Regency Rumours/A Scandalous Mistress/Dishonour And Desire (34 page)

‘So you’ve never spun yarns about yours, Sir Chase?’

‘Never had any need to. Others might have, but not me. Shall we go and take a look?’ He stopped by the door, holding out an arm to usher her in.

This was not at all what she had intended, nor could she contain the feeling that Sir Chase had the knack of manoeuvring people into situations they would not have chosen for themselves. He had obviously done the same to her foolish brother.

Well lit by tall windows, the stable’s oak stalls were topped by black-painted grilles, each black post topped by a golden ball. Layers of straw muffled the stamps from a forest of legs, and glossy rumps shone like satin, swished by silken tails. The aroma of hay and leather warmed Caterina’s nostrils, and the occasional whicker of greeting combined with the scrunch of hay held in racks on the walls.

The two dapple-greys belonging to Lady Elyot were draped with pale grey rugs monogrammed in one corner, spotlessly clean, their charcoal manes rippling, hooves shining with oil. No effort had been spared to remedy the effects of their bruising drive last evening, yet Caterina withheld the thanks that were overdue.

Without comment, she went alongside the nearest horse, ducking under the cord that roped it off, peeping under the rug and stooping beneath its neck to return along the other side, patting the smooth back as she passed. ‘Good,’ she said, fanning the long tail.

‘It was the least I could do,’ he replied.

‘No, Sir Chase. The least you could do would be to spare my father the distress of having to find the money to pay my brother’s debt. Twenty thousand may be a trifling sum to you, but I can assure you that my father’s circumstances do not accord with the way it looks. He will not have told you how difficult his finances are at the moment. He’s too proud for that. But I’m not, sir. Believe me, he cannot afford it.’

‘By no means is it a trifling sum, Miss Chester. If it had been, I would not be taking the trouble to claim it. Apart from that, your feckless brother should be made to learn that a man does not walk away from a debt of honour without serious consequences. I would have preferred it if he had been hurt a little more. As it is, only his pride will suffer.’

‘As it is, sir, my father is the one to suffer. And me, too, I expect.’ Immediately, she wished she had not allowed him to push her into a snappy retort, for now she would be asked to explain what she meant by that.

‘You, Miss Chester? How does the debt affect you?’

‘Oh, indirectly,’ she waffled. ‘Nothing that need be spoken of. Indeed, I should not have said as much.
Please, forget it.’ She began to move away, but Sir Chase’s long stride took him ahead of her and she was stopped by his arm resting on the next golden ball. Frowning, she scowled at the perfect white folds of his neckcloth, aware that this time she had backed herself into a corner.

‘I am intrigued,’ he said, looking down at her with those half-closed eyes that held more challenge than persuasion. ‘What is it about this business, exactly, that affects you personally? Are we talking of dowries?’

Her eyes blazed darkly in the shadowy recess, a small movement of her body telling him how she chafed at being held to account, unable to avoid a confrontation as she had before. ‘That is something I cannot discuss with you, sir. Indeed, it is a subject that will
never
be discussed with you, thank heaven.’

‘Ah, so we
are
talking of dowries, and of yours being lessened quite considerably if your father decides to use it to pay me what he owes. Well, that’s too bad, Miss Chester. How he chooses to pay—’

‘He doesn’t have a
choice!
’ she snarled. ‘Now let me pass, if you please. This conversation is most indelicate.’

‘Come on, woman!’ he scoffed. ‘Don’t tell me your delicate sensibilities are more important than your father’s so-called distress. I’ll not believe you can be so missish, after what I’ve seen. Talk about the problem, for pity’s sake.’

‘I cannot, Sir Chase. You are a stranger to me.’

‘I am the one to whom the money is
owed,
’ he said, leaning his head towards her, ‘so if you can’t discuss it with me, who
can
you discuss it with? Do you have need of your dowry in the near future?’

‘No. Not in the near or the distant future,’ she whispered. ‘There, now, you have your answer. Let me pass.’

He did not pretend to misunderstand her, nor did he immediately respond, but stood looking at her while the soft sounds of munching and the jingle of chains passed them by without recognition. Then he broke the silence. ‘Why not?’ he said, quietly.

With a noticeable effort to keep her voice level, she replied. ‘If my father and stepmother find it difficult to understand my reasons, Sir Chase, I can hardly expect you to do any better.’

‘Do
you
understand them?’ he whispered.

The staggering intake of her breath told him that he had found the weakness in her defence, and that she had no ready answer except a sob that wavered behind one hand. ‘Oh!’ she gasped.

The barrier of his arm dropped as she bounded away, half-walking, half-running out of the stable yard and up the steps leading to the garden door. It closed with a bang behind her. In the stable, Sir Chase leaned against one of the posts, his hand smoothing the dapple-grey coat beside him. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that makes an interesting change from the usual run of things, my beauty. How long have we got? Five months, is it?’

Caterina stood with her back pressed against the door in the high wall until the beating of her heart slowed to a more comfortable pace and her breathing eased. Cursing herself for allowing the dreadful man to catch her off guard so soon, she listened to the sounds from the stable yard, a deep voice, the clatter of hooves and Joseph’s whistle as he went on with his polishing. Angrily, she had to admit that Sir Chase was more perceptive than a stranger had any business to be, for he had been right to ask if she understood her own reasons when they were so contradictory, so fatalistic and uncompromising.

She was not by nature as pessimistic as her father had become, nor was she anything like her two siblings, who cantered through life certain that the future would smooth itself out reasonably enough if they didn’t think too deeply about it. But Caterina did think deeply and with passion about what life was offering and whether she had the right to satisfy her own needs or put them aside in order to please her parents. In recent years, the two viewpoints had become more incompatible, the conflict over her future creating more of a barrier than any of them could have foreseen when her father married Hannah Elwick.

Caterina and Hannah had been on friendly terms well before her father first came down to Richmond from Derbyshire. With an age difference of only six years between the two women and only a few miles across the Great Park to separate them, Caterina had been pleased when the gentle Hannah had accepted Stephen Chester’s offer of marriage, seeing years of friendship ahead for herself and Sara. None of them, not even Hannah herself, had expected such an explosion of productiveness and the ensuing need to rearrange the town house on Paradise Road into nurseries and day-rooms, extra bedrooms and a study for the head of the family. No longer was there a music room or a workroom-cum-library or anywhere for a guest to sleep. No longer did she have a room of her own.

Caterina did not dislike the children. Far from it; she was happy that Hannah’s parenting skills had been employed so promptly and that Mr Chester had the companionship he had craved for years. What she had found increasingly hard to bear was the way that Hannah’s mothering had engulfed the smooth workings of the whole household from morning till night and beyond,
for Hannah was not one to hand over her duties completely, as some did. Nurses dealt with the peripheral chores, but Hannah’s constant rota of breast-feeding seemed to take over their lives and, although she invited the interest of Caterina and Sara on the basis that it was excellent grounding for them, neither was ready for maternalism on that scale.

Sara would rather have been visiting friends and learning her dance steps, and Caterina would rather have been practising her singing. Now she practised at Sheen Court in Aunt Amelie’s music room where she and her teacher could work in an atmosphere of understanding. Aunt Amelie herself had given birth to three delightful children, but Sheen Court was substantially larger than Number 18 Paradise Road, and there Caterina could escape the stifling environment she had grown to dislike.

She had not tried to dissuade Harry from spending his month’s holiday in London, and she saw now that, as the eldest, she was partly responsible for what had happened. She had been thinking more of her own and her sister’s comfort instead of encouraging him to sample the delights of Richmond. The truth remained, however, that Hannah’s brand of domesticity had not sent Caterina hurtling into the arms of the first man to offer for her. If anything, it had the opposite effect by creating a scene of such discomfort, Hannah looking ill, distressed and tired, her father short of sleep and temper, that might well be Caterina’s lot within a year or two.

The Earl of Loddon had made it clear,
after
their engagement had been announced, that his future wife would live in Cornwall with his aged mother while he spent his time in the city. Viscount Hadstoke had also damned himself after his first attempt at a kiss, for the
idea of spending her nights in bed with
that
was worse than life in her incommodious home. Title or not, she could not do it.

It had been of little use to explain to her parents about needing to feel love when they both insisted that such emotions grew
after
marriage, not before. Caterina knew otherwise, though unfortunately the examples she quoted were the exception rather than the rule and therefore carried little weight. Aunt Amelie and her husband, Lord Nicholas Elyot, had been lovers before their marriage, and Nick’s brother Seton, Lord Rayne, had been the object of Caterina’s infatuation six years ago. She had recovered, after a fashion, but six years was barely long enough for her to forget the elation and the anguish of that time, the wanting and the madness. And the foolishness. She had discovered what she thought were the depths of her ability to love, and she wanted it again. Anything else would be second-best, a compromise, and that would be far worse than no marriage at all.

Nevertheless, as she leaned against the garden door, she wondered why her heart was beating to an old familiar rhythm, and why that man’s image was impressing itself so forcefully upon her mind. She saw his thickly waving black hair, his wicked roving eyes, the impressively wide shoulders and narrow hips. No detail had escaped her, though she had not wanted to be seen observing. How ironic that a man of his repute, a man so dangerous to know, should have been the only man to ask her about her reasons for not wanting to marry. After such a brief acquaintance, what could it possibly matter to him?

Stephen Chester, Caterina’s father, was not entirely without a conscience, though it might have appeared
that way during the wager with his daughter’s future that morning. But it was rarely that a man was brought bad news
and
a way of righting it in the same visit, and Stephen had wrestled with the problem of his eldest daughter for years now, falling deeper into despondency. Surely he could be forgiven for snatching at this solution with so little soul-searching and so few qualms. And at no cost, either.

It was true he had aimed high, at first perhaps too high. Dukes, earls, viscounts and lords had all shown an interest, to Caterina’s amusement and very little cooperation. They had retired, licking their wounds, and he had begun to wonder whether it was her bright sparkling beauty they wanted or her dowry which, if not exactly prodigious, might have lured some of the more threadbare titles. But this man, Sir Chase Boston, had been less interested in the dowry than the idea of a challenge. It was strange, Stephen thought, that there were men who did not mind losing twenty thousand guineas.

Conscience
did
smite Mr Chester, but not very hard and not where it hurt. He knew Sir Chase to be a notorious roué, a womaniser, a gambler, a hard-living hard-playing gallant: one could hardly ignore any of that. But he also had a title, of sorts, and wealth, and had offered to care for Caterina correctly, hitting the nail on the head when he’d suggested that a conventional husband might not be to her taste.

It was hard to know, these days, what would be to her taste, but since she could not bring herself to marry an upright run-of-the-mill duke, then perhaps she might be won over by an extrovert baronet.

Fingering the pattern on the crystal decanter, he sighed deeply. As for not putting any pressure on his wilful daughter to do her duty, well, Caterina knew all
about the debt, and if she could be made to regard her future with Sir Chase as a duty to her family, then she might be persuaded to enter into the spirit of the affair with more seriousness than she had previously shown. Compared to an unhealthy IOU hanging over one’s head, what was a little fatherly pressure?

Holding up the decanter by its neck, he tilted it this way and that against the light, wishing that Hannah had not, for once, watered his brandy down. No wonder Sir Chase had not been impressed. Nevertheless, he poured himself another tumblerful and carried it over to his magnificent burr-walnut desk, bought only recently at great expense.

T
urning the coffee-coloured phaeton through the massive wrought-iron gates of Sheen Court, Caterina held the dapple-greys to a steady trot into the avenue of elms, bracing her feet against the footboard and seeing, from the corner of her eye, how Sara clutched at her bonnet. ‘Take it off,’ she laughed. ‘Nobody will mind. Let the wind blow through your curls, as I do.’

Good-naturedly, Sara grinned. ‘If I looked like you when it does, I would,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, I’d only look as if I should have worn a bonnet.’

‘Rubbish. They know how pretty you are, wind-blown or not.’

At nineteen, Sara was very conscious of looking her best at all times while striving to emulate the poise and individuality that had radiated through her elder sister’s formative years. To Sara’s eternal chagrin, her own blonde prettiness was of the fragile kind that did not respond as it ought to attempts at the wind-blown look or to bold styles that showed off voluptuous curves, for Sara’s curves were not voluptuous. If anything, they required
some assistance from handkerchiefs stuffed down the front of bodices.

There were plenty of young men who preferred Sara’s delicate frame above anything, especially when it gave them opportunities to bestow those small courtesies men have in store for such females. Bestowing them on Miss Caterina Chester did not bring quite the same satisfaction, for there was always the impression that she found them amusing rather than touching, unnecessary rather than helpful. To the fair and fairy-like Sara, romance was like a minuet, slow, studied and graceful, with everyone knowing what to expect. It gave her time to think. To Caterina, romance was more like a rite than a dance, in which
being
was more important than thinking. She was waiting for it to happen to her again, but this time with a man who could hear the same primitive beat.

Ahead of them, shining and silvery in the sun, the neo-classical stone façade of Sheen Court watched their approach through unadorned windows and a central portico that soared above both storeys on Corinthian columns. Three flights of wide steps rippled down to the drive between gigantic urns where Caterina brought her aunt’s phaeton to a perfect standstill. Footmen in grey livery ran to take the horses’ heads as a tall figure strolled towards them at a more leisurely pace, two brindled greyhounds loping at his heels. He was smiling.

‘It’s Lord Elyot,’ Sara whispered. ‘I never know what to say to him.’

‘It’s not Lord Elyot,’ said Caterina, ‘it’s his younger brother, Lord Rayne. Lord Seton Rayne.’

There was something in the urgency of her sister’s contradiction that opened Sara’s blue eyes even wider. ‘You mean … Seton? The one you—?’

‘Shh! That was years ago. I didn’t know he was back home.’

‘Where from?’

‘The army.’ Caterina called to him as he came alongside and held a hand up to her in greeting. ‘Lord Rayne. What are you doing here?’

‘I lived here once. Remember?’ He laughed back at her with a flash of white teeth.

‘Heavens, so you did. I’d almost forgotten.’

He was not meant to believe her. Nor did he. Holding up his other hand, he invited her down. ‘Come down here, Miss Caterina Chester, and let me remind you, then. And introduce me to your lovely companion, if you will. Or have you forgotten your manners, too?’ He caught her, returning her hug like a favourite brother, almost lifting her off her feet and whooping like a child.

She had often wondered in what ways they would have changed since their last meeting. Then, she had said the same inadequate farewell as everyone else as he went off to join his regiment, the one in which his brother had served some years earlier. Then, she had vowed to shed no more tears for a man, and she had kept her word through the pain of rejection, and through the healing.

It had been very civilised and well arranged. He had been as understanding and sorry at twenty-five as she had been at seventeen, and perhaps more kindly. He had explained that she was too young for him, that he was about to leave for a long spell of duty and that he was not the kind of man she deserved. He had been abroad, visiting seldom, and then only briefly. She had not believed then, nor did she now, that love had much to do with deserving, but she had accepted his explanation because it was sensitively given and because she had little alternative.

Both Lord Rayne and his elder brother had had mistresses and clearly she was not his style, gauche and innocent and, though pretty, nothing like the raving beauty she was now. There had never been any kind of intimacy between them and she had no reason to reproach him except for not wanting her, for his behaviour had been utterly correct, if sometimes maddeningly confusing. For the last few weeks of their friendship, when matters had been resolved between them, they had been more like brother and sister than before, where affectionate bickering was a comfortable substitute for one-sided adoration.

For Caterina, it had been the hardest and most emotional lesson of her life, learned with Aunt Amelie’s help in lieu of a mother’s. Her dignity had won her aunt’s admiration, for this had all come at a time when her astonishing singing voice had just been discovered, her little feet placed on the first rung of stardom and her launch into the best society. It was for that very reason her widowed father had asked her widowed Aunt Amelie to be her chaperon.

With her feet now firmly on the same level as Lord Rayne’s, she realised that her heart was not all a-flutter as she had thought it might be, and that, although she was delighted to see him again, he was even more like the adopted brother than the one she’d left behind all those years ago. Full of curiosity about what those years had done to him, she watched as he handed Sara down from the phaeton and was introduced to her.

To anyone less familiar with every detail, the slight loss of weight would have gone unnoticed with the new soldierly bearing, the bronzed skin stretched more tautly over perfect cheekbones, the skin around the eyes rather more lined, weathered more than suffered. From
what she’d heard, life in the Prince Regent’s own regiment, the 10th Light Dragoons, was never to be suffered, even at the worst of times, their reputation less for fighting than for just about every other masculine activity.

Lord Rayne had changed physically less than Caterina, but he was still as handsome as he had been before, still as immaculately dressed, dark hair as carefully disordered, neckcloth simply tied and spotless. Lord Elyot and his brother were probably the handsomest pair in the
beau monde;
no one had ever contradicted that in Caterina’s hearing.

Sara had already turned a pretty shade of pink as they mounted the steps with their arms tucked through Lord Rayne’s, and it was Caterina who fired the first salvo of questions. ‘How long have you been home? Have you sold out now? Have you been offered a position?’

He squeezed her arm against him, looking down at the mass of deep chestnut curls as rebellious as their owner, at the flawless skin and the sun-kissed cheeks, the sweep of thick lashes and the marvellous arch of her brows. How she had changed; her movements now every bit as graceful as her aunt’s, her manner assured and confident. ‘Only a couple of days,’ he said, smiling into her eyes. ‘But never mind that. Tell me about all these improper offers you’ve had, Cat. I thought you’d have had a clutch of bairns by now.’

‘Oh, how vulgar you are,’ she scolded. ‘And don’t fib. You didn’t think of me at all, did you?’

‘Yes, I did. Once or twice. But I didn’t imagine … well …’

‘Well what?’

‘That you’d have blossomed so. We have some
catching up to do. And does Miss Chester sing?’ He looked down at Sara’s bonnet.

‘Only a little, my lord,’ Sara said. ‘I mostly play the harp when Cat sings. It’s easier.’

Lord Rayne smiled indulgently at her, thinking how very different the two sister were and how agreeable their relationship. He did not believe it would be as easy as all that to accompany Caterina when she sang, knowing what he did of her high standards. ‘Signor Cantoni is already here,’ he said. ‘Would you like an audience for your lesson?’

‘As long as you don’t disturb us with your snoring,’ Caterina replied.

Always welcoming, Lady Elyot greeted her nieces more like sisters, embracing them and keeping hold of their hands, noticing her brother-in-law’s obvious delight. ‘Now, you’ve met again at last. Any changes, Seton?’

‘Plenty,’ he said, with a teasing glance. ‘Thank heaven.’

‘Still ungentlemanly,’ Caterina snapped. ‘No change there. Don’t expect any compliments, Sara dear. Lord Rayne has even forgotten the one he knew.’

Sara giggled, understanding but unable to match her sister’s wit. ‘We’ve brought the phaeton back, Aunt Amelie,’ she said. ‘Cat thought it best because we’re away to Wiltshire tomorrow and it won’t be used for a few days. And Hannah won’t be coming with us after all, because the baby twins are coming down with something.’

‘Oh, my dear, I’m sorry to hear that. Has Dr Beale been?’ Lady Elyot’s dark almond-shaped eyes filled with concern. She was an inch smaller than Caterina, heart-stoppingly lovely and, at thirty, still the kind of
woman men hungered for, with warm brown curls falling through bands of ribbon and spiralling down her long neck. Her figure was firm and slender, even after bearing three children, showing off to perfection the blue sleeveless pelisse worn over a blue-bordered white muslin day dress. A Kashmir shawl was draped over one shoulder, which Sara would never have thought of doing. Lady Elyot was responsible for Caterina’s transformation to assured womanhood, and a special bond had grown between them of the kind that Sara and Hannah had not quite managed to forge.

‘Doctor Beale was arriving just as we left. Hannah is going to ask Aunt Dorna if she’ll take on the duties as chaperon. She was going, anyway,’ said Sara without a trace of regret.

‘Dorna as chaperon,’ said Lady Elyot with a lift of her fine brows. ‘Well, I’m sure she’ll agree, my dear, in principle if not in fact.’

Lady Adorna Elwick was not only the widow of Hannah’s late brother, but she was also Lord Elyot and Lord Rayne’s sister. The sudden loss of her husband, however, had been a tragedy only in that it obliged Dorna to wear black, which she would not otherwise have done.

‘As long as you don’t expect the onerous duty of chaperon to make the slightest difference to Dorna’s own enjoyment,’ said Lord Rayne. ‘Perhaps it’s as well that I was invited along to partner her, for I’m sure she has no intention of being saddled with her brother, and I was all set to find myself a couple of innocent young sisters to pass the time with. You two should fill the bill quite nicely.’

‘Thank you,’ said Caterina, taking her music case from the footman with a smile, ‘but we have no intention
of filling your bill. We are not nearly innocent enough for you. Anyway, I didn’t know you’d been invited.’

‘Not invited to Sevrington Hall? The Ensdales would never have a house party without me. I’m one of the standard eligible males.’

‘Good. Then you’ll know your own way around the place, won’t you? Sara and I have been invited to perform.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ he groaned in mock despair.

‘And we must not keep Signor Cantoni waiting any longer. Aunt Amelie, thank you
so
much for lending us your phaeton. It was polished only this morning. We had such fun with it.’

‘Then you shall borrow it again, love, at any time. Go through to the gallery, both of you. May we peep in later on?’

‘Of course. We’re rehearsing our songs for the weekend.’

A lengthy glass-covered corridor led into one of the first-floor side wings where a previous Lord Elyot had added a long gallery, centuries after the fashion had disappeared, in which to house his collection of
objets d’art
and ancestral portraits. Lit by ceiling-to-floor windows on two sides, the room was often used for dancing and concerts; now, as the sisters entered, Signor Cantoni was already playing to himself on the small Beckers grand pianoforte, his eyes scanning the ornate plasterwork ceiling with its riot of foliage, swags and shells.

‘Are you all right, Cat?’ Sara whispered. ‘After seeing him again?’

Caterina was more than all right. There had been a time, years ago, when she had dreaded seeing Lord
Rayne with a beautiful and sophisticated woman on his arm, looking down the length of a ballroom at her with pity in his eyes. It had not happened. Instead, he had picked up the old familiar sparring, the mild insults, the banter that was more acceptable than that awful pretence at politeness, a cover for regret. She had changed since then, realising for perhaps the first time that he must have known she would, that her needs would grow well beyond the dreams of a seventeen-year-old. She was grateful to him for telling her what she had not wanted to believe, that there were other men for her than him.

Placing an arm around her sister’s shoulders, she hugged her as they walked towards the piano, almost laughing with relief. ‘Yes, oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘It’s gone now. Really. I mean it. I’m quite free, and we shall get on well together, the three of us.’

Greeting her singing teacher with a kiss to both cheeks, she helped Sara to uncover the harp and sift through the music sheets, settling into the seriously enjoyable music-making that had been her lifeline during the last problematical years. From the start, she had been sought to add glamour and talent to the most select house parties, soirées and private charity concerts, sometimes with Sara, sometimes with her teacher, and often with an orchestra. It was not a voice, they told her father, that one kept to oneself.

Before long, the family at Sheen Court began to gravitate towards the door that only grown-ups knew how to open silently. In a slow trickle with fingers to lips, they went to sit on the window-seat at the far end, or took up positions on the pale upholstered chairs against the cream panelling. Lured by Caterina’s rich mezzo-soprano voice, they listened entranced to the
music of Mozart, Gluck and Handel and to some by her late mentor himself, who’d had a piece written for him, a castrato, by Joseph Haydn.

Standing to face the harp and the piano so that she could watch her teacher’s expressions, Caterina was hardly aware of the growing audience until Sara whispered to her during a pause, ‘Lord Elyot’s here.’