Rebel Heiress (9 page)

Lord Beaufrage let fall his glass. ‘This is a surprise indeed. I need hardly add a most charming one. But you must bear with my stupidity, ma'am, and explain while I admire.' He sketched an elaborate bow to Henrietta, then turned back to his mother. ‘Miss Marchmont is, then, some unexpected relative of my lord's?'

‘Unexpected, indeed, but more than a relative. I said a
sister,
Cedric.' Why was there a warning note in her voice? ‘She is my lord's daughter, come all the way from America to find him. ‘Tis a most romantic story and we must do our possible to make her happy in her new life.'

He bowed again to Henrietta, this time more deeply. ‘It will be a pleasure, as well as a privilege. Miss Marchmont is but newly arrived, I collect.'

‘But this morning. We are still recovering from the shock. For,' she turned with a pretty gesture to Henrietta, ‘in course, it
is
a shock, though a most delightful one. To find myself once more a mother!'

He laughed. ‘Best sink the mother at once and be a sister to her, ma'am. I wager it will suit you both the better. But how does my lord take this surprise?'

‘Why, with tears of joy, as you would expect. He has been too long without an heir. Even a girl — you will forgive me,
my dear, I know — even a girl must be better than nothing.'

Henrietta listened in silence. There was something about this interchange that she neither liked nor understood. Doubtless, she told herself, this was merely because of her ignorance of the language of fashion, but still she felt uncomfortably aware of hidden depths in the conversation and longed for an excuse to escape. Cedric Beaufrage might be her stepbrother, but to her mind that was no reason for appearing before him in what was little better than a dressing-gown. What on earth would Aunt Abigail have said: The thought cheered her. After all, it was to escape Aunt Abigail and all she stood for that she had come here. She must not boggle at her first fence. If Lady Marchmont found nothing out of the way in this interview, why should she? But still, she was relieved that they had turned away from her, thus giving her a chance to take a firmer hold of her gown.

‘But why then are you come?' Lady Marchmont was asking. ‘I had thought you fixed for these three weeks or more.'

‘And so had I, ma'am, but to tell truth, I have had such a devilish run of luck that I have had to retreat for reinforcements.'

‘Oh, Cedric.' For once her voice registered a genuine emotion: fright. ‘You are not in debt again?'

‘In debt!' He gave a wild laugh that Henrietta was too ignorant to recognise as an inferior imitation of Lord Byron's. ‘Oh, no, nothing like that. I am merely rolled up, undone, disgraced — unless you can come to my rescue, ma'am.'

‘But, Cedric,' she began, ‘you know too well,' then changed her tone. ‘But why should we be troubling Henrietta with these dreary trifles? You must know, my love, that my Cedric is a shocking wild young man, who thinks nothing of sitting up all night with the Prince Regent. He is “undone”, as he calls it, every week and I come to his rescue as often. Indeed, Cedric, I am angry with you, but we will talk more of that later. Now you must advise us how best to dress this poor Henrietta so she may face the world tomorrow. What dress of mine do you think she could best wear?'

‘Of yours, Ma'am? What are you thinking of? It would be the talk of the town. No, no, you must do better than that. It is but to pay a little more and they will sit up all night to make for you. You have sent for Madame Bégué, surely?'

‘Naturally. I expect her instantly. You shall stay and advise
us, Cedric, and perhaps with a little of your charming she will indeed make for us overnight.'

‘Damme, of course she will! Tell her she has no hope of recovering what you owe her else.'

Not for the first time Henrietta was aware of some sort of warning sign passing from Lady Marchmont to her son. He turned to her now with a light laugh. ‘You will have much to learn, my new sister, of the ways of the fashionable world. You must know that a lady of the
ton
would no more pay a bill the day it arrived than she would ride down St. James's. But here, if I mistake not, is Madame Bégué.'

And indeed the door now flew open to admit a round little red-faced woman who burst at once into a torrent of French. She seemed to be protesting about something, and Lady Marchmont answered her soothingly, also in French. It might as well have been Greek, so far as Henrietta was concerned. Aunt Abigail had disapproved of the French so passionately that she had never allowed a word of their language to cross Henrietta's lips. Recognising her plight, Lord Beaufrage laughed and took her hand. ‘You are no linguist, I see. Well, no more, to tell truth, am I. I could never get my tongue round those frogs' lingo. We shall have much in common, you and I, besides a mother. But come, tell me how you like England and what we are to show you first.' He led her to the other side of the room where a window looked out over the gardens into the Marchmont House, which ran down without a break into the park.

Henrietta stood there for a moment, looking out at the smooth lawns, the exquisitely swept gravel of the paths, the clipped yew hedges that bordered them. ‘It's so beautiful,' she said. ‘I had not imagined anything could be like this. Why, there is not so much as a leaf out of place.'

He laughed. ‘I should rather hope not, or Briggs, the head gardener, would have something to say. But if you are an amateur of the romantic, we must take you to Vauxhall Gardens.'

He was interrupted. The conversation at the other side of the room had come to an amicable conclusion and Lady Marchmont came over to them, her face all smiles. ‘Well' — she took Henrietta's hand — ‘that is all settled. Madame is only too delighted to have a hand in launching the newest society swan. I explained to her, my love, that we had no time to discuss with your father the question of your allowance, and she is happy to
do her best for you. in the meanwhile. Now, Cedric, away with you. We have work to do.'

Lord Beaufrage laughed and lifted Henrietta's hand to his lips. ‘I thought I was to stay and advise you, ma'am. But I can see you have no need of me. You can contrive most admirably for yourself. Farewell, my new sister. May I call you Henrietta, and will you call me Cedric?' And, still laughing, he left the room without giving her time to answer.

Henrietta crawled into bed that night more tired, she thought, than she had ever been before. It seemed an age since she had arrived at Marchmont House, and she was dazzled by a confusion of first impressions. Her stepmother, after her first outburst, had been uniformly kind, Lord Beaufrage everything that was welcoming. Why, then, did she still retain a feeling of discomfort about them both? Through all their surface kindness they had seemed, somehow, to be watching her, considering her, planning about her. It had, of course, been a disappointment that her father had not returned from the House of Lords before exhaustion had made her give in and go to bed.

Lady Marchmont had explained that it was often so. ‘Unless we have a dinner of our own, that is. Otherwise, he is too busy to return; he will have dined at White's, with Lord Liverpool and the rest… You must not mind it, my dear.' She pressed Henrietta's hand. ‘It is not that he is not dearly glad to see you, but he is a man, busy with a man's affairs. It was the same even when I was a bride. All my friends said he neglected me shamefully.'

Henrietta, who had, in truth, been minding it, found herself at once on her father's side. Naturally his business in Parliament was infinitely more important than even a newfound daughter. It was not, however, entirely consoling that Cedric for his part had made a particular point of remaining at home all evening to entertain her. She liked him well enough, but his endless chatter about the bets he had won, the parties he might at that moment have been attending and the conquests he had made, finally gave her such a headache that she was compelled to give up all thought of saying goodnight to her father, admit fatigue and retire to the unbelievable comfort of her room.

Lady Marchmont came up too and fluttered about her for a little while to make sure she had everything she required.
‘Tomorrow,' she said, ‘We must find you a maid, but for tonight, I will make shift to help you. After all, you are to be my daughter.' She insisted that Henrietta drink a cup of hot milk and even made as if to unfasten her dress for her, but Henrietta, all New England rising in her, declined her help, explaining that she was too tired to talk. Much to her relief, Lady Marchmont accepted the rebuff with a good grace and glided from the room, adjuring Henrietta to sleep as long as she could in the morning. ‘We are not early risers, you know.'

Alone at last, Henrietta struggled out of her clothes as quickly as she could. She was quite incredibly sleepy. The hot milk had had a strange taste. Had her stepmother perhaps added some soporific to it: She almost collapsed on to her bed, then forced herself to struggle up again. The papers that proved her birth were still in the pocket of the dress she had worn. Some instinct compelled her to totter over to where it lay across a chair, secure the papers and tuck them carefully under her pillow. Then she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

She was roused by morning sunshine across her face. The curtains had been drawn and a cheerful-looking young maid stood by her bed holding a tray.

The maid bobbed a curtsey, tray and all. ‘If you please, miss,' she said, ‘I'm Rose, as is to be your maid, if you'll bear with me, miss, as I ain't had much training, but willing as can be, I'm sure, miss. And will you have your chocolate now?'

‘Yes, please.' Henrietta pulled herself up among her pillows and made a lap for the tray. ‘But what time is it? I have slept very long, surely.'

‘Why, no, ‘tis but eleven, miss. My lady said you were on no account to be disturbed before. Besides, your new clothes are but now come home. And stunning, too, miss, if you'll forgive the liberty.'

Henrietta glanced across to the chair where she had left her old dress and saw that it had been replaced by the elegant confection of striped muslin for which Madame Bégué had fitted her the day before. ‘But my clothes,' she asked, ‘what has become of them?'

‘Lord, miss, no need to be thinking of them,' said the girl. ‘Lady Marchmont said you'd have no more need for such trash — excuse me for saying so, I'm sure — and I'd best take them out and have them burnt.' She coloured anxiously at the look on Henrietta's face. ‘Was that wrong, miss?'

‘No, no.' Henrietta recovered her composure. ‘It was quite right, Rose, if my lady told you to do so. And since I have my fine new clothes, what is there to complain of?' But there was a cold feeling about her heart. Suppose she had not got out of bed the night before and rescued her papers from the pocket of the dress? They would have been burned by now and with them would have gone her only means of proving her birth. And, she realised with a new pang, her father had never even looked at anything but his own letter and the miniatures. Only her stepmother had read her birth certificate and glanced angrily at her mother's marriage lines. Supposing she should choose to deny having done so?

The girl was still looking at her anxiously. ‘I only acted for the best, miss, I'm sure.'

‘Of course you did, Rose. Now run along, like a good girl, and let me drink my chocolate while it is hot. I shall need your help when it comes to putting on these fine new clothes of mine.'

Rose curtseyed her way from the room, leaving her new mistress deep in thought. The hot milk
had
tasted strange the night before … Suppose she had let her stepmother help her to undress. Would she have removed the papers or merely stayed beside her until she was too fast asleep to remember them? Either way, their fate would have been the same. They would have been burned by ‘accident'. Or was she being unfair? She might easily be imagining the whole thing. Her dress had been old and soiled with voyaging and might well have offended Lady Marchmont's delicate sensibilities. The accident might have been genuine enough. But she must see to it that another one did not happen.

She finished her chocolate and rang for Rose. The new muslin was certainly ravishing and the sight of her reflection in the long glass gave her a fresh accession of courage. She might be entirely wrong in her suspicions, but she would not take any chances. She smiled kindly at Rose, who was also admiring the finished effect in the glass, and asked casually whether it would be possible to send a packet to an address in London.

‘Why, of course, miss, one of the men will carry it for you.'

‘But this is something out of the ordinary, Rose. Can you arrange for it to be taken without anyone's knowing? I cannot explain the whole to you, but it is a secret commission I have undertaken for the captain of the ship I crossed in. The packet
is to go to his sister. It is no treason, you know' — she had seen the girl's look of alarm — ‘Captain Gilbert and his sister are as English as you.'

‘Oh, in that case,' Rose said with obvious relief, ‘there is not the least difficulty in the world. My brother Jem is under-footman and he shall carry your packet for you without anyone's being the wiser.'

‘Admirable.' Henrietta sat down and wrote a brief note to Miss Gilbert, asking her to hold the enclosed papers until she should call for them in person. After some thought, she did not send the three miniatures, but hid them instead among her books.

She had hardly done so when there was a light tap at her door and Lady Marchmont appeared, devastatingly casual in a pink silk negligée. ‘What, up and dressed already, my love? You put us all to shame. I had come to warn you to be dressed betimes since we shall doubtless be overrun with morning visitors. But I see there is no need. How elegant you look in your new gown, my dearest creature.'