Regency Debutantes (42 page)

Lord Ravensmede’s haughty brow raised just a little. ‘But, sir, you misunderstand me. I was speaking of Miss Kathryn Marchant.’ He paused to watch the shot go home.

Henry Marchant’s countenance coloured and his wife was staring as if the very devil had just appeared.

‘My niece?’ The words ground slowly from Mr Marchant’s mouth.

‘I take it you have no problem with my request.’

Unless he had gauged the Marchants wrongly, then they would do nothing other than comply.

Mr Marchant nodded once. ‘Fine by me, sir.’

Anna Marchant’s top lip curled with disdain before she forced it once more to the semblance of a smile. ‘Unfortunately, my niece is indisposed with a chill. It will take some days before she’s fully recovered, and I doubt that the outdoor air would be advisable for her state of health.’

Ravensmede’s expression did not alter from unassailable boredom. It was the one he used when engaged in card play and it had never failed him yet. ‘Indeed, madam, I send my condolences. In that case, I won’t waste any more of your time.’ He executed the tiniest of bows and made to leave.

Mr Marchant made haste to repair any damage. ‘I’m sure she will be recovered by next week, if you would care to call then.’

If looks could kill, Henry Marchant would have been a bloodied corpse upon the rug, a victim of his wife’s malice.

‘Perhaps,’ said his lordship ambiguously and strolled out into the hallway just in time to see Kathryn Marchant running down the stairs with a basket full of crumpled sheets between her hands.

‘Miss Marchant,’ said Lord Ravensmede, in a tone of absolute correctness. ‘I trust you’re feeling well enough to be out of bed?’

Kathryn stared at the tall athletic figure that had just emerged from the dining room. ‘Lord Ravensmede?’ Was she dreaming? Her fingers loosed their grip on the wicker strands, leaving Anna Marchant’s dirty sheets to tumble out in full display down the staircase before her.

The lady screeched in the background. ‘Kathryn, what are you doing up there? No doubt she has developed a fever to make her behave in such an obscure manner. I cannot begin to think what on earth she is doing with that linen. Leave it at once and return to your room.’ As Nancy appeared over Kathryn’s shoulder she added, ‘You, girl, why are you using the main stairs? Get this mess sorted out at once! I’ll speak to you later.’

Aunt Anna’s harsh words pulled Kathryn’s attention from the Viscount. ‘Aunt, please do not be cross with Nancy. I insisted that we come this way. These baskets are so wide it makes the servants’ stairwell difficult to squeeze down. I did not think …’ The words trailed off and she glanced apologetically in the direction of Lord Ravensmede.

‘You never do,’ came her aunt’s withering reply.

Ravensmede looked directly from the sheets to Mr Marchant.

A flush appeared on the older man’s cheeks.

Ravensmede allowed a small awkward silence before turning his attention back to Kathryn. ‘You appear to have recovered from your chill, Miss Marchant,’ he said in a voice that was silky smooth.

Kathryn’s brow wrinkled in bewilderment. ‘I’m quite well, thank you, my lord. Whatever made you think that I was not?’

Ravensmede cocked an eyebrow in Mrs Marchant’s direction.

‘Kathryn, you silly girl, you don’t know what you’re saying! It must be the fever.’ Anna attempted to shoo her niece back up the stairs. ‘And have a care not to waken Lottie.’

‘Shall I send my own physician to attend Miss Marchant?’ The deep voice arrested the ladies’ progress. He stepped forward, extending his hand to touch his fingers against Kathryn’s forehead. ‘How strange, no heat at all. A miraculous recovery wouldn’t you say, Mrs Marchant?’

Anna Marchant’s mouth compressed with fury.

Her husband tugged helplessly at his neckcloth. ‘Just as you say, sir, a speedy and fortuitous recovery.’

Ravensmede stepped back, fixed his beaver hat on his head and carefully donned his gloves. ‘Then I shall call at four.’ The piercing gaze rested on Mr Marchant, ‘Good morning, sir', flitted to his wife, ‘madam', and finally alighted on Kathryn, ‘Miss Marchant.’

The three stood slack-jawed and silent as Lord Ravensmede sauntered from the house in Green Street.

Kathryn had changed into her best walking dress: a slightly faded blue muslin purchased five years ago. It was dated in appearance, but clean, and she knew that the colour suited her well. Her hair was caught back in a knot at the nape of her neck and was well hidden beneath the mud-brown bonnet, which had been a gift from Aunt Anna when her own had fallen apart. A fichu, a rather tight spencer, sturdy walking shoes, darned gloves, and a small home-made reticule, all in a matching shade of greyish brown, completed the ensemble. Standing in front of the mirror, Kathryn surveyed her reflection with a critical eye. Her face was so pale that even her lips had lost their rosy hue. She looked exactly like she felt: tired and washed out. And she had yet to face an afternoon in Lord Ravensmede’s
company. The prospect was really rather daunting. Why would a man like him be interested in a woman like her? The answer was plainly evident. He had made his intent very clear. Raising her chin a notch, she determined to set his lordship firmly in his place with regard to that. A noise sounded behind her.

‘Ah, Kathryn, getting ready for Lord Ravensmede?’ Lottie swept an appraising gaze over her cousin. ‘You look…like someone far past her last prayers.’

Kathryn said nothing, just watched while Lottie flounced into the bedchamber and sat herself down upon the single battered chair.

‘There’s only one reason that Ravensmede would be taking the likes of you for a drive, and we all know what that is.’ One pretty slippered foot swung repetitively. ‘Let’s just say that it’s certainly not marriage he has on his mind.’ A snigger escaped her. ‘What have you been up to with his lordship, Kathryn?’ Lottie leaned forward, a smug gloating look upon her face.

‘Stop it, Lottie. I didn’t ask Lord Ravensmede to take me driving. Indeed, I would much prefer not to spend any time in his company. I was as surprised as you to hear that he had made such an offer.’

‘And is that the only offer he has made you?’

On seeing the barb hit home and two patches of colour flow into her cousin’s cheeks, Lottie continued, ‘That night at Lady Finlay’s, when he waltzed with you, where were you when you stormed off out of the ball room? In the retiring room? I don’t think so. More like reaching an agreement with the Viscount of Ravensmede!’

Kathryn turned, eyes flashing, fists clenched to control her fury. ‘Lottie, how can you make such wicked allegations? You know very well that it’s nonsense.’

Lottie did not reply, just smiled knowingly.

‘Please excuse me, Cousin.’ Kathryn could not bear to stay in the room a minute longer.

A snide laugh followed her. ‘You may run, Kathryn, but you won’t get very far. Mama has a little surprise planned for you.’

She sat alone and tense in the drawing room awaiting the sound of the bell. If Lottie thought such a thing, then the rest of the world was likely to view it in much the same vein. She would have to deter Lord Ravensmede in no uncertain terms. Her gaze fixed on the blackened fireplace. She forced herself to relax, to breathe deeply. In, and out. Tension ebbed.
The fireplace disappeared. Her mother’s face smiled kindly. A soft hand reached out to softly stroke her hair. The wind whipped at her face, sea air inhaled deep into her lungs. Mama was laughing and pointing to the shimmering water and the rolling white waves. Lottie’s cruel words receded into oblivion. Meaningless. Gentle fingers stroked her cheek. ‘Kathryn,’ Mama whispered. Kathryn smiled beneath the caress. ‘Kathryn.’ The voice was deeper, slightly more insistent, not like Mama’s at all. She touched her hand to Mama’s.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked up into the clear green eyes of Lord Ravensmede. A gasp sounded, her own, and she was up and out of the chair, breathless with confusion. ‘Lord Ravensmede, you startled me!’

‘My apologies, Miss Marchant. I did not mean to.’ He was regarding her with such scrutiny as to set Kathryn’s cheeks aflame.

‘Good afternoon, Lord Ravensmede.’ Mrs Marchant breezed into the room. ‘We seem to have found Kathryn at last. I shall tell Lottie she can call off the search.’ The bright blue eyes narrowed as they flicked over Kathryn’s reddened face.

Ravensmede extended his arm in Kathryn’s direction. ‘I shall return your niece safely before six. Try not to concern yourself, ma’am. I shall see to it personally that there’s no deterioration in her health.’

‘Indeed, Lord Ravensmede, I don’t doubt it. But I will, of course, be present myself to witness your attentions. Lottie and I will accompany Kathryn this afternoon.’ Mrs Marchant almost cackled at the deliverance of her cunning plan. ‘It
would be unseemly to allow my niece out without a chaperon.’ She did not add the words ‘and in your company'. She did not need to.

Lord Ravensmede delivered the woman a glare of such glacial proportions that she actually stumbled back. ‘Such a thought is anathema to my sensibilities. Which is why I’ve brought my grandmother in just such a capacity. She preferred to wait in the barouche while I came in to collect Miss Marchant.’ The inferred insult was obvious. ‘Perhaps you would care to step outside to meet her?’

Anna Marchant moved swiftly to the window and looked out at Lord Ravensmede’s barouche complete with an elderly lady dressed entirely in gaudy purple.

Kathryn looked from her aunt to Ravensmede and back again.

‘But of course, Lord Ravensmede,’ Mrs Marchant uttered between gritted teeth. ‘How very thoughtful of you.’ Every step those daintily clad feet took on their way out to the barouche warned of a mounting violence. ‘I shall await Kathryn’s return with impatience.’ She slid a meaningful look at her niece.

Kathryn did not miss the promise held so clearly in those cold blue eyes.

The day was warm, but that had not prevented the frail little lady being almost hidden beneath the thickest pile of blankets.

‘Grandmama, may I introduce Mrs Marchant, Miss Kathryn Marchant, and …’ he indicated the sullen-faced young woman who refused to leave the doorway ‘…Miss Charlotte Marchant.’

Anna Marchant dropped a graceful curtsy, hid the malice from her face and smiled charmingly. ‘Such a pleasure to meet you, Lady Maybury.’

The old lady subjected each of the offered females to a piercing stare from eyes that were a faded version of Ravensmede’s own, and let out a cackle. ‘The little chit looks nothing like the other two. I fancy Mr Marchant may have been cuckolded there.’ Then, as if she hadn’t just dropped a monumental insult, she dabbed a lilac lace handkerchief to her nose and
declared in an imperious tone, ‘Nicholas, how much longer do you intend to keep me waiting? Even the greys are getting bored.’

For the first time since meeting her Ravensmede bestowed a smile upon Mrs Marchant, then he took his leave of her, lifting Kathryn neatly into the barouche and bowling off down the road at what could only be described as a reckless pace.

The entirety of London’s
ton
had decided to partake of the afternoon air within the green surround of Hyde Park, or so it seemed to Kathryn when they entered. So many pairs of curious eyes turned upon her, so many hushed whispers and veiled finger pointings. She hid her discomfort well and smiled at Ravensmede’s eagle-eyed grandmother. The old lady fussed around with her blankets, oblivious to the heat of the day, raised a withered hand in the direction of a distant carriage and then turned her attentions to Kathryn.

‘Well, let me have a good look at you, gel.’ A quizzing glass appeared from beneath the blankets. One greatly enlarged faded eye gave a close scrutiny, missing nothing of the worn attire or the way Miss Kathryn Marchant kept her head averted from her grandson’s person. ‘Not got the fair locks or the silly prettiness of the other two,’ came the succinct observation.

Kathryn heard the sharpness in Lady Maybury’s voice. Those unused to her ladyship’s company had been known to quail under her blunt comments, but Kathryn sensed no malice beneath the harsh veneer. ‘No, my lady. Mrs Marchant is my aunt, and Charlotte, my cousin. I’ve lived with them since my father died.’

‘And your father was…Robert Marchant?’

Kathryn’s eyes opened wide. Forgetting her reserve, she twisted round to face Lady Maybury. ‘You knew him?’

‘No. When you’ve been alive for as long as I have, there’s not much you don’t eventually get to hear of. Refresh my memory.’

‘Grandmama!’ said Ravensmede, remembering Archie Cadmount’s brief account of Kathryn’s history, ‘Miss Marchant may not wish to speak of her family.’

‘Tush and nonsense, Nick!’ exclaimed the old lady heatedly. She then bestowed a look of obvious affection upon her favourite grandson.

For the first time since leaving Green Street Kathryn looked directly at his lordship. ‘Really, I don’t mind, my lord.’

Ravensmede kept his eyes upon her. And in his breast rose that same inexplicable feeling that had enveloped him on seeing Kathryn Marchant seated all alone in the drawing room with her mind a thousand miles away. Who was it that she saw behind those closed eyes? Someone who had the power to make her smile, someone she was happy to have caress her cheek. A suitor from the past, or some secret lover? The thought did not please him. That velvet-smooth skin washed with the merest hint of colour as she turned once more to his grandmother.

‘As you said, my father was Robert Marchant, the elder brother of Uncle Henry. My mother was Elizabeth Thornley, from Overton. She died of consumption almost eight years ago. Soon after, my sister died too, of the same illness. My father …’ Her voice wavered. ‘My father suffered an accident.’ She couldn’t bring herself to tell them the exact nature of the ‘accident', or how she had spent the time since his death trying to forget the horrendous image that seemed branded on her memory. ‘He’s been dead for just over three years. Uncle Henry and Aunt Anna were kind enough to offer me a home.’ Her fingers tightened against the seat.

‘What of your mother’s relatives? Have you no contact with them?’ the Dowager Countess demanded, but there was a distinct mellowing in the sharpness of her tone.