A Poor Relation

She forced herself to assume her normal outward calm, but her wayward thoughts continued to whirl. Her heart was still racing. And the strangest feelings assailed her.

She was still trying to recover her inner composure when the tall gentleman began addressing his friend. ‘I had not pictured you in the role of knight errant, Lewiston, I must admit—but I am sure your offer will be appreciated.’

Isabella felt the colour rising in her cheeks at the slight but unmistakable emphasis in his words. Her would-be rescuer was clearly determined to make her feel thoroughly ashamed of her earlier behaviour. And he was succeeding.

He did not so much as glance in her direction as he continued, ‘I imagine you were about to offer the ladies one of our chambers and our private parlour. And without so much as a “by-your-leave”, either,’ he added wryly. ‘If I were introduced to this lady, I might be more amenable on that subject, you know.’

Isabella was hard put to hide her astonishment. The man now spoke as if he had never set eyes on her before.

Mr Lewiston’s relative youth was evident in his response, for he coloured and stammered a little, before admitting that he himself had not yet been introduced to this particular lady.

The tall gentleman immediately took charge of the discussion, turning a sudden and devastating smile on Isabella that did the strangest things to her knees, much as she steeled herself to resist. ‘I hope you will forgive my friend’s shocking want of manners, ma’am. I gather he very much desires to be of service to your party in your present difficulties…though I do not fully understand what they might be. Perhaps you could explain a little more, Miss…?’

A number of unflattering descriptions arose in Isabella’s mind, of which ‘dissembler’ was probably the least insulting. Unable to voice her opinion of him without lapsing into impropriety, she swallowed her wrath before explaining, in her best poor-relation manner, that she was Miss Winstanley, en route for London with her young cousin, Miss Sophia Winstanley. But she could not resist adding, with a touch of asperity, ‘You are, I fancy, already well acquainted with the details of our predicament, sir. The landlord’s views on our arrival must have been heard by every one of the gentlemen in the coffee-room.’

She knew she was yielding to her worst impulses by saying such a thing, but she felt so strange in the presence of this man. Somehow, she felt impelled to provoke a reaction from him.

It did not come, because the landlord could no longer contain himself. He burst into vehement self-justification. ‘My lord,’ he began, ‘you knows that this b’aint no place for ladies just now, with so many sporting gen’lemen staying here. I only—’

Isabella cringed inwardly. Good God—not merely a libertine, but a peer as well. It was worse and worse.

The landlord’s excuses were cut short by the unnamed lord. ‘However well-meant your concern, landlord, the fact remains that rooms were bespoke for this lady and you have let them elsewhere. Furthermore, it is already too late for any of your guests, male or female, to journey on in search of accommodation elsewhere.’ With a sidelong glance at Isabella which confirmed that he had indeed heard all of her discussions with the landlord, he concluded, ‘Since this lady’s instructions predate those of the sporting gentlemen, it is clear that the gentlemen must make way for the ladies. So, what do you propose, landlord?’

In truth, the landlord had nothing much to offer, since all his rooms were taken and it was not in his interest to offend the free-spending sporting guests. At length he ventured, ‘If some of the gen’lemen might be willing to share, summat might be done, p’rhaps. But I don’t know…’

‘We have already offered the ladies the use of our sitting room and one of our bedchambers.’ He looked blandly across at his friend. ‘And since Lewiston would not really enjoy sleeping in the stables, he may share my room. That leaves, I think, only one more chamber to find. You can do that, surely, landlord?’

Isabella’s senses were reeling. Why should a rake put himself to so much trouble for someone he obviously considered beneath his touch? And someone who had spurned his help once already that day. Perhaps… But no. Doubtless he had caught sight of Sophia—who looked, for all the world, like a pretty young heiress. Just the sort of prey that such a man would seek to fasten on. Pity the hapless female who was unwise enough to fall into his clutches. He was charming, too, no doubt about that. She would not easily forget that devastating smile and its effect on her. She was feeling it still.

Isabella straightened her spine, waiting until she felt sufficiently in control of her emotions to speak. ‘You are most kind, gentlemen,’ she said, carefully addressing her remarks to the space between the tall unknown and Mr Lewiston. ‘I am sure my cousin will agree that she and I share a chamber also. There will be no need for further inconvenience to the guests on that score. I take it the landlord can find accommodation for the servants?’

The landlord readily agreed that he could. Then he fled from the scene, ostensibly to see to the readying of the rooms.

Isabella, now relieved of the immediate worry, felt some sympathy for him. It could not be easy dealing with a forceful lady and an arrogant lord at one and the same time. Arrogant? No, it would be unjust to call him so, however much she might detest his libertine ways. He was simply very firm about what was to be done. His manner was certainly daunting, but he was self-assured rather than arrogant, a man who was used to issuing commands and who expected them to be obeyed. It would probably be unwise to cross him, too, for there was something in his demeanour that suggested ruthlessness as well as strength. He… Enough! What on earth was she about, letting her mind wander so in the hallway of a posting house?

Isabella’s tumbling thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Sophia in her usual tempestuous fashion. ‘Winny, dear,’ she began, and Isabella’s heart sank as she recognised a gleam of sardonic amusement in the tall gentleman’s eye, ‘Mr Lewiston has so kindly offered to resolve all our problems for us. I have—’

Clearly, Sophia must be stopped before Isabella was even further embarrassed. Her predicament was already wretched enough. ‘Yes, I know, Sophia. Thanks to the kind offices of these two gentlemen, we have somewhere to sleep tonight, even if we are constrained to share a bedchamber. My lord,’ she added pointedly, ‘you must let me make you known to my cousin, Miss Sophia Winstanley. Sophia, this is Lord…’

‘Amburley, at your service, Miss Sophia Winstanley,’ he continued coolly, as if Isabella had known the name all along. He favoured Sophia with a brief, hard smile and bowed over her hand. Then, turning to Isabella, he took her hand also, adding, with another bow, ‘And at yours, Miss Winstanley, of course. The burdens of a companion on a journey such as this are not lightly borne. I hope I may have helped to relieve them in some small way. If there is any other service you require of me, ma’am, please do not hesitate to ask. And now we will leave you. I am sure you will wish to assure yourselves that your accommodation is adequate.’ With a further bow, he released Isabella’s hand and left them to return to the coffee-room, followed by a rather reluctant Mr Lewiston.

Isabella looked dazedly at her hand. It felt as if it were burning, yet there was no outward sign of heat. Her face, too, felt as if it were on fire. Was this an example of how a rake’s practised charm was exercised? She shook her head, vainly trying to clear her disordered thoughts. She longed for solitude so that she might attempt to make sense of what had happened. But, of course, sharing a room with the effervescent Sophia would prevent any opportunity for calm reflection. It was hopeless.

Isabella now wished with all her heart that she had never succumbed to the urge to visit that rural orphanage. It had led her into two encounters with a man who affected her composure as no other had ever done. Not that it mattered, for he clearly regarded her as a poor, used, spinster companion, put upon by all and an object to be pitied. She felt deeply embarrassed and somehow shamed. Her only refuge was in the hope—earnestly felt—that she would never set eyes on Lord Amburley again. She did not see how her injured self-esteem could survive a third meeting.

‘You carried that off perfectly, Winny,’ said Sophia. ‘But for you, we should be sleeping in the stables.’

Isabella smiled weakly in response. At least Sophia had not recognised Lord Amburley.

‘Shall we retire to our parlour now?’ continued Sophia. ‘I so much want to tell you about my conversation with Mr Lewiston.’

Isabella nodded agreement. It would certainly not do to learn Sophia’s views about the perfection of Mr Lewiston’s figure and address in the hearing of the coffee-room gentlemen. That would be the final humiliation of an absolutely dreadful day. Fortunately, the landlord returned at that moment, and so they were soon ensconced in a comfortable parlour with easy chairs and a welcome blaze in the hearth. With a sigh of relief, Isabella removed her all-concealing bonnet and sank into a chair. Privacy, at last.

‘I must tell you, Winny, about my encounter with Mr Lewiston. He must have witnessed our arrival, for he was seeing to his horses in the yard. They are very fine, by the bye, so I collect he must be a rich young man.’

‘That need not be so,’ interposed Isabella. ‘Many a young gentleman of address is deeply in debt and hanging out for a rich wife to solve his problems.’

‘I do not believe Mr Lewiston is such a one. How can you possibly suggest such a motive for the young man who helped to rescue us?’ Sophia stopped short as the full import of Isabella’s words struck home. ‘Besides, I am not rich.’

‘No, Sophia, you are not rich but, just for the moment, you have every appearance of it. You ride in a fine carriage with an abigail and servants in attendance. Your shabbily dressed cousin is naturally assumed to be your companion, while you yourself are dressed in the latest fashion. No one would guess it is thanks to your own nimble fingers, you know. No, indeed, you seem to have all the outward trappings of an heiress.’

‘Oh!’ Sophia blushed to the roots of her hair. ‘Oh, dear! What shall we do?’

‘Nothing. Tomorrow we shall wait until the gentlemen have left before we emerge as ourselves. And even then, I shall ensure that there is not so much difference in my own appearance as to cause comment. Then we can forget all about this unfortunate occurrence…and start preparing for your London Season. We must have you do justice to the Winstanley looks.’ Her mischievous smile lit up her eyes.

That final sally was not enough to restore Sophia’s spirits. ‘But what if we should meet Mr Lewiston or Lord What’s-his-name in London? I should die of mortification.’

‘If you should meet either Mr Lewiston or Lord Amburley, you will behave as if nothing had happened, my dear. After all, you have done nothing, except to be your true self. The imposture, such as it is, has been mine, and I shall have to deal with the consequences if we should meet either gentleman again. However,’ she added consolingly, ‘I do not believe we shall. Although I do not go into Society very much, I have lived in London for almost a year now, and I have not heard of either of them. No doubt they are northern gentlemen who do not come to London for the Season.’

In a bedchamber further along the corridor, Lord Amburley was changing his coat, musing abstractedly on his two encounters with the elder Miss Winstanley. She was remarkably sharp-tongued—but perhaps that was not surprising, considering how shamefully she was treated by her young employer. It was not a fate he would wish on any woman, however poverty-stricken.

His valet’s voice intruded insistently. Peveridge was clearly determined to indulge his irrepressible taste for gossip, now that he had an audience of two. ‘Miss Winstanley is a real lady, m’lord, and a considerable heiress to boot, by all accounts.’

‘Is she, begad?’ said Mr Lewiston, who was reclining at his ease in a chair and nursing a glass in his hand. ‘Well, well.’

‘Pray do not encourage him, George,’ said his lordship. ‘I have been trying for years to persuade him out of his reprehensible tendency to gossip, and now you are like to undo all my hard work with a careless sentence or two.’

The valet grinned at Mr Lewiston, as if to say that no amount of effort on the part of Lord Amburley would ever cure that particular malady.

‘Come, Leigh, I will have the truth out of you. Are you not at all curious about the circumstances of the lovely Miss Winstanley?’

‘I know all I wish to know about that young lady,’ countered his lordship. ‘She is young and quite pretty, I grant you. If you listen to Peveridge, she is also rich. You could have concluded that yourself from her mode of travelling, without recourse to Peveridge’s sources.’ Peveridge cleared his throat at this point as if preparing to intervene, but subsided at a warning glance from his master. With barely a pause, his lordship continued evenly, ‘Peveridge can no doubt give you detailed information on her family, her financial circumstances and her marital ambitions. I know nothing of those, nor do I desire to. The rich Miss Winstanley is empty-headed, frivolous and spoilt. No doubt she has been indulged from birth.’

‘How can you suggest such a thing, Amburley?’ growled Mr Lewiston. ‘You yourself admitted you know nothing about her.’

‘I know her kind very well. Did you compare the poverty of the poor relation’s dress with the expense of the young lady’s? The cost of that single fashionable outfit was probably more than the companion receives in a year. And to address her as “Winny”… If there had been the least doubt as to her lowly station in life, that would certainly have settled it.’

‘It could be her name, you know. Winifred, perhaps?’

‘I take leave to doubt that, George. Did you not notice how she blushed? I believe she was quite put out.’ Until the words were spoken, he had not been aware that her reactions had registered with him at all.

‘She did seem a little strained, I admit, but I put it down to the difficulties of the situation. However, you went out of your way to be kind to her, I noticed. Indeed, you were much more solicitous to the poor companion than to the lady.’

‘Since the lady had you to defend her, my friend, she clearly had no need of me. The companion, by contrast, had no one, not even her charge. She is—’ He stopped in mid-sentence. For some reason, he did not feel able to share his assessment of the poor companion, even with his friend. Deliberately, he pushed her shabby image to the back of his mind, before continuing, ‘I sought only to allow her to recover her composure a little. If I succeeded, I am glad.’

‘You are very much your mother’s son,’ said Lewiston, after a thoughtful pause, ‘with your concern for the poor and disadvantaged. Perhaps you should set up a foundation for impoverished spinsters?’

Lord Amburley smiled enigmatically. ‘I have not the means, George, as you know very well—and, in any case, one philanthropist in the Stansfield family is quite enough. My mother does my share, I think—though only among the orphans.’ His eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘You, by contrast, could certainly afford to support such a worthy cause. Why not adopt your own suggestion?’

‘I have not the taste for it,’ came the prompt reply. ‘I fear I fall into your category of empty-headed, frivolous and spoilt.’

The following morning was wet, which dampened everyone’s spirits. Isabella waited anxiously in her chamber for the gentlemen to leave the inn. She had exchanged the hideous brown dress for a simple but modish travelling gown of deep green, which she planned to hide beneath a plain dark pelisse when she emerged. There was also a matching hat, but Isabella would not dare to put it on until she was safely in the carriage and miles from this unfortunate inn. For the present, she would continue to hide her hair completely under the battered brown poke bonnet.

Her main concern now was to avoid any further meeting with Lord Amburley. Until she was sure he had left, she dared not even venture into the parlour, lest he call to see how they did.

She had suffered mortification enough, she told herself. She was resolved to leave without meeting him again, even if she had to resort to ill-manners to achieve it.

Isabella returned to the window to check again on the departure of the gentlemen. To her relief, she saw that the curricle Sophia had described was standing ready in the yard. In spite of her preoccupation, she could not help noticing that the horses were quite as fine as Sophia had supposed. Mr Lewiston had a good eye, then, and might be wealthy after all. What a pity Isabella’s actions had ruined everything for Sophia.

The sound of voices in the parlour next door distracted her from this depressing train of thought. Sophia’s voice, conversing with a man. Thank goodness Mitchell was present as chaperon, so that Isabella need not join them.

She drew near the connecting door and, without quite putting her ear against it, found a position from which she could overhear all that was said. She told herself sternly that it was her duty to listen. Was she not, after all, the guardian of Sophia’s virtue?

The voice proved to be Mr Lewiston’s. Isabella breathed again.

Mr Lewiston was advising the ladies to delay their journey until the rain eased. He feared Miss Sophia might catch cold if she travelled in such weather.

‘But what of you, sir?’ responded Sophia. ‘Are you not about to set out for your prize-fight, or whatever it is you are all here to see? I thought I saw your horses standing in the yard?’

‘They are Amburley’s horses, I am sorry to say,’ admitted Mr Lewiston ruefully. ‘I should give much to own them.’

‘But they are not for sale,’ put in a deeper voice.

Behind the door, Isabella smothered a gasp. A shiver ran down her body and she swayed on her feet. Amburley was there, just a few feet beyond the door. And it was all his—horses, wealth, everything. Surely a titled man of means would be bound to appear in London at some stage, whatever reasons had kept him away in the past?

Light suddenly dawned. What a fool she had been! Of course, he must have been with Wellington’s army. How could she have missed something so obvious? His bearing, his air of authority, everything about him betrayed the soldier. He would be recently returned from the wars. There must be estates somewhere, she supposed. Oh, she prayed they were a long way from London and in need of his constant supervision. She could not bear the thought of meeting him again. A rake—and a hero too, no doubt. There could not be a more dangerous combination.

Chapter Three

Sophia looked around with glowing eyes. ‘Oh, Isabella,’ she breathed, ‘I have never seen such beautiful fabrics. It’s…it’s like Aladdin’s cave.’

‘Just wait until you have seen Madame’s designs.’ Isabella smiled.

Sophia’s dark eyes opened even wider, as Madame Florette’s elegant black-clad figure re-entered the room, followed by a bevy of attendants carrying yet more bolts of splendid silks. Madame waved them into the background, before inviting the ladies to seat themselves on her delicate spindle-legged chairs.

‘Bien, mademoiselle.’ Madame was beaming at Isabella, no doubt in anticipation of a very large order. ‘I am at your service.’

‘Come, Sophia, let us make a start by choosing some simple morning dresses.’ Isabella smiled encouragingly. ‘Madame Florette has impeccable taste. You may trust her judgement.’

‘Mademoiselle Winstanley is most generous,’ responded the modiste with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Mademoiselle Sophia will be a pleasure to dress. Such colouring, such a figure.’

Over the course of the morning, a bewildering collection of gowns was selected for Sophia. Isabella was glad she had taken pains to ensure that there was no mention whatever of price, for it was vital that Sophia’s feckless parents should not find out how much was being spent on their eldest daughter. What little they had was devoted to educating their five sons—and paying their debts. They did not seem to care that Sophia and her sisters were destined to become penniless old maids. As a spinster herself, Isabella had determined that Sophia, at least, should have the best possible chance of making a good match. And she was quite prepared to conceal the expense of the Season from Sophia’s stiff-necked parents, knowing that they would welcome a wealthy suitor with open arms.

‘And for you, Miss Winstanley,’ urged Madame, ‘I have just received the most beautiful jade-green silk shot with gold. With your colouring, it would make an exquisite ball-gown.’ With an imperious wave of the hand, she dispatched a hovering attendant to fetch the bolt of cloth.

The jade and gold silk was irresistible. ‘With a lighter green underdress, mademoiselle, in this aquamarine satin, to bring out the colour of the silk…and then a gold gauze scarf for your arms.’ Madame was sketching rapidly. ‘We will fashion a special ornament for your hair too, I think, to pick up the greens of the gown and of your eyes. It will look ravishing, I assure you.’

‘Isabella, it is too beautiful for words. You must have it, truly.’

Isabella yielded. She knew just how well the gown would become her. Partly as a result of Madame’s beautiful creations, Isabella Winstanley could hold her own among the best-dressed women in London. She was now wearing a carriage dress of emerald green, with a jaunty little hat of the same colour perched on top of her honey-gold curls. Even though Sophia’s dark colouring was the prevailing fashion, it was Isabella’s striking looks that had drawn every eye since their arrival in London.

Isabella was laughing gently with Sophia as they emerged to return to their carriage. Sophia, concentrating on their conversation, failed to notice a gentleman in her path and almost collided with him.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir,’ she began. ‘Why, it is Mr Lewiston! Oh!’ Her face was suffused with the deepest blush, and she began to stammer uncertainly, ‘I…I had not thought…to see you in London. I…’ Her voice trailed off; she was unable to utter another word.

Mr Lewiston saved her, at least for the moment. ‘Miss Winstanley, how delightful to meet you again. I cannot think how I was so remiss as to fail to ask you for your direction in London. I hope you will permit me to call?’

Sophia had no choice but to acquiesce. ‘I am staying in Hill Street with my godmother, Lady Wycham,’ she said. ‘I am sure she would be delighted to meet you.’

‘And would you do me the honour of making me known to your companion?’ asked Mr Lewiston, casting an appreciative glance at Isabella.

‘Com…companion?’ stuttered Sophia, suddenly ashen.

‘I do not think I have been introduced to this lady,’ said Mr Lewiston patiently, ignoring Sophia’s apparent want of wits.

Isabella intervened to save the situation. She extended her hand, noting with satisfaction how steady it was. ‘I am Isabella Winstanley, Mr Lewiston, a distant cousin of Sophia’s. Lady Wycham would welcome a chance to meet you, I am sure. We have heard about your chivalrous rescue of Sophia in the north.’

It was Mr Lewiston’s turn to stammer as they shook hands. ‘Indeed, ma’am, I…I did nothing more than any gentleman would have done for a lady in distress, I assure you.’ Recovering his composure, he continued gamely, addressing Sophia once more, ‘I shall call tomorrow, if I may?’

Sophia answered with a smile and a slight nod. She was still incapable of speech. With an elegant bow, Mr Lewiston handed them into the carriage and stood watching as they drove off.

Sophia sank into the cushions, as far as possible from the window. She had turned extremely pale. She sank her head into her hands, pushing her modish new bonnet askew in the process, and began to sob weakly.