Lord Ravensden's Marriage Page 5

to have forgotten her unfortunate situation. Beatrice took heart, determined to make her story as

  interesting and entertaining as she could for her sister's sake.

  'Well, the present Earl of Yardley, the eighth if I am right, was not born to inherit the title or the

  estate. His name when this story begins was Thomas Cleeve, and his family was no more than a

  minor branch of the Yardleys. It was then that he and his cousin (the last Earl before this one: I

  told you it was complicated!), some folk say, were both members of the rather loose set to which

  Lord George Ormiston belonged—he, to make things plain, is our wicked Marquis of today.'

  'Yes, I see. He is now the Marquis of Sywell and he owns the Abbey,' Olivia said. 'Please do go

  on.'

  'Lucinda Beattie, the spinster sister of Matthew Beattie, who was our previous vicar and died

  in...oh, I think it was eleven years ago...told our mother that Thomas Cleeve was disappointed in

  love as a young man and went off to India to make his fortune. That part was undoubtedly true, for

  he returned a very wealthy man. I know that he married twice and returned a widower in 1790

  with his four children (twin boys of fourteen years, Lady Sophia, who I dare say you will meet,

  and his elder son, Marcus). He built Jaffrey House on some land he bought from his cousin

  Edmund, then the seventh Earl of Yardley... Are you following me?'

  'Yes, of course. What happened to the romantic Earl?' Olivia asked, impatient for Beatrice to

  begin his tale. 'Why did he banish his son—and what was his son called?'

  'His son was Rupert, Lord Angmering, and I believe he was very romantic,' Beatrice said with a

  smile. 'He went off to do the Grand Tour, and met a young Frenchwoman, with whom he fell

  desperately in love. It was in the autumn of 1790, I understand, that he returned and informed his

  father he meant to marry her. When the Earl forbade it on pain of disinheritance, because she was

  a Catholic, he chose love—and was subsequently banished to France.'

  Olivia was entranced, her eyes glowing. 'What happened—did he marry his true love?'

  'No one really knows for certain. Some of the older villagers say he would definitely have done

  so, for he was above all else a man of honour, others doubt it...but nothing can be proved, for the

  unfortunate Lord Angmering was killed in the bread riots in France...'

  'Oh the poor man—to be thrown off by his father...' Olivia's cheeks were flushed as the similarity

  to her own story struck her. 'But you said his father killed himself?'

  'As I have heard it told, the Earl was broken-hearted, and when the confirmation of his son's death

  reached him in 1793, he went up to town, got terribly drunk and lost everything he owned to his

  friend the Marquis of Sywell at the card tables. Afterwards, he called for the Marquis's duelling

  pistols and before anyone knew what he intended, shot himself—in front of the Marquis and his

  butler—the same one who remains in Sywell's employ today.'

  'It was sad end to his story, but it had a kind of poetic justice—do you not think so?' Olivia asked.

  'He blamed himself for the loss of his son and threw away all that had been precious to him...'

  'It may be romantic to you,' Beatrice replied with a naughty look, 'but it meant that the people of

  the four villages have had to put up with the wicked Marquis ever since. And according to local

  legend, there was a time when no woman was safe from him. He has been accused of all kinds of

  terrible things...including taking part in pagan rites, which may or may not have involved him and

  his friends in cavorting naked in the woods. Some people say the men wore animal masks on their

  heads and chased their...women, who were naturally not the kind you or I would ever choose to

  know.'

  'No? Surely not? You are funning me!' Olivia laughed delightedly as her sister shook her head and

  assured her every word was true. 'It sounds positively gothic—like one of those popular novels

  that has everyone laughing in public and terrified in private.'

  'Dear Mrs Radcliffe.' Beatrice smiled. 'The Mysteries of Udolpho was quite my favourite. How

  amusing her stories are to be sure. What you say is right, Olivia...but it is not quite as funny when

  you have to live near such a disreputable man.'

  Olivia nodded. 'No, I suppose it would be uncomfortable. Tell me, did the present Earl inherit his

  title from the one who banished his son and killed himself?'

  'Yes. After the death of the Earl and his son Lord Angmering there was no one else left—or at

  least, if Rupert left an heir no one has heard of him to this very day.' Beatrice shook her head. 'No,

  I am very sure there was no child. An exhaustive search was made at the time, I have no doubt,

  and no record of a marriage or a child was found. Had it not been so, the title could not legally

  have passed to Thomas Cleeve, and it was all done according to the laws of England, I am very

  sure.'

  Olivia nodded, acknowledging the truth of this. 'Besides, even if Lord Angmering had by some

  chance had a son...what would there be for him to inherit if his grandfather had lost all his money

  gambling?'

  'Nothing in law, I suppose. You may be certain, had there been an heir, he would have come

  forward long ago, to claim his title and anything that might still belong to his family.'

  'I suppose so...' Olivia was reluctant to let her romantic notion go, and smiled at her sister. 'That

  was a fascinating story. I wish someone would come back to the villages and declare himself Lord

  Angmering's son, don't you?'

  Beatrice threw back her head and laughed heartily. 'I should never have told you—you will be

  expecting something to happen, and I do assure you it will not.

  No, my dearest sister, I must disappoint you. I think the Earl of Yardley is secure in his title—and

  since his fortune is his own, he does not need to prove anything.'

  'No, of course not.' Olivia stood up and went to embrace her sister. 'Thank you for telling me that

  story—and thank you for taking me in with such kindness.'

  'You are my sister. I have always loved you. I would not have wished for you to be in such

  circumstances—but I am happy to have you living here with us.' Beatrice looked at her intently.

  'You have not regretted your decision to jilt Lord Ravensden?'

  'I regret that I was deceived into accepting him,' Olivia replied, 'but I do not regret telling him that

  I would not marry him.'

  'What did he say to you?'

  'I—J wrote to him,' Olivia said, her cheeks pink. 'I could not have faced him, Beatrice. I was so...

  angry.'

  'What made you change your mind about marrying him, dearest?'

  'I was told by a rather spiteful girl...a girl I had hitherto thought of as my friend.. .that Ravensden

  was marrying me only to oblige Lord Burton, that he wanted me only as a brood mare, because he

  desperately needs an heir. He is past his green days, and no doubt imagined I should be grateful

  for the offer...'

  'He could not have been so cold-blooded?' Beatrice was shocked. 'My dearest sister! I believe

  you have had a fortunate escape. Had you not learned of his callousness before your wedding, you

  would have been condemned to a life of misery at this brute's hands.'

  Olivia took her hands eagerly. 'You do understand my feelings,' she cried, her lovely eyes

  glowing. 'I was afraid you would think me capricious—but w
hen I realised what he had done...I

  realised I could not love him. In fact, I saw that I had been misled by his charm and his

  compliments.'

  'His charm?' Beatrice frowned. How could this be? It did not equate with the monster she had

  pictured. 'Was he so very charming?'

  'Oh, yes, I suppose so. Everyone thought so...but I found his humour a little harsh. Though of

  course he was toadied to by almost everyone because of his wealth, and the Regent thinks him a

  great wit.'

  'It seems to me the man was eaten up by his own conceit,' said Beatrice, who had never met him in

  her life. 'I see what it was—you were the catch of the Season and Burton's heir. He wanted the

  fortune...'

  'But most of it will be his anyway,' Olivia said, frowning. 'That is what is so particularly cruel.

  He had no need to oblige his cousin. Why propose to me if he did not care for me in the least?'

  Beatrice saw that her sister was not so indifferent as she pretended. Whether it was her heart or

  her pride that was most affected, it was equally painful for her.

  'Well, we shall talk of this again,' she said. 'Do not distress yourself, dearest. You will have no

  need to meet Lord Ravensden again, so you may forget him. One thing is certain, he will not dare

  to follow you here...'

  Beatrice spent a restless night dreaming of disinherited heirs, pagan orgies and—inexplicably!—a

  man being boiled in oil. She woke early, feeling tired and uneasy. Which served her right for

  spending a great deal of the evening recounting stories of the wicked Marquis, making them as

  lurid as possible for her sister—who was clearly of a romantic disposition.

  Had Olivia been other than she was, she might have settled for the comfort marriage to Lord

  Ravensden could provide, but she could not help her nature, and Beatrice could not but think she

  had made the right decision.

  'Let me but get my hands on that creature,' muttered Beatrice.

  Oh, he should pay, he should pay!

  Olivia was certainly trying to settle to her new life, and had so far been very brave, but it was

  bound to be hard for her. They must all do whatever they could to lift her spirits in the coming

  months.

  Such were Beatrice's thoughts as she left her father's house that morning, the day after her sister's

  arrival. It was the beginning of November now and a little misty. Mindful of the cold, she had

  wrapped up well in her old grey cloak, which was long past its best.

  She had decided to visit the vicarage, her intention to ask the Reverend Edward Hartwell and his

  wife to dine with them the next week. She would also send a message to Ghislaine, and beg her to

  come if she could. It was the best she could offer Olivia by way of entertainment, though

  obviously not what she was accustomed to... The sound of hooves pounding on the hard ground

  gave her a little start.

  She paused, watching as horse and rider came towards her at a gentle canter. This was not the

  bruising rider who had almost knocked her down a week ago, but a stranger. She had never seen

  this gentleman in Abbot Giles or any of the four villages.

  His clothes proclaimed him a man of fashion, even though he was dressed simply for riding. As he

  came nearer, she could see that he looked rather attractive, even handsome, his features striking.

  He had a straight nose, a firm, square chin, and what she thought must be called a noble bearing.

  Beatrice realised the rider was stopping. He swept off his hat to her, revealing hair as thick and

  glossy as it was dark—almost as black as a raven's wing. He wore it short, brushed carelessly

  forward in an artfully artless way that gave him a dashing air. He might have come straight from

  the pages of Sir Walter Scott's poems, some noble creature of ancient lineage.

  'Good morning, ma'am,' the stranger said, giving her a smile that was at the same time both sweet

  and unnerving in that it seemed to challenge. 'I wonder if I could trouble you to ask for directions?

  I have lost my way in the mist.'

  'Of course. If I can help, sir.' Beatrice glanced up into his eyes. So startlingly blue that she was

  mesmerised. Goodness! What a remarkable man he was to be sure. 'Are you looking for

  somewhere in particular?'

  'I do not know the name of the house,' he replied. 'But I am looking for the Roade family of Abbot

  Giles...Miss Olivia Roade Burton in particular.'

  An icy chill gripped Beatrice's heart. Surely it was not possible? She had been so sure that Lord

  Ravensden would not dare to come here. Yet who else could it be? This man was handsome, his

  smile charming—and now she looked at him properly, she could see that he was arrogant, too sure

  of himself and proud. A despicable man. Indeed, she wondered that she had not noticed it

  immediately.

  Why had he come here? Beatrice's mind was racing frantically. If this was truly Olivia's jilted

  suitor, he must not be allowed to take her sister by surprise.

  'Ah yes,' she said. 'I do know of the family—but I fear you are travelling in the wrong direction.'

  'Is this not the village of Abbot Giles?'

  'Has Ben turned the milestones round again? It really is too bad of him!' Beatrice said in a rallying

  tone. 'He will do it, poor foolish fellow. It all comes from the bang on the head, but it is most

  confusing for visitors.'

  'Pray tell me,' the stranger said, a gleam in those devastating blue eyes. 'How did poor Ben come

  to receive such a damaging blow to the head?'

  'It is a long story,' Beatrice said hastily. She pointed to the open gates of the Abbey grounds. 'If

  you follow that road, the narrow lane there, then keep on past the lake and turn to your right near

  the ruined chapel, you will come to the village in time.'

  'That sounds a little complicated...'

  'It is a short cut, any other route would take you miles out of your way.'

  'I see, then I shall follow your instructions. Thank you, ma'am.'

  The stranger looked at her hard for a moment, then set out in the direction she had indicated.

  Beatrice waited until he had been swallowed up by the mist, then turned on her heel and ran back

  to her home.

  The visit to the Reverend Hartwell could wait. Olivia must be alerted to the fact that her

  abominable fiancé had come in search of her!

  Beatrice found her sister at breakfast. A few pertinent questions confirmed her suspicions—no

  two men could have such blue eyes!

  'I fear Lord Ravensden has come in search of you,' she told the startled and disbelieving Olivia. 'I

  managed to send him on a fool's errand—but he will find his way here before long.'

  'I shall not receive him!'

  'I do not see how you can refuse,' Nan said, frowning at both sisters. 'Beatrice, it was very wrong

  of you to misdirect his lordship. If he has come all this way to see your sister, he must be hoping

  to repair the breach between them.' Her gaze rested on the agitated Olivia. 'Are you sure you were

  not misled by the spiteful tongue of a jealous rival? Is it not possible that your fiancé has some

  real regard for you?'

  Olivia was silent, then said, 'I do not think it can be so, aunt. And even if it were...I have realised

  that my own feelings were mistaken. I cannot marry him.'

  'For the sake of decency you should at least receive him.'

  Olivia looked at her sister. 'Must I, Beatrice?'

  Beat
rice had had time to reflect. 'I think perhaps Nan is right. It will be awkward for you, dearest,

  but a few minutes should suffice—and Nan will stay with you.'

  'Will you not be with me, Beatrice?'

  'I think it best if Lord Ravensden does not see me,' Beatrice said, feeling slightly guilty now.

  Olivia's ex-fiancé must have ridden hard to reach the village so soon after her departure, and she

  had added an unnecessary detour to his journey. 'Be brave, dearest. Be dignified, and positive—

  and then you need never see him again.'

  'Where are you going?' Olivia asked as she turned to leave.

  'To complete my errand,' Beatrice replied. 'I must be swift. It would not do for Lord Ravensden to

  see me when he calls.'

  She laughed, turned and walked quickly out of the house. Lord Ravensden was going to be very

  angry when he discovered the trick that had been played on him, and indeed he had every right. It

  would be much better if he never learned that the woman who had sent him on a wild goose chase

  was sister to the one he sought!

  * * *

  'Now what game might she be playing?' murmured Lord Ravensden to himself. 'Do my instincts

  serve me right, or have my wits been addled by the mist?'

  Harry had the oddest feeling that the woman he had met a few minutes earlier had deliberately sent

  him in the wrong direction. Her story had been plausible, but somehow he had not quite believed

  in the village idiot who had a habit of turning milestones so that the arrow pointed the wrong way

  —dashed heavy things, milestones! Yet why should a young woman— and one who looked

  reasonably sane!—go out of her way to deceive him?

  He had previously enquired the way of a man who could, in the politest terms, only be called a

  country bumpkin. The fellow had rambled on in some unintelligible tongue so that Harry had

  begun to wonder if he had inadvertently crossed the channel in the night, leaving him none the

  wiser as to his whereabouts. He had seen no signs of any kind for miles on end, and had been on

  the point of knocking at a house in the village he had just passed, when he had seen the young

  woman walking towards him through the mist.

  She had looked to be gently born. Somewhat plainly dressed perhaps, but not without a pleasing

  air. He had judged her to be the wife of an impoverished squire—or perhaps the parson, since she