Regency Debutantes (53 page)

Lady Finlay stared short-sightedly at Kathryn. ‘I can’t say that I remember meeting you before, Miss Marchant.’ She peered long and hard. ‘Have we been introduced?’

Kathryn raised her chin a notch and endured the scrutiny. ‘No, indeed, my lady, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’

‘My cousin was present at your recent ball as my companion, but that was before she was persuaded into Lady Maybury’s establishment.’ The words were innocent enough, but no one present was in any doubt as to the intention behind them. Charlotte Marchant intended to set her cousin firmly back in her place.

‘Indeed,’ drawled Lord Ravensmede from Kathryn’s side. He looked at Lottie with an air of utter boredom. ‘My grandmother insisted that Miss Marchant is such delightful company that she simply would not hear of anyone else as her companion.’

Kathryn felt her hand being tucked into Lady Maybury’s arm. ‘Such a lovely gel,’ said the dowager.

With such overt championing, who would dare to stand against it? Certainly not Lady Finlay. Especially when Lady
Maybury leaned forward and hissed in her loudest stage whisper, ‘Her mother was one of the Overton Thornleys.’ The snowy white curls nodded knowingly.

Anna Marchant looked as if she would have liked to throttle the dear old dowager there and then. ‘Ah, here is Mr Dalton. Now we can all take our seats for tonight’s entertainment. I’m sure that no one will be disappointed with my darling girl’s performance.’

‘I’m sure that young Lettie will not let you down,’ said Lady Maybury.

Lottie’s baby-blue eyes squinted in displeasure and she looked demandingly at her mama.

‘Lottie,’ said Mrs Marchant with emphasis.

The dowager’s smile contained all the warmth of a hooded cobra. ‘Yes, indeed, dear little Lettie. Let us hope she’s as talented as her cousin.’

‘Her name is Charlotte, which the family shorten to
Lottie.’
Anna Marchant positively snapped the sharp retort.

Aristocratic cheeks were sucked in all round and a knowing look passed between the ladies of the group as they ambled to take their seats in Mrs Marchant’s drawing room.

Kathryn found herself seated between Lord Ravensmede and Lady Maybury in the row of chairs furthest back in the room. His lordship sat closest to the door, as if he hoped to make a quick escape should Lottie’s musical ability prove not to his taste. Kathryn hoped fervently that he would not leave. Just his presence made her feel safer, allaying the worst of her fears regarding her aunt and the house in Green Street.

She sneaked a look up at him through downcast lashes. He was relaxed in the chair, as if he had not a
care in the world, long legs stretched out before him, dark hair worn fashionably short, and an expression of bored indifference upon his face. His attire was immaculate as usual. A deep blue tail-coat, above which showed a white high-pointed collar and a snow-white
neckcloth tied in a simple but stylish knot. Her eyes slid lower to where one hand rested on his thigh. A light sprinkling of dark hair showed on the back of the hand. His nails were short and clean, his skin a light honey coloration. It looked to be a strong squarish hand; a hand used to taking what it wanted, and one that Kathryn knew was capable of the most tender caress. Her abdomen gave a little flutter and she swiftly moved her eyes on from his hand to the thigh beneath it. That did not help matters. Not when the thigh, encased in tight buff-coloured buckskin, was so long and muscular, and the front of his coat was so very short. Her cheeks grew warm and she quickly raised her gaze to find herself staring directly into his eyes. Something warm quivered deep inside her. He smiled, and the quiver became a somersault.

‘Are you comfortable enough, Miss Marchant?’ There was something in his look that made her think that he had more than an inkling of her thoughts.

‘Yes, thank you, my lord, quite comfortable.’ She nodded and glanced away, unwilling to let him see just how much he affected her.

Fortuitously Mr Dalton sounded the first notes upon the piano and then Lottie began to sing, and Kathryn was saved from any further embarrassment.

L
ottie had just finished her third rendition to rapturous applause when Anna Marchant threaded her way quietly to the back of the drawing room, to stand beside the Viscount of Ravensmede’s chair. She ignored Ravensmede, smiled sweetly at his grandmother and leaned towards Kathryn. ‘Dearest niece,’ she whispered, ‘may I have a minute of your time?’

Kathryn’s heart began to thud within her chest and a certain uneasiness started to squirm within. A sense of foreboding rippled down her spine. For one awful moment she was seized by the sudden overwhelming desire to just run through the door and keep on running—far away from Aunt Anna and this house. Her eyes flickered towards the door longingly. And then common sense prevailed. Kathryn knew very well that there was no way out. She could not refuse to speak to her aunt. So she took a deep breath, looked at the dowager, and said quietly, ‘Please excuse me, my lady.’ Then she nodded and rose to follow Mrs Marchant.

Ravensmede stood to let her leave. As she squeezed past she heard the silk of her skirt slide against his legs, and smelled the clean citrus scent of him. She looked up to read the unspoken question of concern in his eyes, and tried to hide the fear in her own. Then she had passed him and was following Aunt Anna across the floor and out of the drawing room.

Anna Marchant waited until Kathryn was seated in the small room before closing the door behind her. The click of the latch echoed in the silence.

Kathryn recognised it as her aunt and uncle’s own personal parlour. It was much smaller than the drawing room and nowhere near as ornate. The décor was a cool combination of duck-egg blue and pale grey, with no hint of warmth or welcome. A small pile of tinder, sticks and coal dross had been set up within the hearth in readiness for a fire. The temperature of the evening outside meant it had not been lit; the chill in the parlour suggested that it should have. Kathryn suppressed a shiver. Nothing of the summer warmth pervaded the little room. The light of the candles in the wall sconces flickered within the gloom. She noticed that the heavy blue curtains had been pulled to shut out the daylight. Everything about the place felt dim and dank and claustrophobic. Her fingers smoothed nervously over the silk of her skirt. ‘You wished to speak to me, Aunt?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Marchant took the chair between Kathryn and the door. Now that they were alone all pretence of amiability had disappeared. Her eyes were a cold hard blue; her lips pursed to a thin, narrow line. ‘I wish to know exactly how matters are between you and Lady Maybury.’

Distrust tutored Kathryn’s words. ‘Why, they are very well indeed. Lady Maybury is both kind and thoughtful. I could not ask for more.’ She waited to see what this game was about.

‘And how fares the child?’

‘The child?’ Kathryn stared at her aunt.

‘The child that necessitated such a sudden and immediate move to Ravensmede House.’

Kathryn’s fingers pleated the violet silk of her skirt between them. ‘Lady Maybury’s house is in Upper Grosvenor Street,’ she said carefully. ‘Maggie, the little girl who was involved in the carriage accident, is recovered and back living with her family.’

‘How fortuitous.’

Kathryn said nothing. A horrible suspicion was forming.

‘Does Lord Ravensmede spend much time visiting Upper Grosvenor Street?’

‘No.’ The violet silk twisted tighter in her hands.

‘But I’ve heard he’s inordinately fond of his grandmother.’

Kathryn could guess where this was leading. Perspiration beaded cold upon her skin. ‘We’re missing Lottie’s singing.’

‘So we are.’ Anna Marchant smiled a vicious little smile. ‘Then I had best come straight to the point, hadn’t I?’ The faint strains of music and a high pitched melodic voice drifted through the barrier of the door. ‘Certain rumours have come to my ears, Kathryn, rumours involving you and some very improper behaviour.’

The blood rushed in Kathryn’s ears. She felt the tripping of her heart. Her eyes widened in shock.

‘If you are intent on destroying your reputation then I have a right to know exactly what you are up to.’

Kathryn rose from her chair, her cheeks scalded with embarrassment and anger. ‘How could you say such a thing? Any rumours to which you may have listened are false.’

‘Don’t give me that, you little bitch,’ snapped her aunt. ‘I know that you’re lying; it’s written all over your face.’

‘I think I should return to Lady Maybury now,’ said Kathryn with a great deal more control than she felt.

‘Oh, no, I haven’t finished with you yet, miss.’

Kathryn hid her growing fear and made to move towards the door, only to find her way blocked by her aunt.

‘You’re going nowhere until you tell me exactly what’s been going on.’

‘Aunt Anna—’

‘Don’t “Aunt Anna” me! You leave here with Ravensmede and his grandmother on the premise of going for a drive in Hyde Park, and the next minute you’re installed in the old woman’s house as her companion, without so much as a by your leave. The first that your uncle knows of it is a letter from Ravensmede!’ Mrs Marchant advanced towards her niece.

Kathryn instinctively backed away.

‘Do you think I know nothing of his reputation?’ The older woman’s mouth twisted to a snarl.

‘The child’s leg was injured in her fall, and Lady Maybury was in need of immediate assistance,’ said Kathryn with force.

‘And what of Ravensmede?’

‘He could not be expected to look after a four-year-old girl.’

‘But he could look after you, miss, very well indeed.’

Kathryn stiffened at the insult. ‘You malign both his lordship and me!’ She thrust aside the memory of just exactly what she and the Viscount had shared.

Mrs Marchant stepped closer. ‘He’s the only man to have shown an interest in you, though God knows why he should have taken notice of so plain a creature. And why else would her ladyship have taken you up? It stands to reason, if you’re indulging Ravensmede’s interest.’

‘Lady Maybury would never stoop to such a scandal. Her reputation is beyond reproach.’ The eyes that were normally a clear pale grey became dark and stormy.

‘Lucky for us all,’ said Anna Marchant, ‘else your reputation would be in tatters, miss.’ She took another step towards her niece.

Kathryn felt the press of the wall against her back. ‘My reputation is unblemished.’ A sliver of guilt stuck in her throat.

Mrs Marchant stepped closer still. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard, and I mean to have the truth from you, you selfish little trollop. You have no thought in your head for anyone other than yourself.’

Kathryn scanned the room for an escape route, but the only way out was the same way through which she had entered.

‘If you cast your reputation to the gutter then what of Lottie? Innocent of all blame, yet she’ll suffer just the same.’

‘Aunt, you’re mistaken—’

Anna Marchant’s hands closed hard around the tops of Kathryn’s arms. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to, girl, or, so help me, I’ll have the truth from you one way or another!’

‘Leave me be!’ Kathryn struggled to free herself, but her aunt was much larger and stronger.

‘Tell me!’ Anna Marchant said again and tightened her grip.

Kathryn’s ordeal went no further: the door of the parlour swung open.

Anna Marchant spun to face the intruder, her hands dropping to her sides.

‘Mrs Marchant,’ said the man’s voice, but for all its drawl there was in it an unmistakable flint-like quality.

Anna Marchant flushed to the roots of her golden hair. ‘Lord Ravensmede,’ she said, unsure of quite how much the Viscount had seen or indeed heard.

His expression was one of cold contempt and every line of his face held the promise of retribution. Mrs Marchant surreptitiously backed away towards the corner of the room.

His gaze slid to Kathryn who still stood, as if pinioned, against the wall. Her face had drained to a powder white. ‘Miss Marchant, my grandmother has need of you.’ The words were innocent enough, but the tone was loaded with danger. ‘You appear to be somewhat distressed. Has someone upset you?’ His focus drifted questioningly towards Anna Marchant, and the colour of the woman’s cheeks darkened to a deep puce.

Kathryn’s hands kneaded at the violet silk. ‘No!’ she almost shouted, then more calmly, as if regaining control of her emotions, ‘No, I am quite well, thank you, my lord. I was just about to return to the drawing room.’

‘As I’m sure is Mrs Marchant,’ he said smoothly, and waited for the golden-haired woman to cross the floor before them. Anna Marchant did not look back. Only then did he place a supportive hand on the small of Kathryn’s back and guide her in her aunt’s wake. Lottie was still singing as they quietly settled back into their seats. No one commented on the ladies’ short absence.

Kathryn never knew how she made it through the rest of that evening. Certainly the knowledge that Lord Ravensmede was
never far from her side gave her strength. She could hazard a very good guess at what would have happened within that horrible little room had he not interrupted. A nausea was rising in her stomach and she longed for nothing more than to flee from the house in Green Street. One look at Lady Maybury’s face told her that was not possible. The dowager seemed to be in her element, relaying stories of Kathryn’s artistic abilities, introducing her new companion to all and sundry, ensuring that everyone knew just who Kathryn Marchant’s mother had been. Through it all Kathryn endured with a smile, a murmur of the right response, and an interested expression as the most trivial of stories were told; and all the while she was conscious of the Viscount standing so very close by, guarding her with his presence.

Strangely enough, at the end of the evening it was not Lottie’s musical achievements that were talked of by all the best people. Rather, the sudden emergence of the quietly refined Miss Kathryn Marchant, with her water-colour talents, held that coveted spot, thanks to Lady Maybury.

Anna Marchant had some inkling of the matter and it did not please her. ‘It was a mistake to invite your cousin,’ she conceded to her daughter in the few quiet minutes they had alone. ‘I learned nothing, and, because of that battleaxe dowager, Kathryn has managed to steal your thunder.’ She flicked a gaze at her daughter. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t you dare start crying. Do you want them talking of your hideous red blotchy face instead of tonight’s performance?’