About Rosemary Morris
Since I sat on my maternal grandfather’s knee while
he read to me and my mother read bedtime
stories to me have been addicted to
fiction. When I learned to read the tales of day and colourful illustrations of
past times fascinated me. As I grew older, I enjoyed many books set in the
past, a few were tear jerkers Heidi and Black Beauty, The Children of the New
Forest, the Anne of Green Gables series, and the Little White Horse by Elizabeth
Goudge. At school I excelled in English literature and history. I wrote my
first novel and signed a contract with a major publisher. Unfortunately, it did
not specify a date on which it would be published. The new editor didn’t like
it so it was not marketed. Despite disappointment after disappointment, I applied
the saying ‘if at first you don’t succeed try and try again’. Perseverance rewarded
me. I am delighted because BooksWeLove have published fifteen of my classic
historical romance novels, and a young adult multi-cultural novel. My seventeenth
one will make its debut this in September 2024.
About Tangled Love
Tangled
Love is the story of two great estates. The throne has been usurped by James
II’s daughter, Mary, and her husband William of Orange. In 1693, loyal to his
oath of allegiance, ten-year-old Richelda’s father must follow James to France.
Before
her father leaves, he gives her a ruby ring she will treasure and wear on a
chain round her neck. In return she swears an oath to try to regain their
ancestral home, Field House.
By
the age of eighteen, Richelda’s beloved parents are dead. She believes her
privileged life is over. At home in dilapidated Belmont House, her only
companions are her mother’s old nurse and her devoted dog, Puck. Clad in old
clothes she dreams of elegant gowns and trusts her childhood friend, a poor
parson’s son, who promised to marry her.
Richelda’s
wealthy aunt takes her to London and arranges her marriage to Viscount Chesney,
the new owner of Field House, where it is rumoured that there is treasure. If
she finds it, she hopes to ease their lives. However, while trying to find it
her life is in danger.
Prologue and Chapters One
to Three
1693
Nine-year-old
Richelda Shaw sat on the floor in her nursery. She pulled a quilt over her head
to block out the thunder pealing outside the ancient manor house, while an even
fiercer storm raged deep within. Eyes closed, she remained as motionless as a
marble statue.
Elsie,
her mother’s personal maid, removed the quilt from her head. “Stand up child,
there’s nothing to be frightened of. Come, your father’s waiting for you.”
Richelda
trembled. Until now Father’s short visits from France meant gifts and laughter.
This one made Mother cry while servants spoke in hushed tones.
Followed
by Elsie, Richelda hurried down the broad oak stairs. For a moment, she paused
to admire Lilies of the Valley in a Delft bowl. Only yesterday, she had picked
the flowers to welcome Father home, and then arranged them with tender care.
Now, the bowl stood on a chest, beneath a pair of crossed broadswords hanging
on the wall.
Elsie
opened the massive door of the great hall where Father waited at one side of an
enormous hearth. Richelda hesitated. Her eyes searched for her mother before
she walked across the floor, spread her skirts wide, and knelt before him.
Father
placed his right hand on her bent head. “Bless you, daughter; may God keep you
safe.”
He
smiled. “Stand up, child. Upon my word, sweetheart, your hair reminds me of a
golden rose. How glad I am to see roses bloom in these troubled times.”
Richelda
stood but dared not speak, for she did not know him well.
Putting
an arm round her waist, he drew her to him. “Come, do not be nervous of your
father, child. Tell me if you know King James II holds court in France while
his daughter, Mary, and William, his son-in-law, rule, after seizing his
throne?”
“Yes,
Mother told me we are well rid of King James and his Papist wife,” she piped
up, proud of her knowledge.
With
a sigh, Father lifted her onto his knee. “Richelda, I must follow His Majesty,
for I swore an oath of allegiance to him. Tell me, child, while King James
lives, how can I with honour swear allegiance to his disloyal daughter and her
husband?”
Unable
to think of a reply, she lowered her head, breathing in his spicy perfume.
Father
held her closer. “Your mother pleads with me to declare myself for William and
Mary. She begs me not to return to France, but I am obliged to serve King
James. Do you understand?”
As
she nodded, her cheek brushed against his velvet coat. “Yes, I understand, my
tutor told me why many gentlemen will not serve the new king and queen.”
“If
you remain in England, you will be safe. Bellemont is part of your mother’s
dowry, so I doubt it will be confiscated.”
If
she remained in England! Startled, she stared at him.
Smiling,
he popped her onto her feet. “We shall ride. I have something to show you.”
* * *
Before
long, they drew rein on the brow of a hill. Father pointed at a manor house in
the valley.
“Look
at our ancestral home, Field House. The Roundheads confiscated it soon after
the first King Charles’ execution. Richelda, I promised my father to do all in
my power to regain the property.”
Grey-faced,
he pressed his hand to his chest. “Alas, I have failed to keep my oath,” He
wheezed.
Richelda
not only yearned to help him keep his promise to her grandfather, but she also
wanted to find the gold and jewels which legend said her buccaneer ancestor,
Sir Nicholas, had hid.
She
waited for her father to breathe easy before she spoke. “If we found the
treasure trove you could buy Field House.”
“Ah,
you believe Sir Nicholas did not give all his plunder to Good Queen Bess,” he
teased.
“Elsie
told me legend says he hid some of his booty in Field House.” The thought of it
excited her. “In his old age, when Sir Nicholas retired from seafaring, is it
true that he put his ship’s figurehead, Lady Luck, in the great hall?”
“Yes,
for all I know she is still above a mighty fireplace carved with pomegranates,
our family’s device.”
“I
would like to see it.”
“One
day, perhaps you will. Now, tell me if you know our family motto.”
“Fortune
favours the brave.”
“Are
you brave, my little lady? Will you swear on the Bible to do all in your power
to regain Field House?”
To
please him, and excited by the possibility of discovering treasure, she nodded.
Chapter
One
Fothering
Place, London, England 1702
At
ease in his lodgings, Alban, Viscount Chesney, eyed his friend, Jack, Duke of
Hertfordshire, whose tall frame was clad in extravagant silk and velvet.
Gem-set rings, illuminated by brilliant candlelight, adorned his long fingers.
Why
did His Grace’s dark square face, with its cleft chin, look tense while he
toyed with his periwig?
His
dark amber eyes keen, Jack spoke. “My bailiff tells me you bought Field House.”
Chesney
knew all about Jack’s insatiable hunger for land. In fact, Jack rarely missed a
chance to add to his estates. “Yes, I did.” He kept his tone smooth.
Jack
swallowed the last of his wine. “I would have bought it but for my fool of a
bailiff who informed me too late of the sale.”
The
viscount beckoned to Roberts, his servant. “More wine for His Grace.” He placed
a hand over his glass when Roberts moved toward him.
Chesney
glanced round his small but comfortable book-lined room. Although Jack was the
most influential man and largest landowner in Hertfordshire, it had naught to
do with their friendship.
Jack
stretched his legs out toward the fire. “Will you sell Field House to me
although the building and land have fallen into a sad state of neglect?”
“No,
I look forward to restoring my estate. Do not argue with me; my mind is made
up.”
Jack’s
cheeks reddened. “Very well, but now you are my neighbour, you must visit me
whenever you wish.” He yawned. “The hour grows late. I will take my leave of
you.”
Chesney
stood. He bowed with mock formality. “I shall call on you with pleasure.”
They
smiled at each other as Jack stood.
Chesney
looked at Roberts. “Fetch our cloaks.”
With
an arm draped over Jack’s broad shoulders, Chesney stepped out of his lodgings.
He glanced at the darkened street, bade goodnight to Jack, and then hired a
sedan chair to take him to his mistress’ lodgings.
Once
there, Chesney skirted a pile of noxious matter, spilled from a leather bucket,
put out for night-soil men to collect, before beating a tattoo on the door of
her tall, narrow house.
A
pert maid, dressed in Madeleine’s cast-off finery, answered his summons.
“Good
day, Susie.”
She
curtsied. “Welcome, my lord.” Dimples deepened on either side of her mouth.
“Madam told me she hoped for a visit from you, my lord.”
“You
look well, Susie. I trust your brother is still in good health.”
“Yes,
my lord. Thank you, my lord. It’s more than kind of you to ask.”
Chesney
took off his hat. He tucked it under his arm, careless of a dashing white plume
curled round the black brim. “No need to announce me.”
Susie
did not protest when he marched up a short flight of stairs to Madeleine’s
bedchamber.
He
lingered on the threshold, remembering when he first met sensuous Madeleine on
the day her late husband, old Mister Purvey, came with a delegation to the
French court. Chesney sighed. He knew she had hoped to marry him after Mister
Purvey died in defence of her tarnished honour in a duel in Leicester Fields,
but he suspected he was not her only lover, so it would be out of the question
to marry her for fear she would cuckold him and pass a bastard son off as his
heir. Chesney rapped on the door, sure of his welcome. Without waiting for
permission, he entered the small room, took a taper from the mantelpiece, and
touched the lighted wick to the fire. He used the same flickering flame to
light tall wax candles in wall sconces. Immediately thick rugs, tapestries, and
brocade curtains were illuminated.
Madeleine
remained abed. “My lord.” She brushed back her wavy brown hair before she
extended her carefully tended hand to him.
“Madam,
by your leave.” Instead of kissing her hand, he sat on a chair by the hearth.
Maddy had aged since he first met her. Yet, with skin like polished ivory which
invited his touch, lips and cheeks the colour of apple blossoms, and
almond-shaped hazel eyes, he still appreciated her attractive features. As for
her long, elegant limbs and full breasts, he found no fault with them.
She
giggled while smoothing the lace-edged ruffles at the neck of her nightgown.
“Such formality, sir?”
“Madeleine.”
He addressed her by her full name instead of by her sobriquet, Maddy.
Her
eyes widened. “How serious you look. Has something untoward occurred?”
Poor
Maddy, not only did she demand too much of his time, but she also expected him
to pay for too many luxuries. Though he feared her hysterics, he refused to be
swayed. Coming to the point, despite his reluctance to cause her pain—for
throughout his life, it had never been his intention to hurt anyone either
deliberately or accidentally—he spoke. “I am sorry to grieve you, my dear, but
to quote Shakespeare, ‘parting is such sweet sorrow.’”
Thrusting
the covers aside, Maddy sprang out of bed. With her tiny hands outstretched,
she rushed toward him. “What do you mean, Chesney? Why quote words from Romeo
and Juliet?”
He
held out his hands to ward her off. “We must part.”
“No!
I love you. I cannot live without you.” She sank to the floor.
“I
doubt you love me.” He smoothed his face into an inscrutable mask.
Maddy’s
eyes filled with tears. “Chesney, since my husband died, I have been waiting
for you to propose marriage.”
If
she had never taken any other lover, he would have more sympathy with her, but
Maddy had been unfaithful to her elderly husband since she first married. His
nostrils flared. He doubted Maddy’s nature allowed her to remain faithful to
any man.
She
jumped up and rushed across the room to fling herself face down on her bed. “I
am not yet done with you for I do love you. I do! I do!” She sobbed, pounding a
plump pillow with clenched fists.
He
hesitated. Had he misjudged her feelings for him, by believing them to be
shallow? Even if he had, he could not marry such a woman.
“Have
I not made you happy?” Maddy twisted round to face him, hostility in her eyes.
Chesney
sought a way to help her accept his decision. “We enjoyed our bed sport, yet
you never quickened with child. As you know, duty requires me to father an
heir. No more tears. You told me a score of times you cannot abide puking
babes. What’s more, you always claimed thoughts of motherhood dismay you. If
you are honest, you will admit you could not tolerate your body thickening, so
I could never be brute enough to insist on fathering your child.”
Maddy
stared at him, wide-eyed. “You are mistaken, I would be happy to bear your
children.”
He
bowed. Her words were as false as her modesty. “My dear, I cannot allow you to
sacrifice yourself on the altar of reluctant motherhood.”
“Then
you are a true nobleman to part with me, your love, out of consideration as
well as duty.”
His
lips twitched. A cough concealed his amusement. He knew Maddy thrived on
playacting. In all likelihood, she would convince herself she had set him free.
He did not doubt that before long she would either wed an unfortunate cuckold
or console herself with other lovers. He picked up his hat.
Cat-like,
her eyes narrowed. “Chesney, give me a kiss to remember you by.”
Chesney
kissed her cheek before he left the house. Should he leave town to prevent
Maddy pestering him?
* * *
On
the following day, Chesney rapped his cane on the front door of Isobel Ware’s
London mansion. Sister of his late father’s friend, he did not know her well.
He wondered why she had summoned him.
“Lord
Chesney?” Bennet, Lady Isobel’s middle-aged butler, looked at him respectfully.
Chesney
inclined his head.
“This
way, my lord. You are expected.” Bennet led him up the stairs to a beautifully
appointed parlour on the first floor where he announced him to Lady Isobel.
Chesney
raised his voice above the barks of six King Charles Cavalier spaniels. “Your
servant, Lady Isobel.”
Lady
Isobel waved a hand at her little dogs. “Be quiet.” Her ladyship inclined her
head to him.
“My
lord, I am pleased to see you.”
Full
glass in his hand, Chesney sat.
“My
lord, I shall come straight to the point. I summoned you to propose marriage to
my niece, Richelda Shaw. In all honesty, I assure you it would be to your
advantage.”
While
she waited for his reply, the petite lady patted her silvery hair with one
hand. With her other hand she fluttered her fan which she peeped over
girlishly.
“You
flatter me, Madam,” he drawled.
Lady
Isobel’s dainty shrug released her cloying perfume of lavender mingled with
roses and vanilla. She snapped her fan shut and then tapped his arm with it.
“You are mistaken. I do not flatter you. I offer you and my niece a solution.
My late brother, the earl, and your father followed King James to France. You
are gossiped about. People eye you as distrustfully as I think my niece will be
eyed when I bring her to London.”
“Are
you not gossiped about, Lady Isobel? After all, your brother’s conversion to
the Church of Rome must place you and your family under government scrutiny.
For my part, I thank God my father remained true to The Anglican Church.”
Lady
Isobel shuddered. “Do not mention the matter, my lord. I vow I had no sympathy
with my brother when he became a Papist. All I can do is thank God he was not
tried as a traitor and his head is not displayed at the Tower of London.”
Chesney
shifted his position, smothering a yawn behind his hand before he made a
cautious reply. “I am neither a Jacobite nor a Papist. I apologise for
mentioning the matter of your brother’s conversion.”
“Some
more wine, Viscount?”
He
shook his head, leaning back to deliberately present a picture of a man
completely at his ease.
Lady
Isobel arched her eyebrows. She sipped her wine. “All London knows I am a
wealthy woman.” She blinked the sheen of tears from her eyes. “My lord, ‘tis
cruel not only to suffer widowhood thrice but to also lose my only child.”
Acknowledging
her grief, he bowed his head. “My condolences, Madam.”
“Thank
you.” She dabbed her eyes with a black handkerchief. “My poor daughter’s death
is my niece’s gain. If Richelda is obedient, she will inherit all my property.”
Her
ladyship rested her head against the back of her chair. She opened her fan and
plied it restlessly while she scrutinised him.
“What
do you think of my proposal, my lord?”
Chesney
sat straighter. She had not minced her words. He smiled with his usual
forthrightness. “As yet I have neither put myself on the matrimonial market nor
made my fortune and title available to any lady who wishes to marry me.”
“I
hear you purchased Field House.” She tapped her fan on the arm of her chair.
“Yes,
I did,” he replied in a neutral tone.
“Well,
sir, I shall speak bluntly. My niece’s lands are adjacent to yours. Through
marriage, you would double your estate by acquiring my niece’s mansion,
Bellemont House and all the land around it. As for my niece, she would become
mistress of Field House, my childhood home.”
He
inclined his head, curious now as to what the old lady’s motive was. Ah, did
she want him to marry her niece because she had a sentimental attachment to his
estate?
Undeterred
by his silence, Lady Isobel continued. “I know your circumstances. Though you
have no close relative, you are saddled with a clutch of distant relations who
anticipate your help to advance in the world.”
Devil take it, she
was correct. His family looked to him for patronage. They expected him to marry
well and produce an heir. Confound it, not one of them had regained their
positions, lands, or fortunes after the first King Charles’s execution. His
grandfather’s fortunate marriage to a French heiress had saved him from
poverty.
Her
ladyship’s Roman nose twitched. Her thin lips curved in a predatory smile. “You
will consider the match?”
Reluctant
to say anything she might interpret as his agreement to marry Lady Richelda, he
nodded. “I will do no more than consider it.”
“Good,
I shall not press you further.” She hesitated with her fan mid-air, only to
flutter it agitatedly. “I would prefer you not to tell anyone my niece is my
heiress. When she comes to town, I do not want a flock of fortune hunters to
approach her.”
“On
my honour, I will not mention it to anyone. By the way, when will Lady Richelda
arrive?”
“This
week.”
He
stood. Each of the small dogs wagged their tails, stirred, and yapped for
attention round his ankles. Deep in thought, he ignored them. Although no
thought of imminent marriage had entered his head when he arrived, he might
change his mind after meeting her ladyship’s niece. It was time he married, and
if she proved pleasant enough, maybe—
Lady
Isobel clapped her hands. “My poppets like you, and believe me, my lord, they
are good judges of character.”
Chesney
restrained an incipient chuckle at his sudden notion of her ladyship’s dogs
tricked out in wigs and gowns to judge him. “I am complimented by their
approval, my lady.” He bowed and kissed her bejewelled hand. “As for your
niece, only providence knows if she and I are suited.”
With
a rustle of black silk, Lady Isobel rose. “I believe you and Lady Richelda are
well matched.”
Chapter
Two
Chesney
stepped from Lady Isobel’s spacious house into King Street and walked toward
Whitehall. Although the proposal to marry Lady Richelda had taken him by
surprise, he gave further thought to accepting it. Yet he would not wait for
Lady Richelda to come to town where she would doubtless parade in the latest
fashions, powder and patch. Where did she live? He searched his memory. Ah, now
he remembered. She lived at Bellemont which Lady Isobel had mentioned lay close
by his newly purchased property. Why not
hazard a journey there to cast an eye over both domains?
His
stride quickened to keep pace with his racing mind. Was the young lady tall or
short, plain or pretty, fair-haired or brunette, meek or shrewish, illiterate
or well educated? Cocksure, Chesney took her acceptance of his proposal for
granted. After all, why should she refuse a well-educated, not ill-favoured
viscount?
He
knew it was time to settle down and have a family. If she proved suitable, he
would wed her. He could not deny he would welcome her inheritance. For his
part, he would try not to give her cause for complaint by ensuring she lacked
naught. They would refurbish Field House, improve the estate, and purchase a
house in London.
His
inner voice nagged him. What of love? For most people of his rank, sentiment
had little to do with marriage. In fact, some said no lady concerned herself
with the vulgarity of love or passion. A wife’s happiness and satisfaction
should be derived through ensuring her husband’s comfort, good deeds, plying
her needle, and raising children.
He
sighed. A man in his position must marry if only to father heirs.
“Look,
an Adonis! Who is he?” A high-pitched female voice interrupted his thoughts.
Chesney
looked round at a powdered and patched lady with rouged cheeks who was staring
at him.
“I
don’t know. I think he’s a newcomer to town,” her companion, a younger lady,
said in an equally strident tone.
Unaffected
by their comments, he laughed. Since his youth, women commented on his height
and his perfect proportions. He did not consider himself vain, but unlike some
members of his gentlemen’s club, who took little exercise and overate, he
fenced, hunted, rode, and walked to keep his body fit.
The
older lady inclined her head, the younger one winked before they went about
their business.
Chesney
whistled low. What would Lady Richelda think of him? He contemplated his future
with pleasure. With a smile, he thought of London’s coffeehouses, theatres,
parks, concerts, and pleasure gardens. Lady Richelda’s inheritance, added to
his more modest one, would ensure they could command the elegancies of life.
When
he reached his lodgings, he summoned Roberts. “Pack, we leave for Field House
tomorrow. Send a message to the stables. I require my coach at eight in the
morning. Is there anything to eat?”
Roberts
shook his head.
“Order
some mutton pies from the tavern. Do you want me to die of hunger? Hurry, man; for
what do you tarry?” He clapped his hands, his mind racing with thoughts of the
future.
Roberts
bowed low. He straightened, regarding him with his face creased in familiar
lines of despair.
“What?”
Chesney sighed. Why did he always feel dishevelled in his manservant’s
presence?
Roberts
was only six years his senior, but Chesney could not remember a day when the
man did not wear an immaculate black cloth suit, a neat black waistcoat, and
unwrinkled stockings.
“First,
my lord, the sooner you purchase a London House and employ a cook the better it
will be. Second, with all due respect, my lord, your appearance grieves me.”
Chesney
looked contritely at his black, buckled shoes and his white silk stockings
splashed with muck from London’s filthy streets. He knew Roberts aspired to
take the credit for him always being dressed to perfection. He chuckled. “Do
not despair; you shall have the pleasure of dressing me in fine clothes on my
wedding day.”
* * *
Mid-March was mild. After an early thaw, the roads
dried sufficiently for Chesney’s coach to travel faster than usual. Protected
by armed outriders and postilions, he did not fear highwaymen. Besides,
equipped with his sword and firearm, he trusted his ability to deal with any
miscreant.
They
reached St. Albans before dark and then proceeded to Bellemont Village where
they put up at The King’s Head.
In
the morning, Chesney delighted his manservant by being more particular than
usual about his appearance.
Chesney
took note of the look of satisfaction on Roberts’s face as he drew up Chesney’s
black silk stockings before he adjusted the black velvet garters.
Chesney
twitched the lace frothing at his wrists into place. “My waistcoat.”
He
took the cream satin waistcoat from Roberts. With rough movements, he pulled it
on, only to pause in response to Roberts’s pained voice. “Allow me to help you,
my lord.”
“I
am not a complete milksop.” Chesney put his waistcoat on before allowing
Roberts to ease him into a black velvet coat trimmed with parallel rows of gold
buttons and buttonholes bound with gold thread.
“My
lord, if only you dressed so fine every day.” Roberts removed a periwig, as
black as Chesney’s natural hair, from a stand. With care, he settled the
periwig on his master’s head.
Ready
to depart, Chesney held a black hat, trimmed with gold lace and a curled plume,
in one hand. In his other hand, he grasped a cane ornamented with a knot of
black and gold ribbons.
Now,
Chesney thought—his curiosity intense—to seek out Lady Richelda. He went down a
flight of narrow stairs to the hall where the innkeeper bowed so low his nose
nearly touched his knees. Outside, he picked his way across slippery cobbles
dampened by a recent shower. A muffled figure approached him.
“Lord
Greaves, please accept this petition.”
Chesney
looked round the yard with the expectation of seeing Lord Greaves, the corrupt,
greedy tax collector for the area. A hand tugged his sleeve. He frowned. “I
fear you misunderstand,”
“My
lord, read it.” The female concealed by a voluminous cloak and hood drew
closer. She held out a scroll sealed with red wax stamped with the mark of a
pomegranate. “Doubtless you think I am impertinent to approach you. However,
your landlord expected you to pass the night here, so I seized my chance to
speak to you.”
One
of his outriders dismounted and grabbed the woman’s arm. “Off with you.”
Chesney
frowned. “Release her and remount.” His interest aroused, he hesitated by his
coach. “Who are you?”
“I
serve Lady Richelda of Bellemont. I promise you that she intends no mischief.”
By
her accent, he judged she was not a servant. “You may enter my coach to discuss
the petition,” he drawled with feigned indifference. He held the door open, his
curiosity piqued. What could be in the petition to make her so devious?
She
scrambled up the steps. A fold of her cloak slipped away from her hand in which
she clutched a pistol. He sat without betraying his fear of her being a
dangerous lunatic. “How sad to see someone of your tender years brandishing a
firearm.”
“I
am not brandishing it,” she protested. “My mistress’s friend, Master Wynwood,
told her I must be armed.” She lowered the pistol. “You did not answer her
letters. This is the only way for her to present her case.”
What
to do or say? He doubted the baggage knew of the licentious tax collector’s
vindictive nature or about the cruel bullies he engaged.
“My
lord, have you not received the letter informing Lady Shaw—God rest her
soul—supported the Established Church and attended its services twice on
Sundays? Like her mother, Lady Richelda is not a papist. I implore you to
reduce the illegal taxes on Bellemont. If you do so, she will have sufficient
wherewithal to excavate a short canal to float oak logs downriver to supply the
navy. I beg you to oblige me. If you do not—”
“If
I do not?” Chesney kept an eye on the firearm gripped in both her hands.
“She
will not be able to support herself. Oh, you cannot imagine how hard Lady Shaw
found it to maintain herself while her husband, the earl, lived in France.”
“A
Jacobite?”
She
hesitated for no more than a moment. “Like many other gentlemen, his only
fault—if you deem it a fault—lay in keeping his oath of allegiance to King
James.”
About
to reveal his identity, he raised his eyebrows. “I regret I cannot help her
and-”
The
pistol wobbled. “Cannot help her! It is not true. You can help her, even if she
will not sell Bellemont to you.”
“‘Tis
not a matter of cannot but a matter of will not.”
Chesney
eyed her from head to toe. Her full cloak revealed little of her person. “Has
Lady Richelda no relatives to save her from…er…want?”
“Her
mother’s family ignore her. Lady Isobel, her closest relative—her father’s
sister—takes no interest in her, although her ladyship has enough money to—”
“Did
neither Lady Shaw nor her daughter apply to Lady Isobel?”
“No,
my lord, Lady Shaw wanted nothing which was not freely offered.”
“But
you say your mistress does?”
“She
wants justice. The taxes are unjust.”
The
coach bumped violently over a deep rut. The hood slipped from the girl’s head.
Chesney braced his feet. Despite a jolt which threw her across the coach she
managed to clutch the pistol with one hand. Breast to breast with her, Chesney
held her upper arms to prevent her tumbling onto the floor. For the first time
he saw the girl’s face, one of such classical beauty it would be likely to
haunt his dreams. Enchanted, he inhaled her fragrance, redolent of fresh air
and herbs; a delightful contrast to Lady Isobel’s cloying scent and Maddy’s
spicy perfume.
“Release
me, my lord.”
Chesney
shuddered. The pistol pointed toward his genitals. He quailed for a split
second before he grasped her slender wrist hard enough to release the weapon.
It slipped from her grasp.
He
put his foot on it.
The
girl’s defiant sapphire blue eyes glared at him. “W-will you help my mistress,
Lord Greaves?”
He
would pity any lady whose situation drove her to such desperate measures. “If I
can help, I will.” Chesney released her. He rapped twice on the roof to
indicate he wanted the coach to halt.
“Are
you fobbing me off or are you promising to help me?”
“Odds fish, you are a minx. Be grateful
to me for not summoning the constable.”
The
coach drew to a halt. Chesney flicked open his gold snuffbox. He feigned
interest in its contents before he grinned. “Perchance we will meet at
Bellemont.”
“Bellemont!
Why are you going to Bellemont?”
Apprehension
lurked in her eyes. Her lips tightened.
He
snapped shut his snuffbox. “I am not obliged to explain my reason to you, but I
assure you it is a good one. Words fail you. I am not surprised.” He smiled.
“Forgive me. Although I am sorry to witness your distress, I must take my
leave.”
An
outrider let the steps down for his bold but delectable companion.
“You
forgot something.”
“What?”
Her voice sounded as sharp as the silken hiss of sword blade against sword
blade.
“Your
pistol.” With an exaggerated flourish, he handed it to her. “If you wish to
vent your spleen, shoot me, but I fear such an extreme measure will not help
your mistress.”
“Will
you help her?”
“Alas!
I am unable to reduce her taxes for I am not Lord Greaves.”
“Why
did you not say so earlier?” Her eyes darkened like sky before a storm. “You
are not a gentleman.”
“Oh,
I am a gentleman, but I am certain you are not a servant.”
“If
you are not Lord Greaves, who are you?”
Chesney
chuckled. He did not reply.
Chapter
Three
Richelda
hurried along an overgrown woodland path, which meandered through Bellemont,
her neglected estate, to a disused charcoal burner’s hut where Dudley Wynwood
waited for her.
“Thank
God you are safe. Tell me what Lord Greaves said,” Dudley called when she drew
near him.
Her
mouth quivered. “I made a sorry mull of my business. I presented my petition to
the wrong person.”
Dudley
glared at her. “I wish you had taken my advice when I told you not to act like
a madcap.”
For
a moment, fearing Dudley’s bad temper, she tried to placate him. “I beg you not
to scold me. You know my reasons.” She forced herself to smile. “I must change
before he reaches my home.”
“Who
is going there?”
“The
man I mistook for the tax collector. He took me up in his coach. After I handed
him my petition, I stated my case, but he informed me he is not Lord Greaves.
Dudley, what am I to do?”
“If
you are beggared, apply to your relatives. I doubt they would be willing to
suffer the shame of one of their relations being forced by circumstance to live
in a poor house.”
Richelda
stared at Dudley who she had expected to marry since they first shared the
schoolroom at his father’s vicarage. She looked at his curly, dark brown hair,
expressive green eyes, and oval face. Two years her senior, in her eyes he
resembled a handsome angel with regular features and a slender, well-formed
frame.
The
corners of Dudley’s mouth turned down. “I should have made more effort to stop
your foolery.’’ He glanced at her censoriously. “I will escort you to
Bellemont.”
“Thank
you.” She turned toward a path over which brambles crept. “I apologise,
Dudley.”
“What
for?”
“For
failing you. If I cannot make Bellemont productive, you must make your own way
in the world before we marry.”
“Marry?”
His
sudden pallor amazed her. “What is wrong? Why do you look so surprised?
“Surely
you do not think I will marry you?”
“Dudley,
what do you mean? Did we not plan to wed? Now I am eighteen, I thought —”
“Forget
your childish prattle about our marriage.”
His
curt tone shocked her. Wounded, she squared her shoulders. “Foolish? I have
loved you for years.”
Dudley
opened a lichen-stained wooden gate which led to a weed-infested drive, on
either side of which only the hardiest of untended ornamental plants survived.
Back
straight, head held high, Richelda strode past parallel orchards toward
Bellemont House. Embarrassed because she had declared her love, she battled
against an urge to weep.
Dudley’s
deep sigh only added to her pain. “Sentimentality has naught to do with
marriage. I intend to court our school friend, Kitty.”
Shocked,
she staggered. “Y…you want to marry Kitty Carlton?”
After
a moment or two, Dudley replied in an unnaturally high tone, his fingers biting
into her arm. “Yes, beggars cannot be choosers. I must make my way in the
world.”
She
pulled away from him. “If my family had not lost their money, I am sure you
would marry me.”
Dudley’s
expression remained indifferent. “You are not an heiress and you dress like a
hoydenish beggar.”
How
merciless of him to speak so unkindly. He was wrong. Poor quality clothes did
not make her a hoyden. She hurried past the herb gardens and skirted a huge
ornamental urn.
The
cost of her father’s honour had been hard to bear. After Father went to France,
Lord Greaves wanted to purchase Bellemont. When Mother refused to sell it to
him, he lodged false charges of spying for James II against her mother. Thanks
to providence, Jack’s late mother, the Duchess of Hertfordshire, helped to
prove her own mother’s innocence. Dudley patted her back. “My love, I do you no
disservice by stating the truth. Lord knows everyone pities your penniless
state.”
My love! Dudley
called her his love. Did he love her or were the words meaningless? Her eyes
widened. Perhaps he had sacrificed his love for her in the mistaken belief
their marriage would be unwise? She suppressed a sigh. Whatever his reasons,
she did not want Dudley’s pity.
In
fact, she did not want anyone’s pity. Pride prompted her to address him
formally. “Master Wynwood, you said children say many foolish things. For now,
I wish you well and am glad your father paid your debts and rescued you from
debtor’s prison.” They halted outside her front door. Dudley’s angelic cheeks
reddened. His exquisitely shaped mouth tightened in unspoken anger. “There is
no need to mention gambling debts I incurred at Oxford.”
“May
I remind you some of us are unfortunate? We rely on our wits to aid us. I lied
when I claimed I love you. I merely sought the protection of marriage.” She
curtsied formally. “Good day to you.”
Indoors,
Richelda rested her head against a wall in the dingy hall. If only Dudley’s
love matched her own, he would marry her. She trembled. Tears poured down her
cheeks. She fumbled for her ragged kerchief as she struggled to regain control,
blew her nose, and sank to the floor. Elsie’s voice shattering the silence
filtered through her misery. The noise drew closer until Elsie stood in front
of her.
“Where
did you go, child? Lord, I have such news for you.”
To
hide her tears, Richelda covered her face with her hands and put her head on
her knees. “Do get up, my lady.”
Richelda
wiped her face and looked up.
Elsie
frowned. “How many times have I told you not to roam alone? Why are you crying?
Why didn’t you take your dog with you? Puck’s howled all morning.” She crouched
down to put her arms round Richelda’s shoulders. “D…did someone assault you?”
“No
one assaulted me. To answer your question, Master Wynwood dislikes Puck so I
did not take him with me.”
“Haven’t
I warned you over and over again about the young gentleman’s true nature?”
“Despite
your opinion of Dudley, I think well of him. Indeed, today he waited to raise
an alarm if harm came to me while I met Lord Greaves at the inn.”
“What!”
“By
mistake, I approached another man who put up there.” Richelda sighed. “On the
way home, I told Master Wynwood—”
“Master
Wynwood? He’s always been Dudley to you.”
“I
am no longer a child. It is not fitting for me to use his Christian name.”
Elsie
stood. She narrowed her eyes.
“I
made a fool of myself. I thought Master Wynwood wanted to marry me.” Unable to
look at Elsie she bowed her head. “He does not. He wants to marry Kitty for her
fortune.”
“Don’t
break your heart over a man who—”
Richelda
put her hands over her ears. “Must I tell you yet again not to repeat spiteful
gossip about him?”
“Some
rumours about Master Wynwood might be exaggerated. Those about his insolence,
excessive drinking, and gambling are not,” Elise persisted.
“They
are lies, Elsie.” She did not believe the worst about Dudley. Anger boiled
inside her. Bile rose to the back of her throat. She swallowed it. “Elsie, for
his sake I wanted to make Bellemont profitable. I am tired of struggling.
Except for a snug cottage and a few acres of land for my own use, I shall sell
the estate to Jack.”
“Sell
Bellemont to His Grace!” Elsie twined her work-roughened fingers together. “Lord above, my wits have gone begging.
I’ve forgotten to say a visitor awaits you.”
Richelda
wiped her face on her coarse apron. “Visitor?” She forced herself to her feet.
“Yes,
a fine gentleman, Viscount Chesney by name, is waiting for you in the parlour.”
Heavens
above, he must be the man whose identity she mistook for Lord Greaves.
A long male shadow fell across the dark oak
floor before the parlour door closed. She caught her breath. Either Elsie had
left the door ajar by mistake or her uninvited guest had opened it and
eavesdropped.
After
washing and changing, Richelda went down the broad flight of oak stairs.
Looking at Elsie, she raised her eyebrows.
Elsie
nodded her approval and pointed at the parlour door. “He’s still in there. I’ll
fetch some elderflower wine.”
“No,
come with me—” she began, but Elsie, with speed surprising in one of her size,
bustled into a passage which led to the kitchen.
He
will not recognise me, Richelda reassured herself. She mimicked her late
mother’s graceful walk, entered the room, and coughed to attract attention.
Viscount
Chesney turned away from the window. He focused on her intently. “Lady
Richelda?”
She
curtsied, wishing she also wore exquisitely cut black velvet and silk instead
of a threadbare gown fashioned from one of her mother’s old ones. He bowed and
extended a perfectly manicured hand.
Ashamed
of her rough hands, she permitted him to draw her to her full height. “You have
the advantage of knowing my name.” She looked into grey eyes reminiscent of
still water on an overcast day.
“Lord
Chesney at your service, my lady.”
“I
am honoured to make your acquaintance, my lord. Please take a seat.”
He
laughed. “Lady Richelda, although I did not introduce myself to you earlier, I
hoped you would say you are pleased to renew your acquaintance with me.”
She
tilted her chin. “You mistake me for someone else.”
“I
do not. Your eyes and voice are unforgettable.”
“What
can you mean?”
“Why
are you pretending to misunderstand me?” he drawled. “Shall we sit? No, do not
look at me so distrustfully. I did not avail myself of the opportunity to
manhandle you earlier today. Word of a gentleman, there is no need to fear me
either now or in future.”
Nervous
despite his assurance, she sat opposite him. While she regained her composure,
she put her feet side by side on a footstool.
“If
you confess, I will not tell your aunt.”
“My
aunt?”
“Yes,
she wishes me to make your acquaintance.”
Her
mother’s family shunned her. They feared being tainted by her late father’s
politics. The viscount must have referred to Father’s only close relative, his
sister, Lady Isobel.
“Aunt?”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, suspicious because she knew her
mother, born into a family with slightly puritanical inclinations, despised
Aunt Isobel’s frivolity.
He
nodded.
“But
my aunt—”
Burdened
by a tray, Elsie entered the room. She put it down and served them with
elderflower wine before she withdrew.
Chesney
eyed his glass of wine with obvious mistrust. “Why did you sigh, Lady
Richelda?”
She
refrained from explaining she longed to eat something other than her daily fare
of boiled puddings, flavoured with herbs, mixed with vegetables, and served
with or without game birds or rabbits, which Elsie sometimes snared.
Bowstring
taut, Richelda drank some pale wine. She looked at the viscount, whose posture
depicted a man at ease. “Please taste this wine, my lord, although you might
not be accustomed to home-brewed beverages, I think you will enjoy it.”
He
sipped some. “An excellent tribute to Elsie’s skill. She made it, did she not?”
She nodded before he spoke again. “Tell me, child, how long have you lived
alone with Elsie?”
“Since
Mother died nearly a year ago.” The pain of her mother’s death always made her
mouth tremble when she spoke of her.
“Why
did you remain here?”
“I
hoped to improve my estate. Oh, I know everything has deteriorated, but if I
could—”
He
concluded her sentence. “Transport oak to the shipyards?”
She
widened her eyes. “Thank you for your excellent advice, my lord. I daresay you
noticed my valuable stands of oak when you approached Bellemont?”
Although
he chuckled, his eyes remained serious. “Never forget I do not allow anyone to
play me for a fool, not even a hoyden of an actress, worthy of note though you
are.”
Outraged
by being called a hoyden for the second time that day, she stood. “Please
leave.”
Viscount
Chesney rose to approach her. Muscles across the breadth of his shoulders
rippled beneath his coat, a testament to his tailor’s skill. When he put a hand
on either side of her waist, she trembled. His lordship was tall, taller than
Dudley. Her head only reached his throat. When she looked up at Chesney, his
breath warmed her forehead. She trembled again.
“Child,
if my lightest touch frightens you, imagine the effect Lord Greaves’ greedy
hands on your person would have. I took this liberty to warn you not to
endanger yourself. Who knows what harm might have befallen you in Lord Greaves’
company? He is known for his dishonour.”
His
proximity unnerved her; yet as though a spell had been cast over her, she
remained still.
“Are
you known for your honour?”
“In
spite of my opportunity, I did not assault you. Believe me when I say I will
never do so.”
His
eyes darkened. A curious light flickered in them. “Although I cannot resist the
temptation to tease you, do not be frightened of me.”
“I
am not afraid of you.”
He
chuckled. “A good start.”
“You
are impertinent to hold me close.”
“Does
Master Wynwood hold you closer?”
Oh,
he had overheard her discussion of Dudley with Elsie. Her cheeks burned.
“Dudley does not…I mean you cannot know much about Master Wynwood.”
“Perchance he is a fool and you are a
country innocent. The question is, do I prefer nature to powder and patch?”
Surely,
he would never prefer her to sophisticated ladies. “Please do not address me as
a child. When I was fourteen, I cared for my mother after she became ill.”
“My
apologies, I did not mean to offend you. Poor Lady Richelda, I will not call
you a child again.”
Richelda
twisted free of him and then forced herself to breathe slowly. She resented any
man’s pity. After she sold Bellemont, she would dress too elegantly for anyone
to taunt her. She curtsied. “Good day to you, my lord. I doubt there is more
for us say to each other.”
“Your
performance is suited to the playhouse where actors—like courtiers—deceive. But
believe me, if Master Wynwood cannot separate gold from dross, he is unworthy
of you.”
“You
have no right to insult him.”
He
applauded. “Let no secrets lie between us, Lady Richelda. I overheard you when
you confided in your servant.” Chesney’s expression hardened. His eyes
glittered like ice. “No gentleman worthy of his name allows a slip of a girl to
endanger herself. Instead of playing a coward’s part, he would be prepared to
lay down his life to prevent her accosting a man of Lord Greaves’ ilk.”
Her
temper rose. Yet she wanted to be a lady of her mother’s fine calibre, so she
refrained from childishly stamping her feet and raging: “Dudley is not a
coward.”
“My
lord, you are an eavesdropper, so in spite of your fine clothes you are not a
gentleman.”
“Lady
Richelda, one does not need fine clothes to be a gentleman, but it does assist
one.”
“I
beg your pardon, my lord,” she apologised, ashamed of questioning his lack of
breeding.
“We
will not refer to the question of my honour again.” Ostentatiously, he smoothed
his coat sleeve. “Alas, I am ashamed, for I hoped to impress you.”
Richelda
ignored his comment. She peeped at him through her lashes. Ready laughter
lurked in the depths of his eyes. Her lips twitched. The wretch did not look
contrite. Did he know the meaning of shame? Did he have even a small
understanding of the miseries caused by loneliness and poverty?
“How
rude you were to listen to a private conversation, my lord.”
“Do
not be angry, Lady Richelda. I shall help you,” he smiled. “Allow me to express
my sincere admiration of you.”
Did
he mock her? Despite her harsh words, she thought him fine, very fine.
He
raised her hand to his lips and warmed her skin with a kiss. Unfamiliar tingles
ran up her arm and down her back.
“I
must leave.” His tone caressed her. “My horses have waited long enough. I do
not doubt we will meet again.”
He
bowed and then departed too quickly for her to ask. How will you help me?
Fists
clenched his fingernails dug into his leather gloves. His blood overheated
while thinking of the injustice which blighted Lady Richelda’s life.
A
postilion clad in black, scarlet, and gold livery opened the coach door.
Chesney nodded his thanks. “To the inn.”
He
flung himself onto the seat. After her brother’s death, Lady Isobel should have
helped her sister-in-law and niece. Her ladyship had no excuse for her current
neglect of Lady Richelda’s welfare. He would be ashamed to allow any of his
relatives to be reduced to such circumstances.
Chesney
frowned, recalling his shock when he clasped Lady Richelda’s unnaturally thin
waist. His lips clamped together. More than likely, Lady Richelda often went
short of wholesome food.
His
anger increased. Curse Lady Isobel for
not seeing to the needs of her own flesh and blood. Damnation to Lady
Richelda’s maternal grandparents, who had disowned her for political reasons.
He
considered the cruelty of recent history. During the Civil War father fought
son and brother battled against brother. His heart
Tangled love is available at online bookstores
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