Lord Ravensden's Marriage

“You never did!” Nan looked horrified. “Never say that monster attacked you?”

“In a way,” Beatrice replied, then shook her head as Nan looked fit to faint. “Oh, nothing like that. I heard something…a scream, I think…then this horse and rider came up out of the darkness and I was forced to throw myself out of his path. Had I not done so, I must have been crushed beneath the hooves of the horse. I am sure it was the Marquis himself, and in a fearful mood.”

Nan crossed herself instinctively. Neither she nor any member of her family were Catholics, but in a matter such as this, the action could be very comforting.

Beatrice laughed as she saw her aunt’s reaction. “I must admit to doing much the same as you when I heard the scream,” she admitted. “It was the most horrifying sound imaginable…” She broke off as their one little maid came into the room, carrying a silver salver. “Yes, Lily—what is it?”

“Bellows fetched this letter for you from the receiving office this afternoon, Miss Roade. It’s from London.”

“Then it must be from Olivia,” Beatrice said, feeling a flicker of excitement. “Perhaps it is an invitation to the wedding at last.”

The longcase clock in the hall was striking the hour of five as Beatrice took the sealed packet from her servant.

Beatrice had been anxiously awaiting the invitation since learning from her sister that she was about to become engaged to Lord Ravensden, the wealthy Lord Burton’s heir. Not that Lord Burton’s wealth was of any interest to his heir, who, according to rumour, already had far more money than any one person could possibly need.

Olivia had been adopted by their rich relatives when she was a child. She had been loved and petted by them ever since, living a very different life from her elder sister, who had been overlooked by Lord and Lady Burton when they agreed to take one of the children as their own.

The sisters’ parting had devastated Beatrice, who, being the elder, had understood what was happening, and why. She had kept in touch by letter since the day Olivia was taken away, but they had met only twice since then, when her mother’s sister-in-law had brought Olivia on brief visits. Having seen the engagement announced in The Times, which her papa continued to subscribe to despite his meagre funds, Beatrice had expected to hear from her sister almost daily, and was beginning to think she was to be left out of the celebrations.

She ripped the small packet open eagerly, then read its contents three times before she could believe what she was seeing. It was not possible! Olivia must be funning her…surely she must? If this was not a jest…it did not bear thinking of!

“Is something the matter?” asked Nan. “You look upset, Beatrice. Has something happened to your sister?”

“It is most distressing,” Beatrice said, sounding as shocked as she felt. “I cannot believe this, Nan. Olivia writes to tell me that she will not now be marrying Lord Ravensden. She has decided she cannot like him sufficiently…and has told him of her decision.”

“You mean she has jilted him?” Nan stared at her in dismay. “How could she? She will be ruined. Has she no idea of the consequences of her actions?”

“I think she must have.” Beatrice gave a little cry of distress as she read over the page something she had missed earlier. “Oh, no! This is the most terrible news. Lord and Lady Burton have…disowned her. They say she has disgraced them, and they will no longer harbour a viper in their home…”

“That is a little harsh, is it not?” Nan wrinkled her brow. “What she has done is wrong, no one could deny that—but I should imagine Olivia must have her reasons. She would not do such a thing out of caprice—would she?”

“No, of course not,” Beatrice defended her sister loyally. “We do not know each other well—but I am sure she is not so cruel.”

“What can have prevailed upon her to accept him if she did not mean to go through with the marriage?” Nan asked, shaking her head in wonder. Jilting one’s fiancé was not something to be undertaken lightly—and a man as rich as Lord Ravensden into the bargain!

“She says she has realised that she cannot be happy as his wife,” Beatrice said, frowning over her sister’s hurried scrawl. “And that she was cruelly deceived in his feelings for her.”

“What will she do now?”

“Lord Burton has told her she has one week to leave his house—so she asks if she may come here.”

“Come here?” Nan stared at her in dismay. “Does she realise how we go on here? She will find it very different to what she has been used to, Beatrice.”

“Yes, I fear she will,” Beatrice replied. “However, I shall speak to Papa at once, and then, if he agrees, I shall write and tell her she is welcome in this house.”

“My brother will agree to whatever you suggest,” Nan said a little wryly. “You must know that?”

Beatrice smiled, knowing that she always without fail managed to twist her father round her finger. He could refuse her nothing, for the simple reason that he was able to give her very little. Fortunately, Beatrice had a tiny allowance of her own, which came to her directly from a bequest left to her by her maternal grandmother, Lady Anne Smith.

Nan had given her a towel to dry herself, and Beatrice had used it to good effect. Her long hair was wild about her face, gleaming with reddish gold lights and giving her a natural beauty she had never noticed for herself. She handed the towel back to her aunt, and looked down at herself. Her gown was disgraceful, but her dear, forgetful papa would probably never notice.

“You realise Olivia will be an added burden on your father’s slender income?” Nan warned. “You have little enough for yourself as it is.”

“My sister will be destitute if we do not take her in,” Beatrice replied, frowning. “I do not know whether they have cast her off without a penny—but it sounds as if they may have done so. It would be cruel indeed of me if I were to refuse to let her shelter in her own home.”

“Yes, and something you could never do,” Nan said warmly. “I have no objections, my love. I only wish you to think before you leap—unlike my poor brother.”

“We shall manage,” Beatrice said, and left her aunt with a smile.

The smile was wiped out the instant she left the room. She had not mentioned anything to Nan, because it was still not clear to her exactly what her sister’s rather terse words had meant—but clearly Lord Ravensden was not a man Olivia could love or respect. Indeed, if Beatrice was not mistaken, he was a hard, ruthless man who cared for little else but wealth and duty.

He had had the cold-hearted effrontery to tell one of his friends that he was marrying to oblige Lord Burton. Since the Burtons had no children of their own, the title and fortune would pass by entail to a distant cousin of Lord Burton. They had felt this was a little unfair on the daughter they had adopted, and so made their wishes known to Lord Burton’s heir: it would please them if he were to marry the girl they had lavished with affection since she came to them.

Apparently, Lord Ravensden had proposed to Olivia, giving her the impression that he cared for her—and it was only by accident that she had learned the truth. It must have distressed her deeply!

No wonder she had declared herself unable to love him. If Beatrice were not much mistaken, it would push any woman to the limits to find a place in her heart for such an uncaring man.

She wished that she might have him at her mercy for five minutes! It would give her the greatest pleasure to tell him exactly what she thought of him.

Chapter Two

Beatrice fought her rising temper. She was slow to anger, but when something offended her strong sense of justice—as it did now—she could be awesome in her fury.

“If I could but get my hands on him!” she muttered furiously. “He should see how it feels to be treated so harshly. I should make him suffer as he makes my poor sister.”

No, no, this would not do! She must appear calm and cheerful when speaking to Papa. He had so many worries, the poor darling. This burden must not be allowed to fall on his shoulders. As for the added strain on his slender income…well, it made the idea of her becoming a teacher at Mrs Guarding’s school even more necessary. If she could support herself, her father would be able to spare a few guineas a year for Olivia to dress herself decently—though not, her sister feared, in the manner to which she had become accustomed.

Beatrice paused outside the door to her father’s study, then knocked and walked in without waiting for an answer. It would have done her little good to wait. Mr Roade was engrossed in the sets of charts and figures on his desk, and would not have heard her.

Like many men of the time, he was fascinated with the sciences and the invention of all kinds of ingenious devices. Mr Roade was a great admirer of James Watt, who had invented the miraculous steam engine, which had begun to be used in so many different ways. And, of course, Mr Robert Fulton, the American, who had first shown his splendid steam boat on the Seine in France in 1803. Bertram Roade was certain that his own designs would one day make him a great deal of money.

“Papa…” Beatrice said, walking up to glance over his shoulder. He was working on an ingenious design for a fireplace that would heat a water tank fitted behind it and provide a constant supply of hot water for the household. It was a splendid idea, if only it would work. Unfortunately, the last time her father had persuaded someone to manufacture the device for him, it had overheated and blown apart, causing a great deal of damage and costing more than a hundred pounds, both to repair the hole in the kitchen wall and to repay the money invested by an outraged partner. Money they could ill afford.

“May I speak with you a moment?”

“I’ve nearly got the puzzle solved,” Mr Roade replied, not having heard her. “I’m sure I know why it exploded last time…you see the air became too hot and there was nowhere for it to escape. Now, if I had a valve which let out the steam before it built up…”

“Yes, Papa, I’m sure you are right.”

Mr Roade looked up. Beatrice was usually ready to argue his theories with him; he was none too sure that his most recent was correct, and had hoped to discuss it with her.

“You wanted to talk to me, my dear?” His mild eyes blinked at her from behind the gold-rimmed spectacles that were forever in danger of falling off his nose. “It isn’t time for dinner—is it?”

“No, Papa, not quite. I came to see you about another matter.” She took a deep breath. “Olivia wishes to come and stay with us. I would like your permission to write and tell her she will be welcome here for as long as she wishes.”

“Olivia…your sister?” He wrinkled his brow, as if searching for something he knew he must have forgotten. A smile broke through as he remembered. “Ah yes, she is to be married. No doubt she wishes for a chance to have a little talk with her sister before her wedding.”

“No, Papa. It isn’t quite like that. For reasons Olivia will make clear to us, she has decided not to marry Lord Ravensden. She wants to come and live here.”

“Are you sure you have that right, m’dear?” Mr Roade looked bewildered. “I thought it was a splendid match—the man’s as rich as Midas, ain’t he?”

“That is a very apt description, Father. For if you remember, Midas was the King of Phrygia whose touch turned all to gold, and on whom Apollo bestowed the ears of an ass. Lord Ravensden must be a fool to have turned Olivia against him, but it seems, like that ancient king, he cares more for gold than the sweetness of a woman’s touch.”

“Must be a fool then,” sighed a man who had loved his wife too much. “Olivia is better off without him. Write at once and tell her we shall be delighted to have her home. Never did think it was a good idea for her to go away…your mother’s idea. She wanted the chance of a better life for at least one of her daughters, and her poor sister-inlaw was childless. Thank God the Burtons didn’t pick you! I couldn’t have borne that loss, Beatrice.”

“Thank you, Papa.” She smiled and kissed his forehead lovingly. “You know, if you let all the steam go in one direction, it might pass through pipes before it finally escapes, and give some heat to the rooms. It would make the bedrooms so much warmer…as long as you could be sure the device that heats the water will not blow up like it did the last time.”

“Let the steam pass through pipes that run round the house.” Mr Roade looked at his daughter as if she had just lit a candle in his head. “That’s a very good notion, Beatrice. It might look a little ugly, I suppose. I wonder if anyone would put up with that for the convenience of feeling warm?”

“I certainly would,” Beatrice replied. “Have you made any advances on the grate for a smokeless fire? Mine was smoking dreadfully again last night. It always does when the wind is from the east.”

“It might be a bird’s nest,” her father said. “I’ll sweep the chimney out for you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Papa, but I’m sure Mr Rowley will come up from the village if we ask him. It is not fitting for you to undertake such tasks.” Besides which, her father would make a dreadful mess of it!

“Fiddlesticks!” Mr Roade said. “I’ll do it for you first thing tomorrow.”

“Very well, Papa.”

Beatrice smiled as she went away. Her father would have forgotten about the smoking chimney five minutes after she left him, which mattered not at all, since she intended to send for the sweep when their one and only manservant next went down to Abbot Quincey to fetch their weekly supplies.

Seeing her father’s manservant tending the candelabra on the lowboy in the hall, Beatrice smiled.

“Good evening, Bellows. It is a terrible evening, is it not?”

“We’re in for a wild night, miss. Lily brought your letter?”

“Yes, thank you—and thank you for thinking to fetch it for me.”

“You’re welcome, miss. I was in the market at Abbot Quincey and it was the work of a moment to see if any mail had come.”

She nodded and smiled, then passed on up the stairs.

It was possible to buy most goods from the general store in Abbot Quincey, which was much the largest of the four villages, and might even have been called a small town these days, but when anything more important was needed, they had to send Bellows to Northampton.

They were lucky to have Bellows, who was responsible for much of the work both inside the house and out. He had been with them since her father was a boy, and could remember when the Roade family had not been as poor as they were now.

For some reason all his own, Bellows was devoted to his master, and remained loyal despite the fact that he had not been paid for three years. He received his keep, and had his own methods of supplementing his personal income. Sometimes a plump rabbit or a pigeon found its way into the kitchen, and Beatrice suspected that Bellows was not above a little poaching, but she would never dream of asking where the gift came from. Indeed, she could not afford to!

Walking upstairs to her bedchamber to wash and change her clothes, Beatrice reflected on the strangeness of fate.

“My poor, dear sister,” she murmured. “Oh, how could that rogue Ravensden have been so cruel?”

She herself had been deserted by a man who had previously declared himself madly in love with her, because, she understood, he had lost a small fortune at the gaming tables. She truly believed that Matthew Walters had intended to marry her, until he was ruined by a run of bad luck—he had certainly declared himself in love with her several times. Only her own caution had prevented her allowing her own feelings to show.

If she had given way to impulse, she would have been jilted publicly, which would have made her situation very much worse. At least she had been spared the scandal and humiliation that would have accompanied such an event.

Only Beatrice’s parents had known the truth. Mrs Roade had held her while she wept out her disappointment and hurt…but that was a long time ago. Beatrice had been much younger then, perhaps a little naïve, innocent of the ways of the world. She had grown up very quickly after Matthew’s desertion.

Since then, she had given little thought to marriage. She suspected that most men were probably like the one who had tried so ardently to seduce her. If she had been foolish enough to give in to his pleading…what then? She might have been ruined as well as jilted. Somehow she had resisted, though she had believed herself in love…

Beatrice laughed harshly. She was not such a fool as to believe in it now! She had learned to see the world for what it was, and knew that love was just something to be written of by dreamers and poets.

She had been taught a hard lesson, and now she had her sister’s experience to remind her. If Olivia had been so hurt that she was driven to do something that she must know would ruin her in the eyes of the world…What a despicable man Lord Ravensden must be!

“Oh, you wicked, wicked man,” she muttered as she finished dressing and prepared to go down for dinner. “I declare you deserve to be boiled in oil for what you have done!”

Lord Ravensden had begun to equate with the Marquis of Sywell in her mind. After her uncomfortable escape from injury that evening, Beatrice was inclined to think all the tales of him were true! And Lord Ravensden not much better.

A moment’s reflection must have told her this was hardly likely to be true, for her sister would surely not even have entertained the idea of marriage to such a man. She was the indulged adopted daughter of loving parents, and had she said from the start that she could not like their heir, would surely have been excused from marrying him. It was the shock and the scandal of her having jilted her fiancé that had upset them.

However, Beatrice was not thinking like herself that evening. The double shock had made her somehow uneasy. She had the oddest notion that something terrible had either happened or was about to…something that might affect not only her and her sister’s lives, but that of many others in the four villages.

The scream she had heard that night before the Marquis came rushing upon her…it had sounded evil. Barely human. Was it an omen of something?

After hearing it, she had come home to receive her sister’s letter. Of course the scream could have nothing to do with that…and yet the feeling that the lives of many people were about to change was strong in her. A cold chill trickled down her spine as she wondered at herself. Never before had she experienced such a feeling…was it what people sometimes called a premonition?

Do not be foolish, Beatrice, she scolded herself mentally. Whatever would Papa say to such an illogical supposition?

Her dear papa would, she felt sure, give her a lecture upon the improbability of there being anything behind her feelings other than mere superstition, and of course he would be perfectly right.

Shaking her head, her hair now neatly confined in a sleek chignon, she dismissed her fears. There had been something about the atmosphere at the Abbey that night, but perhaps all old buildings with a history of mystery and violence would give out similar vibes if one visited them alone and at dusk.

If Beatrice had been superstitious, she would have said that her experience that evening was a warning—a sign from the ghosts of long dead monks—but she was not fanciful. She knew that what she had heard was most likely the cry of a wounded animal. Like the practical girl she was, she dismissed the idea of warnings and premonitions as nonsense, laughed at her own fancies and went downstairs to eat a hearty meal.

“Ravensden, you are an almighty fool, and should be ashamed of yourself! Heaven only knows how you are to extricate yourself from this mess.”

Gabriel Frederick Harold Ravensden, known as Harry to a very few, Ravensden to most, contemplated his image in his dressing-mirror and found himself disliking what he saw more than ever before. It was the morning of the thirty-first of October, and he was standing in the bedchamber of his house in Portland Place. What a damned ass he had been! He ought to be boiled in oil, then flayed until his bones showed through.

He grinned at the thought, wondering if it should really be the other way round to inflict the maximum punishment, then the smile was wiped clean as he remembered it was his damnable love of the ridiculous that had got them all into this mess in the first place.

“Did you say something, milord?” Beckett asked, coming into the room with a pile of starched neckcloths in anticipation of his lordship’s likely need. “Will you be wearing the new blue coat this morning?”

“What? Oh, I’m not sure,” Harry said. “No, I think something simpler—more suitable for riding.”

His man nodded, giving no sign that he thought the request surprising since his master had returned to town only the previous evening. He offered a fine green cloth, which was accepted by his master with an abstracted air. An unusual disinterest in a man famed for his taste and elegance in all matters of both dress and manners.

“You may leave me,” Harry said, after he had been helped into his coat, having tied a simple knot in the first neckcloth from the pile. “I shall call you if I need you.”

“Yes, milord.”

Beckett inclined his head and retired to the dressing-room to sigh over the state of his lordship’s boots after his return from the country, and Harry returned to the thorny problem on his mind.

He should in all conscience have told his distant cousin to go to hell the minute the marriage was suggested to him. Yet the beautiful Miss Olivia Roade Burton had amused him with her pouts and frowns. She had been the unrivalled success of the Season, and, having been thoroughly spoiled all her life, was inclined to be a little wayward.

However, her manners were so charming, her face so lovely, that he had been determined to win her favours. He had found the chase diverting, and thought he might like to have her for his wife—and a wife he must certainly have before too many months had passed.

“A damned, heavy-footed, crass idiot!” Harry muttered, remembering the letter he had so recently received from his fiancée. “This business is of your own making…”

At four-and-thirty, he imagined he was still capable of giving his wife the son he so badly needed, but it would not do to leave it much later—unless he wanted the abominable Peregrine to inherit his own estate and that of Lord Burton. Both he and Lord Burton were agreed that such an outcome would not be acceptable to either of them—though at the moment they were agreeing on little else. Indeed, they had parted in acrimony. Had Harry not been a gentleman, he would probably have knocked the man down. He frowned as he recalled their conversation of the previous evening.

“An infamous thing, sir,” Harry had accused. “To abandon a girl you have lavished with affection. I do not understand how you could turn her out. Surely you will reconsider?”

“She has been utterly spoilt,” Lord Burton replied. “I have sent her to her family in Northamptonshire. Let her see how she likes living in obscurity.”

“Northamptonshire of all places! Good grief, man, it is the back of beyond, and must be purgatory for a young lady of fashion, who has been used to mixing in the best circles. Olivia will be bored out of her mind within a week!”

“I shall not reconsider until she remembers her duty to me,” Lord Burton had declared. “I have cut off her allowance and shall disinherit her altogether if she does not admit her fault and apologise to us both.”

“I think that it is rather we who should apologise to her.”

After that, their conversation had regrettably gone downhill.

Harry was furious. Burton’s conduct was despicable—and he, Harry Ravensden, had played a major part in the downfall of a very lovely young woman!

A careless remark in a gentleman’s club, overheard by some malicious tongue—and he imagined he could guess the owner of that tongue! If he were not much mistaken, it was his cousin Peregrine Quindon who had started the vicious tale circulating. It was a wicked piece of mischief, and Peregrine would hear from him at some point in the future!