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Lord Ravensden's Marriage
Anne Herries


“Forgive me,” he said, his breath ragged with desire. “I had no right to do that, no right at all.”
“No,” Beatrice said quietly. “Nor I to let you. We both know that your duty lies with Olivia, my lord. You are fond of her, and she would make you a fitting wife. Your position demands that, and I have never mixed in society. I am a plain, simple countrywoman, with none of the social arts….”
“As if that mattered…you cannot think it, Beatrice?”
“I do not know what to think,” she said. “Please, my lord, let me go now. I must return to my sister. To stay longer might prove dangerous for both of us.”

Lord Ravensden’s Marriage
Anne Herries


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ANNE HERRIES
lives in Cambridge but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers.

THE STEEPWOOD SCANDAL:
Lord Ravensden’s Marriage, by Anne Herries
An Innocent Miss, by Elizabeth Bailey
The Reluctant Bride, by Meg Alexander
A Companion of Quality, by Nicola Cornick
A Most Improper Proposal, by Gail Whitiker
A Noble Man, by Anne Ashley
An Unreasonable Match, by Sylvia Andrew
An Unconventional Duenna, by Paula Marshall
Counterfeit Earl, by Anne Herries
The Captain’s Return, by Elizabeth Bailey
The Guardian’s Dilemma, By Gail Whitiker
Lord Exmouth’s Intentions, by Anne Ashley
Mr. Rushford’s Honour, by Meg Alexander
An Unlikely Suitor, by Nicola Cornick
An Inescapable Match, by Sylvia Andrew
The Missing Marchioness, by Paula Marshall

Contents
Chapter One (#u4b0db986-98f4-5619-a55b-5c8a8168f8b1)
Chapter Two (#uf5f7de47-54b8-5b9a-af80-a6bdc0a20c1f)
Chapter Three (#u56ff429e-2f2c-5629-a1ad-77fed20ecb74)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One
October, 1811
“Courage, Beatrice! Are you to be daunted by tales of dragons and witches? No, certainly not,” she answered herself, unconsciously speaking the words aloud. “This is nonsense, sheer nonsense! Papa would be ashamed of you.”
Beatrice shivered, pulling her cloak more tightly about her body as the mischievous wind tried to tug it from her. She was approaching the gates of Steepwood Abbey from the eastern side, having just come from the village of Steep Abbot, which clustered outside the Abbey’s crumbling walls at the point where the river entered its grounds.
In the village behind her lay the peaceful beauty of gracious trees, their bluish-green fronds brushing the edges of an idyllic pool in the river’s course. Ahead of her in the gathering dusk was the great, squat, brooding shape of the ancient Abbey, its grounds almost a wasteland these days. It was not a pleasant place at the best of times, but at dusk it took on a menacing atmosphere that was as much a product of superstitious minds as of fact.
“There is not the least need to be nervous,” she told herself as she peered into the shadowy grounds. “What was it Master Shakespeare said? Ah yes! Our fears do make us traitors. Do not be a traitor to your own convictions, Beatrice. It is all careless talk and superstition…”
But there were so many tales told about this place, and all of them calculated to make the blood run cold.
The land had been granted to the monks in the thirteenth century, and the Abbey had been built in a beautiful wooded area bordering the River Steep. Its origins were mystical, and it was held in popular belief that there had once, long centuries past, been a Roman temple somewhere in the grounds. Some of the stories told about the goings on at the Abbey were enough to make strong men turn pale.
So perhaps it was not just the chill of autumn air that made Beatrice shiver and turn cold as she paused to take her bearings.
“Foolish woman! This is autumn,” Beatrice scolded herself, “and you ought to have remembered the nights were pulling in. You should have left half an hour sooner!”
It was now the fourth week of October, in the year of Our Lord 1811, and the nights had begun to pull in more quickly than she had imagined possible. She ought in all conscience to have set out on her journey home to the small village of Abbot Giles at least half an hour sooner.
Most sensible females who lived in one of the four villages that lay to the north, south, east and west of the Abbey would not have considered crossing the Abbey’s land after dusk, or—since the Marquis of Sywell had taken up residence some eighteen years earlier—during the day for that matter!
Beatrice Roade, however, was made of sterner stuff. At the age of twenty-three she was of course a confirmed spinster, the first flush of her youth behind her (though not forgotten!), all hope of ever marrying denied her. She was tall, well-formed, with an easy way of walking that proclaimed her the healthy, no-nonsense woman she was. Attractive, her features strong, classical, with rather haunting green eyes and hair the colour of burnished chestnuts, she was thought slightly daunting by the local squires, who did not care for her cleverness—or her humour, which was oft-times baffling.
“Miss Roade,” they were wont to say of her as she was seen walking between the four villages, “bookish, you know. And as for looks—not the patch of her sister Miss Olivia. Now she is a beauty!”
And this from men who could hardly have caught more than a fleeting glimpse of Miss Olivia for the past fifteen years! But Miss Olivia took after her mother, and she had been beautiful. Miss Roade was like her father’s family no doubt, and known to be sensible.
So what was the very sensible Beatrice doing poised at the gate to Steepwood’s boundary walls, a gate which lay drunkenly open and rusting, useless these many years? Could she really be contemplating taking a short cut?
If they entered the grounds at all, most local folk stayed well away from the Abbey itself, taking either the path which led past the Little Steep river and the lake, or skirting Giles Wood—though only the braver amongst the villagers went near the woods.
There were odd goings on in the woods! Nan had told her that people were talking about it. Lights had been seen there at night again recently, and the gossips were saying that the Marquis was up to his old tricks—for it was firmly believed that when he had first come to the Abbey, Sywell and his friends had cavorted naked with their whores amongst the trees—and they had worn animal masks on their heads!
“Scandalous! That a nobleman of England should behave in such a manner,” Nan had said only that morning as she polished the sofa table in the parlour until the beautiful wood gleamed so that she could see her reflection. “I dread to think what may be going on there.”
“Nan, you intrigue me,” Beatrice had teased. “Just what dire things do you imagine are happening up there?”
“Nothing that you or I should want to know about,” her aunt had told her with a look of mock severity.
Really, the Marquis’s behaviour was too disgusting to mention—except that life was sometimes a little slow in the villages, and it did make such a delightful tale to whisper of to one’s friends.
Ghislaine and Beatrice had laughed together that very afternoon, though Ghislaine had been inclined to dismiss the rumours.
“The Marquis of Sywell is too old for such games,” she said, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Surely it cannot be true, Beatrice?”
“I would not have thought so—though there must be something going on. The lights have been seen by several villagers.”
“Well, I imagine there will be some simple explanation,” Ghislaine had said, and Beatrice nodded. “I dare say the lights are but lanthorns carried by some person with business on the estate.”
“Yes, I am sure you must be right—but the gossips invent so many stories. It is amusing, is it not?”
Amusing then, but not quite so funny when Beatrice was faced with a walk through the wasteland that was now the Abbey grounds.
Some might whisper of devil-worship and the black arts, but others spoke of pagan rites that were firmly rooted in the history of ancient Britons. It was said that in the old days virgins had been sacrificed on a stone by the lake, and their blood used to bring fertility to the land. Naturally Beatrice was too intelligent to let such tales weigh with her. Really, what did go on in the minds of some people!
Besides, the Abbey had long been the home of an old and respected family—it was only since it had fallen into the hands of the Marquis of Sywell that it had become a place of abomination to the people of the four villages.
Beatrice took heart from the sensible view of her friend. Strange goings on there might be, but they were unlikely to be anything that could bring harm to her.
“It is foolish to be frightened just because it is becoming dark,” Beatrice murmured to herself. “If I but walk quickly I shall be home in less than half an hour.”
Beatrice glanced up at the sky. Storm clouds were gathering. If she took the longer route, she might be caught and drenched by the rain that was certainly coming. She was not to be frightened by rumour and superstition. She would take the shorter route that crossed the Marquis’s grounds close to the Abbey itself. It was a risk, of course, because she would have to pass close to that part of the building which was now used as a private home.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Beatrice murmured one of her beloved father’s maxims, conveniently forgetting that he had so often been proved wrong in the past. For it was Mr Bertram Roade’s tendency to plunge into the unknown that had led to his losing the small but adequate competence which had been settled on him by his maternal grandfather—Lord Borrowdale. “What can he do to me after all?”
The he she was thinking of was, of course, the wicked Marquis himself, of whom the tales were so many and so lurid that Beatrice found them amusing rather than frightening—at least at home and in daylight.
“Be sensible,” Beatrice told herself fiercely as she began to cross the gravel drive which would take her past the Abbey—and the dark, haunting ruins of the Chapter House, which had been destroyed at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries and never restored. “He couldn’t possibly have done everything they say, otherwise he would have died of the pox or some similar foul disease long ago.” She smiled at the inelegance of her own words. “Oh, Beatrice! What would dear Mrs Guarding say if she knew what you were thinking now?”
It was because she had spent the afternoon at Mrs Guarding’s excellent school for young ladies that she was having to risk venturing right to the heart of the Abbey grounds now.
It had been so pleasant for the time of year earlier that afternoon. Beatrice had visited her friend Mademoiselle Ghislaine de Champlain, who was the French mistress at Mrs Guarding’s school, and had stopped to drink tea with her.
Beatrice had been fortunate enough to spend one precious year as a teacher/pupil at the school, where she had studied with Ghislaine to improve her knowledge and pronunciation of French, in return for helping the younger pupils with their English—the happiest year of her life.
It was, of course, the only way she could afford to attend the exclusive school, her education having been undertaken by her father at home, which might account for some of the very odd things she had been taught.
She had been twenty during that precious year spent at the exclusive establishment. Beatrice had hoped to make a niche for herself at the school, because she very much admired the principles of the moral but advanced-thinking woman who ran it. However, family duties had forced her to return to her home.
Thinking about the illness and subsequent death of her dearest mother occupied Beatrice’s thoughts as she walked, banishing all lingering echoes of orgies and dire goings on at the Abbey. Mrs Roade had been an acknowledged beauty in her day, and, as the only sister of the wealthy Lord Burton, had been expected to marry well. Her decision to accept Bertram Roade had been a disappointment to her family.
Beatrice’s musings were brought to an abrupt end as she heard the scream. It was the most blood-curdling, terrifying sound she had ever heard in her life, and she whirled round, looking for its source.
It had seemed to come from the Abbey itself. Perhaps the chapel or the cloisters…but she could not be certain. It might have come from somewhere in the grounds. Yes, surely it must have been the grounds—an animal caught in a trap perhaps? So thought the sensible Miss Roade.
For an instant, Beatrice considered the possibility of a dreadful crime…possibly murder or rape. Vague memories flitted through her mind; there was a tale of a girl caught inside the grounds one night when the monks still lived there: it was said that the girl had been found dead in the morning!
Beatrice shivered and increased her pace, her nerves tingling. All the stories of the Marquis’s atrocities came rushing back to fill her mind with vague fears of herself being attacked by…what?
Long dead monks? Ridiculous! What then? Hardly the Marquis? Surely she was not truly afraid of him? He was after all married at last, to a rather beautiful, young—and if the little anyone knew of her was anything to go by, mysterious girl. All Beatrice knew of her was that her name was Louise, and that she had been adopted as a baby by the Marquis’s bailiff, John Hanslope. It was whispered that she was his bastard, but no one knew the truth of the affair.
The scandal of the nobleman’s marriage to his own bailiff’s ward had both shocked and delighted the people of the four villages. Despite his terrible reputation, it was still unthinkable that a man of his background should marry a girl who was after all little more than a servant. “Quite beyond the pale, my dear!”
Beatrice’s own sympathies lay with the unfortunate girl who had married him, for surely she must have been desperate to do such a thing?
A sudden thought struck Beatrice—could it have been the Marquis’s wife who had screamed? She glanced at the brooding, menacing shape of the Abbey and crossed herself superstitiously. What could he have been doing to her to make her scream like that?
“No, no,” she whispered. “It could not have been her—nor any woman. It was an animal, only an animal.”
He was said to be in love…after years of wickedness and debauchery!
Even a man of the Marquis’s calibre could not be capable of hurting the woman he loved—or could he?
Beatrice tucked her head down against the wind and began to run. Perhaps it was her anxiety to leave the grounds of the Abbey that made her careless? It was certain that she did not see or hear the pounding hooves of the great horse until it came rushing at her out of the darkness. She was directly in its path and had to throw herself aside to avoid being knocked over.
Her action led to her stumbling and, having the breath knocked from her body by the force of her fall, she could only continue to lie where she was as the rider galloped by, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the fact that he had almost ridden her down.
Beatrice caught only a glimpse of him as he passed, but she knew it was the wicked Marquis himself, riding as if the devil were after him. He was a big man, wrapped about by a black cloak, his iron-grey hair straggling and unkempt about his shoulders. An ugly creature by all accounts, his features thickened and coarsened by his excesses—though she herself had never caught more than a fleeting glimpse of him. He was a bruising rider, and she had sometimes seen him in the distance on her walks—but they were not acquainted. The Roade family did not move in his circles, nor he in theirs.
“That was not well done of you, sir,” Beatrice murmured as he and his horse disappeared into the darkness.
She rose to her feet a little unsteadily, her usual composure seriously disturbed by what had happened that night. It was certain that the Marquis was in a black mood, perhaps drunk, as the gossips said he often was. Beatrice shuddered as she thought of the young woman who had married him the previous year. How terrible to be trapped in marriage with such a monster!
What could have possessed her to do such a thing?
Beatrice had never met the young Marchioness, or even seen her out walking. As far as Beatrice knew, no one had seen much of her since the wedding. People said she hardly left the Abbey—some said she was too ashamed, some murmured of her being kept a prisoner by her wicked husband, others that she was ill…and there was little to wonder at in that, married to such a brute!
She could only have married him for his money. Everyone said it, and Beatrice was sure it must be the truth—but had the Marquis been the richest man in England, she would not have married such a monster!
Beatrice had stopped shaking. She resumed her walk at a more sensible pace, keeping her head up so that she was aware of what was in front of her. There was little to be heard but the howl of the wind, which was eerie and unpleasant.
She would be glad to be home!
“You’re soaked to the skin, my love,” Nan said, fussing over her the moment she entered her father’s house. “We have been on the look for you this past hour or more. Whatever do you mean by worrying your poor father so?”
They progressed to the parlour, Beatrice having left her sodden cloak in the hall. She moved closer to the fire, holding her hands to the flames until she had stopped shivering, then went over to the large oak and upholstered Knole settee, carefully moving her aunt’s embroidery before sitting down.
“Have I worried Papa?” Beatrice thought it improbable. Her father would most likely be in his study, working on one of his inventions—the marvellous, wholly useless objects he was forever wasting his time on, which he believed were going to restore his fortune one day. “I think you were worried, Nan. Poor, dear Papa can hardly have noticed. Now, if I were not here for dinner—then he might begin to worry. Especially if it meant waiting for his meal.”
“Beatrice!” Nan scolded. “Now that is unkind in you. I know your humour, my dear—but it sounds harsh in a young woman to be so cynical. It is little wonder that…” She broke off, biting her lip as she saw the look in her darling’s eyes.
“Yes, I know I have driven them all away—all my suitors,” Beatrice said ruefully. “I really should have taken Squire Rush, shouldn’t I? He has three thousand a year, I dare say…but he has buried three wives and that brood of his was really too much!”
“There were others,” her aunt said. Mrs Nancy Willow was a widow in her early forties: a plump, comfortable, loving woman, who was extremely fond of her eldest niece. She had come to her brother’s house only after her husband (a soldier turned adventurer) had died of a fever. She sometimes thought it would have been better if she had been there before her lovely but slightly bird-brained sister-in-law had died, but she and Eddie had been in India at the time. “I understand there was a suitable admirer once…”
“And who told you that, aunt?”
Nan frowned. Beatrice rarely called her “aunt’ in just that way: she was clearly touching on a sore place.
“Well, well, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “But should another suitable young man come along…”
“I could not leave Papa,” Beatrice said at once. “Besides, it will not happen. I am nearly at my last prayers.”
“Now that you are not!” Nan said. “You have many qualities, Beatrice. A discerning man would know that the minute he laid eyes on you…”
“…and fall instantly in love with me?” Beatrice said, amused by her aunt’s romantic notions. “Only find me this suitor, Nan dearest—and, if he is not too dim-witted, which I think he may have to be, I will engage to do my best to snare him.”
“You and your wicked, wicked tongue,” her aunt said, smiling even as she shook her head. “And as for not being able to leave your papa—you know that is not so. You were obliged to give up all thoughts of marriage when your mama fell ill. To have left your father then would have been careless in you—but my brother has been kind enough to offer me a home for the rest of my life…”
“Unless you receive an offer of marriage, Nan!”
Her aunt pulled a wry face. “I could not be tempted. I am comfortable here, and here I shall stay. Since it does not take two of us to run this house, you are free to do as you wish…”
“Yes, I see that it makes a difference…” Beatrice looked serious. “It might be better if I started to look for a position…Papa’s funds are limited, and since…”
“He would never hear of it, and nor should I,” declared Nan roundly. “If anyone should look elsewhere, it must be me.”
“No!” Beatrice spoke quickly. She had been afraid her aunt would take that attitude, which was why she had not spoken her thoughts aloud before this. “You do not understand, Nan. I am not speaking of hiring myself out as a governess or a companion…I would only leave here if I could go back to Mrs Guarding’s school as a teacher.”
Her aunt stared at her, eyes narrowing. “Is that why you have been so long this afternoon?”
“No, indeed, for I have not yet spoken to Mrs Guarding about my idea. I went to see Ghislaine de Champlain, who, as I told you, is the French mistress there. We spent some time talking, and then had tea together in her room, which overlooks the river. It really was most pleasant.”
“You speak of Mademoiselle Champlain often—and of the time you spent at the school,” Nan said. “Would it really make you happy to return there, dearest?”
“Yes, I think so,” Beatrice replied, smothering a sigh. It wasn’t that she was unhappy with her life in her father’s house, but she sometimes longed for some stimulating company—a friend she could sharpen her wits on now and then without feeling that she was either hurting or bewildering that friend.
She briefly remembered her long-dashed hopes, which had been destroyed when she was a girl of nineteen—just the same age as her sister was now!—but their situations had been very different. Olivia was in London enjoying a brilliant season, and engaged to one of the best “catches’ of the Season. For Beatrice there had been no Season, and only one suitor she might have taken—if he had asked. However, after toying with her hopes and affections for a whole month one summer, he had taken himself back off to London and proposed to an heiress!
“Pray do not look so sad, my love,” Nan said. “Come, sit by the fire and let me dry your poor feet. You look as if you have had a tumble in the mud!”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Beatrice said, forgetting her disappointments as she recalled what had happened to her that evening. “I walked home through the Abbey grounds, Nan.”
“You never did!” Nan looked horrified. “Never say that monster attacked you?”
“In a way,” Beatrice replied, then shook her head as Nan looked fit to faint. “Oh, nothing like that. I heard something…a scream, I think…then this horse and rider came up out of the darkness and I was forced to throw myself out of his path. Had I not done so, I must have been crushed beneath the hooves of the horse. I am sure it was the Marquis himself, and in a fearful mood.”
Nan crossed herself instinctively. Neither she nor any member of her family were Catholics, but in a matter such as this, the action could be very comforting.
Beatrice laughed as she saw her aunt’s reaction. “I must admit to doing much the same as you when I heard the scream,” she admitted. “It was the most horrifying sound imaginable…” She broke off as their one little maid came into the room, carrying a silver salver. “Yes, Lily—what is it?”
“Bellows fetched this letter for you from the receiving office this afternoon, Miss Roade. It’s from London.”
“Then it must be from Olivia,” Beatrice said, feeling a flicker of excitement. “Perhaps it is an invitation to the wedding at last.”
The longcase clock in the hall was striking the hour of five as Beatrice took the sealed packet from her servant.
Beatrice had been anxiously awaiting the invitation since learning from her sister that she was about to become engaged to Lord Ravensden, the wealthy Lord Burton’s heir. Not that Lord Burton’s wealth was of any interest to his heir, who, according to rumour, already had far more money than any one person could possibly need.
Olivia had been adopted by their rich relatives when she was a child. She had been loved and petted by them ever since, living a very different life from her elder sister, who had been overlooked by Lord and Lady Burton when they agreed to take one of the children as their own.
The sisters’ parting had devastated Beatrice, who, being the elder, had understood what was happening, and why. She had kept in touch by letter since the day Olivia was taken away, but they had met only twice since then, when her mother’s sister-in-law had brought Olivia on brief visits. Having seen the engagement announced in The Times, which her papa continued to subscribe to despite his meagre funds, Beatrice had expected to hear from her sister almost daily, and was beginning to think she was to be left out of the celebrations.
She ripped the small packet open eagerly, then read its contents three times before she could believe what she was seeing. It was not possible! Olivia must be funning her…surely she must? If this was not a jest…it did not bear thinking of!
“Is something the matter?” asked Nan. “You look upset, Beatrice. Has something happened to your sister?”
“It is most distressing,” Beatrice said, sounding as shocked as she felt. “I cannot believe this, Nan. Olivia writes to tell me that she will not now be marrying Lord Ravensden. She has decided she cannot like him sufficiently…and has told him of her decision.”
“You mean she has jilted him?” Nan stared at her in dismay. “How could she? She will be ruined. Has she no idea of the consequences of her actions?”
“I think she must have.” Beatrice gave a little cry of distress as she read over the page something she had missed earlier. “Oh, no! This is the most terrible news. Lord and Lady Burton have…disowned her. They say she has disgraced them, and they will no longer harbour a viper in their home…”
“That is a little harsh, is it not?” Nan wrinkled her brow. “What she has done is wrong, no one could deny that—but I should imagine Olivia must have her reasons. She would not do such a thing out of caprice—would she?”
“No, of course not,” Beatrice defended her sister loyally. “We do not know each other well—but I am sure she is not so cruel.”
“What can have prevailed upon her to accept him if she did not mean to go through with the marriage?” Nan asked, shaking her head in wonder. Jilting one’s fiancé was not something to be undertaken lightly—and a man as rich as Lord Ravensden into the bargain!
“She says she has realised that she cannot be happy as his wife,” Beatrice said, frowning over her sister’s hurried scrawl. “And that she was cruelly deceived in his feelings for her.”
“What will she do now?”
“Lord Burton has told her she has one week to leave his house—so she asks if she may come here.”
“Come here?” Nan stared at her in dismay. “Does she realise how we go on here? She will find it very different to what she has been used to, Beatrice.”
“Yes, I fear she will,” Beatrice replied. “However, I shall speak to Papa at once, and then, if he agrees, I shall write and tell her she is welcome in this house.”
“My brother will agree to whatever you suggest,” Nan said a little wryly. “You must know that?”
Beatrice smiled, knowing that she always without fail managed to twist her father round her finger. He could refuse her nothing, for the simple reason that he was able to give her very little. Fortunately, Beatrice had a tiny allowance of her own, which came to her directly from a bequest left to her by her maternal grandmother, Lady Anne Smith.
Nan had given her a towel to dry herself, and Beatrice had used it to good effect. Her long hair was wild about her face, gleaming with reddish gold lights and giving her a natural beauty she had never noticed for herself. She handed the towel back to her aunt, and looked down at herself. Her gown was disgraceful, but her dear, forgetful papa would probably never notice.
“You realise Olivia will be an added burden on your father’s slender income?” Nan warned. “You have little enough for yourself as it is.”
“My sister will be destitute if we do not take her in,” Beatrice replied, frowning. “I do not know whether they have cast her off without a penny—but it sounds as if they may have done so. It would be cruel indeed of me if I were to refuse to let her shelter in her own home.”
“Yes, and something you could never do,” Nan said warmly. “I have no objections, my love. I only wish you to think before you leap—unlike my poor brother.”
“We shall manage,” Beatrice said, and left her aunt with a smile.
The smile was wiped out the instant she left the room. She had not mentioned anything to Nan, because it was still not clear to her exactly what her sister’s rather terse words had meant—but clearly Lord Ravensden was not a man Olivia could love or respect. Indeed, if Beatrice was not mistaken, he was a hard, ruthless man who cared for little else but wealth and duty.
He had had the cold-hearted effrontery to tell one of his friends that he was marrying to oblige Lord Burton. Since the Burtons had no children of their own, the title and fortune would pass by entail to a distant cousin of Lord Burton. They had felt this was a little unfair on the daughter they had adopted, and so made their wishes known to Lord Burton’s heir: it would please them if he were to marry the girl they had lavished with affection since she came to them.
Apparently, Lord Ravensden had proposed to Olivia, giving her the impression that he cared for her—and it was only by accident that she had learned the truth. It must have distressed her deeply!
No wonder she had declared herself unable to love him. If Beatrice were not much mistaken, it would push any woman to the limits to find a place in her heart for such an uncaring man.
She wished that she might have him at her mercy for five minutes! It would give her the greatest pleasure to tell him exactly what she thought of him.

Chapter Two
Beatrice fought her rising temper. She was slow to anger, but when something offended her strong sense of justice—as it did now—she could be awesome in her fury.
“If I could but get my hands on him!” she muttered furiously. “He should see how it feels to be treated so harshly. I should make him suffer as he makes my poor sister.”
No, no, this would not do! She must appear calm and cheerful when speaking to Papa. He had so many worries, the poor darling. This burden must not be allowed to fall on his shoulders. As for the added strain on his slender income…well, it made the idea of her becoming a teacher at Mrs Guarding’s school even more necessary. If she could support herself, her father would be able to spare a few guineas a year for Olivia to dress herself decently—though not, her sister feared, in the manner to which she had become accustomed.
Beatrice paused outside the door to her father’s study, then knocked and walked in without waiting for an answer. It would have done her little good to wait. Mr Roade was engrossed in the sets of charts and figures on his desk, and would not have heard her.
Like many men of the time, he was fascinated with the sciences and the invention of all kinds of ingenious devices. Mr Roade was a great admirer of James Watt, who had invented the miraculous steam engine, which had begun to be used in so many different ways. And, of course, Mr Robert Fulton, the American, who had first shown his splendid steam boat on the Seine in France in 1803. Bertram Roade was certain that his own designs would one day make him a great deal of money.
“Papa…” Beatrice said, walking up to glance over his shoulder. He was working on an ingenious design for a fireplace that would heat a water tank fitted behind it and provide a constant supply of hot water for the household. It was a splendid idea, if only it would work. Unfortunately, the last time her father had persuaded someone to manufacture the device for him, it had overheated and blown apart, causing a great deal of damage and costing more than a hundred pounds, both to repair the hole in the kitchen wall and to repay the money invested by an outraged partner. Money they could ill afford.
“May I speak with you a moment?”
“I’ve nearly got the puzzle solved,” Mr Roade replied, not having heard her. “I’m sure I know why it exploded last time…you see the air became too hot and there was nowhere for it to escape. Now, if I had a valve which let out the steam before it built up…”
“Yes, Papa, I’m sure you are right.”
Mr Roade looked up. Beatrice was usually ready to argue his theories with him; he was none too sure that his most recent was correct, and had hoped to discuss it with her.
“You wanted to talk to me, my dear?” His mild eyes blinked at her from behind the gold-rimmed spectacles that were forever in danger of falling off his nose. “It isn’t time for dinner—is it?”
“No, Papa, not quite. I came to see you about another matter.” She took a deep breath. “Olivia wishes to come and stay with us. I would like your permission to write and tell her she will be welcome here for as long as she wishes.”
“Olivia…your sister?” He wrinkled his brow, as if searching for something he knew he must have forgotten. A smile broke through as he remembered. “Ah yes, she is to be married. No doubt she wishes for a chance to have a little talk with her sister before her wedding.”
“No, Papa. It isn’t quite like that. For reasons Olivia will make clear to us, she has decided not to marry Lord Ravensden. She wants to come and live here.”
“Are you sure you have that right, m’dear?” Mr Roade looked bewildered. “I thought it was a splendid match—the man’s as rich as Midas, ain’t he?”
“That is a very apt description, Father. For if you remember, Midas was the King of Phrygia whose touch turned all to gold, and on whom Apollo bestowed the ears of an ass. Lord Ravensden must be a fool to have turned Olivia against him, but it seems, like that ancient king, he cares more for gold than the sweetness of a woman’s touch.”
“Must be a fool then,” sighed a man who had loved his wife too much. “Olivia is better off without him. Write at once and tell her we shall be delighted to have her home. Never did think it was a good idea for her to go away…your mother’s idea. She wanted the chance of a better life for at least one of her daughters, and her poor sister-inlaw was childless. Thank God the Burtons didn’t pick you! I couldn’t have borne that loss, Beatrice.”
“Thank you, Papa.” She smiled and kissed his forehead lovingly. “You know, if you let all the steam go in one direction, it might pass through pipes before it finally escapes, and give some heat to the rooms. It would make the bedrooms so much warmer…as long as you could be sure the device that heats the water will not blow up like it did the last time.”
“Let the steam pass through pipes that run round the house.” Mr Roade looked at his daughter as if she had just lit a candle in his head. “That’s a very good notion, Beatrice. It might look a little ugly, I suppose. I wonder if anyone would put up with that for the convenience of feeling warm?”
“I certainly would,” Beatrice replied. “Have you made any advances on the grate for a smokeless fire? Mine was smoking dreadfully again last night. It always does when the wind is from the east.”
“It might be a bird’s nest,” her father said. “I’ll sweep the chimney out for you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Papa, but I’m sure Mr Rowley will come up from the village if we ask him. It is not fitting for you to undertake such tasks.” Besides which, her father would make a dreadful mess of it!
“Fiddlesticks!” Mr Roade said. “I’ll do it for you first thing tomorrow.”
“Very well, Papa.”
Beatrice smiled as she went away. Her father would have forgotten about the smoking chimney five minutes after she left him, which mattered not at all, since she intended to send for the sweep when their one and only manservant next went down to Abbot Quincey to fetch their weekly supplies.
Seeing her father’s manservant tending the candelabra on the lowboy in the hall, Beatrice smiled.
“Good evening, Bellows. It is a terrible evening, is it not?”
“We’re in for a wild night, miss. Lily brought your letter?”
“Yes, thank you—and thank you for thinking to fetch it for me.”
“You’re welcome, miss. I was in the market at Abbot Quincey and it was the work of a moment to see if any mail had come.”
She nodded and smiled, then passed on up the stairs.
It was possible to buy most goods from the general store in Abbot Quincey, which was much the largest of the four villages, and might even have been called a small town these days, but when anything more important was needed, they had to send Bellows to Northampton.
They were lucky to have Bellows, who was responsible for much of the work both inside the house and out. He had been with them since her father was a boy, and could remember when the Roade family had not been as poor as they were now.
For some reason all his own, Bellows was devoted to his master, and remained loyal despite the fact that he had not been paid for three years. He received his keep, and had his own methods of supplementing his personal income. Sometimes a plump rabbit or a pigeon found its way into the kitchen, and Beatrice suspected that Bellows was not above a little poaching, but she would never dream of asking where the gift came from. Indeed, she could not afford to!
Walking upstairs to her bedchamber to wash and change her clothes, Beatrice reflected on the strangeness of fate.
“My poor, dear sister,” she murmured. “Oh, how could that rogue Ravensden have been so cruel?”
She herself had been deserted by a man who had previously declared himself madly in love with her, because, she understood, he had lost a small fortune at the gaming tables. She truly believed that Matthew Walters had intended to marry her, until he was ruined by a run of bad luck—he had certainly declared himself in love with her several times. Only her own caution had prevented her allowing her own feelings to show.
If she had given way to impulse, she would have been jilted publicly, which would have made her situation very much worse. At least she had been spared the scandal and humiliation that would have accompanied such an event.
Only Beatrice’s parents had known the truth. Mrs Roade had held her while she wept out her disappointment and hurt…but that was a long time ago. Beatrice had been much younger then, perhaps a little naïve, innocent of the ways of the world. She had grown up very quickly after Matthew’s desertion.
Since then, she had given little thought to marriage. She suspected that most men were probably like the one who had tried so ardently to seduce her. If she had been foolish enough to give in to his pleading…what then? She might have been ruined as well as jilted. Somehow she had resisted, though she had believed herself in love…
Beatrice laughed harshly. She was not such a fool as to believe in it now! She had learned to see the world for what it was, and knew that love was just something to be written of by dreamers and poets.
She had been taught a hard lesson, and now she had her sister’s experience to remind her. If Olivia had been so hurt that she was driven to do something that she must know would ruin her in the eyes of the world…What a despicable man Lord Ravensden must be!
“Oh, you wicked, wicked man,” she muttered as she finished dressing and prepared to go down for dinner. “I declare you deserve to be boiled in oil for what you have done!”
Lord Ravensden had begun to equate with the Marquis of Sywell in her mind. After her uncomfortable escape from injury that evening, Beatrice was inclined to think all the tales of him were true! And Lord Ravensden not much better.
A moment’s reflection must have told her this was hardly likely to be true, for her sister would surely not even have entertained the idea of marriage to such a man. She was the indulged adopted daughter of loving parents, and had she said from the start that she could not like their heir, would surely have been excused from marrying him. It was the shock and the scandal of her having jilted her fiancé that had upset them.
However, Beatrice was not thinking like herself that evening. The double shock had made her somehow uneasy. She had the oddest notion that something terrible had either happened or was about to…something that might affect not only her and her sister’s lives, but that of many others in the four villages.
The scream she had heard that night before the Marquis came rushing upon her…it had sounded evil. Barely human. Was it an omen of something?
After hearing it, she had come home to receive her sister’s letter. Of course the scream could have nothing to do with that…and yet the feeling that the lives of many people were about to change was strong in her. A cold chill trickled down her spine as she wondered at herself. Never before had she experienced such a feeling…was it what people sometimes called a premonition?
Do not be foolish, Beatrice, she scolded herself mentally. Whatever would Papa say to such an illogical supposition?
Her dear papa would, she felt sure, give her a lecture upon the improbability of there being anything behind her feelings other than mere superstition, and of course he would be perfectly right.
Shaking her head, her hair now neatly confined in a sleek chignon, she dismissed her fears. There had been something about the atmosphere at the Abbey that night, but perhaps all old buildings with a history of mystery and violence would give out similar vibes if one visited them alone and at dusk.
If Beatrice had been superstitious, she would have said that her experience that evening was a warning—a sign from the ghosts of long dead monks—but she was not fanciful. She knew that what she had heard was most likely the cry of a wounded animal. Like the practical girl she was, she dismissed the idea of warnings and premonitions as nonsense, laughed at her own fancies and went downstairs to eat a hearty meal.
“Ravensden, you are an almighty fool, and should be ashamed of yourself! Heaven only knows how you are to extricate yourself from this mess.”
Gabriel Frederick Harold Ravensden, known as Harry to a very few, Ravensden to most, contemplated his image in his dressing-mirror and found himself disliking what he saw more than ever before. It was the morning of the thirty-first of October, and he was standing in the bedchamber of his house in Portland Place. What a damned ass he had been! He ought to be boiled in oil, then flayed until his bones showed through.
He grinned at the thought, wondering if it should really be the other way round to inflict the maximum punishment, then the smile was wiped clean as he remembered it was his damnable love of the ridiculous that had got them all into this mess in the first place.
“Did you say something, milord?” Beckett asked, coming into the room with a pile of starched neckcloths in anticipation of his lordship’s likely need. “Will you be wearing the new blue coat this morning?”
“What? Oh, I’m not sure,” Harry said. “No, I think something simpler—more suitable for riding.”
His man nodded, giving no sign that he thought the request surprising since his master had returned to town only the previous evening. He offered a fine green cloth, which was accepted by his master with an abstracted air. An unusual disinterest in a man famed for his taste and elegance in all matters of both dress and manners.
“You may leave me,” Harry said, after he had been helped into his coat, having tied a simple knot in the first neckcloth from the pile. “I shall call you if I need you.”
“Yes, milord.”
Beckett inclined his head and retired to the dressing-room to sigh over the state of his lordship’s boots after his return from the country, and Harry returned to the thorny problem on his mind.
He should in all conscience have told his distant cousin to go to hell the minute the marriage was suggested to him. Yet the beautiful Miss Olivia Roade Burton had amused him with her pouts and frowns. She had been the unrivalled success of the Season, and, having been thoroughly spoiled all her life, was inclined to be a little wayward.
However, her manners were so charming, her face so lovely, that he had been determined to win her favours. He had found the chase diverting, and thought he might like to have her for his wife—and a wife he must certainly have before too many months had passed.
“A damned, heavy-footed, crass idiot!” Harry muttered, remembering the letter he had so recently received from his fiancée. “This business is of your own making…”
At four-and-thirty, he imagined he was still capable of giving his wife the son he so badly needed, but it would not do to leave it much later—unless he wanted the abominable Peregrine to inherit his own estate and that of Lord Burton. Both he and Lord Burton were agreed that such an outcome would not be acceptable to either of them—though at the moment they were agreeing on little else. Indeed, they had parted in acrimony. Had Harry not been a gentleman, he would probably have knocked the man down. He frowned as he recalled their conversation of the previous evening.
“An infamous thing, sir,” Harry had accused. “To abandon a girl you have lavished with affection. I do not understand how you could turn her out. Surely you will reconsider?”
“She has been utterly spoilt,” Lord Burton replied. “I have sent her to her family in Northamptonshire. Let her see how she likes living in obscurity.”
“Northamptonshire of all places! Good grief, man, it is the back of beyond, and must be purgatory for a young lady of fashion, who has been used to mixing in the best circles. Olivia will be bored out of her mind within a week!”
“I shall not reconsider until she remembers her duty to me,” Lord Burton had declared. “I have cut off her allowance and shall disinherit her altogether if she does not admit her fault and apologise to us both.”
“I think that it is rather we who should apologise to her.”
After that, their conversation had regrettably gone downhill.
Harry was furious. Burton’s conduct was despicable—and he, Harry Ravensden, had played a major part in the downfall of a very lovely young woman!
A careless remark in a gentleman’s club, overheard by some malicious tongue—and he imagined he could guess the owner of that tongue! If he were not much mistaken, it was his cousin Peregrine Quindon who had started the vicious tale circulating. It was a wicked piece of mischief, and Peregrine would hear from him at some point in the future!
Olivia had clearly been hurt by some other young lady’s glee in the fact that her marriage was, after all, merely one of convenience, that despite her glittering Season, and being the toast of London society, her bridegroom was marrying her only to oblige her adopted father. She had reacted in a very natural way, and had written him a stilted letter, telling him that she had decided she could not marry him, which he had received only on his return to town—by which time the scandal had broken and was being whispered of all over London.
Harry cursed the misfortune that had taken him from town. He had been summoned urgently to his estates in the north, a journey there and back of several days. Had he been in London, he might have seen Olivia, explained that he did indeed have a very high regard for her, and was honoured that she had accepted him—as he truly was.
Perhaps he had not fallen in love in the true romantic sense—but Harry did not really believe in that kind of love. He had experienced passion often enough, and also a deep affection for his friends, but never total, heart-stopping love.
He enjoyed the company of intelligent women. His best friend’s wife was an exceptional woman, and he was very fond of Lady Dawlish. He had often envied Percy his happy home life, but had so far failed to find a lady he could admire as much as Merry Dawlish, who laughed a lot and seemed to enjoy life hugely in her own inimitable way. Even so, he had felt something for Olivia, and he had certainly not intended the tragedy that his carelessness had caused. Indeed, it grieved him that she had been put in such a position, for without fortune and friends to stand by her, she was ruined.
So what was he going to do about it? Having just returned from the country, he had little inclination to return there—and to Northamptonshire! Nothing interesting ever happened in such places.
Harry’s besetting sin was that he was easily bored. Indeed, he was often plagued by a soul-destroying tedium, which had come upon him when his father’s death forced him to give up the army life he had enjoyed for a brief period, and return to care for his estates. He was a good master and did not neglect his land or his people, but he was aware of something missing in his life.
He preferred living in town, where he was more likely to find stimulating company, and would not have minded so much if Olivia had gone to Bath or Brighton, but this village…what was it called? Ah yes, Abbot Giles. It was bound to be full of dull-witted gentry and lusty country wenches.
Harry’s eye did not brighten at the thought of buxom wenches. He was famed for his taste in cyprians, and the mistresses he had kept whenever it suited him had always possessed their full measure of both beauty and wit. He believed the one thing that had prevented him from giving his whole heart to Olivia was that she did not seem to share his love of the ridiculous. She had found some of his remarks either hurtful or bewildering. Harry thought wistfully that it would be pleasant to have a woman by one’s side who could give as good as she got, who wasn’t afraid to stand up to him.
“What an odd character you are to be sure,” Harry told his reflection. It was a severe fault in him that he could not long be pleased by beautiful young women, unless they were also amusing.
Harry frowned at his own thoughts. It was not as if he were hiding some secret tragedy. His mother was still living, and the sweetest creature alive—but she had not been in love with his father, nor his father with her. Both had carried on separate lives, taking and discarding lovers without hurting the other. Indeed, they had been the best of friends. Harry believed he must be like his mother, who seemed not to treat anything seriously, and was besides being the sweetest, the most provoking of females.
No matter! He was a man of his word. He had given his word to Olivia, and the fact that she had jilted him made no difference. He must go after her, try to persuade her that he was not so very terrible. As his wife, she would be readmitted to the society that had cast her off—and that surely must be better than the fate which awaited her now.
“Beckett…” he called, making up his mind suddenly. “Put up a change of clothing for me. I am going out of town for a few days.”
“Yes, milord,” said his valet, coming in. “May one inquire where we are going?”
“You are going nowhere,” Harry replied with an odd little smile. “And if anyone asks, you have no idea where I am…”
“Come in, dearest,” Beatrice said, meeting her sister at the door. It was some six days since she had received Olivia’s letter, and her heart was pained by the look of tiredness and near despair in Olivia’s face. Oh, that rogue, Ravensden! He should be hung, drawn and quartered for what he had done. “You look cold, my love. Was the journey very tiresome?”
The road from London to Northampton was good, and could be covered easily enough in a day, but the country roads which led to Abbot Giles were far from ideal. Olivia had travelled down by one of the public coaching routes the previous day, and had been forced to find another conveyance in Northampton to bring her on. All she had been able to hire was an obliging carter, who had offered to take both her and her baggage for the sum of three shillings. A journey which must have shaken her almost rigid! And must also have been terrifying to a girl who had previously travelled in a well-sprung carriage with servants to care for her every whim.
How could the Burtons have sent her all this way alone? Anything might have happened to Olivia. It was as if her adoptive parents had abandoned all care for her along with their responsibility. The very least they might have done was to send her home in a carriage! Their heartlessness made Beatrice boil with anger, but she forced herself to be calm. It did not matter now! Her sister was here and safe, though desperately weary.
“Beatrice…” Olivia’s voice almost broke. Clearly she had been wondering what her reception would be, and Beatrice’s concerned greeting had almost overset her. “I am so very sorry to bring this trouble on you.”
“Trouble? What trouble?” Beatrice asked. “It is with the greatest pleasure that I welcome my sister to this house. We love you, Olivia. You could never be a trouble to me or your family…” She smiled and kissed Olivia’s cheek. “Come and meet Aunt Nan, dearest. Our father is busy at the moment. We try not to disturb him when he is working, but you will meet him later. He has asked me to tell you how pleased he is to have you home again.”
At this the sweet, innocent face of Miss Olivia crumpled, the tears spilling out of her bright blue eyes.
“Oh, how kind you are,” she said, fumbling for her kerchief in the reticule she carried on her wrist. She was fashionably dressed, though her pelisse was sadly splashed with mud, and the three trunks of personal belongings she had brought with her on the carter’s wagon would seem to indicate that the Burtons had not cast her out without a rag to her back. “I know you must think me wicked…or at the very least foolish.”
“I think nothing of the kind,” Beatrice said, leading her into the tiny back parlour, in which a welcoming fire was burning. It was usually not lit until the evening, neither Beatrice nor her aunt having time to sit much during the day, but this was a special occasion, and the logs they were using had been a gift from Jaffrey House, sent down specially by their very wealthy and illustrious neighbour the Earl of Yardley.
The Earl had a daughter named Sophia by his second marriage, of whom Beatrice imagined he was fond. The girl was near Olivia’s own age, and very striking, with black hair and bright eyes. Beatrice knew her of course, though they seldom met in a social way.
Mr Roade did not often entertain, nor did he accept many invitations, but the Earl’s family were seen about the village, and Beatrice was sufficiently well acquainted with Lady Sophia to stop and speak for a few minutes whenever they met. She thought now that it was a pity her father had turned down some of the kind invitations the Earl had sent them over the years. It would have been nice for Olivia to have made a friend of Sophia Cleeve.
“My dear Olivia,” Nan said, bustling in. She was wearing a mob cap over her light brown hair, and a dusting apron protected her serviceable gown. “Forgive me for not being here to greet you. I was upstairs turning out the bedrooms. We have only the one maid, besides the kitchen wench, and it would be unfair to expect poor Lily to do everything herself.”
Olivia looked amazed at the idea of her aunt having been busy working in the bedrooms, then recollected herself, blushed and seemed awkward as she went forward to kiss Nan’s cheek.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I fear I have caused extra work for you.”
“Well, yes, I must admit that you have,” Nan said, never one to hide the truth. “However, I dare say the room needed a good turn-out—it was your mother’s, you know, and has not…”
“Nan doesn’t mean that you are a bother to us,” Beatrice said as she saw her sister’s quick flush. “The room you have been given was our mother’s private sitting-room, not her bedroom—that is where she died, of course, and I felt it might distress you to sleep there.”
“I was about to tell Olivia that,” Nan said. “We’ve been waiting for the bed to arrive—it was ordered from Northampton, but arrived only this morning on the carter’s wagon. Had we not needed to wait, your room would have been ready days ago.”
“It was time we had a new bed,” Beatrice said smoothly, with a quick frown at her aunt. “The one we have in the guest room, which is at the back of the house and depressingly dark, is broken in the struts which support the mattress. It is still there, of course, though since no one ever comes to stay, it does not matter…”
“I see I have caused a great deal of trouble,” Olivia said. “You have been put to considerable expense on my account.”
“Nothing of the sort,” replied Beatrice. “Take off your bonnet and pelisse, dearest. I shall ring for tea—unless you would like to go straight up to your room?”
Olivia looked as if she would dearly like to escape, but forced herself to smile at them.
“Tea would be very nice,” she said. “I have a few guineas left out of the allowance my…Lord Burton made me earlier in the season, but I did not care to waste them on refreshments at the inns we passed. Besides, I was in a hurry to reach you. I shall give you what money I have, Beatrice, and you may use it for expenses as you see fit.”
“Well, as to that, we shall see how we go on,” Beatrice said, and reached for the bell.
It was answered so promptly that she imagined Lily had been hovering outside in the hall—a habit her mistress disliked but not sufficiently to dismiss her. Like Bellows, Lily did not complain if her wages were late, though Beatrice paid the girl herself, and usually on time.
“Tea please, Lily.” She turned to her sister as the maid went out again. “That’s right, dearest, sit by the fire and you will soon feel better. We shall talk properly later. For now, I want you to tell me all the news from London…that is, if you can bear to? We hear so little here, you know, except when neighbours return from a visit to town.”
“You know of course that the Prince was declared Regent earlier this year?” Olivia looked at her doubtfully.
“Yes, dearest. Papa takes The Times. I am aware that trade has been bad, because of Napoleon’s blockade of Europe, and that unemployment is high. I didn’t mean that sort of news…a little gossip perhaps, something that is setting the Ton by its ears?”
Olivia gave a little giggle, her face losing some of its strain.
“Oh, that sort of news…what can I tell you? Oh yes, apart from all the usual scandals, there is something rather exciting going on at the moment…”
She had taken off her outer clothing now, revealing a pretty travelling-gown of green velvet.
“There is a new French modiste in town. She is the protégée of Madame Marie-Anne Coulanges, who was herself once apprenticed to Rose Bertin—who, you must know, was a favourite dressmaker to Queen Marie Antoinette.” Olivia paused for effect. “They say Madame Coulanges was once a friend of Madame Félice’s mama, and that is why she has taken her up—anyway, she presented her to her clients, and Madame Félice has taken the town by storm.”
Beatrice smiled as she saw the glow in her sister’s eyes. Her little ruse had worked, and Olivia had lost her shyness.
“How old is Madame Félice?”
“Oh, not more than two-and-twenty at the most, I would think. She has pretty, pale hair, but she keeps it hidden beneath a rather fetching cap most of the time, and her eyes are a greenish blue. I think she might be beautiful if she dressed in gowns as elegant as those she makes for her clientele, but of course it would not be correct for her to do so. Though no one really knows much about her…she is something of a mystery.”
“How exciting. Tell me, dearest, is she very clever at making gowns?”
“Oh, yes, very. Everyone, simply everyone, is dying to get their hands on at least one of her gowns—but she is particular about who she dresses. Would you believe it? I heard she actually turned down the Marchioness of Rossminster, because she had no style! She will dress only those women she thinks can carry off her fabulous gowns. Of course they are the most beautiful clothes you have ever seen. No one can touch her for elegance and quality.” Olivia dropped her gaze. “She was very nice to me. I have one of her gowns and she was to have made a part of my wedding trousseau…” Her cheeks fired up as she spoke. “I have the gown she made for me in my trunks. I will show it to you later, if you wish?”
“I would like very much to see it,” Beatrice said. “If it is as smart as the one you are wearing…it must be lovely.”
She had been about to say that her sister would have little opportunity to wear her beautiful clothes now, but bit the words back before she was so cruel as to remind Olivia of all that she had lost.
“We shall talk of other things later,” she said. “There is much to talk about, Olivia—but we have time enough.”
“Yes,” Olivia said, losing the sparkle she had gained when telling her sister the news about Madame Félice. “Of course, London is thin of company now. I believe the Regent is to leave London for Brighton at the end of this month…Oh, that is today, isn’t it?”
Her mouth drooped as though she were remembering that she would no longer be a part of the extravagant set that surrounded the Prince Regent and privileged society. However, the arrival of the tea-tray and the delicious cakes that Beatrice had spent the morning baking brought her out of the doldrums a little.
“These are delightful,” she said, choosing from the pretty silver cake-basket and chewing a small, nutty biscuit. “Quite as good as anything I have tasted anywhere.”
“Beatrice made those for you herself,” Nan said. “They are Bosworth Jumbles, but Beatrice adds her own special ingredients to the recipe, which some say was picked up on the battlefield at Bosworth in 1485, hence its name. Your sister will make some lucky gentleman an excellent wife one day.”
“Did you really make them?” Olivia stared at her. “You are so clever. I have never cooked anything in my life.”
“I can teach you if you like, and there is a very good manual by Mrs Rundle, called Domestic Cookery,” Beatrice said. “I know it may seem tedious at first, Olivia, but living in the country has its compensations. We have nut trees and fruit from our own orchards, berries from the kitchen gardens, and we make our own jams and preserves. It can be a rewarding way to pass the time.”
“Yes, of course.” Olivia lifted her head, as though wanting to show she was not above such things. “Yes, I am sure I shall soon settle in…”

Chapter Three
Beatrice took her sister up to her room half an hour later. She had offered to help her unpack her trunks, being reasonably certain that Olivia had never had to do so for herself before. Olivia had accepted and was now showing her some of the lovely clothes she had brought with her.
“These are only a few of my gowns,” she told Beatrice. “I left some of the more elaborate ones behind. I shall scarcely need the gown I wore to be presented to the Regent at my coming out…or most of my ballgowns. Lady Burton did say she would send them on…” Olivia blinked rapidly to stave off the tears gathering in her eyes. “She was kinder than Lord Burton…she said she would be prepared to forgive me, but that he was adamant the connection must be cut.”
“Well, perhaps he will relent in time…”
“No.” Olivia’s lovely face was pale but proud. “I do not wish to return to their house…ever. What I did was right, and I shall not grovel to be forgiven.”
The subject was dropped, for Beatrice did not like to see her sister so upset. Instead, she exclaimed over the gowns they were unpacking, especially the one made by Madame Félice, the extraordinary French modiste who had suddenly arrived in town some months earlier.
“It is very lovely,” she said, holding it against herself. The jewel green of the fine silk actually became Beatrice very well, setting off the colour of her hair, and was, of course, far more stylish than anything she had ever made for herself. “No wonder everyone is so anxious to order from her—but does no one know where she worked before she came to London? Was it in Paris?”
“No one seems to know anything about her before she set up her shop…but they whisper that she is the mistress of a very rich man.”
“Oh, why do they say that?” Beatrice looked at her curiously.
“They say she brought money to Madame Coulanges’s salon. It stands to reason. She must have a protector—where else would she get the money to set herself up in a fashionable establishment? If she had no money, she would be desperate to take any order…”
“Yes, I see the reasoning behind such gossip,” Beatrice replied. She frowned. Her education had been to say the least unusual, and her opinions were strong in such matters. “But I do not see that the money must have come from a protector. Why cannot a woman be successful for herself, without the aid of a man? Why must everyone always assume the worst? There could be other reasons why she was able to bring money to Madame Coulanges. Perhaps she inherited some from a wealthy relative, and used it to set herself up in business. She might even have won it in a game of cards.”
“It is intriguing, isn’t it?” Olivia said. “I dare say her story will come out eventually—and that will set the tongues wagging again. For the moment, she can do no wrong—no one would think the worse of her for having a wealthy protector. She does not mix in society, other than to dress her wealthy clientele, of course, and could never hope to marry into a good family.”
“Alas, I fear you are right. We are all too much governed by convention. I am sure we shall hear more in time,” Beatrice said. “The news may be slow in filtering through to the four villages, but it arrives in due course.”
“The four villages…” Olivia stared at her in bewilderment. “I am not sure what you mean?”
Beatrice laughed. “Oh, I am so used to that way of speaking of our neighbours. I mean the villages that lie to the north, south, east and west of Steepwood Abbey, of course: Abbot Quincey, which is really almost a small market town these days, Steep Abbot and Steep Ride…which is tiny and remote, and lies to the south of the Abbey—and our own.”
“Oh, yes, the Abbey. We passed by its outer walls on our journey here. Is life affected much by what goes on there?”
Once again, Beatrice laughed. “We have a wicked Marquis all our own,” she said. “The stories about him would take me all night to relate, but I will only say that I cannot vouch for any of them, since I have scarcely met him—except for the night he almost knocked me down as he rushed past on his horse, of course.”
“That was very rude of him,” Olivia said. “If he is so unpleasant I do not wonder that you do not care to know him.”
“No one cares to know the Marquis of Sywell—except perhaps the Earl of Yardley. I am not sure, but I think there is some story about them having belonged to the same wild set years ago, before either of them had come into their titles. It was a long time ago, of course. Before the old Earl, who was the seventh to bear the title, I believe, banished his son to France, lost the Abbey, which had been in his family for generations…since the middle of the sixteenth century…to the present owner, and then killed himself.”
“Indeed?” Olivia looked intrigued. “Why was the son banished? Oh, pray do tell me, Beatrice—was it because of a love affair?”
“Have you heard the story?”
Olivia shook her head. “No, but I should like to if it is romantic…to die for love is so—so…”
“Foolish,” Beatrice supplied dryly. “Perch on the window-seat, Olivia, and I will sit here on this stool. It is a long story and must be explained properly or you will become confused with all the different Earls and not know who I mean.”
Olivia nodded, her face alight with eagerness. For the first time since her arrival, she seemed truly to have forgotten her unfortunate situation. Beatrice took heart, determined to make her story as interesting and entertaining as she could for her sister’s sake.
“Well, the present Earl of Yardley, the eighth if I am right, was not born to inherit the title or the estate. His name when this story begins was Thomas Cleeve, and his family was no more than a minor branch of the Yardleys. It was then that he and his cousin (the last Earl before this one: I told you it was complicated!), some folk say, were both members of the rather loose set to which Lord George Ormiston belonged—he, to make things plain, is our wicked Marquis of today.”
“Yes, I see. He is now the Marquis of Sywell and he owns the Abbey,” Olivia said. “Please do go on.”
“Lucinda Beattie, the spinster sister of Matthew Beattie, who was our previous vicar and died in…oh, I think it was eleven years ago…told our mother that Thomas Cleeve was disappointed in love as a young man and went off to India to make his fortune. That part was undoubtedly true, for he returned a very wealthy man. I know that he married twice and returned a widower in 1790 with his four children (twin boys of fourteen years, Lady Sophia, who I dare say you will meet, and his elder son, Marcus). He built Jaffrey House on some land he bought from his cousin Edmund, then the seventh Earl of Yardley…Are you following me?”
“Yes, of course. What happened to the romantic Earl?” Olivia asked, impatient for Beatrice to begin his tale. “Why did he banish his son—and what was his son called?”
“His son was Rupert, Lord Angmering, and I believe he was very romantic,” Beatrice said with a smile. “He went off to do the Grand Tour, and met a young Frenchwoman, with whom he fell desperately in love. It was in the autumn of 1790, I understand, that he returned and informed his father he meant to marry her. When the Earl forbade it on pain of disinheritance, because she was a Catholic, he chose love—and was subsequently banished to France.”
Olivia was entranced, her eyes glowing. “What happened—did he marry his true love?”
“No one really knows for certain. Some of the older villagers say he would definitely have done so, for he was above all else a man of honour, others doubt it…but nothing can be proved, for the unfortunate Lord Angmering was killed in the bread riots in France…”
“Oh the poor man—to be thrown off by his father…” Olivia’s cheeks were flushed as the similarity to her own story struck her. “But you said his father killed himself?”
“As I have heard it told, the Earl was broken-hearted, and when the confirmation of his son’s death reached him in 1793, he went up to town, got terribly drunk and lost everything he owned to his friend the Marquis of Sywell at the card tables. Afterwards, he called for the Marquis’s duelling pistols and before anyone knew what he intended, shot himself—in front of the Marquis and his butler—the same one who remains in Sywell’s employ today.”
“It was sad end to his story, but it had a kind of poetic justice—do you not think so?” Olivia asked. “He blamed himself for the loss of his son and threw away all that had been precious to him…”
“It may be romantic to you,” Beatrice replied with a naughty look, “but it meant that the people of the four villages have had to put up with the wicked Marquis ever since. And according to local legend, there was a time when no woman was safe from him. He has been accused of all kinds of terrible things…including taking part in pagan rites, which may or may not have involved him and his friends in cavorting naked in the woods. Some people say the men wore animal masks on their heads and chased their…women, who were naturally not the kind you or I would ever choose to know.”
“No? Surely not? You are funning me!” Olivia laughed delightedly as her sister shook her head and assured her every word was true. “It sounds positively gothic—like one of those popular novels that has everyone laughing in public and terrified in private.”
“Dear Mrs Radcliffe.” Beatrice smiled. “The Mysteries of Udolpho was quite my favourite. How amusing her stories are to be sure. What you say is right, Olivia…but it is not quite as funny when you have to live near such a disreputable man.”
Olivia nodded. “No, I suppose it would be uncomfortable. Tell me, did the present Earl inherit his title from the one who banished his son and killed himself?”
“Yes. After the death of the Earl and his son Lord Angmering there was no one else left—or at least, if Rupert left an heir no one has heard of him to this very day.” Beatrice shook her head. “No, I am very sure there was no child. An exhaustive search was made at the time, I have no doubt, and no record of a marriage or a child was found. Had it not been so, the title could not legally have passed to Thomas Cleeve, and it was all done according to the laws of England, I am very sure.”
Olivia nodded, acknowledging the truth of this. “Besides, even if Lord Angmering had by some chance had a son…what would there be for him to inherit if his grandfather had lost all his money gambling?”
“Nothing in law, I suppose. You may be certain, had there been an heir, he would have come forward long ago, to claim his title and anything that might still belong to his family.”
“I suppose so…” Olivia was reluctant to let her romantic notion go, and smiled at her sister. “That was a fascinating story. I wish someone would come back to the villages and declare himself Lord Angmering’s son, don’t you?”
Beatrice threw back her head and laughed heartily. “I should never have told you—you will be expecting something to happen, and I do assure you it will not. No, my dearest sister, I must disappoint you. I think the Earl of Yardley is secure in his title—and since his fortune is his own, he does not need to prove anything.”
“No, of course not.” Olivia stood up and went to embrace her sister. “Thank you for telling me that story—and thank you for taking me in with such kindness.”
“You are my sister. I have always loved you. I would not have wished for you to be in such circumstances—but I am happy to have you living here with us.” Beatrice looked at her intently. “You have not regretted your decision to jilt Lord Ravensden?”
“I regret that I was deceived into accepting him,” Olivia replied, “but I do not regret telling him that I would not marry him.”
“What did he say to you?”
“I—I wrote to him,” Olivia said, her cheeks pink. “I could not have faced him, Beatrice. I was so…angry.”
“What made you change your mind about marrying him, dearest?”
“I was told by a rather spiteful girl…a girl I had hitherto thought of as my friend…that Ravensden was marrying me only to oblige Lord Burton, that he wanted me only as a brood mare, because he desperately needs an heir. He is past his green days, and no doubt imagined I should be grateful for the offer…”
“He could not have been so cold-blooded?” Beatrice was shocked. “My dearest sister! I believe you have had a fortunate escape. Had you not learned of his callousness before your wedding, you would have been condemned to a life of misery at this brute’s hands.”
Olivia took her hands eagerly. “You do understand my feelings,” she cried, her lovely eyes glowing. “I was afraid you would think me capricious—but when I realised what he had done…I realised I could not love him. In fact, I saw that I had been misled by his charm and his compliments.”
“His charm?” Beatrice frowned. How could this be? It did not equate with the monster she had pictured. “Was he so very charming?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. Everyone thought so…but I found his humour a little harsh. Though of course he was toadied to by almost everyone because of his wealth, and the Regent thinks him a great wit.”
“It seems to me the man was eaten up by his own conceit,” said Beatrice, who had never met him in her life. “I see what it was—you were the catch of the Season and Burton’s heir. He wanted the fortune…”
“But most of it will be his anyway,” Olivia said, frowning. “That is what is so particularly cruel. He had no need to oblige his cousin. Why propose to me if he did not care for me in the least?”
Beatrice saw that her sister was not so indifferent as she pretended. Whether it was her heart or her pride that was most affected, it was equally painful for her.
“Well, we shall talk of this again,” she said. “Do not distress yourself, dearest. You will have no need to meet Lord Ravensden again, so you may forget him. One thing is certain, he will not dare to follow you here…”
Beatrice spent a restless night dreaming of dis-inherited heirs, pagan orgies and—inexplicably!—a man being boiled in oil. She woke early, feeling tired and uneasy. Which served her right for spending a great deal of the evening recounting stories of the wicked Marquis, making them as lurid as possible for her sister—who was clearly of a romantic disposition.
Had Olivia been other than she was, she might have settled for the comfort marriage to Lord Ravensden could provide, but she could not help her nature, and Beatrice could not but think she had made the right decision.
“Let me but get my hands on that creature,” muttered Beatrice.
Oh, he should pay, he should pay!
Olivia was certainly trying to settle to her new life, and had so far been very brave, but it was bound to be hard for her. They must all do whatever they could to lift her spirits in the coming months.
Such were Beatrice’s thoughts as she left her father’s house that morning, the day after her sister’s arrival. It was the beginning of November now and a little misty. Mindful of the cold, she had wrapped up well in her old grey cloak, which was long past its best.
She had decided to visit the vicarage, her intention to ask the Reverend Edward Hartwell and his wife to dine with them the next week. She would also send a message to Ghislaine, and beg her to come if she could. It was the best she could offer Olivia by way of entertainment, though obviously not what she was accustomed to…The sound of hooves pounding on the hard ground gave her a little start.
She paused, watching as horse and rider came towards her at a gentle canter. This was not the bruising rider who had almost knocked her down a week ago, but a stranger. She had never seen this gentleman in Abbot Giles or any of the four villages.
His clothes proclaimed him a man of fashion, even though he was dressed simply for riding. As he came nearer, she could see that he looked rather attractive, even handsome, his features striking. He had a straight nose, a firm, square chin, and what she thought must be called a noble bearing.
Beatrice realised the rider was stopping. He swept off his hat to her, revealing hair as thick and glossy as it was dark—almost as black as a raven’s wing. He wore it short, brushed carelessly forward in an artfully artless way that gave him a dashing air. He might have come straight from the pages of Sir Walter Scott’s poems, some noble creature of ancient lineage.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the stranger said, giving her a smile that was at the same time both sweet and unnerving in that it seemed to challenge. “I wonder if I could trouble you to ask for directions? I have lost my way in the mist.”
“Of course. If I can help, sir.” Beatrice glanced up into his eyes. So startlingly blue that she was mesmerised. Goodness! What a remarkable man he was to be sure. “Are you looking for somewhere in particular?”
“I do not know the name of the house,” he replied. “But I am looking for the Roade family of Abbot Giles…Miss Olivia Roade Burton in particular.”
An icy chill gripped Beatrice’s heart. Surely it was not possible? She had been so sure that Lord Ravensden would not dare to come here. Yet who else could it be? This man was handsome, his smile charming—and now she looked at him properly, she could see that he was arrogant, too sure of himself and proud. A despicable man. Indeed, she wondered that she had not noticed it immediately.
Why had he come here? Beatrice’s mind was racing frantically. If this was truly Olivia’s jilted suitor, he must not be allowed to take her sister by surprise.
“Ah yes,” she said. “I do know of the family—but I fear you are travelling in the wrong direction.”
“Is this not the village of Abbot Giles?”
“Has Ben turned the milestones round again? It really is too bad of him!” Beatrice said in a rallying tone. “He will do it, poor foolish fellow. It all comes from the bang on the head, but it is most confusing for visitors.”
“Pray tell me,” the stranger said, a gleam in those devastating blue eyes. “How did poor Ben come to receive such a damaging blow to the head?”
“It is a long story,” Beatrice said hastily. She pointed to the open gates of the Abbey grounds. “If you follow that road, the narrow lane there, then keep on past the lake and turn to your right near the ruined chapel, you will come to the village in time.”
“That sounds a little complicated…”
“It is a short cut, any other route would take you miles out of your way.”
“I see, then I shall follow your instructions. Thank you, ma’am.”

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