Tangled Reins

Chapter Twelve

Ferdie and Dorothea arrived at the Park and joined the groups of ladies and gentlemen milling about, exchanging greetings and the latest on-dits. More than a few eyes were directed Dorothea’s way. Chatting in a relaxed and animated fashion with Lord Peterborough, riding beside her on his bay, she had herself well in hand. To all who were interested, she appeared entirely at ease.

Mrs Drummond-Burrell, sitting haughtily in her barouche, waved to them to attend her. As they drew up she complimented Dorothea on her looks and then embarked on a conversation with all three. At no time did she refer to the most noble Marquis of Hazelmere, nor the incident in the Park. Looking into the cool blue eyes, Dorothea smiled warmly, acknowledging the message.

Released from her side, they next fell victim to Lady Jersey. In stark contrast, she tried by every means possible to extract some comment from Dorothea on Hazelmere and what had happened after they had left the Park. Dorothea’s practice in verbal fencing with his lordship left her well equipped to deal with opponents like Sally Jersey. She successfully turned aside all that lady’s probing questions. As she accomplished this with an amused tolerance, very reminiscent of Hazelmere himself, Lady Jersey was more entertained than enraged by her refusal to be outwitted. Finally escaping her clutches, they rode on.

‘Phew!’ exclaimed Ferdie as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘Never seen Silence so hell-bent on getting an answer!’

While they encountered a number of ladies similarly intent on learning the details of Dorothea’s last meeting with the Marquis, Lady Jersey’s inquisition was by far the most comprehensive, and Dorothea easily handled these less inveterate busybodies.

On returning to Merion House, having parted from Lord Peterborough at the Park gates, Ferdie confessed to being thoroughly satisfied with Dorothea’s performance. Overhearing this remark, addressed to her grandmother, Dorothea’s eyes twinkled. ‘Why, thank you, Ferdie,’ she said meekly.

Not sure how to take this and finding her confidence slightly alarming, Ferdie assured them that he would call at eight to escort them to the evening’s rout, and made his escape.

During the following days Dorothea found Hazelmere’s friends keeping a protective watch over her and was amused by their endeavours to conceal this. Intrigued, she quizzed Ferdie for the reason and finally, in desperation, he retreated behind his absent cousin. ‘Best ask Hazelmere if you want to know about it.’ Correctly understanding this to mean that his lordship had left instructions that she was not to be told, she refrained from pushing Ferdie further. Finding that the words ‘Hazelmere said so’ acted as a talisman, Ferdie used the phrase increasingly. He fervently hoped his cousin would not be out of London longer than anticipated.

As she had all of Hazelmere’s closest friends dancing attendance on her, Dorothea used the opportunity to lead them into describing their many interests and amusements. In so doing, they often gave her information on Hazelmere, and she slowly built up a more complete picture of his complex personality. For their part, his lordship’s friends found the task of guarding her a pleasure. More than one found himself mesmerised by those large green eyes. Her natural assurance was much more apparent in Hazelmere’s absence and, added to that, she now gave the impression of being fashionably distant, as if waiting for something or someone. However, not one of them found anything in her manner to suggest that she was other than completely content with Hazelmere’s suit. So, roundly cursing his lordship’s infernal luck, even the volatile Peterborough succumbed to her subtle invitation to be friends, and then the entire crew were her devoted slaves.

Fanshawe, viewing proceedings from the distance of his pursuit of Cecily, now close to success, could think of only one reason for Dorothea’s serene manner. But, having heard from Ferdie of their last meeting, and knowing from Cecily’s silence that Hazelmere had not proposed and forgotten to mention it, he was left wondering. From their friends’ behaviour, he guessed Dorothea had succeeded in the not inconsiderable feat of adding them to her circle of doting admirers. Hazelmere would get something of a shock when he found to what use she had put his watchdogs. Luckily he was more likely to be amused at their susceptibilities than annoyed at her success. Life was going to be interesting when the Marquis returned to town.

For Dorothea, the time passed in a dull whirl she would readily have traded for the sight of his lordship’s hazel eyes, preferably smiling at her. She was not entirely looking forward to her next private meeting with him, foreseeing a certain awkwardness in explaining why she had behaved as she had. But she would rather have faced it sooner than later. Unfortunately she could do nothing but wait and, with so many people endeavouring to please her, she felt it would be churlish to complain, even though her enthusiasm for fashionable pursuits had waned.

The only truly dreadful moment occurred at the Melchetts’ ball on Saturday night. She might have guessed, had she thought of him at all, that Edward Buchanan would, like a distempered ghost, return to haunt her. He had heard of the encounter in the Park and had listened with interest to the speculation on the outcome. To his mind, Miss Darent’s options were rapidly diminishing.

He accosted her as she stood by the side of the dance-floor in company with Lord Desborough. Unfortunately the musicians had had a slight accident, and in the unexpected interval the guests were strolling about, conversing in small groups. Desborough had not previously met Edward Buchanan and so accepted at face value his claim to acquaintance with Dorothea. Knowing she would be mortified by Mr Buchanan’s gallantries, Dorothea asked Desborough to fetch her a glass of lemonade, hoping in the interval to dispose of her unwelcome suitor. Her plans backfired, and instead she found herself in a small ante-room with Edward Buchanan again pressing his suit.

‘I have, after all, got your guardian’s blessing. And now there are these rumours about your behaviour with Hazelmere. What I say, my dear, is that none of your fancy beaux will have you now.’ He cocked an eyebrow at her and his ponderous voice gained in weight. ‘Too top-lofty, that lot. You’ve queered your pitch there, right enough. You’d do well to lower your sights, my girl. Hazelmere and his set are out of your reach now. You should consider my proposal, indeed you should!’

Rigid with anger, Dorothea struggled to control her voice. ‘Mr Buchanan! I will tell you for the last time: I do not wish, in any circumstances, to marry you! I trust that is plain enough. I will not change my mind. It was unwise in the extreme for Herbert to have encouraged your suit. I’m sorry, but I must return to the ballroom.’

She moved to sweep past him where he stood, his back to the door. As she did so Desborough, who had been looking all over for her, appeared there. Sheer relief showed on Dorothea’s face. At the same moment Edward Buchanan grabbed her by the shoulders and attempted to kiss her. She struggled frantically, averting her face.

Almost instantly Buchanan was bodily plucked from her and thrown roughly against the wall. In considerable surprise he slid down to sit on the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him and an idiotic look on his face. Desborough, adjusting the set of his coat before offering his arm to Dorothea, turned at the last moment to say, ‘Be thankful it was me and not Peterborough, Walsingham, or, God forbid, Hazelmere. Any of those three and you would be nursing rather more bruises and, very likely, a few broken bones as well. I suggest, Mr Buchanan, that you trouble Miss Darent no longer.’ And, with that, he ushered a deeply grateful Dorothea back into the ballroom.

The upshot was that Hazelmere’s friends never, ever, left her unattended again, whether in the ballroom, the Park, or any other gathering of the fashionable.

Hazelmere’s entire attention was devoted to controlling the frisky bays as he threaded through the crowded streets of the capital. Once they had passed the village of Hampstead and started over Finchley Common he dropped his hands and the bays shot forward. With the horses driven well up to their bits, the curricle rocketed past coaches travelling at conventional speeds. Jim Hitchin, hanging on grimly behind, kept his lips firmly shut and prayed that his master’s customary skill did not desert him. As the evening wore on and the shadows started to spread, throwing inky patches across the road, concealing pot-holes and ruts, Jim expected their pace to ease. But no change in speed was detectable as they left Barnet behind and raced onwards up the Great North Road towards the George at Harpenden, where they spent the night on such trips as these.

Jim kept silent, more from fear of distracting the Marquis than from reticence. But, when Hazelmere overtook the north-bound accommodation coach just before St Albans on a tight curve with less than inches to spare, Jim, in considerable fright, swore roundly.

‘What was that, Jim?’ came Hazelmere’s voice.

‘Why, nothing, m’lord,’ replied Jim. Unable to help himself, he added, ‘Just if you was to be wishful to break both our necks I could think of few faster ways to do it.’

Silence. Then Jim heard his master laugh softly. ‘I’m sorry, Jim, I know I should not have done that.’ And the curricle slowed until they were bowling along at a safer pace.

Yes, and you’re still up in the boughs, thought Jim. Just as long as you keep this coach on the road, we’ll survive.

It was late afternoon on Thursday when they reached Lauleigh, Hazelmere’s Leicestershire estate between Melton Mowbray and Oakham. His steward, a dour man named Walton, had not erred in demanding his attendance. There was an enormous amount of work to be done and they made a start on it that evening, going over the accounts and planning the activities of the next two days.

Walton, hearing from Jim of the likely change in his lordship’s affairs, made sure that anything requiring his authorisation was dealt with. He was under no illusion that he would be able to summon his master north again that Season. Accustomed, like most of the Marquis’s servitors, to keeping a weather eye out for his temper, in this case Walton guessed it was unlikely to be directed at him, and his flat tones droned in Hazelmere’s ears incessantly over Friday and Saturday.

Hazelmere called a halt on Saturday afternoon and retired to his study, informing Jim that they would leave early the next morning. The events of the past two days, entirely divorced from those of the Season, had succeeded in restoring his calm. By forcing his mind to deal with such mundane affairs, he had managed to shut out the turmoil of emotions he had experienced on leaving Dorothea until now, when he felt infinitely more capable of dealing with them.

While it was warm in the south of the country, in Leicestershire the winds blew cool in the evening and the fire was alight. Pouring himself a drink, he dropped into the comfortable armchair before the hearth, stretching his long legs to the blaze. Cupping the glass in both hands, he gazed into the leaping flames.

Conjuring up the image of a pair of emerald eyes, he wondered what she was doing. Ah, yes. The Melchett ball. Away from the endless round of London during the Season, he was even more conscious of how much he wanted her by his side. That meeting in the drawing-room at Merion House had had about it an air of inevitability. He’d been so angry with her when he’d walked in the door-admittedly more from hurt pride than righteous indignation. And she’d been so surprisingly angry with him! Thankfully, she had promptly told him why. He grinned. All the dictates of how a young lady should behave had been overturned in the space of a few minutes. He could imagine no other female-apart from his mother, perhaps-who would dare let on that she even knew of his mistresses, much less question him on the subject.

As his relationship with Helen Walford was so well known among the ton, it had never occurred to him that a different version could be presented to Dorothea. Very clever of the Comte. He vaguely recalled some difficulty with Monsieur de Vanée over one of the barques of frailty who had at one time resided under his protection. What had been her name? Madeline? Miriam? Mentally he shrugged. The Comte’s lies had undoubtedly been the cause of Dorothea’s distress that night, coming on top of the incident with the Prince. Hardly surprising that she had baulked at meeting Helen and him in the Park.

But why, why had she flung that drivel about her being no more than a challenge at him? Even if Marjorie Darent had impressed it on her, surely she didn’t believe it? He sipped the fine French brandy and felt it slide warmly down his throat. No-she hadn’t believed Marjorie’s tales. The Darents had left London on Monday, so any conversation between Dorothea and Marjorie must have occurred earlier. But Dorothea had behaved normally at that horrendous party on Sunday night. And at the Diplomatic Ball she’d been entirely unconcerned until the Prince’s performance had opened her eyes too far. Even then, she had not been distraught, only, as he had expected, angry with him. It had only been later, after the Comte’s interference, that she had been shattered and almost in tears. Well, his actions in her grandmother’s drawing-room should have settled that. She couldn’t possibly have missed the implication of that kiss.

It had not occurred to him until that day that by loving her he had put into her hands the power to hurt him. Since he was naturally strong and self-reliant, there were few close to him whose opinions mattered enough to affect him-his mother and Alison, Tony and Ferdie and, to a lesser extent, Helen. That was about it. And Dorothea mattered far more than all of them combined. But if such vulnerability was what one had to put up with, then put up with it he would. She had only lashed out at him because she was hurt by his imagined perfidy. He would simply ensure that such misunderstandings did not occur in the future.

So where did that leave them now? Much where they had been before, except that presumably she now knew he loved her. Assuming that events progressed as he intended, there was no reason that they could not be wed in a month or so. Then his frustrations and her uncertainties would be things of the past.

He brought his gaze back from the ceiling whence it had strayed and fixed it once more on the dancing flames. He was happily engaged in salacious imaginings in which Dorothea figured prominently when his housekeeper entered to inform him that dinner was served.

He reached Darent Hall, close to Corby and not far off his direct route, just before ten o’clock. He threw the reins to Jim, who had run to the horses’ heads, with a command to keep them moving.

Admitted to the hall, he spoke to the butler. ‘I am the Marquis of Hazelmere. I wonder if Lord Darent could spare me a few moments?’

Recognising the quality of this visitor, the butler showed him into the library and went to inform his master. Herbert was engaged in consuming a leisurely breakfast when Millchin announced that the most noble Marquis of Hazelmere required a few words with him. Herbert’s mouth dropped open. After a moment he recovered himself enough to reply, ‘Very well, Millchin, I’ll come at once, of course. Where have you put him?’

Millchin told him and withdrew. Herbert continued to stare at the door. He had little doubt what Hazelmere wanted, but Marjorie had insisted that he was not in earnest and, even if he was, that he could not be considered suitable. In this instance, adherence to his wife’s wishes was entirely impossible. Herbert was already uncomfortable before he entered his library to face Hazelmere, who somehow seemed more at home in the beautiful, heavily panelled room than its owner.

The interview was brief and to the point, conducted as it was by Hazelmere rather than Herbert. Having listened to the Marquis’s request, Herbert felt forced to reveal that he had already given Edward Buchanan permission to address Dorothea.

At mention of Mr Buchanan, Hazelmere’s look became uncomfortably intent. ‘Do you mean to tell me you gave Buchanan permission to address your ward without checking his background?’ The precise diction made Herbert even more nervous.

‘I gather he owns an estate in Dorset,’ he flustered. ‘And, of course, he knows Sir Hugo Clere.’

‘And learned from Sir Hugo that Miss Darent had inherited the Grange, no doubt. For your information, Edward Buchanan owns a tumbledown farmhouse in Dorset. He’s penniless. The reason he’s in London is that, after his most recent attempt to run away with a local heiress, Dorset is too hot for him. I’m surprised, my lord, that you take such little care over your duties as guardian.’

Herbert, brick-red with embarrassment, remained silent.

‘I assume that, as you are acquainted with my family and my standing in society and as my wealth needs no detailing, you have no objection to giving me your permission to address Miss Darent?’

The scathing tones made Herbert wince. ‘Naturally, should you wish to address Dorothea, of course you have my permission,’ he said, squirming, then unwisely added, ‘But what if she’s already accepted Buchanan?’

‘My dear sir, your ward is a great deal more discerning than you are.’ Now that he had obtained Herbert’s approval, the only other information Hazelmere required was the name of the family solicitors who would handle the marriage settlements.

Herbert was strangely diffident on this question. ‘I believe Dorothea uses Whitney and Sons, in Chancery Lane.’

It took the Marquis a moment to assimilate this. Then he asked, eyes narrowed, ‘So Miss Darent’s solicitors are her own, not yours?’

‘My aunt’s crazy idea,’ said Herbert defensively. ‘She had the oddest notions. She decided it was best that both girls controlled their own fortunes.’

‘So,’ pursued Hazelmere, drawing on his gloves, ‘when the Misses Darent marry, control of their fortunes remains in their hands?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Herbert, glancing directly at him. ‘But that wouldn’t worry you, surely? Her estate is nothing compared to yours.’

‘Oh, quite,’ agreed Hazelmere. ‘I was merely wondering whether you gave that information to Buchanan. Did you?’

Herbert looked blank. ‘No. He didn’t ask.’

‘I thought not,’ said Hazelmere, a highly cynical smile curving his lips. Disclaiming any desire to dally with his relations-to-be, he re-entered the hall, to find that he was not destined to escape an encounter with Marjorie Darent. Her ladyship was looking even more severe than usual and directed a look of such magnitude at her husband that Hazelmere almost felt sorry for him.

‘Lord Hazelmere-’ she began.

But Hazelmere was determined that the conversational reins would remain in his hands. ‘Lady Marjorie,’ he countered. ‘I’m sure you’ll forgive my not staying. I’ve concluded the business I had with your husband and it’s most urgent I return to Hazelmere at once. My mother, you realise.’

‘Lady Hazelmere is ill?’ asked Marjorie, struggling to keep abreast of this flow of information.

Hazelmere, unwilling to expose his mother to letters of condolence on her relapse, simply looked grave. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter. I’m sure you understand.’

He bowed elegantly over her hand, nodded to Herbert and escaped.

He reached Hazelmere on Monday afternoon. His mother was resting, so, seeing the glint in his steward’s eye, he gave his attention to the host of minor matters Liddiard had waiting for him. He delayed his appearance in the drawing-room until just before dinner. If they were free of servants his mother would lose no time in asking him why he was home, and he would rather face the inquisition after dinner than before.

As it transpired, he entered the drawing-room immediately in front of Penton, his butler. Lady Hazelmere, recognising the strategy, pulled a face at him as he bent to kiss her cheek. He merely gave the smile he knew infuriated her, telling her as it did that he was perfectly aware of what she wanted to say to him but had no wish to hear it-at least, not yet. Her ladyship reflected that her son was growing to resemble his father more and more.

Over dinner he kept up a steady flow of inconsequential anecdotes, detailing the fashionable happenings since she had left London. Lady Hazelmere, knowing he would say nothing to the point in front of the servants, listened with what interest she could muster. Finally, after the covers were removed and the servants withdrew, she drew a deep breath. ‘And now are you going to tell me why you’re here?’ ‘Yes, Mama,’ he replied meekly. ‘Only I do think we might be more comfortable in your parlour.’

Functioning in a similar way to Lady Merion’s upstairs drawing-room, her ladyship’s parlour was a cheerful apartment on the first floor of the large country house. The curtains were already drawn, shutting out the twilight, and a small fire was burning merrily in the grate. Lady Hazelmere sat in her favourite wing chair by the hearth, while her son, after pulling it further from the flames, elegantly disposed his long limbs in its partner opposite.

He then smiled at his impatient parent. Her ladyship, inured by the years to such tactics, asked bluntly, ‘Why have you come to see me?’

‘As you correctly suppose, to tell you I’m about to offer for Dorothea Darent.’

‘Very punctilious, I must say.’

‘You know that I always am. In such matters as these, at least.’

Aware that this was true, she ignored the comment. ‘When is the wedding to be?’

‘As I haven’t asked her, I cannot say. If I have my way, as soon as possible.’

‘I must say, I’ve wondered at your unusual patience.’

He shrugged. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time. She’d only just arrived in town, and if she’d refused it would have caused considerable awkwardness for a number of people.’

‘Yes, I can appreciate that. But why the change of heart?’

He looked hard at her. ‘Hasn’t Lady Merion written to you this week?’

‘Well, yes,’ she admitted. ‘But I’d much rather hear it from you.’

Hazelmere sighed and succinctly outlined the events preceding his departure from the capital. He also described the two attempts to abduct Dorothea, learning in the process that his mother already knew of these via a recently informed Lady Merion. When he finished, Lady Hazelmere looked at him, perplexed. ‘But if she’s in danger, why are you gallivanting all over the country?’

‘Because the others are looking after her and it seemed more sensible to marry her as soon as possible and remove her from any danger at all,’ he explained patiently. ‘As I had to go to Lauleigh, I looked in on Herbert Darent on the way back.’

She eventually conceded. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, as usual. I assume Herbert was only too thrilled?’

‘As a matter of fact, no,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I think that indescribable wife of his has convinced him I’m no better than a rake and shouldn’t be allowed to marry into the family.’

Lady Hazelmere was speechless.

After a moment Hazelmere said, ‘I take it you approve?’

His mother dragged her mind from contemplation of Lady Darent’s manifold shortcomings. ‘Of course! She’s very suitable. In fact,’ she said, warming to her theme, ‘she’s eminently suitable, as among her numerous qualities she can include the unique accomplishment of having attracted your interest!’

‘Exactly so,’ he returned, amused. ‘And, as I’ve been at great pains to make our attachment abundantly clear to the ton, I really don’t think the announcement will surprise.’

‘When I think of that waltz at the Merion House ball!’ Anthea Henry closed her eyes, continuing faintly, ‘So very shocking of you, my dear!’

Hazelmere, not deceived, replied, ‘Coming it much too strong, Mama!’

She opened eyes brimming with laughter. ‘But it was! You had all the tabbies with their fur standing on end!’

Both mother and son allowed the conversation to lapse while they relived fond memories. Her ladyship finally stirred. ‘When will you speak to her?’

‘As soon as I can arrange to see her. Wednesday probably. If she’s agreeable we’ll come here for a few days. It would be useful, I imagine, for her to see the house.’

Lady Hazelmere sighed. Hermione’s weekly letter had been perfectly candid. Clearly, despite minor misunderstandings, her arrogant son had, as usual, triumphed, and all would proceed as he decreed. Even the headstrong Dorothea had apparently been tamed. If things continued in this fashion Marc would soon grow to be utterly impossible. She had had such hopes of Dorothea. Still, at least she would now have a daughter-in-law. Even if nothing else, they could swap stories of her impossible son. And, knowing her son, she could look forward, with as much confidence as possible in such matters, to a grandchild within the year. The thought cheered her. So, resigned, all she said was, ‘Yes, that would be wise. We’ll have to arrange to refurbish the apartments next to yours.’