A Country Gentleman (14 page)

Chapter Fourteen

A
lthough it was midday, the corridors of Riseholm House were still hushed. The earl’s staff knew better than to disturb him, particularly when he had been from home until the early hours. His valet, Stimpson, had not put his noble master to bed very much before five that morning, and had had strict instructions not to rouse him until noon. He knew better than anyone that when his lordship stipulated noon, he did not mean one minute before. He had been the earl’s valet for twenty years, ever since Riseholm had first gone on the town aged just
nineteen
. Stimpson himself was only two or three years older.

The earl’s habits had never varied greatly. He rose late, frequently dined out, waited upon whichever obliging female currently enjoyed his favours and attended various
entertainments
until the early hours, and expected his valet to wait up for him. In return, however, Stimpson was permitted to keep roughly the same hours. As long as he was available when his master needed him, then that was all that mattered to his lordship. Today, for example, he had risen just one hour before, at eleven o’clock.

He was grateful for the earl’s consideration. He had a colleague whose master kept the same hours as Riseholm, but who slept erratically and often needed his valet to dress him for an early morning ride, when he might only have retired to bed three or
four hours earlier. His manservant, therefore, was obliged to catnap when he might. Stimpson, on the other hand, seldom missed a good night’s sleep.

As instructed, he entered the earl’s chamber with his master’s chocolate, set the tray down, drew the curtains and turned towards the bed. ‘A fine morning, my lord; or rather day, as I should say.’

The earl sat up and stretched. ‘Is it? You know, Stimpson, sometimes I wonder whether it is a mistake to miss the mornings.’ Not many people saw his lordship as did Stimpson. He was considerably more dishevelled than the world was accustomed to see him, clad in a nightshirt with the neck open to reveal a few curls of chest hair, his chin shadowed with a night’s growth of beard, his hair tousled from sleep. Even those ladies who enjoyed his favours only benefited from an hour or two of his company before he retired to his own quarters.

‘That rather depends on the mornings, my lord,’ his valet replied, adjusting the pillows at his lordship’s back so that he could sit more comfortably. ‘The letters have arrived. Would you like to look at them now, or would you prefer to dress first?’

‘Is there anything of interest?’

‘That is not for me to say, my lord.’

‘Don’t talk rot, Stimpson. Who’s written to me?’

After twenty years in the earl’s service, the valet knew the handwriting of his lordship’s correspondents as well as did the earl himself. ‘There is something from Riseholm Halt, my lord. There are some invitations, a tradesman’s bill, and I believe that …’

‘Well?’

‘I think that there is one from Miss Macclesfield.’

‘Is there, by God? Hand it over then, and come back in half an hour.’

‘Very good, my lord.’

Riseholm’s eyes gleamed as he opened the letter. The little
Macclesfield intrigued him. She had indulged him with an
agreeable
flirtation, and in general, with young women of good family, that would have been enough for him, for them, and certainly more than enough for their chaperons!

There were always a few young ladies of a faster persuasion who were inclined to pursue him, and these he avoided for the most part. He much preferred to do his own chasing. In Miss Macclesfield, however, he had sensed a charmingly subtle blend of boldness and innocence. This, coupled with her undoubted beauty, had been enough to tempt him to allow her to think that she had succeeded in her pursuit.

Their little game had come to a head at Vauxhall, where he had turned the tables on her, and obliged her to understand that she was in fact the quarry. Much to his surprise, however, when they had kissed, he had felt his senses reel in a way that they had not done since his first love. It had unsettled him to feel that a woman should have power over him in that way. He was always the one who dictated the pace; with Isobel, he had felt perilously close to being swept off his feet. He had backed off, and soon afterwards, she had gone to the country.

To his surprise, he had viewed her departure with some regret. He could never find it in him to feel very much sympathy for those who managed to embroil themselves in scandal and then grumbled about the consequences. He had been shocking the ton for a number of years now. He knew that respectable people avoided him and that consequently there were places where he was not welcome. He had decided long ago how he wanted to live his life, was prepared to pay the price, and felt that anyone else who deliberately flouted society’s rules should be ready to do the same. Surprising, then, that when he thought of Isobel, he should feel a twinge of guilt. This feeling had been increased if anything by an encounter that he had had shortly after Isobel’s departure with a man whom he knew slightly, but whose wife was a close friend of Isobel’s chaperon.

Maurice Craig had been taking a short break after an energetic fencing bout when Riseholm had wandered in through the doors of the fencing school in Piccadilly, looking for someone with whom to exchange a parry or two. The two men were evenly matched, so when Riseholm had been helped out of his coat, waistcoat and boots, he had not been displeased to discover that Craig was ready to resume his exercise.

After a bout during which Riseholm had emerged the winner by a narrow margin, having achieved two hits to Craig’s one, the two men had paused for a while, watching the others.

‘You’ve lost none of your skill,’ Craig had remarked.

‘Nor you,’ Riseholm had answered. ‘Are you staying in London for the summer?’

‘You’d better ask my wife,’ had been the rueful response. ‘I’ll tell you, Riseholm, you’re a lucky man. Cling to your bachelor state – that’s my advice.’

Riseholm grinning, had not corrected him, judging that the other man had not recalled that he was a widower. ‘I intend to,’ he had said.

‘Hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I quite thought the little Macclesfield might have snared you. Still, danger over now, eh?’

‘As you say,’ Riseholm had answered, his tone even.

‘Time for a fresh pursuit? Apparently, Wilbraham has washed her hands of the chit, and sent her out of town to rusticate. If she doesn’t snag a husband, she’ll be packed off to her grandmother in Harrogate.’

Riseholm had not responded to this comment, and had merely suggested another bout. This time, however, Craig had emerged the winner.

Now, as then, Riseholm thought about what he knew of Isobel Macclesfield’s grandmother. Known as the Wimbledon Witch before her retirement from London, she was universally loathed, and no one had been sorry to see her go. Unsurprising if Isobel
would do anything rather than be banished to live with that loathsome female.

When she had, rather naively, informed him of the route of her journey into Lincolnshire, where she was to stay with her friend’s godmother, instead of dismissing this information from his mind, he had arranged for flowers to be delivered to her
en route
. Part of his motive had been to pander to her vanity. Ruefully he was bound to acknowledge that he also wanted to impress himself upon her memory.

Not long after her departure, she had begun to write to him, and her correspondence had intrigued him. Unlike other ladies, she did not write on sickly scented paper. She wrote fluently and amusingly, too, her letters pleasingly free of cloying sentiment, and he often found himself laughing out loud at what she had to say. Rather to his own surprise – for he was not usually much of a letter-writer – he had begun to reply to her missives, carefully not committing himself in intention or sentiment, and sending them to a Mrs Hedges, care of the inn in the village, as she had requested.

He would have a very entertaining story to tell her in his next letter. It involved the machinations of a certain little Miss Egan who had clearly thought that she was destined to be the next Lady Riseholm, and had tried to manipulate him into offering for her. He had had to be quite cunning there. Not even his boon companions had known what he was about. Still, now the danger was past, and he could tell Isobel about it and imagine her laughing at his lucky escape.

He had read little more than the opening greeting when the whole letter began to unfold in ways that he had not expected.

He began by laughing at her error, but once he had grasped what she intended to do by way of retaliation, he soon lost all desire to laugh. What was the foolish girl about with this vicar? What was more, how had she come by such a misunderstanding over Miss Egan in the first place?

Where exactly was Isobel now? He had kept all her letters. They were in his desk downstairs. Once dressed and ready for the day, he would go down and remind himself of where she was staying. Then perhaps he might go and see what she was up to. If nothing else, it certainly behoved him to rescue this poor vicar. A worse parson’s wife he could not imagine!

When eventually Lord Riseholm opened his desk, his
appearance
had undergone a transformation. He was now dressed in dove grey pantaloons with a white waistcoat and a black coat with silver buttons, and his hair, neatly brushed, hung loose over his shoulders.

He took out Isobel’s letters, wandered over to the window, and sat down so that he could examine them properly. Ah yes, he remembered now. She was staying with Thurlby. This parson fellow must be Thurlby’s chaplain, he supposed. No doubt he had become dazzled by the chit’s remarkable beauty, but propose? Never! And even if he had, Isobel would no more wed a parson than she would take the veil. She had obviously decided that what was sauce for the gander was sauce for the goose.

He got up and walked back to his desk, where he sat down, took out a fresh sheet of paper, and mended his pen.

He stared at the sentences that he had written, gently tapping his lips with the feather of the quill before screwing up the paper and throwing it into the fireplace. No, that would never do. It would be much more delicious to tantalize her with the notion that he really was engaged. Smiling, he took up his pen again.

He leaned back in his chair and chuckled to himself. That was much better! He would tell her the truth eventually, of course. For now, let her think that she had hit the nail on the head. He would let her stew for a little while, but he would not leave it very long before following his letter into Lincolnshire. He would like to see for himself what she was getting up to. Did she really mean to marry this parson? It would be worth discovering whether the fellow was actually worthy of her.

Now that was a novel thought. Where had it come from? He pondered for a moment or two, then gave himself a mental shake, took up his pen once more and got on with his letter.

His correspondence completed, franked, and taken for delivery by a footman, he decided to walk to his club and, by the strangest fortune, he found himself reaching out for a newspaper at the same time as Lord Smilie. He barely knew the man, but on impulse mentioned his nephew who had a hunting box in Lincolnshire. ‘I understand you also have a nephew who lives in that county,’ he said.

‘Indeed I do,’ Smilie answered, a little puzzled at being addressed by a man who would not normally pay him any
attention
at all. ‘He is a clergyman.’