Regency Rumours/A Scandalous Mistress/Dishonour And Desire (43 page)

She could not deny it, but what brand of freedom did such men offer when their world resembled a giant playground? Could a man like him be taken seriously as the father of her children? ‘Special licence?’ she said, not quite believing him.

‘Relatives in the church,’ he said. ‘My bishop-uncle will procure one for me, for sure. What is it? You’ve not accepted Lady Ensdale’s invitation, have you?’

‘Not for myself.’ She sighed, gustily, venting a sudden anger like a breeze before a storm. ‘I was
supposed
to have had some choice in the matter,’ she snapped. ‘Now it’s a special licence. What next will it be, I wonder? A bottle of laudanum and a straitjacket?’

He laughed. ‘Steady. Don’t take it hard. I understand your preference to be wooed more slowly, but that will come later without your family offering advice from the sidelines. Would you not prefer that?’

‘I have singing engagements. I cannot ignore them.’

‘You don’t have to. We shall go together. I shall be your chaperon-manager-husband and whenever the pianist imbibes too freely I shall take over. Think of it,’ he whispered. ‘We made music together. We can do it again whenever you wish it. I want you, Miss Caterina
Chester, and I mean to have you.’ His fierce words held her to the spot, though she ought to have walked away rather than listen to such brazen verbal lovemaking. ‘You want to know why the haste?’ he went on. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. When a passionate and beautiful woman jilts not one, but two titled hopefuls and declares that there is no man good enough for her, what red-blooded male with a string of successes under his belt would not rise to that kind of bait, I ask you? If you’d been seriously gap-toothed, a miss-prissy without any spunk, I might not be so keen. But you’re not, are you, Miss Chester? You’re a high-flyer. A cracker. A top-notch with—’

‘Thank you, Sir Chase. I think you’ve made your point.’

‘With a voice like a choir of angels and a passion that needs a man, a
real
man. I know how to take you in hand—’

‘Please … you’ll be heard.’ She looked around in alarm.

‘And make you responsive to me.’

‘Are you talking about me or a horse?’ she whispered.

‘About you. You know I am. You’re trembling.’

She gulped, unable to look up at him. ‘I’m … I’m cold. We must go in.’

Neither of them moved. Above them, bats swooped and squeaked through dancing clouds of midges. Voices murmured. Something rippled the lake, making rings of silver. He touched her fingertips with his, sending shocks through her body.

‘Well?’ he said, very softly.

‘You place me in an impossible position, sir.’

‘You were in an impossible position when we first met, with nowhere to practise except in someone else’s
house. I’m offering you a way out of that with as much space as you could wish for and a future as Lady Boston. Take your courage in your hands. Take me on, Caterina.’

‘And your assurances? Have you none to offer me?’

‘I want yours first.’

‘When we get back to Richmond.’

‘You’ll give me an answer then? Wednesday morning?’

‘I’ll give you my answer on Wednesday. Or Father will.’

Raising her hand to his lips, he came close enough for her to see how he looked at her over the knuckles, making her wish his kiss had been elsewhere. ‘Then I wish you a safe journey home. I shall be following you to make sure of it, so you’ll have my company at the posting inns, whether you wish it or not.’

She made no reply to that and, because it was dark, she knew that her smile would not be seen as they strolled back to the house.

Lady Dorna greeted her with some relief and, Caterina thought, the slightest suggestion of guilt as she handed her a glass of wine. Casting an eye over Sir Chase’s wide retreating back, she lifted an eyebrow. ‘D’ye need some help?’ she whispered.

Thoughtfully, Caterina studied the candour in the bright blue eyes. Lady Dorna might have her unpredictable moments but her intentions were good, her moralising rarely in evidence, and her womanly foibles still pristine after much use. ‘Yes,’ she whispered back. ‘I do. Shall we talk later?’

Lady Dorna’s eyes widened with mischief. ‘Oh, yes!’ she breathed. ‘Come over here. You look as if you need some food. Where did you get to?’

‘Just talking,’ she said.

***

Leaving Sara behind the next morning was for the two of them an unusually emotional event, for the young heart had been truly netted by the eligible Constantine and, although nothing direct was said about Caterina’s role in their future, Sara’s face was bright with hope that their path would soon be cleared for marriage. The long return journey to Richmond gave Caterina plenty of time to dwell on the prospect of making her sister happy, and her parents also, though the same could not be said about her attitude to her brother, Harry. He had come out of it better than any of them.

After mulling over the pressures being brought to bear on her, Caterina’s thoughts moved up a notch to how she might soothe her resentments by making her inevitable acceptance of Sir Chase as fraught with discomfort,
his
discomfort, as
she
was feeling over the shabby conduct of the three males, two of them her own family. It was unlikely that she would be able to aggravate her father more than she had done already, nor would he ever know how her respect for him had diminished as a result of this latest edict. He was obviously drinking too much.

But Sir Chase was the one for whom she could, if she really tried, make the winning of his wager less straightforward than either of the men expected it to be, and the rest of the journey was spent in short-listing several ideas intended to level the score. If only she had not begun to find him so heart-stoppingly attractive, the proposed discomforts would be more satisfyingly one-sided.

Their overnight stay at the White Hart in Winchester gave the travellers something quite unusual to occupy their conversation, however, for it was there that
the news reached them of Prime Minister Spencer Percival’s brutal assassination in the lobby of the House of Commons, and that Lord Liverpool had taken over at short notice as the head of the Tory government.

Lord Rayne, who had purposely withheld his announcement regarding his proposed visit to Brighton until nearer the end of the journey, now allowed that event to disappear from his itinerary altogether at the prospect of being needed in the House of Lords with his father and brother. To give all the early support that lords were expected to give a new Prime Minister and to attend the funeral of the previous one, they would have to be in London. The change to Lord Rayne’s plans was accepted as a matter of course not only by him but also by Sir Chase, and no more was said to anyone about Brighton.

By sheer coincidence, the possibility of a hasty and impromptu flight to her retired governess at Brighton happened to be at the very top of Caterina’s new ‘list of obstacles’ compiled during the journey. She and Sara had visited dear Miss Vincent every year so far and another visit was due, even though she would receive no warning of it. Miss Vincent had never in the least minded being made use of, and Brighton would be the most perfect place in which to escape for a week or so, while Sir Chase scoured the vicinity for his bride-to-be.

W
ith this intention fixed in her mind and very little time to set the wheels in motion, she took the chance to speak to Lady Dorna in more detail as they shared a cosy room at the White Hart. Lifting the linen bedsheet to her nose, Caterina sniffed delicately. ‘Do you suppose this has been washed since it was last used?’

‘Look for the creases,’ Lady Dorna advised, flinging the sheet back with a flourish. ‘That’s the best way to tell.’

Satisfied that the linen smelled of nothing more personal than woodsmoke and that all creases were at right-angles, the conversation reverted to Caterina’s plan to abscond. ‘To my old governess in Brighton,’ she said. ‘I have a sudden urge to visit her.’

‘Of course you do, my dear,’ the lady gurgled, needing no explanation. She tied a frilly nightcap over her blonde curls. ‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. Very early. Dawn, if possible. The problem is that I cannot take Father’s coach without him knowing where I’m to be found, and I don’t wish to be found until I’m ready to be.’

‘Quite right, too. You cannot take that old coach of your father’s anyway because it’s not nearly stylish enough, and if you’re going to make a dash for it, you need to do it in style, dearest. I cannot think why Hannah agrees to ride in it, except that it’s all right for infants to be sick in, I suppose. What you need, dear Cat, is my new post-chaise and team of greys. Brighton is only a half-day’s drive away. If you set off early enough you could be there by midday and nobody but me the wiser.’

‘How well you understand,’ Caterina said, hugging her. ‘I really ought to tell Aunt Amelie where I’m going, but I fear she’d be bound to tell Father.’

‘No need to tell anyone. I know how important it is to keep a man on the run before you accept him.’ Laughing merrily, she threw herself into the feather mattress, beckoning to her maid for her cup of chocolate. ‘I’ll send it round to Paradise Road at six in the morning the day after tomorrow. How will that do?’

‘You are so kind. Thank you.’ Climbing into bed beside her, Caterina kissed Lady Dorna’s pretty cheek while wondering how long she was used to keeping a man on the run before he was allowed to climb in where she herself was climbing. ‘Our secret,’ she said.

‘Our secret,’ agreed the conspirator. ‘Hannah has changed,’ she added, between sips. ‘She used to be such a dear little goose.’

‘Mm … m,’ said Caterina. ‘Father has changed, too.’

The reception awaiting her at Richmond on the following evening was not what she had been dreading, for Mr and Mrs Chester were genuinely pleased to welcome her home after the less than cordial departure. While they were a little taken aback that Sara had been
left behind with the Ensdales, they kept their concerns to themselves, at least for the time being. To Caterina, they were bent on sweetening the bitter pill which all three of them knew she would be obliged to swallow, helped down with her favourite roast duck in orange sauce and juicy tips of asparagus.

By the time the sweet baked apples and cream had arrived, the first hesitant steps had been taken towards the main subject, which left her in no doubt that they knew Sir Chase had been one of the Sevrington Hall house party. Had they got on well together? Was she any nearer to liking him? Had he made a good impression? The questions were carefully probed, rather like a surgeon looking for a single lead shot in an open wound.

It was all so absurd, she thought. What did it matter to them what she felt about the man? They had already decided what she must do, and so had she, yet it was with a strange stab of satisfaction that she noted their astonishment, to put it mildly, at her unexpected request. Would her father kindly inform Sir Chase that she had decided to accept his offer of marriage? He would be calling some time tomorrow for his answer but, in case they believed she had done this out of any sense of duty, they were mistaken; she had done it for Sara’s sake. Fascinated, she watched their spoons halt in midair, then lower, perfectly synchronised, mouths agape like fishes.

It was less than the complete truth, but she felt no shame. Of what use would it be to tell them how, having welcomed his lovemaking in a moment of weakness, she dare not forfeit the chance of sampling it again in the future? Nor did she want them to know that Sir Chase’s uniqueness was a factor in her decision. She even refrained from mentioning the unethical tactics her
father was using to get himself out of a sticky mess, for Hannah knew nothing of the debt, and Mr Chester’s scruples seemed to be disappearing along with his fatherly responsibilities. It was too late now to get back at them with more verbal protests.

Suddenly, she could hardly wait to get away again.

‘It’s all for the best, dear Cat,’ Hannah said, after the meal.

She had never been a beauty, but her quiet manner and delicate features, her prematurely greying mid-brown hair and worried expression made her look more than her twenty-nine years, though the rapid production of children had taken its toll of both looks and energy. Hannah and her stepdaughter could hardly have been less alike, and now the friendship they had once enjoyed was strained by circumstances which, had Mr Chester managed his assets more wisely for his wife’s sake rather than his irresponsible son’s, could have been improved considerably. It was not Caterina’s place to tell him how to manage his affairs, but nor did she wish to make him feel any better about his treachery. For this reason as much as any other, her plans for the following day were divulged to no one except Millie, who had already begun packing clothes for a week.

‘It’s certainly best for Sara,’ said Caterina. ‘Is that what you meant?’ The candle’s flame grew steady as she placed a hand on the polished banister rail and felt a child-produced stickiness under her fingers.

‘Best for us all, I think,’ said Hannah, casting a furtive glance along the deserted hallway. The distant clink of glass from the dining-room caused the ghost of a frown to pass over her eyes, then the press of a finger to her lips as she leaned forward to whisper. ‘We shall be needing the room, you see, when you and Sara go.
I don’t mean it’s good that you’ll be going, dear. Not that. No. Room for more cots.’

‘More … cots? You mean, you’re … expecting … a happy event?’

Hannah nodded, lips compressed and no accompanying gladness in her eyes. ‘Yes. Again.’ Her worried pale eyes searched Caterina’s face for signs of comfort before she was drawn into one tender womanly arm and held close. There was no need for Caterina to ask how she felt about it. ‘A bit too soon, really,’ Hannah whispered over the comforting shoulder. ‘I’d have liked a bit longer to get over the last one, but I wanted babies and that’s what I’m getting. Can’t grumble.’

‘Will it be twins again?’ said Caterina, holding the skinny shoulders.

‘I hope not. I didn’t find it easy.’

‘Is Father pleased?’

The eyes opened, smiling at last. ‘Oh, I think so. He says it’ll be all right. We’ll manage somehow.’

‘You’d manage better with some extra help, Hannah.’

The smile faded. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘When is it due?’

‘October some time. Will you be … er?’

‘Married by then? Oh, yes, and Sara, too, I expect.’

Satisfied, Hannah nodded. ‘Tomorrow, I shall meet Sir Chase again after all these years, then we’ll sit down together and talk about the details, shall we?’

‘Yes. That would be nice. Good night, Hannah. Get some rest.’ Once more, she took the fragile figure into a one-armed hug and placed a kiss upon her cheek while picturing the three of them sitting down to talk about it, asking each other what could possibly be the cause of her flying off like that without telling anyone.

***

For her, the night was not restful, her mind being in a state of constant conflict, wanting him, not wanting him, recalling over and over the pressure of his arms, his mouth luring her into the unknown. She was relieved to see the first light of dawn, though it came streakily through stormy clouds and bursts of rain against the windows.

The problem of manhandling a trunk and two suitcases down the stairs without waking the rest of the household was solved by the two kitchen lads whose adoration of Caterina came in useful at such times. Her dismay at the timely appearance of Lady Dorna’s new post-chaise, however, made her wonder whether the dear lady had quite understood her need for circumspection or whether she was playing a different kind of game, for the equipage was not meant to be missed in any crowd.

For sheer display, the post-chaise would not have looked out of place in the Lord Mayor’s Show; the bright tulip-pink chassis was picked out with leaf-green details, with black wheels and cyphers on the doors, silver-plated lamps and door handles, furnished inside with lace and quilting. The postilions, one on the nearside horse and one behind on the platform, wore deep pink and silver livery with white breeches and black velvet caps, and the horses … ah … the horses! Correctly, Lady Dorna had called them greys, but this pair were snow white and perfectly matched, their manes plaited and threaded with pink and silver ribbons. Never had Caterina wished to draw such attention to herself when she was travelling, and even less so at a time like this.

If one could ignore the stares, the waves and grins, the whoops of derision from the young men in phaetons
and such, the stares and shouts from the loaded London-to-Brighton stagecoach, then it could be said that Caterina and her maid travelled in style as well as luxury. At Reigate they were shown immediately into a private parlour for breakfast while the horses were rested, and at Cuckfield the same courtesy prevailed except for the extra attentions of two persistent young blades who took the lack of chaperon as an invitation to friendship. She was glad to leave Cuckfield, glad, too, that Lady Dorna had sent two postilions for her safety instead of the usual one. The squalls of rain were passing over and, by the time they were past Scare Hill, the sun was playing hide-and-seek with thunder-clouds, lighting up the sea like a sheet of silver.

The house belonging to Miss Vincent was in Montpelier Place and not for one moment had Caterina anticipated anything but the ecstatic welcome she would receive after her journey. But her repeated use of the brass knocker in the form of a Lincoln Imp produced no more than a raised window from the house next door through which a maid called to say that Miss Vincent had gone over to Hove to tend her elder sister and no one knew when she might return. The window remained open as two more faces came to stare at the pink ensemble before it moved off down the hill towards the sea.

‘Now what?’ said Caterina. ‘Is it to be the Old Ship or the Castle Inn?’

‘You stayed at the Castle once before, Miss Caterina,’ said Millie, ‘and the proprietor knows you well enough. And the stage will have reached the Old Ship by now. It’ll be bursting at the seams.’

‘So it will. We’ll try the Castle, then. Open the little window behind you and tell William, will you?’

Between the Steyne and the Prince Regent’s Pavilion,
the Castle Inn occupied a position where the arrival of the gaudy post-chaise was at once the centre of attention from every quarter, causing a rush of speculation about the identity of the travellers. If this was in direct opposition to Caterina’s intentions, there was now very little she could do about it, her stylish gown of soft brown velvet and matching bonnet adding to the impression of wealth and breeding. For another thing, she now lacked the companion she had expected to have beside her on her excursions, and although Brighton rules were lax compared to London, Miss Vincent’s company would have helped to keep both gossip and unwanted overtures at bay. It was a severe setback to her plan. It also jolted her into realising that she ought not to have taken her old governess’s hospitality for granted.

Determined to make the best of things, she set about hiring a room, after charging William with a message for Lady Dorna asking for the chaise to be sent for her in four days rather than seven, by which time her funds would have run out, even if she were careful. Though she might have spent time searching for a more modest lodging in which to stay, she felt more secure at the Castle with all its facilities and a proprietor who knew her.

From her corner window, she watched the pebbly beach washed by waves of angry white surf before another heavy spatter of rain hit the glass and ran gurgling to the gutter. As she turned away, a high curricle drawn by four startling chestnuts bowled smartly down the Steyne, round the corner into North Street, disappearing from view in the time it took for Caterina to take her cup of tea from Millie and turn back to the window. Had she seen it, it is doubtful whether she would have
felt so serene, as Millie began to unpack her clothes, or whether she would have responded so positively to a knock on the door asking if all was well.

The squall passed over and bright sunshine dazzled the wet cobblestones as Caterina, wrapped against the stiff breeze, walked down the Steyne towards the wide expanse of shining blue-grey. Along the cliff’s top, she bent her head into the wind that saucily flattened the fine layers of cambric against her body and snatched at the veil wound round the brim of her high-feathered poke-bonnet. The peach-coloured velvet spencer afforded her little protection from the chill, but she had always welcomed the elements in whatever form, and to feel the salt air buffeting her face brought laughter to her lips, urging her to whirl and skip in its blustering male embrace. She would have brought Millie with her, but the maid’s lungs had never quite recovered from her neglectful years of apprenticeship to a Richmond dressmaker, and her cough had returned with a vengeance.

It was a pity, in a way, yet Caterina was content to be in her own company, to watch the tattered lacy ribbons of surf overlap and rattle upon the shore. People passed unnoticed, for the certainty of being unrecognised in Brighton relaxed the tensions she had brought with her, and she was now free to dismiss the last pangs of regret at the concern her parents might be feeling at her sudden disappearance. Perhaps they would feel that she had insulted Sir Chase by her behaviour, but her father could not be unaware of her own sense of outrage at the method they had both used to coerce her.