The Chaperon's Seduction Page 2

  It was just such a room as she would have liked when she had been on the verge of her come-out, and she hoped it would appeal in the same way to her stepdaughter. Ellen was even now on her way from the exclusive seminary in Kent to live in Bath with Phyllida. Doubts on the wisdom of this arrangement had been expressed by relatives on both sides of the family. Phyllida’s sister had merely mentioned her concern in a letter, questioning if Phyllida had considered fully the work involved in being chaperon to a lively girl only seven years her junior. Her late husband’s brother, Walter, was much more forthright and had even posted to Bath to remonstrate with Phyllida.

  ‘My dear sister, you have no idea what you are taking on,’ he had told her in his pompous way. ‘My niece has always been flighty, but now at seventeen she is far too hot at hand. The tales Bridget and I have heard of her behaviour at the seminary are quite shocking!’

  ‘She is spirited, certainly—’

  ‘Spirited!’ he interrupted her, his thin face almost contorting with disapproval. ‘She even ran away!’

  ‘No, no, you have been misinformed,’ she corrected him soothingly. ‘Ellen and her friends slipped off to see the May fair and they were back before midnight.’

  ‘But it is well known who instigated the adventure! Surely you do not condone her gallivanting around town in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Not at all, but thankfully she came to no harm, as Mrs Ackroyd was quick to point out.’

  ‘She was also quick to inform you that she could no longer allow Ellen to remain in her establishment.’

  ‘Only because the squire had developed an...an unquenchable passion for Ellen and had taken to calling at the most unreasonable hours.’

  ‘And Ellen encouraged him!’

  ‘No, she wrote to assure me she had done no more than allow him to escort her back from church.’

  ‘From Evensong. At dusk, without even a servant in attendance.’

  Phyllida frowned. ‘How on earth can you know all this? Ah, of course,’ she said, her brow clearing. ‘Bridget’s bosom bow, Lady Lingford, has a daughter at Mrs Ackroyd’s Academy, does she not? Bernice.’ She nodded. ‘I recall Ellen telling me about her when she came home to Tatham Park for Christmas. An odious tale-bearer, she called her.’

  ‘How I came by the information is neither here nor there,’ replied Walter stiffly. ‘The truth is that if Mrs Ackroyd, an experienced schoolmistress, cannot keep the girl safely contained then what chance do you have? I am sorry to speak bluntly, my dear sister, but my brother kept you too protected from the real world. You are far too innocent and naïve to be my niece’s guardian.’

  ‘I am very sorry you think that, Walter, but Sir Evelyn left Ellen in my sole charge and I am going to have her live with me until next year, when she will make her come-out under my sister’s aegis. You need not worry, I am quite capable of looking after her.’

  When she had spoken those words to her brother-in-law Phyllida had felt quite confident but now, with Ellen’s arrival so imminent, she felt a moment’s doubt. Had she been foolish in bringing Ellen to live with her? Since Sir Evelyn’s death a year ago Phyllida had been very lonely, living retired and out of the way with only an aged relative for company. More than that, she had been bored. She had not realised how much she would miss the life she had enjoyed as the wife of Sir Evelyn Tatham. She had entered the marriage with some trepidation and few expectations, but Sir Evelyn had shown her a kindness and consideration she had never known at home. She had enjoyed running his household and there was even some comfort to be found in his bed, although there was never the heart-searing elation she had read about in novels or poetry. That, she knew, needed love and she had come to think that such love, the sort that sent one into ecstasy or deep despair, must be very rare indeed. But it did not matter, she filled her days with her new family and friends. It had been enough, and she had felt its lack during those twelve long months of mourning. She also knew from her stepdaughter’s letters that Ellen was growing increasingly frustrated at her school. She wanted to be out in the world, to try her wings. When Mrs Ackroyd had written, saying that it was with the utmost reluctance she must request Lady Phyllida to remove her stepdaughter from her establishment, hiring a house in Bath for herself and Ellen had seemed the perfect solution.

  The sounds of a carriage below the window recalled her wandering attention. She looked out to see her own elegant travelling chaise at the door and her smile widened. She said to the empty room, ‘She’s here!’

  Phyllida hurried down the stairs, removing her linen apron as she went. By the time she reached the hall it was bustling with activity as the footmen carried in trunks and portmanteaux under the direction of a stern-faced woman in an iron-grey pelisse and matching bonnet. Her appearance was in stark contrast to the other female in the hall, a lively young lady of seventeen with an excellent figure displayed to advantage by a walking dress of the palest-blue velvet and with a frivolous cap upon her fair head. Phyllida’s heart swelled with pride and affection as she regarded her pretty stepdaughter. Ellen was chatting merrily to Hirst, the elderly butler whom Phyllida had brought with her to Bath, but when she saw Phyllida she broke off and rushed across to throw herself into her stepmother’s open arms.

  ‘Philly! At last.’ Ellen hugged her ruthlessly. ‘I am so pleased to be with you!’

  ‘And I am pleased to have you here, my love. Goodness, how you have grown, I would hardly have recognised you,’ declared Phyllida, laughing as she returned the girl’s eager embrace. ‘Was it a horrid journey?’

  ‘Not at all, your carriage is so comfortable and everyone we met on the journey was very kind. When we stopped for the night at the Stag we thought we should have to eat in the coffee room because a large party had taken over most of the inn, but when they heard of our predicament they were generous enough to vacate one of their parlours for us, and then last night, at the Red Lion, a very kind gentleman gave up his room to us, because ours overlooked the main highway and was terribly noisy.’

  ‘Thank goodness you were only two nights on the road, then, or heaven knows what might have happened next,’ exclaimed Phyllida. ‘Perhaps I should have come to fetch you, only I wanted to make sure the house was ready.’

  ‘And you knew I would be perfectly safe with dear Matty to look after me.’

  Hearing her name, the woman in the grey pelisse looked up.

  ‘Aye, but who has looked after my lady while I’ve been away?’ she demanded.

  ‘The new girl we hired, Jane, has done very well,’ responded Phyllida calmly. ‘I think she will suit me perfectly.’

  ‘Do you mean Matty will no longer be your maid?’ asked Ellen, wide-eyed.

  ‘No, love, Miss Matlock would much prefer to look after you. After all, she was your nurse until you went off to school.’

  ‘What my lady means is that I am aware of all your hoydenish tricks, Miss Ellen,’ put in Matlock, not mincing matters.

  ‘I have no hoydenish tricks,’ exclaimed Ellen indignantly.

  ‘No of course not,’ Phyllida replied, hiding a smile and recognising a little of the old Ellen beneath that new and stylish exterior. ‘Now let us leave Matlock to see to all your bags and we will go into the morning room. I have lemonade and cakes waiting for you.’

  Thus distracted, Ellen followed Phyllida across the hall.

  ‘Oh, it is so good to be with you again, Philly,’ she said as soon as they were alone. ‘Apart from those two weeks at Christmas I have not seen you for a whole year.’

  ‘You know we agreed it was important that you finish your schooling, and you would have found it very dull at Tatham Park this past twelve months.’

  ‘I suppose you are right. But I was afraid, with Papa gone, I should have to live with Uncle Walter and his family until my come-out.’

  ‘Now why should you think that, when you
know your father made me your guardian?’

  ‘Because I know how much you dislike fuss, and with everyone saying you were far too young to be my stepmama—’

  ‘When I first married your father, perhaps, but I am four-and-twenty now!’ protested Phyllida, laughing.

  ‘I know that, but you look far younger and I thought they would bully you into submission.’

  Phyllida put her hands on Ellen’s shoulders and looked into her face.

  ‘I know I was very shy and, and compliant when I married your papa,’ she said seriously, ‘But I have changed a great deal since then, my love. I made my come-out fresh from the schoolroom and I knew nothing of society, which is a great disadvantage. I was determined you should not suffer the same way, which is why I thought a few months in Bath would be most beneficial to you.’

  ‘And so it will be.’ Ellen enveloped Phyllida in another embrace. ‘We shall have such fun together, you and I.’

  ‘Well, yes, I hope so,’ said Phyllida. ‘The past year, living on my own, has made me heartily sick of my own company. Now,’ she said, leading Ellen to the table. ‘Come and try some of the lemonade Mrs Hirst has made especially for you.’

  * * *

  The evening passed in non-stop chatter and by the time she went to bed Phyllida realised how much she had missed her stepdaughter’s company. Phyllida had been just eighteen when she had married Sir Evelyn and she had made great efforts to befriend his eleven-year-old daughter. Even though Ellen had been packed off to school soon after the marriage they had remained close, much more like sisters than mother and daughter. Phyllida had always felt that to be an advantage, but as she blew out her candle she was aware that the tiny worm of anxiety was still gnawing away at her comfort.

  At seventeen Phyllida had been painfully shy. She had been educated at home with her sister and had experienced nothing beyond the confines of the small village where they lived. Ellen was not shy. The select seminary in Kent where she had spent the past five years might have given her an excellent education but from her artless conversation it was clear that she had enjoyed far more licence than Phyllida had known at her age. It was doubtful she would feel any of the mortification Phyllida had experienced during her one London Season.

  Phyllida had stood firm against every argument the family had put forward but now she wondered if she had been selfish to insist upon bringing Ellen to Bath. The recent elopement of the late Marquess of Hune’s daughter with a penniless adventurer showed that danger lurked, even in Bath. What did she, Phyllida, know about playing chaperon to a young girl, and an heiress at that? With a sigh of exasperation she punched her pillow to make it more comfortable.

  ‘Ellen will have me and Matty to look after her, she cannot possibly come to any harm,’ she told herself as she settled down again. ‘I shall not let doubts and anxieties spoil my pleasure at having Ellen with me. We shall have a wonderful time!’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Good morning, sir. Her ladyship’s compliments, she hopes you will be able to break your fast with her this morning.’

  Richard groaned at his valet’s determinedly cheerful greeting. It was not that Fritt had woken him, nor a sore head that caused him to mutter an invective as he sat up in bed, but the memory of last night’s events. Had he really signed his name to that foolish wager? He had obviously been more drunk than he realised because he had allowed his dislike of Sir Charles Urmston to get the better of him. It was too late to cry off now, it was against his code of honour to renege on a bet. Damn the man, even the memory of Urmston’s self-satisfied smile had Richard fuming. The valet gave a little cough.

  ‘As time is pressing, sir, I have brought your shaving water. I thought we might make a start...’

  ‘Surely it can’t be that pressing,’ retorted Richard. ‘Where is my coffee?’

  ‘Beside your bed, sir, but her ladyship is always in the breakfast room by nine and it is nearly eight o’clock now...’

  ‘For Gad this is an unholy hour,’ grumbled Richard. ‘What time did I get to bed?’

  ‘I think it must have been about four, sir. Would you like me to inform her ladyship that you are indisposed?’

  ‘You know that’s impossible. She doesn’t ask much of me, so I must do this for her.’ Richard swallowed his coffee in one gulp. ‘Very well, let us get on with it.’

  He jumped out of bed, yawning but determined. He owed this much to Sophia. She had stood by him when the rest of the family had wanted him to disown his brother and he would never forget it.

  ‘Hypocrites, the lot of ’em,’ she had told him when the scandal broke. ‘The Arrandales have always had skeletons in their cupboards. Why should they object so much to yours? My door is always open to you Richard. Remember that.’

  He had been just seventeen at the time and grateful for her support. She had neither judged nor censured his conduct, even when he left Oxford and took London by storm, embarking upon a frantic round of drinking, gambling and women. No, she had not tried to stem his outrageous behaviour; it was in his blood, his father had told him as much. Everyone knew the Arrandales spread scandal and mayhem wherever they went. He plunged his head into the bowl of warm water on the washstand. He would stay in Bath just as long as Sophia needed him.

  * * *

  An hour later Richard walked into the breakfast room, washed, shaved and dressed in his morning coat of blue superfine. His great-aunt was already sitting at the table.

  ‘Good morning, Sophia.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘You are looking very well this morning.’

  ‘Which is more than can be said for you,’ she retorted. ‘I’m surprised that man of yours let you out of your room dressed in that fashion.’

  Richard laughed.

  ‘Are my shirt points not high enough for you?’

  The Dowager Marchioness of Hune gave an unladylike snort.

  ‘They are more than high enough. I can’t abide the fashion for collars so high and stiff men can’t move their heads, they look like blinkered horses! No, ’tis your neckcloth. Too plain. Not a scrap of lace. Your father wore nothing but the finest Mechlin at his neck and wrists.’

  Richard sat down at the table.

  ‘Well, you will have to put up with me as I am,’ he replied, unperturbed by her strictures. ‘It shows my affection for you that I am out of bed at this dashed unfashionable hour.’

  ‘If you did not stay up so late you would find this a very reasonable hour to be up and about.’

  ‘If you say so, ma’am.’

  She gave him a darkling look. ‘Don’t think I don’t know how you spend your evenings.’

  ‘Gambling, I admit it.’ He grinned. ‘It could be worse. I am avoiding the muslin company.’

  ‘I should think so, after that latest scandal in town. From what I hear you were not only involved with the wife of a government minister, but with his mistress, too.’

  ‘Yes, that was a little complicated, I admit. So, in Bath I will stick to the gaming tables. But you may be easy, ma’am, I never gamble more than I can afford.’

  He decided not to mention last night’s little wager. A mistake, that. He had no intention of joining the pack; they would be sniffing around the heiress like dogs around a bitch on heat. He hid a little grimace of distaste. He would rather lose his thousand pounds, write it off to experience. An expensive lesson and one he could ill afford, but he would not sink to that level.

  ‘And what are your plans for today?’

  Lady Hune’s question surprised him. Generally she left him to his own devices until dinner time.

  ‘Why, I have none.’

  ‘Good. Duffy has the toothache and I am packing her off to the dentist this morning. I shall forgo my visit to the hot baths but I hoped you would accompany me to the Pump Room.’

  ‘With pleasure, ma’am. Sh
all you take the carriage?’

  ‘Damn your eyes, boy, I am not an invalid yet! If you give me your arm I shall manage, thank you.’

  Richard quickly begged pardon, pleased that his great-aunt had recovered much of her old spirit in the two weeks he had been staying with her. When she had sent for him the tone of her letter had caused him concern and he had set out for Bath immediately. He had found the dowager marchioness prostrate on a day-bed, smelling salts clutched in one hand, but his arrival had greatly relieved her distress and she had soon been able to explain to him the cause of it. She had handed him a letter.

  ‘Read this,’ she commanded him. ‘It is from that ungrateful baggage, my granddaughter.’

  ‘Cassandra?’

  ‘The very same. She has turned out to be a viper in my bosom. I took her in when her parents died, gave her the best education, petted and spoiled her and this is how she repays me, by running away with a nobody.’

  Richard scanned the letter quickly.

  ‘The signature is blotched,’ he observed, ‘As if tears were shed in the writing. Oh, damn the girl, I never thought Cassie would treat you in this way.’

  ‘She thinks she is in love.’

  He looked up. ‘This is dated the end of July. Two weeks since!’

  ‘I thought at first Cassie might think better of it and come back. When she did not and my health deteriorated, Dr Whingate suggested I should have someone to bear me company, which is why I wrote to you.’ She gave a sharp crack of laughter. ‘Whingate expected me to summon poor Cousin Julia, but she is such a lachrymose female I couldn’t face the thought of having her with me.’

  ‘I can think of nothing worse,’ he agreed, with feeling. ‘Well, Sophia, what do you want me to do?’ he asked her. ‘Shall I go after them? I drove to Bath in my curricle but doubtless you have a travelling chaise I might use.’