Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley Read online

  Lord Chenefelt regarded his only daughter with sharp, green eyes.

  “Ah, there you are, Margaret. No doubt you dawdled on your way here? Even your brother has already had his breakfast and left for London. I expect he means to get involved in more scuffles and bring down the family name, which would certainly account for the urgency of his departure.”

  “Good morning, papa,” Maggie said, refusing to let him draw her into a quarrel.

  Lord Chenefelt was always querulous, especially where Frederick was concerned. Maggie was sorry she hadn’t been up to see her brother leave.

  “Is it? We shall see. I have summoned you here for a reason.”

  “And what may that be, papa?”

  “Your upcoming nuptials, Margaret.”

  Maggie blinked. “Nuptials? Is that not a little soon? I have not yet been launched. One would need a suitor before one could discuss nuptials.”

  Lord Chenefelt smiled, looking particularly pleased with himself.

  “Ah, but that is the beauty of it, my girl. Having endured the Season myself, I know exactly what a waste of time and resources it is. Upon further reflection, I have decided that I won’t hold with such unnecessary nonsense. I also know that, left to your own devices in society, you would only let your mouth run away with you and end a crusty old maid. That simply will not do. You must marry and marry you shall.”

  “But London – ”

  “Is out of the question. Besides which, daughter, keeping late London hours will certainly affect your health – and you will lose even your hearty complexion, which won’t be of any help in securing matrimony,” the admiral said briskly. “It is inefficient.”

  Maggie felt the first stirrings of her temper, outraged at the admiral’s dismissal of her ability to find a husband. A beauty she might not be, but even she was not so utterly hopeless.

  “I can hardly find a husband while sequestered at Chenefelt Park!” she argued, feeling her treasured Season slipping through her fingers before it had even had a chance to begin.

  “Certainly not. I won’t have my daughter marrying the vicar. But that it not an issue – I have already selected your husband, and written him on the matter. He has been most agreeable in making a morning call, tomorrow.”

  Maggie felt cold with shock and outrage. Her mind was in turmoil. She couldn’t find words to sufficiently convey her feelings on the matter. She struggled to control her breathing.

  At last, she gained back some of her composure. “And may I have the name of this most suitable of gentlemen?” She couldn’t quite keep the dripping sarcasm out of her voice.

  “That tone, daughter, is exactly what is most disagreeable in a wife, and I will not tolerate you speaking that way tomorrow. The gentleman I have chosen is none other than Kingsley Stanhope. He is a man of impeccable lineage, wealth and a distant cousin of ours. He happens to be in search of a new wife.”

  “Kingsley Stanhope! But everyone knows that he is odious. And we have already ordered garments for my Season!” she barely managed to keep the horror out of her voice as she changed direction and tried to appeal to her father’s strict views on economy instead.

  “I have told you, I see no reason to waste time on fripperies and cotillions. Let these gowns be part of your trousseau. You are not growing any younger, Margaret, nor any more genteel. And I will not hear you insult your cousin in such a ghastly manner. No one will tolerate an acerbic wife, as I have told you time and again. You will present yourself to Mr Stanhope tomorrow, and your conduct will be agreeable. You are dismissed.”

  Lord Chenefelt evidently considered the matter closed as he picked up his morning paper, freshly delivered from London.

  Maggie could perfectly recollect Kingsley Stanhope, though she had only met him a handful of times. He was one of her most loathed relations after the draconic Lady Dunwell, an elderly widow who spent a large portion of spare time writing letters about brimstone and hellfire to any relative who she felt needed advice and correction.

  From what she had heard of Stanhope, and experienced for herself in their brief acquaintance, she was certain he received many more of these ‘educational’ letters than Maggie herself did.

  She recalled him as loathly of character, with an oily smile, a ruddy complexion and pale blond hair. He was some years older than herself, and had a habit of making improper, lecherous remarks whenever her chaperone was out of earshot.

  From what she knew, he had been widowed for a number of years and his four children were reputed to be the most spoilt bunch in all England, brought up to be every inch as unpleasant as their father.

  Such a union was unthinkable.

  “Why would you choose Kingsley Stanhope?” she asked bluntly.

  Lord Chenefelt lowered his paper, looking at her as though he thought her a little slow.

  “Because he was agreeable to the idea, and perfectly suitable, why else? Come now, Margaret, I don’t want to be bothered with this nonsense. You are a grown woman, and it is time you were established in your own house. The matter is settled.”

  There was another knock on the door.

  “Ah, that will be your aunt. After I have spoken with her, she will explain to you all the gowns and trousseaus and other such wedding particulars.”

  Maggie turned to watch her aunt come into the study. Lady Compton took one look at her and correctly interpreted the mutinous look on Maggie’s face. She gave a subtle shake of her head.

  “Maggie, my dear, I must speak to your father in private. Please wait for me in the parlour. I shall be along shortly.”

  Flinging one last defiant look at her father, Maggie left the room.

  She would not be so easily trampled.

  *

  With the uncanny way she had of being able to guess when Maggie was in distress, Cecile entered the parlour, bringing Maggie a warm shawl to stave off the slight chill of the morning.

  Maggie thanked her, though she wasn’t cold.

  No, she was furious. So much so that she was barely coherent. Not only had she lost her Season, her one opportunity to escape the confines of Chenefelt, but along with it had gone any chance of love or a happy union. What could she do?

  Her father could not force her to marry anybody, but he could and would do his very best to bully her. Could she defy him indefinitely?

  He could cut off her monthly allowance. She had the money her mama had left her, of course, but Maggie could hardly set up her own establishment in town. The notion was nothing short of scandalous, and she wouldn’t be received by any respectable persons following such an adventure.

  For one desperately fanciful moment she imagined what it would be like for Hart to come galloping up to the house early the next morning, to rescue her from the clutches of the thoroughly vile Mr Stanhope. How grand it would be, to be swung up onto his horse, and carried off to a whole new life…

  But Hart was already in London and Maggie would have to do all her own rescuing.

  Unable to sit still or continue with the beading on the new dress because she would likely ruin her work in a fit of temper, she began pacing the parlour again.

  She felt completely alone. There was no one she could ask for help, and yet she was equally unable to find a solution herself in her over-wrought state. She wished she could see Frederick. He would have helped her fight papa, and he would have come up with some clever way out of her miserable predicament.

  She became aware that Cecile was still with her, looking on with concern. Cecile had always had a good head on her shoulders. Blood relation or not, she was the closest Maggie had to a sister.

  Deciding to entrust Cecile with the greatest dilemma of her life, Maggie told her the whole story, voice trembling and eyes flashing.

  “I cannot do it. What a bag of moonshine! I will not marry cousin Stanhope,” she finished at last, knowing this to be truer than anything she had ever said in her life.

  “What other choice have you?” Cecile asked sympathetically, visibly uncert
ain of how much else she could say without making matters worse.

  “I don’t know. I am not certain how I mean to go on yet. Only, I must think of something. I have my inheritance, and my mother’s jewellery, though I hope I shall not come to having to sell the diamonds.”

  Before Cecile could reply, Maggie stopped her pacing.

  “I may not be able to set up my own establishment here, in England, but I may just be able to take a house elsewhere. Scotland, perhaps. Only, it is so dreary and cold there… No. Paris is the place to go.”

  “Paris?” Cecile was astonished.

  Maggie looked out of the window, at the grey day beyond.

  “Yes, marvellous Paris, where we don’t know a soul. There is one thing to be said for having had a series of French governesses: they impart a native command of that language. I couldn’t get on so well in Italy or Germany. It must be France and it must be Paris. I would miss Frederick, of course. And Hart… But who knows. Perhaps we shall meet again one day.”

  She turned back to Cecile. “Oh, please do not look so despondent. I know that it is a dreadfully fast thing to do. But what other choice do I have? I won’t stay here to be bullied into marring the beastly Stanhope. No, it simply won’t answer to sit around this house and wait for my fate to happen to me. I shall think of it as a Grand Tour. I have always envied Frederick his, after all. And perhaps Papa will come to his senses while I am gone.”

  Cecile shook her head. “You would be ruined.”

  “Possibly. But which future is worse? There will be no love or joy in a union with Stanhope. And perhaps there won’t be a scandal after all. I am not well known in London and it is unlikely my own father will spread word of my flight. Very probably no one will know Miss Margaret Dacre ever existed at all.”

  “Oh, surely not!”

  “Yes! I have been little better than a ghost all these years. No more. Now I shall have a new name and a life of opportunity and adventure. It is time I saw the Continent. I think I would almost rather have that than even Lord Hartley. Oh, dear Cecile, please do not look so glum. You need not accompany me, of course. To aid in my flight, or to flee with me, would ruin your prospects of another position. I won’t incriminate you.”

  Cecile looked undecided for a moment. Maggie did not blame her. After all, she really would have great trouble finding another post without references and with scandal following hot on her heels. But to go home to Paris…

  “It would be a most uncertain future,” Cecile whispered. “I know I have always spoken about going back, but I have never been there and it would be starting entirely afresh.”

  “Uncertain, yes. But a better future than awaits within these walls, where everything is very certain indeed. And much better than being leg-shackled to a puerile oaf for a husband. That may have been the fate of many before me, but it will not be mine.”

  “Perhaps you ought at least to meet with him, Maggie. He may have changed. Many a man has been known to undergo a transformation of character upon being left a widower with children to raise.”

  Maggie couldn’t credit that suggestion with an ounce of faith, but that did set her thinking of odious relations in general, and Lady Dunwell in particular.

  She felt her face light up with a very wicked smile.

  “Oh, certainly I shall. It will be great fun to torment Papa by willingly receiving his guest. If what he wants in a daughter is complete moral perfection, then so be it. I feel there is a lesson I ought to teach them both.”

  *

  The next day, Lady Compton departed for London in a temper. She had been apologetic, explaining she had not been able to sway her pig-headed brother in his latest idiocy, but she had also been adamant that Maggie was not to despair.

  She was going to consult her friend, Lady Strathavon, who was the best person in the world at fixing things. They would persuade him eventually – or outsmart him.

  Maggie couldn’t see how she was meant to keep her chin up when her father was talking about economical wedding confectionary.

  Lord Chenefelt, meanwhile, had set the servants to prepare for Mr Stanhope’s visit with his future bride.

  Maggie wondered if there was any way to get a message to Frederick in time to make a whit of difference, but Frederick had such a way of setting Lord Chenefelt’s back up that he would likely do more harm than good when Stanhope was already practically at the door. It was too late for Frederick.

  If Lord Chenefelt had felt remotely suspicious at his daughter’s gracious acquiescence to meet with Mr Stanhope, he gave not the least sign of it.

  He seemed to have decided that, at the urging of her aunt, Maggie had at last taken up the mantle of appropriate daughterly obedience.

  *

  The following morning, Maggie descended to the parlour in time to meet their guest and order refreshments.

  Lord Chenefelt knew nothing of ladies’ fashions and so did not recognize Maggie’s dress for the drably plain creation that it was, instead concluding that she had opted for appropriate modesty in her morning dress.

  She had pinned her already dull hair in a plain, severe style that did nothing for her pale complexion, and employed a touch of powder to make her face look even more gaunt.

  When the guest was shown into the parlour, she did her best to look as though she’d just bitten into a lemon – it was as close as she could get to Lady Dunwell’s customary mien.

  Mr Stanhope was everything Maggie remembered him to be. His eyes lingered on her form a little too long, and his words held a strong hint of lecherous insinuation.

  The greetings alone left Maggie feeling uncomfortable, even though she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was about him that made her want to inch slowly out of the room, or throw a cup of tea in his face.

  Stanhope was dressed as though he considered himself to be the pinkest of the pink. His jacket was of a fine blue velvet and his Hessians polished to an absurd shine.

  His breeches were bright blue and his shirt points stood well above his ears. The whole ensemble was so far removed from what Maggie considered to be attractive on a gentleman that she had to fight very hard not to giggle at the sight of it.

  It took a lot of effort to keep the irony out of her voice when her so-called intended was formally presented. He bowed over her hand, which sent unpleasant shivers down her spine even though their hands were encased in gloves.

  Wondering if the charade was really set to continue, Maggie glanced at her father, who had always been so vocally intolerant of frippery. But he seemed unoffended by the current exemplar of Mr Stanhope’s rather memorable wardrobe.

  After the prerequisite dull exchange concerning the state of English roads and the dismal weather, Mr Stanhope turned his full attention to Maggie.

  “Well, my dear, you must be excited at our upcoming nuptials. I am told it is one of the greatest joys in a woman’s life, next to the states of motherhood and wife, of course, but you will soon attain those, if I may say so. I have four children of my own, who shall certainly be glad of a new mama, and the house wants running. Of course, we will add children of our own in no time, eh?”

  Maggie forced herself to smile tightly, risking another glance at her father, who fixed her with a warning glare.

  “Why, certainly, Mr Stanhope. It is so very generous of you to offer for me. I will tell you honestly, for I believe that honesty is a prerequisite in any person of piety, that papa has been very worried I should remain on the shelf.”

  Mr Stanhope looked astonished at such a plain confession. “Oh, I am certain that is not so, Miss Dacre.”

  She sighed tragically. “Alas, it is. But that is all in the past now, and we can set about planning our nuptials. I very much look forward to taking your children in stride. I feel there is much I have to impart.”

  Lord Chenefelt, who had always had a dread of anything resembling plans or arrangements, seemed pleased enough at Maggie’s conduct that he excused himself quickly, leaving the couple to talk of their arran
gements by themselves.

  “After all, you are nearly wed,” he said with a chuckle before departing.

  Left alone with the door open, Mr Stanhope flashed Maggie a delighted smile which left her distinctly nauseous. She held her place, however, and gave him her gravest thin-lipped look of disapproval.

  “Alone at last, eh, Miss Dacre? You know, already I think of you as my wife…”

  “Indeed,” she responded briskly. “We shall have to announce in the journals soon, as is only proper. And, naturally, we must take into account any holy days that might occur around the date. One can hardly be so crass as to marry or celebrate on a day devoted to martyrdom and purity. I shall have you know, Mr Stanhope, that I observe every fast and festival, and any straying from this is unthinkable. However, since father deemed you a suitable match for me, I am certain that you do also.”

  He blinked at that. “Y…Yes. Of course.”

  Maggie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Surely, her grim expression would have put even the puritans to shame. She was grateful at all the beastly letters Lady Dunwell has addressed to her over the years. It made for eminently suitable subject matter.

  “Yes, I thought you would agree. You strike me as a man of sense and piety. No doubt your children will be glad of the discipline, though it come late in life. I have always said that a father, no matter how well meaning, cannot hope to establish the proper degree of obedience in his children. One must at every turn combat the impetuosity of youth. One should never indulge children at any age – it leads to overindulgence once they are established in their own homes, and then inevitably to vice and damnation. Overindulgence and defiance burn up the soul.”

  “The soul?”

  “Yes, indeed. The good English soul, so naturally a vessel of chastity.”

  Stanhope seemed momentarily lost for words, and Maggie decided to press her advantage.

  “Will we be wed at your parish or mine? I hope your vicar is a worthy one. While Mr Jenks, who heads our local parish, is a kindly soul, I find his sermons much too short, and occasionally humorous. Humorous! It is scandalous to even think of it. Why, just last Sunday, his sermon was under three hours. There is no place for haste in matters of the spirit, I always say.”