The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (11 page)

Chapter 14

You cannot always rely on the kindness of strangers.

“F
orgive me, Miss Seaton,” he said, “for conveying you in a closed carriage. It isn’t quite proper.”

Celia took a sidelong glance to see if he was joking. The words were the first he’d spoken to her since leaving the barn that weren’t necessary to the practicalities of consigning her to the care of his housekeeper and finding her something to wear. Her bath had been blissful and she should be grateful. But he probably wouldn’t have let her have it, she thought darkly, except that he wouldn’t wish to share a carriage with a woman who reeked of sweat and sheep. Then she thought of presenting herself at a strange lady’s house in her state of dirt and managed to scrape up a little gratitude, mostly to the servant who’d carried the cans of hot water upstairs.

In contrast to the elderly carriage, exhumed from the Revesby stables and still bearing traces of cobwebs around the windows, he was impeccably dressed in buff trousers, glossy Hessian boots, and a blue coat that fit his powerful shoulders like a glove. Beneath his high crowned hat his face, shaved of every trace of bristle, seemed harsh, almost ascetic.

Mr. Compton did not appear to appreciate the irony of his remarks. Since arriving at Revesby Hall he’d been very much Mr. Compton. Not Tarquin and most certainly not Terence. “Your dress is somewhat eccentric and your situation irregular. It would be better if you were not seen in my company.”

“Compared to the eccentricity of my dress and irregularity of my situation in the past three days, I would call myself a model of decorum.”

“I am thinking of your reputation. I believe I can trust the discretion of my staff. My valet I can vouch for and the Wardles have been with my family for decades and they are the only servants in residence at Revesby. Luckily Yorkshire folk do not in general care for gossip.”

Celia would have liked to make a joke about Joe, but he looked so forbidding. She stiffened her spine and resisted intimidation. She had seen this man in the most undignified circumstances. She’d rather not think about how he looked in the grip of ecstasy; that incident needed to be forgotten. But she did think about him standing in the stream with his tiddly little pillock. He didn’t have to be so superior.

Yes, she’d behaved badly. But it was clear to her now that Tarquin Compton was just as unpleasant as she’d always believed. It mitigated her guilt and made her deeply thankful that she’d most likely never have to see him again.

Please, please, she prayed. Let Mrs. Stewart be home and still willing to offer her assistance.

Mr. Compton perhaps shared her thoughts. “Tell me about Mrs. Stewart,” he said. “I know you have never met the lady, but how much do you know of her?”

“Until two months ago I was unaware of her existence. I received a letter from her offering me a home. She claimed to be the widow of an old friend of my father’s from India who had learned of my misfortunes.”

“Did your father have many friends you never met?”

Celia chose her words carefully. “We lived in a small place with few English, and my father traveled on business a good deal. So yes, I imagine he must have. I was a trifle surprised he’d never mentioned Mr. Stewart, but it’s not impossible and I might have forgotten.”

“Why did you refuse? Not,” he said grimly, “because you had just become betrothed to Terence Fish.”

“No,” she said, hiding her trepidation at revealing one of those little facts she’d kept to herself. “But I was engaged to my employer, Mr. Baldwin.”

She turned her head away and spoke so softly Tarquin wasn’t sure he’d heard her. “What did you say?”

“I was engaged to Mr. Baldwin.”

Of course, he thought. Another surprise courtesy of Celia Seaton, and something told him it wouldn’t be the last. The girl was proving to be a congenital liar. “No wonder he was upset at finding a man in your room.”

“There’s no need to be disagreeable. It’s not as though I let him in.” Since she wore no bonnet, he saw indignation possess her features. “My goodness! You don’t believe me. I told you the truth about that. Constantine was not my lover.”

He knew that. He knew she’d been a virgin. His responsibility for the loss of her maidenhead hung heavy on his conscience, however often he told himself it was as much her fault as his.

“Did you love him? Mr. Baldwin?”

“No. He only offered because he had four sons and I was the first governess who could manage them. He didn’t want to lose me. His sister, however, hated me. She persuaded him I was guilty.”

Why he should be glad she hadn’t loved her betrothed, he wasn’t sure. Why should he even care? Yet he wondered what the man looked like, and whether she’d ever kissed him.

She continued her story. “I wrote to thank Mrs. Stewart for her kindness and told her of my good fortune and she replied with her felicitations. Her letter was stolen with the rest of my belongings, but I remember the address. Moorland House, Stonewick.”

“Let’s hope she’s still living there.”

She wasn’t. Moorland House, a respectable stone house on the High Street, was empty. Inquiry at the inn quickly revealed that the most recent tenant had taken a year’s lease, but stayed only a month or two before leaving with no forwarding address. Yes, said the publican. Mrs. Stewart was her name. He thought it just about two months ago she left.

Another strange occurrence related to Celia Seaton and not, Tarquin would wager good money, a coincidence.

Chapter 15

A lady should never leave her chamber improperly dressed.

H
e finally got rid of his land agent, who had joined him at the breakfast table. Tarquin didn’t want Truman to know of the existence of Celia, let alone that she’d spent the night under his roof.

The man had been worried when Tarquin went missing. But instead of instituting discreet inquiries, Truman had gone too far. Learning the Duke and Duchess of Amesbury were in residence at Castle Hartley, some ten miles away, he’d sent Tarquin’s uncle a message.

It wasn’t the duke so much as the duchess. Tarquin shuddered to think what she’d do if she got wind of this escapade. Finding a solution to the problem of Celia was now urgent.

The only thing he could think of was to throw himself on the mercy of Lady Iverley, his best friend’s new bride. Diana was kindness itself and Tarquin didn’t think she’d refuse to help. His head ached a little. He found he still had some gaps in his memory, mostly relating to recent, and he hoped relatively trivial, matters. One of these was the exact location of the Iverleys. Sebastian’s family seat was in Northumberland but they also owned a house in Kent. He’d better send letters to both places right away.

He got up to pour himself more tea and found the pot almost cold. He preferred coffee in the morning, but Mrs. Wardle’s notion of the beverage was undrinkable. He’d wait and order a fresh pot when Celia appeared. His unwelcome guest was in a spare bedroom, presumably enjoying a prolonged sleep, though not that of the innocent. His own rest, despite exhaustion and the joy of a feather bed, had been disturbed by the dozen difficulties she presented. Her lack of suitable clothing, for instance. The girl had nothing, not a thread to her name aside from that tattered shift. His mother’s twenty-year-old ball gowns, the only feminine garments in the house, fit her well enough, but she couldn’t be seen abroad in them. The throb in his brain intensified.

The previous day’s storm had abated the heat only for a few hours and the sunshine brightened the dining room. Like most of the seventeenth-century house, with the exception of a fine wood carved mantelpiece in the drawing room, the decoration was plain but well executed: white painted paneling setting off bad ancestral portraits and agreeable landscapes, and solid, unpretentious furniture. As a child he’d often eaten here since his parents liked to share the morning meal with their children.

The sounds of birdsong through the open windows were interrupted by the crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel. Rising to look, a quick glance identified the crest on the carriage door and the passengers within. Much to his disgust, the duchess had accompanied her husband.

With Wardle away from the house on an errand and Mrs. Wardle in the kitchen quarters, there was no one to answer the door and Tarquin had no intention of doing it himself. But that wouldn’t keep the duchess out for long. Sure enough, he heard her harrumphing her way through the hall, opening and slamming the doors of empty rooms while her mild-mannered husband offered unheeded demurs. All too soon she made her way to the dining room.

As a child Tarquin had been terrified of her. She reminded him of a parrot belonging to a friend of his mother’s: sharp and beaky with clashing plumage, ready to peck a boy’s eyes out when disgruntled. Considering his aunt’s ghastly taste in clothes, Tarquin never understood why she was the one person in the world who made him feel like a scrubby schoolboy. Perhaps because when he’d first come to live with her at Amesbury House, the ducal mansion in London, that’s what he’d been.

“So you’re here,” she snapped without preamble. “That fool of a man of yours said you were missing.”

Tarquin rose politely at her entrance. He’d given up offering her verbal defiance when he discovered she reveled in the excuse to retaliate. She’d hadn’t owned the right to chastise him for many years, but his flawless demeanor always irked her, along with the power and respect it had won him among her peers.

And he never traduced her. Her dress sense, for example, would be an easy target for his wit. If he wanted he could have all of London repeating a bon mot about the imperial taste in color that matched her nature. She knew it, too, and must wonder why he never attacked her. He was rarely tempted anymore. His disdain and loathing were too great. A playful epithet on her person would be like fighting a tiger with a chicken skin fan.

“Good morning, Duchess. Good morning, Uncle. What a surprise to see you.”

The Duke of Amesbury cast him a look of mute apology. Tarquin was fond of his mother’s brother, who had done his duty as a guardian with a measure of affection and now showed no inclination to interfere with his life.

Unlike his wife.

With exquisite punctiliousness he bowed over her hand. She flared her nostrils and emitted a sound halfway between a sniff and a snort, eloquent with derision. “Compton.” Her fingers clenched as though itching to wield the birch. That, at least, he no longer had to suffer at her hands. “I’ve heard nothing from your sisters,” she continued, holding him responsible for the dilatory letter writing habits of two ladies who were older than him, married, and living far away.

“Mary writes that her family is well. Claudia is increasing again.”

The duchess’s mouth thinned to what passed for a smile. “It’s to be hoped she does her duty this time.”

“Indeed.”

“Six girls! Was ever anything so mismanaged?”

In Tarquin’s opinion the only mismanagement was expecting his sister to endure so many pregnancies in twelve years of marriage, but he said nothing. He never bandied unnecessary words with the duchess.

“Such a thing would never be allowed in
my
family. The Bromleys always have boys.”

“Really, Duchess? I thought you were born a Bromley.”

“Well, of course there must be some girls, or whom would men marry?” Magnificently immune to logic, she turned to the subject at hand. “Where were you?” she barked.

“Truman took unnecessary alarm when I decided to spend a night or two away from home.”

“You have a mistress, I suppose. You should be married. When you return to London I shall present you to my niece, Miss Belinda Bromley. She came out this year but she didn’t take. She is perfect for you.”

And would, being a Bromley, presumably breed many sons. If it was possible to feel amusement in her presence he would have laughed. She’d been trying to marry him off for years, always presenting him with the most insultingly dismal marriage candidates. Including, he reflected with grim irony, Miss Celia Seaton. And since she mustn’t discover an uarried lady staying under his roof, he needed to get rid of her as soon as possible.

“It was thoughtless of you, Compton, to make me come all the way here.”

Tarquin gritted his teeth and raised his eyebrows. “Had I known you would be concerned, or even that you were in Yorkshire, I would have been sure to inform you of my whereabouts.”

“I loathe Yorkshire but I had to come up on a matter of business.” She looked around the room. “I haven’t been in this house since the day we came to tell you about your parents’ death. It hasn’t changed.”

“Why would it? It’s been largely uninhabited since that day.”

“I never liked it. Old and badly arranged.”

“In that case don’t let me keep you here for another minute.”

The duchess never took a hint. Instead she took a seat. “Pour me some tea. Coming out so early was highly inconvenient. I scarcely had time for a bite of breakfast.”

Without a word, Tarquin went to the sideboard and poured her a cup, adding milk and sugar at her demand.

“It’s cold,” she said. “Ring for fresh.”

He was growing anxious. Celia might descend at any moment. “The bell is broken.” True. “And I believe all my servants are out. That’s why you had to let yourself into the house.”

“I’ll find someone.” Ignoring his protest she swept out of the room and he prayed she wouldn’t decide to look upstairs.

“Taking the opportunity to nose around,” the duke said, confirming Tarquin’s fears. “I’m sorry to intrude on you, my boy, but you know what she’s like. She’s particularly vexed at the moment.”

“How can you tell?”

The duke winced. “I can tell. She’s been balked.”

“Jewelry?”

“The Mysore ruby again. She first heard of it a year ago—over a hundred carets and pigeon blood red—then it disappeared.”

“If I remember, you bought her the Hohenstein emeralds instead.” With a shudder he remembered the sight of the huge parure adorning the duchess’s scrawny neck, clashing horribly with a purple satin gown.

“Forty thousand, they cost me. They kept her quiet for a month or two, but then she heard a rumor the ruby had resurfaced, in Yorkshire of all places. Nothing for it but to leave Brighton and come up here. Then she meets her London agent and he tells her he doesn’t have the jewel yet. But when—if—he finds it she’s going to make me pony up and the emeralds will seem a bargain.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You don’t know how lucky you are not to have a wife.”

Tarquin looked down at the rather pudgy duke and backed away as tactfully as he could. Subscribing to Mr. Brummell’s dictum that a gentleman should smell of unobtrusive cleanliness, his only scent was a special soap, ordered from a Parisian shop and custom made for him in the south of France. He abhorred the duke’s unfortunate addiction to perfume. Of course his uncle was rich and powerful enough not to give a damn what anyone thought of him. The only person he feared was his wife. “It’s not as though she can make you, Uncle.”

“You know what she’s like. A man does prefer peace in his own house. I don’t suppose you’d tell her you’ll propose to Belinda, would you? She’d be so pleased she might forget about the ruby.” The duke’s expression recalled a dog who knows it isn’t dinnertime but asks anyway.

“Forgive me, but I wouldn’t be inclined to choose anyone related to the duchess.”

“I daresay you are wise. Belinda’s a little dab of a chit, that’s why she hasn’t found a husband yet. And I expect she’s not as amenable as she appears.” His mournful expression was comical. “They hide their true natures until after they catch you.”

The duchess stormed back into the room, her true nature on flamboyant display.

“I can’t find anyone. Your kitchen quarters are a disgrace, just like the rest of this house. Your mother was a fool to marry Compton, and a bigger one not to raze the place to the ground and start again. I suppose she couldn’t afford it. A duke’s sister should have done much better than a Yorkshire gentleman. I blame your uncle for making us spend Christmas here that year. They should never have met.”

“Shall we leave my mother and father out of it?”

His father may have been a country gentleman and only an adequate match for a duke’s daughter, but to Tarquin’s mind there was no question his mother had made a wiser choice than her brother.

The duchess reclaimed her seat at the table. “She had no notion of family dignity. Lucky for them that
I
was in charge of your sisters’ presentations. I made sure they made decent matches, better than they could have expected.”

He waited, letting her invective roll over him.

“When I had to take the three of you in, the last thing I needed was more children. I’d just married off my youngest. But I spared no effort to ensure your sisters were well established and I shall do my duty by you as well.”

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am, Duchess, but there’s no need. Now let me escort you to your carriage.”

Ignoring his offered arm, she remained planted in her chair. “Grateful! If you were grateful you would have offered for one of the unexceptional young women I have introduced you to.”

One of those unexceptional candidates occupied a spare bedchamber and might appear at any second. Tarquin clenched his fists at his sides, wondering how on earth he was going to dislodge the mulish duchess. He stared at her for a minute, contemplating drastic measures. Would his uncle feel bound to object if he slung the beldame over his shoulder and carried her to the carriage?

Too late. Celia burst in, wearing his second-best dressing gown.

T
he house was an agreeable surprise. Celia knew little of architecture, but from her first sight of the interior she found Revesby Hall appealing. A well-proportioned square of gray stone, it was the perfect size for a no-nonsense country family with many children and lots of dogs and horses. Mr. Baldwin’s house had been on the small size for his four boisterous sons. Keeping the place, and the boys, in order had been a constant struggle. The Baldwins could have used a room like one she’d noticed off the hall at Revesby: a big messy depository for boots, coats, fishing rods, bats and balls, and the like.

It was hard to equate Mr. Compton with this informal paradise, but Terence Fish would have been quite at home here.

The view from her bedchamber revealed rolling moorland, stone walls, and sheep, arousing memories of events better forgotten. She needed to look ahead and face her terrifyingly empty future. And since she had no idea what she would do next, she put her mind to the immediate problem of getting dressed. The evening gowns belonging to the late Mrs. Compton, or Lady Something Compton rather, were lovely with very high waists, tiny bodices, and floating skirts. Unsuitable as it was for breakfast in Yorkshire, she had a mind to wear one in blue silk with a tunic of embroidered silver tissue. Celia laid the delicate stuff over her hand and admired the glistening beadwork.