Four Regency Rogues

The last stage of their journey had been made at a fair canter and Roland would not subject the tired horses to further work. He drove home and had his riding horse saddled, then he set off for Shrewsbury, leaving Bennett and Travers to see to the carriage. He had undertaken to arrange for the broken coach to be fetched and he would honour that undertaking, but he doubted Charlotte would allow him to do anything else for her.

Everything had been spoiled and it was his own fault for acting on impulse. If he wanted to live in harmony with Charlotte again, to share the lessons with Tommy, to work together for the good of the village, then he must somehow put things right. Could he explain himself to her satisfaction? Would she let him? And what could he say? ‘Sorry,’ or ‘I did it because I love you’, which would be the honourable thing to do, followed by a proposal. ‘Sorry’was not enough and she would laugh in his face if he said he had fallen in love with her. And who could blame her for that?

Being on horseback, he could take the short cut over the hills and his errand was soon accomplished and he was on his way home, still musing over what to do about Charlotte. Dipping down into Scofield, he became aware of a noisy crowd outside the Cartwright mill, grouped around a man standing on a flat cart. ‘I told you,’ he was shouting. ‘I told you no good would come of putting a female in charge. Now she has ruined the business and some of you are already without work. Tomorrow it will be a few more and the day after, a few more…’

‘What would you have us do?’ someone shouted from the crowd.

Roland dismounted and led his horse forwards to the edge of the throng to listen.

‘Walk out. Every one of you, walk out and join your unemployed brethren. Without workers she will have to sell to someone who can manage the business properly. I know a gentleman ready to buy her out. Then you will be given jobs again.’

‘Ain’t goin’ to do that.’ Roland recognised Beth Biggs, about three rows from the front. ‘Miss Cartwright hev always treated us fair. Ain’t ’er fault if ’er ship’s bin delayed.’

‘A sensible employer would have made provision in case such a thing should happen, not let stocks run down to nothing. Proves she’s not up to the job.’ He turned to the men in his audience. ‘Do you like bowing and scraping to a chit of a girl?’

Roland pushed his way forwards. Some, seeing who he was, parted to make way for him, while others continued the argument among themselves. Once at the front, Roland sprang up on to the makeshift platform. He was several inches taller than the man and his commanding presence silenced those near the front. He waited until he had everyone’s attention. ‘You have been misinformed,’ he said. ‘There is cotton on its way here. It will arrive tomorrow.’ He prayed he was right in saying that. Geoffrey seemed sure that he could manage to find some.

‘Too late,’ someone called out. ‘We’ve been stood off.’

‘Not by Miss Cartwright?’

‘No, Mr Brock.’

‘That was a mistake.’

‘What’s it to do with you?’ someone else asked. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘I saw Miss Cartwright in Liverpool yesterday when she arranged for the yarn to be delivered.’

‘Oh, yes,’ another jeered. ‘I’ll wager you were having a grand time of it too. Enjoy yourselves, did you, frolicking about while we went home with no wages?’

Roland’s jaw tightened. He did not know how to answer that without having a verbal battle with the man and that he would not demean himself to do. His best defence was to attack. ‘This man is a troublemaker,’ he told his audience, indicating the man on the cart beside him. ‘He has his own reasons for inciting you to break the law. I suggest you find out what they are before you listen to him.’

‘And what reason do you have for interfering?’ the man demanded. ‘This is a matter between Cartwright’s and the mill hands.’

‘You may think it is, but I am a magistrate, empowered to read the Riot Act, and I am telling you to disperse or face the consequences.’ He watched as one or two drifted away. ‘Report for work tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Miss Cartwright will confirm what I have told you.’

They murmured among themselves and began to disperse. Relieved that his strategy had worked, he jumped down and made his way back to his horse and it was then he came face to face with Charlotte, who had just driven up in her curricle. She evidently had two sets of her working apparel, for she was dressed once again in a grey skirt and a tailored jacket, both in pristine condition. He swept off his hat and bowed, stiffly formal. ‘Your obedient, Miss Cartwright.’

She had seen him on the cart and her workers grouped round him, but had not been in time to hear all that was said. Could she go nowhere without him turning up? What was he doing addressing her workers? ‘Can you not keep your nose out of my business?’ she demanded.

‘My business, ma’am. As a magistrate I am obliged to prevent riotous assembly. I was doing my duty as the law demands.’

She could not quarrel with that, but she had heard him mention her name. ‘Riotous?’

‘I believe so. One of the men was definitely inciting them to strike. At least they listened to me and dispersed.’

‘And what is it I am to confirm?’

‘That there is yarn on its way.’ He picked up the reins of his horse, which was nibbling the wayside grass, and walked it over until he was standing beside the curricle. ‘I gather Mr Brock put them off for lack of it.’

‘Then I hope, for everyone’s sake, Mr Temple is as good as his word.’

‘I can vouch for that, ma’am.’ He paused. ‘I have just come from Shrewsbury. Your coach will be fetched tomorrow by Guthries. I have asked him to let you know the extent of the repairs and how long it will take. In the meantime, if you have need of a carriage, please avail yourself of mine. If my mother is not using it, that is.’

‘Thank you, my lord, but I can manage very well with my curricle.’ It was said politely, but there was no warmth there. She had obviously decided he was not to be forgiven and meant to keep him at arm’s length.

He put his hand on the side of the vehicle, preventing her from driving off. ‘Miss Cartwright, I hope you will still come to Tommy’s lessons. He—we—will miss you if you do not.’

‘I am much occupied with more pressing matters at the moment—perhaps later, when I have more time.’ She flicked the reins and he stood back to allow her to drive into the mill yard.

The evening was far advanced and in an hour or so it would be dark. He wondered if she would be safe. Would any of the mob wait around to waylay her? Leading his horse, he crossed the road and leaned against a tree where he could see into the yard of the mill. A pool of light from the upstairs office window spilled out onto the curricle and its patient pony. She would certainly not welcome his watchfulness, but he felt responsible for her. He asked himself why, but could think of no convincing reason.

Charlotte did not stay long talking to William Brock. She listened to his explanation of why he had laid off so many hands, then told him that in future he was not to do so without consulting her. ‘We nearly had a riot on our hands,’ she told him. ‘If it had not been for the Earl, they might have come to violence. It is not unknown for a disgruntled mob to set fire to a mill. And it was all so unnecessary. You knew I had gone to buy cotton, you could have waited.’

He mumbled something about petticoat government, but she chose not to hear him, though he would bear watching. There might come a time when he would have to be replaced.

‘Now, go home, Mr Brock, it is late. We will plan what to do tomorrow.’

She left him to secure the premises and drove out of the gate and made for Mandeville. She was aware of being followed by Roland and though she was tempted to turn round and send him on his way, she was strangely comforted by his presence. It did not matter what she did—he was determined to look after her. She laughed aloud and urged the pony onwards. It was a cat-and-mouse game, but who was the cat and who the mouse?

Charlotte was busy all the following week. The cotton mill was once again in full production, though she was still left with the problem of more supplies once those Mr Temple had sent were used up. A letter from the Liverpool harbour master had informed her that the captain of an incoming schooner had seen what he believed was the Fair Charlie dismasted and wallowing in heavy seas. Struggling with his own vessel, he had been unable to get close enough to hale the stricken ship and had no idea what had happened, but she was so low in the water he could not think she could make landfall before sinking. Quite apart from the loss of the crew whom Charlotte genuinely mourned, it was a blow from which it would be difficult to recover and she would be at the mercy of independent importers for her cotton and exporters to take her finished cloth. She felt as if she were losing control, but she could not allow that to happen and spent days searching out contracts. For the first time she felt her gender was against her, but she persevered. Not to do so would mean throwing her mill hands out of work. In comparison to everything else, the coming ball seemed unimportant.

Lady Ratcliffe, of course, did not think so. As far as she was concerned, it was to be the event of the year and nothing less than Charlotte’s betrothal to the Earl of Amerleigh would satisfy her. Charlotte had given up protesting; her great-aunt would see her error in the fullness of time.

When at last she found time to go into Shrewsbury to choose a costume, there was very little left; everyone had been there before her. She was offered elaborate gowns, which needed no end of corseting, and coiffures that would take hours to create—that is, if they could be created on her wild hair. She could just imagine Meg’s dismay at being asked to do it. The alternatives were flimsy bits of nonsense that were hardly respectable. Or animals. She chose to dress as a black cat, hoping the disguise would be complete enough to hide her anguish. The anguish would be engendered by the sight of Roland Temple and the knowledge that, whatever happened, she must keep him at a distance. It was the only way to stay in control.

The week had been wet but the day itself produced thunderstorm after thunderstorm all day long and Charlotte wondered aloud how many of her guests would be put off by the weather. ‘None,’ Emily said. ‘Everyone is agog to see Mandeville and as the Earl is coming…’

‘Perhaps he will not.’

‘Nonsense. Of course he will. He has accepted and I do not believe he is a man to go back on his word.’

Her great-aunt had no idea what had transpired between her and the Earl, that they were in a state of open warfare. And for what? A little strip of land? A grudge held for years? Or a kiss that had set her in such inner turmoil she could hardly go about her daily business for fear of coming upon him, or sleep at night for reliving it? ‘No, I am sure he never does,’ she said, thinking of other words spoken in the heat of the moment years before. ‘And neither am I.’

Emily looked at her sharply, wondering what her great-niece meant by that. ‘I hope you are not going to keep worrying about business all through the evening, Charlotte. The mill is not going to fall down simply because you take a little time off. If you want to be accepted in society, this preoccupation with business must surely stop. Ladies do not interest themselves in such things.’

‘And who is to do it if I do not?’

‘Your husband.’

‘But I have no husband.’

‘Nor will you have unless you observe the proprieties and learn to conduct yourself in a more fitting manner.’

Charlotte gave up the argument and her aunt was soon distracted by other things. Given a free hand, she had the servants scurrying hither and thither with vases of flowers and trays of glasses, urging people to do several jobs at once and scolding them when inevitably they failed. The maids, on hands and knees, had polished the floor of the ballroom until it gleamed like a mirror. The footman, even the temporary ones, had been given new livery, and the butler stood in his pantry, counting bottles of wine and champagne. Lamps had been strung up in the trees in the garden and a double row of them illuminated the drive.

Afraid that the weather would delay the musicians she had hired for the evening, her ladyship had sent a message requiring them to come early and they had to be fed along with everyone else and Mrs Cater was throwing a tantrum. How could she be expected to cook for the army of helpers at the same time as overseeing the caterers who were providing the elaborate supper to be served to over a hundred guests? she demanded to know.

‘It is time you were going up to change,’ her ladyship said, coming upon Charlotte in the kitchen with an apron tied round her business dress, helping Mrs Cater, an activity her ladyship deplored. ‘Your guests must not find you unprepared to receive them.’

She went up to her room, stripped off her dress and lay down on the bed to wait for Meg to bring her hot water to wash. She had hardly slept the night before and had had such a worrying day, sleep overcame her. She was woken by the maid at seven o’clock.

‘Why, you have not even taken your costume from its box,’ Meg said, pouring hot water into the bowl.

‘There was no reason to do so before I was ready to put it on.’ Charlotte said, stripping off the underwear she had been sleeping in and washing before putting on a thin chemise and drawers and reaching out for the costume Meg had taken from its wrapping. It was of black velvet, very tight fitting, covering her from head to toe, far too daring for a country ball and, according to Lady Ratcliffe, to whom she had shown it when she brought it home, positively indecent and would horrify the Earl. That last remark was enough to strengthen her resolve to wear it.

There was a long black sarcenet pelisse to go over it, which would float around her and the mask would hide everything but her eyes and mouth and that was good. She did not want to betray what she was feeling to anyone, least of all the Earl of Amerleigh. It needed no jewellery, no trimming, no anything, except a small pocket for her handkerchief. Even her hair was covered by the velvet head and so all she had to do was brush it and push it up out of the way. She looked plain, simple and anonymous. Taking a deep breath, she left the sanctuary of her room and went downstairs.

Miraculously the rain had eased and the guests were arriving. Lord and Lady Brandon and Martha were the first. Sir Gordon was in ordinary evening dress, but her ladyship was dressed as Queen Elizabeth in a huge brocade farthingale with a stiff lace ruff around her plump neck. Martha was dressed as Columbine, making Charlotte wonder if the Earl might arrive as Harlequin. He would not be the only one, she realised, when the Reverend Mr Elliott, Mrs Elliott and Martin arrived. Martin was Harlequin.

‘Now why did he have to go and do that?’ Lady Brandon said in annoyance. Then, to Martha, ‘Did you know he was coming as Harlequin?’

‘No, Mama, but I told him I was to be Columbine.’

‘Foolish girl!’ her mother exclaimed.

Other guests followed them, kings and queens, knights and nymphs, strange animals, historical figures, maids and highwaymen, twittering and excited, exclaiming over the decorations as they made their way into the ballroom where the orchestra, replete on Mrs Cater’s cooking, were tuning their instruments ready for the first dance. It wanted only the arrival of the Earl of Amerleigh to make the evening a huge success.

Roland had ridden to Shrewsbury to see Charles Mount-ford. The day before, poking about in the attics to find a costume for the ball, he had come across a chest full of very old documents. Some of them were crumbling to dust, others illegible and written in a script he could not decipher. One had a huge red seal and appeared to be signed by a Royal hand. Realising they might be the ancient deeds to Amerleigh Hall, he had decided to take them to Mountford at once.

‘It will be interesting to learn if the old family story of the estate being given to my ancestor by Queen Elizabeth is correct,’ he told him. ‘Or perhaps it is a fairy tale.’

‘If it is what I think it is, this will detail exactly what land is included,’ Charles said, scrutinising them with a magnifying glass. ‘Some may have been acquired later, during the war between King and Parliament, for instance. You need to show them to an expert who can decipher them. Professor Lundy would do it, but he lives in London.’

‘I see. You cannot read it?’

‘Only a few words here and there, not enough to be sure I was advising you correctly.’

‘Then perhaps I’ll take them myself when I have time.’

‘Very well. Now you are here, have you time to go over the financial affairs of the estate? I think you need to reconsider your options.’

They had spent some time on the subject. The money he had brought back with him from Portugal was almost exhausted, though he did have his annuity, his half-pay from the army and the income from the tenants’ rents, all of which would have to be carefully husbanded. ‘Of course, if you had the income from the Browhill mine, it might help,’ Mountford said.

‘No, I have told you not to proceed with that litigation and I will not change my mind.’

‘Then the best advice I can you give you, my lord, is to marry the present owner of Browhill. It would be the best way of repossessing it.’

‘And that is advice I can well do without,’ Roland said sharply, effectively ending the conversation. He took his leave and rode home with a great deal on his mind.

Tonight was the night of the ball. He had wondered if his invitation might be withdrawn, or, if it were not, whether to stay away. Charlotte would surely not wish to see him? On the other hand, his absence would cause comment. After telling himself over and over again he did not want to see her, he knew he did, that the hours and days when he did not meet her seemed barren and uninteresting. He must talk to her and make her understand that the youth who had so cruelly rejected her six years before was not the man who had come back to take up his responsibilities as Earl of Amerleigh, that he could not go on, day by day, doing his duty, looking after the estate, making plans for his deaf school, without her forgiveness. Or was that going too far?

He hurried into the house to find Geoffrey and Elizabeth with his mother and Miles ready to leave for the ball. Geoffrey was dressed as a Tudor gentleman and Elizabeth a lady of the same period, while a bewigged Miles wore satin small clothes and a pink brocade coat with enormous pockets, his wrists covered in cascading lace. The Countess was not in costume, but in a lilac evening gown trimmed with white lace. ‘Roland, you will make us all late,’ she said. ‘Where have you been?’

‘To see Mountford. You go on in the coach, I will follow in the gig.’

‘You will get soaked.’

‘No, the rain has stopped.’

He declined anything to eat, saying he would drink a dish of chocolate in his room while he changed. He had found a basket full of costumes in the attic; he supposed that many of the lavish entertainments his father had put on had included costume balls for which he had obviously provided the clothes. He had chosen to be a medieval knight, wearing a cross of St George on his jerkin. The imitation chainmail was knitted in some thick shiny material, but the effect was good and nothing like as heavy as the real thing. It also had a helmet with a visor, which would do away with the need for a mask. He pulled on his boots and fastened a sword belt about his waist. ‘How do I look?’ he asked Travers.

Travers grinned. ‘Will I saddle your horse? A knight cannot go rescuing damsels in distress without his trusty charger, can he?’

‘Corporal, I do believe you are bamming me.’

‘No, sir, not at all, sir.’ But his smile was almost enough to split his face.

‘Then go and bring the gig round. I will drive myself. And there is no need for you to wait up for me.’ He flung a cloak over his costume and went downstairs, wondering what the evening might have in store for him.

Chapter Eight

Because he arrived after everyone else had gone in, Roland’s entrance was observed by the whole company. His costume was no disguise either; he was so tall and broad-shouldered, his figure could not be mistaken. He looked about him for his hostess among the costume-clad figures that crowded the room. Surely, even in disguise, he would know her? Lady Ratcliffe hurried forward to greet him.

‘My lord, I am pleased you have come. The dancing has already begun. Miss Cartwright is about somewhere. I will go and find her.’

‘Please do not trouble yourself, my lady,’ Roland said. ‘I will go and join my mother.’ He had seen the Countess sitting with Lady Gilford and smiled to himself. So Lady Gilford had overcome her scruples over Charlotte’s lack of breeding and decided to attend, had she? There was no sign of her husband. He crossed the room and made his bow to the ladies and then stationed himself behind his mother’s chair to watch proceedings and look out for Charlotte, though how he was going to contrive to see her alone, he did not yet know.

Charlotte had seen him and shrank behind Miles Hartley with whom she was dancing, peeping over his shoulder as the Earl spoke to her great-aunt and then moved forwards into the room. He looked magnificent in his costume; Saint George, ready to do battle for a lady’s honour, and all the ladies present were sighing over him. She was not sighing, she was crying inside, and if she were not very careful the tears would come to the surface.

‘Please excuse me,’ she said. ‘I must go and see that supper will be ready on time.’ And with that she hurried away. She felt sick. And the reason she felt so ill was that she had suddenly realised she was in love with the Earl, hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him. How could she have let it happen? How could she have been so foolish as to forget they were enemies, that he had cruelly disdained her and they were at daggers drawn over a piece of land that neither was prepared to relinquish?

Roland saw her go and wondered what they had been talking about so earnestly, but he could do nothing about it because the musicians had begun another dance and the floor was crowded. He bowed before the young lady nearest to him and only then did he realise it was Martha dressed as Columbine. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, looking anxiously about her for her mother.

* * *

‘Oh, it is all going according to plan.’ Lady Brandon had come upon Charlotte in the dining room, where she was standing by the window looking out onto a damp garden. Behind her several tables were laden with food of every description: hams, chicken legs, fish, pastries, jellies, cakes.

‘What plan?’ She was still thinking about Roland and did not welcome the intrusion.

‘Why, the Earl is dancing with Martha now. She will bring him up to the mark. I should not be at all surprised if he does not ask Brandon for an interview later.’ When Charlotte made no response to this, she added, ‘What is the matter with you, Charlotte? I never saw such a Friday face in all my life and there is no reason for it. The ball is a prodigious success and you will find yourself being invited to everything from now on.’

Lady Brandon had set her heart on making a Countess of Martha. Her daughter, of course, had no say in the matter. Would his lordship have any say either? Charlotte believed he was strong enough to resist, if he wanted to. But supposing he did not? Supposing he married Martha? Being a friend and confidante of Lady Brandon, she would be thrown even more into his company and it would be unbearable. But she was no simpering schoolgirl, she told herself sternly; she was a mature businesswoman who knew how to best an opponent. He was an opponent and she would get the better of him and of her own wayward desires, one way or another. She forced herself to sound bright. ‘There is nothing wrong, Catherine. I was making sure everything is ready for supper.’