. My interest in the girl, as you so aptly put it, is purely philanthropic. Would you have me turn a blind eye to her suffering?’

They looked at one another for a moment longer, before
Lady Maybury finally said, ‘So what exactly is it that you are proposing?’

Ravensmede’s mouth formed a charming smile, and then he proceeded to explain his plan in full.

A
soft knock at the door heralded Kathryn’s return.

Lord Ravensmede slipped from the room to speak with the physician.

Lady Maybury patted the empty chair by her side. ‘Come and sit here, Miss Marchant. Tell me how the child fares.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kathryn, and sat down where the dowager indicated. ‘The doctor says that Maggie’s leg is not broken, only bruised. As Lord Ravensmede said, she’s had a very lucky escape.’

‘Lucky, indeed,’ said her ladyship.

‘She doesn’t seem too distressed, but the poor little thing is exhausted. The doctor says that she needs rest. She was dozing off as I came away.’