Regency Debutantes (68 page)

‘Kathryn has the misfortune to share her name with those people, nothing more.’

A silver brow arched in an arrogant gesture Ravensmede himself so frequently used. ‘It matters little,’ he said. ‘It’s one thing to waste your time and your money with widows and harlots, it’s quite another to seduce unmarried young
ladies,
especially those that must make their own way in the world.’

Their gazes met and locked. ‘For once we are in agreement, sir. Nevertheless, I would have you know that the leaflet is nothing but a piece of malicious spite. Miss Marchant is a lady of unimpeachable virtue.’ In his mind he heard again the whisper of her soft voice.
Once before, in St James’s Park, you made me a…different offer. If the offer is still open…I accept.
The thought of what it must have cost her to say those words wrenched at his heart. She was an innocent…in every aspect of the word. He would not have his father think otherwise. There could only be one real reason why Kathryn had declined marriage in favour of a more illicit relationship. And Nicholas had a very shrewd
idea just what that might be. ‘You may say what you will, sir, but I mean to marry Miss Marchant all the same.’

Lord Maybury sauntered to the brandy decanter and poured two large glasses. He lifted one himself and left the other for his son to retrieve. ‘I’m relieved to hear that for once you’re prepared to do the honourable thing. Whether you laid a finger on the girl or not is irrelevant. To all intents and purposes she’s well and truly ruined.’

Ravensmede did not move from his stance next to the blackened grate. ‘I assure you that the leaflet does not figure the slightest in my plans, sir. I have intended making Kathryn my wife for some time.’ The expression on Nicholas’s face was one that the Earl had never before seen.

Maybury grunted. ‘And what of Miss Paton?’ A swig of brandy disappeared down his throat.

A dry laugh erupted into the silence. ‘There was never the remotest possibility that Francesca and I would marry. We would not suit, no matter how much you and her father will it otherwise.’

Silence hissed around them, and from both faces the same green eyes looked out.

The glass banged against the mahogany of the table as Maybury set it down hard. ‘I think that I should meet Miss Marchant.’

‘We may see her in half an hour’s time at Grandmama’s house.’

‘It’s a trifle early to call upon ladies,’ the Earl protested.

‘The visit has already been arranged: there is someone else whom I want Kathryn to meet.’

Kathryn lay awake all the night through, worrying over what to do. Sunlight was infiltrating the blinds and the birds chirping a lively racket by the time she finally reached a decision. Only then did she succumb to the oblivion of sleep. It seemed only minutes later when there was a knock at the door to her bedchamber, the pad of feet, and the rustle of skirt material. The
aroma of freshly brewed coffee and bread still warm from the oven drifted to her nose. Kathryn groaned, pulled the bedcover over her head and rolled on to her stomach.

‘Beggin’ you pardon, miss, but her ladyship said as how I was to bring you a little breakfast.’ The maid set the tray down on the bedside table and moved across to the other side of the room.

‘Thank you, Betsy. How very kind.’ One bleary eye peeped out from beneath the covers, just as Betsy raised the blind, and bright white sunlight flooded across the room. Another groan escaped Kathryn.

Betsy cast a curious look in the direction of the bed. Lying late in bed was out of character for Miss Marchant, who was normally up and about with the larks. But then again, if the gossip below stairs was anything to go by, the situation that the dowager’s companion now found herself in was far removed from normal. The maid wondered if the rumours were true. Lord Ravensmede was a fine-looking gent, and as the old saying went, there was no smoke without fire. Certainly Toby knew more than he was letting on; no doubt his lordship had greased the footman’s palm to keep him quiet. ‘Are you ill, miss? Shall I fetch Lady Maybury?’

Kathryn pushed herself upright, and sat back against her pillows. ‘No, I’m quite well, thank you, just tired. The coffee shall revive me admirably.’

Not by the look of the dark shadows beneath Miss Marchant’s eyes it wouldn’t, thought Betsy, and then remembered the other message that she had been instructed to impart. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot miss, her ladyship would like to see you in the drawing room at ten o’clock.’

Kathryn glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘It’s half past nine now!’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Heavens! How on earth could I have slept so late?’ Kathryn swung her legs out of the bed.

‘I’ll fetch you some warm water, miss.’ And Betsy disappeared.

Kathryn drank the coffee down and ate two bread rolls smeared with honey. There would be no room for weakness in today’s dealings. She was under no illusion as to what the dowager wanted to say. The old lady could hardly be expected to keep on a companion whose name had been linked so scandalously with the lady’s own grandson. Even Nicholas had said as much.

Nicholas. The mere thought of him made her feel uncomfortably warm. The uncomfortable feeling expanded at the memory of what had passed between them yesterday. Kathryn’s cheeks flamed. It was bad enough to offer herself like a common trollop. His rejection was a thousand times worse. She blew out air from between her lips, feeling the sting of shame yet again. He had offered her marriage. Marriage, for goodness’ sake! Better than all of her dreams put together. To spend the rest of her life as his wife. How very easy it would have been to say that one tiny word, yes. Yes.

Yes! She should have shouted it from the boughs of the trees. But she had thought better, and now the offer was gone. As was his desire. He had said she was ruined, and so she was. With little money and nowhere to go, Kathryn knew her options were limited. She could only pray that the gossip would not reach Hampshire. Her mother’s relatives were her last hope. With a heavy heart she moved to fetch the old trunk she had brought with her from Green Street.

It was only a little after ten when Kathryn was washed, dressed and ready. She had turned a deaf ear to Betsy’s protestations and worn her old blue muslin dress. The trunk sitting ominously by the door was as empty as when it had arrived. Madame Dupont’s skilfully fashioned dresses, for which Kathryn had not yet fully reimbursed Lady Maybury, were left hanging in the clothes-press. The pearl necklace and earrings gifted by her ladyship sat neatly in the jewellery box on the dressing table. Kathryn was unadorned. Her fingers carefully
skimmed her hair just to check that none of her neatly pinned curls had escaped. A deep breath, a squaring of her shoulders, one final smoothing of her skirt, and then she opened the door and walked towards the drawing room…and Lady Maybury’s dismissal.

The scene within the drawing room was not what Kathryn expected. She stood for a moment, unnoticed, staring, drinking in the sight before her. The dowager sat in her usual chair by the unlit fireplace, chatting ten to the dozen. Her expression was warm and lively, her manner familiar as if she knew the young woman who was seated demurely upon the nearby sofa very well indeed. In a glance Kathryn could see that the girl was tall and willowy, with silky dark brown hair worn in an elaborate coiffure. Two tiny white pearls dangled from her ears. Her white-and-pastel-blue dress was well cut and fashionably stylish. Everything about her bespoke money and breeding, and she wore it all with an air of effortless relaxation. Kathryn’s fingers strayed self-consciously to her own shabby gown. By the window stood two men, both tall, both with the same green eyes, both wearing the same defiant arrogance, one with hair as dark as night, the other whose head had silvered with age. Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat as it did whenever she saw Nicholas. It was not hard to guess the identity of the older man standing by his side.

The little group looked comfortable, at ease, like they belonged together. There was only one outsider. For a minute she felt the urge to turn and run, and then the moment was gone. Before she could think any further as to what was going on, she heard Nicholas’s voice.

‘Miss Marchant,’ he said, and made his way to her side. ‘Come in.’

She ignored the hammering of her heart and held her head high. ‘Lord Ravensmede,’ she replied politely, and gave a small curtsy. And then turning to his grandmother, ‘Lady Maybury.’

Although she was careful to keep her gaze averted from his, she could feel his scrutiny. Just his voice was enough to set her insides aquiver. She set her face determinedly and prayed that her cheeks did not appear as scalded as the rest of her felt.

He wasted no time in the introductions. ‘This is my father, Earl Maybury.’

The man by his side bowed. ‘I’m pleased to welcome you to our family, Miss Marchant.’ Pleased did not describe the expression on his face. Appraising came closer.

Kathryn froze at the implication of his words. It was clear that Lord Maybury misunderstood the situation. She glanced at Nicholas, waiting for his reaction.

Ravensmede made no notice of having heard anything untoward. He met her gaze with a strange look, as if he was poised, as if he was waiting. There was a pause that was slightly too long for comfort, and then he said, ‘Kathryn, this is Miss Francesca Paton.’

Kathryn stifled the gasp, blinked back the black dots swimming before her eyes and breathed deeply. The dizziness diminished. A warm hand pressed against the small of her back. Without looking she knew it to belong to Nicholas. She forced herself to step towards Miss Paton, away from the support that Nicholas offered. ‘Miss Paton,’ she said, and was relieved to hear that her voice sounded a deal calmer than she felt.

Miss Paton made her reply.

An awkwardness followed.

Then the dowager rose to her feet, and smiled. ‘There’s something to which I must attend. Please do excuse me.’ And she tottered out of the door.

Nicholas stepped closer. ‘My father and I must also take our leave of you…for now.’ Then they too were gone.

A pair of fine hazel eyes turned upon her. ‘Miss Marchant, please do come and sit beside me.’ She patted a hand to the cushion to her left. ‘Nicholas has told me all about you.’

Not
all,
Kathryn sincerely prayed. ‘Thank you, Miss Paton,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster, and seated herself on the sofa.

Miss Paton leaned forward and smiled. ‘Please call me Francesca.’ Her expression was open and honest and sincere. ‘You must be wondering as to the reason for my visit at such an early hour.’ Without waiting for an answer she continued. ‘Firstly, I came to wish you happy.’

Every muscle in Kathryn’s body stiffened. She wetted her lips, unsure of what to say.

‘And, secondly, I wished to meet for myself the lady that has finely succeeded in capturing Nicholas’s heart.’ Her smile broadened and there was a definite twinkle in her eyes.

Kathryn tried to smile, but her mouth seemed unwilling to respond. Something akin to a grimace stretched across her face. ‘I fear that you may have misunderstood the—’

Miss Paton let her get no further. Her hand touched to Kathryn’s in a gesture of friendship. ‘Miss Marchant,’ she started, and then said as an aside, ‘Or may I call you Kathryn?’

‘Of course,’ murmured Kathryn.

‘Kathryn, let me tell you how heartily relieved I am that Nicholas has at last decided to marry. You know my father and Lord Maybury are great friends, and have for years been trying to force a match between Nicholas and myself.’ She laughed. ‘Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?’

It did not sound in the least ridiculous to Kathryn. Miss Paton was heiress to a considerable fortune. Lord Ravensmede was heir to an earldom. There was no disputing that the two were well matched. Kathryn held her tongue.

‘Why, my dear Kathryn, Nicholas and I would not suit at all. He’s a dear man, and a very great friend of the family, but that is all.’

‘I thought…’ Kathryn found her voice at last. ‘I thought that there was an informal betrothal between you both, an understanding that you would marry.’

‘Oh, no, not at all!’ Miss Paton exclaimed. ‘Besides, my interest lies elsewhere.’

Kathryn watched as two pink patches suddenly appeared on Miss Paton’s cheeks. ‘You have a
tendre
for someone else?’

Miss Paton’s cheeks dimpled, and her face lit up. ‘There is a certain curate. He’s kind and diligent and of quite the most admirable character. But he’s a little shy of approaching my father. Little wonder, for although Papa is the best of fathers, he can appear a tiny bit intimidating in his manner to those with whom he is unfamiliar.’ Worry washed across Miss Paton’s face. ‘I beg you will not speak of it, Kathryn. We have told no one, though now that you’ve taken care of Nicholas for me, the way is clear for Thomas to speak to my papa.’

A weight lifted from Kathryn’s shoulders. ‘Your secret is safe with me. And I sincerely hope that you and Thomas find happiness.’

‘Thank you,’ said Miss Paton.

‘No, thank
you,
Francesca,’ Kathryn said, and meant it.

They moved to talk of the weather, and then discussed the Duke of Wellington’s recent victory against Napoleon. Miss Paton told Kathryn all about the magnificent firework display at Vauxhall Gardens to celebrate the event. From there talk led on to the latest fashions, and then the birth of Lady Harrington’s twins. Never once did she make the slightest mention of the most scandalous rumours sweeping every drawing room in London, especially those concerning Lord Ravensmede and his grandmother’s companion.

Indeed, when Nicholas returned, alone, it was to find the two women chatting as if they were the best of friends.

Within a few minutes of the Viscount entering the drawing room, Miss Paton took her leave.

Nicholas leaned against the mantel above the fireplace.

Kathryn stayed where she was upon the sofa.

He was careful to keep his face expressionless. ‘Did you and Miss Paton find anything interesting to discuss?’

Her face raised to his and he could see that much of the earlier tension had vanished. The silver eyes held a glimmer of mischief. ‘Perhaps.’