Devil-May-Dare

A society scandal!

Jack Bellingham knows something strange is going on, and Lydia Wenthorpe seems to be at the centre of the intrigue. He has enough to do trying to trace the owners of a cache of jewels he discovered when fighting in the French wars, but when Lydia appears to be after the jewels herself, Jack resolves to find out exactly what she’s up to…

Lydia fears discovery above all else, and finds herself torn between wanting Jack near her and wanting him as far as way as possible! She needs a way out of her dilemma, fast!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

LORD WENTHORPE paused on the top stair with his hand on the polished wood balustrade, wondering what had put the notion into his head to go up to the old schoolroom floor; he had not been there in an age, not since Lydia and Tom were knee-high to a grasshopper. He had only ventured into this wing of his considerable mansion then because Nanette had upbraided him for not taking an interest in his offspring’s education. Dearest Nanette — who would have thought that the darling of the Parisian stage would make such a splendid mama? He stopped to remember and then wished he had not. The memories were painful, laughter and tears, happiness and unending sorrow. But life was like that. He sighed and turned to retrace his steps; let the memories stay locked away.

The sound of merriment came from a door along the corridor which was not quite closed. Tom, down from Cambridge with his friend, Frank Burford; they were no doubt playing some prank on Lydia. Would they never grow up? He had glimpsed Lydia from his bedchamber that morning, long before most ladies would have dreamed of rising, galloping across the park with poor Scrivens so far behind her as to be useless to help if she took a tumble. Not that she would, he was confident of her horsemanship, but he could have sworn she was riding astride. He could ask the groom of course, but Scrivens was loyal to his mistress and he would not put him in the position of having to tattle on her. When would she learn to behave like the lady she purported to be? Eighteen — no, he corrected himself, nineteen, and still behaving like a schoolroom miss, and that in spite of acting as his housekeeper for the last six years. There were plenty of young ladies of her age already married. He ought to be thinking of getting her a husband. She was not wanting in sense and had no difficulty making decisions and giving instructions to the indoor staff; she would make some young blade a fine wife, so long as she managed to quell her tendency to mischief.

It was his fault, of course; he had let her grow wild with only her brother for company, while he mourned the passing of their mother. If his darling Nanette had still been alive, Lydia would not now be something close to a hoyden. He had prevaricated too long. Resolutely he moved towards the schoolroom and pushed the door open.

Lydia, in pink satin breeches, yellow stockings, brightly striped waistcoat topped by an old-fashioned coat with huge patch pockets and enough silver lace to bedeck a field marshal, not to mention a hugely knotted neckcloth, was mincing up and down in front of the two young men, who sat on the schoolroom chairs watching her. She stopped in front of them to make an elegant leg which made the white powdered wig she wore slip sideways over one ear to reveal her own dark hair. She righted it and then put up the quizzing glass which dangled from a ribbon round her neck and peered short-sightedly through it. ‘Demme,’ she said, affecting the voice of a pink of the ton. ‘Demme, if I don’t teach you young pups some manners.’

The young men hooted with laughter.

‘Miss Wenthorpe, if you don’t make a most fetching dandy, I’ll consume my best beaver!’ cried Frank.

Lydia took another turn up and down, stopping to twirl the quizzing glass, then added, ‘You think I am man enough for you, sir?’

‘I’ve got it!’ cried Tom triumphantly. ‘Manners maketh man.’

Lydia dropped her pose and laughed. ‘You’d never have guessed if I hadn’t given you a hint.’ She looked up and saw her father in the doorway. His frown told her she was in for a scolding, but she was by no means subdued; her papa’s scoldings were only ever of the mildest and nothing to be afraid of. ‘Papa, we were playing charades.’

‘So I perceive.’ She did, indeed, make a very passable male. She was tall for a woman, long-limbed and slim-waisted. She had high cheekbones and strong, dark brows and her violet eyes, so like her mother’s, gazed back at him without the least sign of being cowed. ‘Go and change out of that frippery into something more becoming a daughter of mine, and come to me in the bookroom,’ he said gruffly, disappointed not so much in her as in himself. He turned to the young men who were scrambling to their feet. ‘Could you not think of something more manly to do? A gallop perhaps.’

‘Sir, it has been raining, all day,’ protested Tom.

‘The rain has ceased. A brisk walk to curb your high spirits before dinner, I think.’

The young men exchanged meaningful looks and left the room with alacrity, leaving Lydia to face her father. ‘In ten minutes, miss, in the bookroom,’ he said and turned on his heel.

Lydia, indignant that he should be so up in the boughs over something so innocent, marched off to her room to remove the offending garments. Charades was a game they had played ever since they had left the cradle. Had not Mama encouraged them in it? Had she not kept a huge basket full of costumes for that very purpose and showed them how to use stage make-up to produce almost any face they desired? Mama herself had often played a male when there were not enough men to take all the parts in the little plays they produced. Papa had always been indulgent, so what had put him into such an ill humour now?

Within the stipulated ten minutes she presented herself at the library door and knocked. Her father’s voice bade her enter and she crossed the threshold to stand before him, hands clasped in front of her blue cambric skirt and her head, now neatly arranged in classic-style ringlets, downcast so that all she could see of him was his shining top boots and well-fitting buckskins.

‘Sit down,’ he said, indicating a straight-backed chair on one side of the hearth.

She obeyed and lifted her eyes to his. ‘It was only charades, Papa.’

His craggy features softened; he could not remain out of humour with his daughter for long. ‘I know, and though you may see no harm in it and I own I would not have done so myself a few years ago, we must remember you are no longer a child and must begin behaving like a lady and not a hoyden.’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘It is not as if you and Tom were alone; young Burford was a witness…’

‘But I have known him since he was in leading-strings and his mama used to bring him to play with us in the nursery.’

‘Nevertheless, he is a young man, a personable, lusty young man, and you must be aware of that.’

‘I was not — I did not think…’

‘No?’ he smiled. ‘But the time has come for you to learn how to go on in Society. You must come out and start looking for a husband…’

‘But, Papa, I have met no one I like well enough.’

‘Nor will you if you remain in Suffolk.’

‘Leave Raventrees! Oh, Papa, I don’t think I could bear it…’

‘You will do as I say.’

‘But you have not left the country for years, ever since…’ She stopped, not wishing to hurt him by reminding him of the reason he had lived in seclusion for so long.

‘Nor do I intend to. I have been thinking. Your aunt Agatha can bring you out.’

‘Aunt Aggie!’ she exclaimed. ‘But she is…’

He smiled briefly. ‘She is old and somewhat eccentric, but she is acquainted with everyone of any importance and she knows how to go on. Besides, I can think of no other who would do it.’

‘Am I that bad?’ Lydia whispered.

He chuckled. ‘Not so incorrigible that you cannot be taught correct behaviour and how to display to best advantage. And that,’ he added severely, ‘is not in dressing up like a popinjay. You are a beautiful young lady, Lydia, a trifle on the tall side, but there must be some eligible bachelors who are taller…’

‘Is that all that matters?’ she cried. ‘That he should be tall?’

‘And have a decent background, with a good title and a fortune to match yours. I would not wish him to be too old, either, nor too free and easy with the ladies, for your sake…’

‘That seems to me to be something of a high order,’ she said. ‘Supposing Aunt Aggie finds such a one and I say we will not suit?’

‘You will not be coerced, my dear, you have my word, but I beg you to consider carefully before you reject a promising suitor. Marriage is a far better state than spinsterhood, I can assure you.’

‘Has Aunt Aggie agreed?’

‘Not yet, because I have only now thought of it. I shall write to her tonight. As soon as I have her reply, I will order Wenthorpe House to be opened and Tom can escort you to London. It won’t do him any harm to acquire a little town bronze.’

Lydia was downcast, not only because she was to leave her beloved home, but that she was to be parted from her over-indulgent papa, but no amount of arguing would make him change his mind, and two weeks later she found herself being driven post-chaise with Tom and her maid for company, while everything she held most dear receded further and further behind her.

The heavy rains of the previous few days had left the roads in a shocking state and they were thrown from side to side as their coachman and postilion negotiated the potholes. By the afternoon of the second day Betty, who always travelled badly, was sitting in the corner looking whey-faced and Tom was wishing he had chosen to ride alongside. ‘I’ll be relieved when we stop for the night,’ Lydia said, righting herself after having been thrown across the carriage almost into her brother’s lap. ‘I shall be black and blue at this rate. Why could we not have waited until the roads improved? It is still very early in the Season.’

He smiled. ‘You know Papa; when he gets an idea into his head, nothing will serve but it must be attended to without delay.’

‘I have never known him so impervious to reason. All over a simple game.’

‘Oh, it was not the charades so much as his own conscience which smote him. You know, it really is time you were taken in hand…’

‘Not you, too,’ she said. ‘I would have thought you would have understood.’

‘Most assuredly I do, but I also realise that my little sister…’

‘Not so little,’ she said with a wry smile.

‘Very well, my not-so-little sister must grow up and, if she does not, spinsterhood is not a state to be envied.’

Her protests were lost in a great swaying and creaking of springs, followed by a terrifying sound of rending wood accompanied by the shouts of their coachman and the screaming of the frightened horses. She was catapulted on to the opposite seat and then the whole carriage slid over sideways and she found herself sitting on one of the doors with Betty, screaming at the full extent of her not inconsiderable voice, on top of her. Tom found the door which was immediately above their heads and hauled himself out.

Lydia extricated herself and stood up. ‘Are you hurt, Betty?’

The maid’s shrieking subsided to sobs as she endeavoured to right herself. ‘Oh, we should never have come; we should have stayed at ’ome where it’s safe.’

‘You said you wanted to come,’ Lydia said, concluding from this that her maid was unhurt. ‘I gave you a chance to stay at Raventrees.’

‘What, and leave you to the mercies of a new maid who don’t know your ways? I ain’t so unfeeling.’

Lydia smiled. ‘Then don’t look so dismal. At least you are not now being rocked to death and we shall have to stay somewhere hereabouts until the carriage is repaired and that will give you time to recover.’ As she spoke she put her head out of the door.

The carriage lay on its side with one of the uppermost wheels still spinning; their boxes had been thrown from the roof on to the muddy road and one of them had sprung its straps and deposited lace-trimmed garments into the water-filled hole which had overturned them. One of the horses had freed itself from the traces and was galloping across a field while Tom endeavoured to free the others who struggled against their harness. Watkins, the coachman, bent over the inert form of Scrivens who had been riding postilion. She looked forward and then back the way they had come but the road, which divided fields of newly sprouting corn, was empty; there was not a building or another traveller in sight.

‘Bend over!’ she commanded Betty. ‘I must get out and see to Scrivens.’

Reluctantly her maid complied, and with a great heaving and a shocking display of petticoats Lydia stood on her maid’s bent back, hauled herself out of the carriage and jumped down on to the road, leaving Betty wailing, ‘What about me?’

She ran to where Scrivens lay in the ditch beside the road and knelt beside him in the wet mud. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

‘I don’t think so, Miss Lydia, he’s got a rare hard head on ’im,’ said the coachman, who was feeling over the inert body for broken bones. ‘See, he’s coming round.’ A groan and a fluttering of eyelids from the unfortunate servant seemed to bear this statement out. ‘Now, miss, if we was to help him up…’

Betty, who had somehow managed to scramble out of the coach, came running across the road, trying to hold her skirts clear of the mud, which was more than her mistress had attempted to do. ‘Oh, is he hurt?’

Scrivens, by this time, was in a sitting position and shaking his dazed head, but appeared not to be badly injured. Lydia left him in the care of her maid and returned to her brother, while Watkins set off across the field to catch the runaway horse. Tom had freed the remaining three and was looking down at the broken wheel and splintered axle of the coach, scratching his dark head.

‘What’s to be done?’ she asked him.

He looked up at her. ‘I shall have to ride one of the horses to fetch help.’ Adjuring her to watch over their belongings, he flung himself on the postilion’s mount and set off for the nearest village, where he hoped to procure a conveyance to bring them on and to arrange lodgings, for assuredly the coach could not be mended before nightfall. Watkins returned leading the errant horse and Lydia and Betty began gathering up their belongings and pushing them back into the broken trunk.

‘They are ruined, that’s what they are,’ Betty grumbled, holding up a pair of frilly nether garments. ‘They’ll never come clean.’

‘At least no one was badly hurt,’ Lydia said, snatching them from her and bundling them in with the rest before the two men could see them. ‘We could have all been killed. I wonder how long Tom will be? It will be dusk soon and I do not fancy being set upon by highwaymen. I wish I had asked him for his pistol.’

‘Oh, miss, you don’t think…’ The sudden sound of an owl hooting in the trees beside the road made Betty fling herself behind her mistress with a cry of alarm.

‘Don’t be a little goose,’ Lydia said. ‘There’s no one there.’ She stopped speaking as the sound of horses and crunching wheels came to their ears, and this was followed by the sight of a travelling chaise coming round the bend behind them at a spanking pace. It was drawn by a perfectly matched pair of bays and Lydia stood and watched its approach with a gleam of admiration in an eye accustomed to evaluating horseflesh. When the equipage drew to a halt beside them, it became obvious that, although the horses were of the highest order, the coach was even older than their own and certainly more ramshackle. She was wondering what ninny could bear to harness such prime beasts to such a vehicle when its occupant flung open the door and jumped into the road. He was very tall indeed, something she almost always noticed first in a man, being so tall herself, and what with that and his long, aquiline nose it seemed as if he was looking down on them with a loftiness which was belied, however, by the twitch at the corners of his firm mouth. He swept off his tall beaver, revealing brown curls cut short in the latest style, and bowed over a leg encased in mustard-coloured pantaloons and polished hessians. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’ He looked about him for her escort, but, perceiving none but the servants, turned back to her. ‘May I offer you assistance?’

Lydia hesitated, for what assistance could he offer except to take them up, and she was reluctant to agree to that, not knowing him from Adam. He might be a highwayman, a ne’er-do-well, a thatch-gallows of the worst sort — anything. ‘Sir…’ she began, uncomfortably aware of her muddied skirts and that her bonnet had slipped down her back on its ribbons and her hair had come unpinned. ‘Sir, I do not know you.’

‘As there is no one else to do it, let me introduce myself,’ he said, taking her right hand in his and raising it to his lips, without taking his glance from her face. To her consternation, she found herself looking straight into his eyes. They were nut-brown and had a depth which seemed to draw her down into them, like a whirlpool pulling a fallen leaf into its vortex, powerless to resist. They seemed to say, Here I am; escape me if you will. Disconcerted, she tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast. Then he smiled and the extraordinary sensation faded. ‘I am Jack Bellingham,’ he said, releasing her. ‘Marquis of Longham, second son of the Duke of Sutton…’

‘How can you be a marquis if you are only a second son?’ she put in, still feeling weak.

He gave a ghost of a smile. ‘Because, ma’am, my elder brother died a month back on the hunting field.’

‘Oh, I am sorry.’

‘And now you are assured of my credentials, will you allow me to help you?’

‘Assured?’ she queried, her common sense returning. ‘Just on your say-so, that is poor assurance. You could have said you were the Prince Regent and I none the wiser.’

He laughed. ‘Have you ever met the heir to the throne?’

‘No.’

‘Then I forgive you.’

‘For what?’

‘For the insult. His Highness is somewhat older and a great deal fatter than I.’ He paused to walk round their overturned coach and inspected the broken wheel, while she endeavoured to set her bonnet to rights and brush the mud from her clothing with a kid-gloved hand. ‘I doubt you will ride further in this vehicle this side of a se’enight, certainly not tonight…’

‘My brother, the Honourable Thomas Wenthorpe, has ridden one of the horses to fetch help,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘He will be back directly.’

‘How long since he left?’

‘Half an hour, perhaps a little longer.’

‘Then he cannot possibly be back before dark; the next village is ten miles away and I doubt he will be able to hire a conveyance immediately, certainly not one to take all that.’ And he pointed at the two large trunks, one of which would no longer shut and revealed rather more of her most intimate apparel than she liked. She felt herself colour, but he appeared not to notice and went on, ‘Of course, if you prefer to take the greater risk of being left by the roadside, I will continue on my way. I am in a great deal of haste.’

‘Then you had best go on, my lord. I have servants with me.’

‘Damn your scruples, girl,’ he said. ‘I cannot leave you. Get in and cease your protests.’

She opened her mouth to tell him just what she thought of his top-lofty attitude but changed her mind when Betty seized her hand. ‘Please, Miss Lydia, don’t let him leave us here; it will be dark soon and I’m afeared…’

‘I fancy I am the lesser of two evils, Miss Wenthorpe,’ he said with a smile which infuriated her. ‘And I promise to keep my baser urges in check.’

‘I am afraid one of my servants has been hurt…’

‘Badly?’

‘I do not think so, my lord, but I do not like to leave him.’

He looked across at Scrivens and, perceiving that he was now on his feet and dusting himself down, said, ‘He can ride with my driver. Now, are you coming or not?’

Lydia looked along the road for signs of Tom returning and then across the darkening fields, where the hedges and trees were beginning to throw sinister shadows, and decided he was right. ‘I did not mean to be ungrateful,’ she said. ‘I should be most obliged to you if you would take us up…’

‘Certainly I will, but not your luggage; there will be no room for it and, besides, I do not wish my chaise to go the way of yours.’

‘Watkins will stay by our belongings and wait for Tom, if you will be so kind as to convey me and my maid and Scrivens to the next posting inn. No doubt we will come upon my brother on the way,’ she said, too polite to make a reference to the incongruity of the magnificent bays and the scuffed old coach, though her curiosity was almost overwhelming. ‘I have a small overnight bag, if that is not too much trouble.’

While Scrivens, who would not for the world have complained that his head ached and his shoulder was so painful he did not know how to haul himself up there, took his place beside the driver, their rescuer leaned into the overturned vehicle, pulled out her bag and marched off to his own carriage with it. He put it in the boot and turned to hand Lydia up. Afraid of sensations she did not understand, she was reluctant to give him her hand again, but it would have been churlish to refuse, so she allowed him to help her into the carriage. As soon as Betty had seated herself beside her mistress, he took the facing seat and called to his driver to proceed.

When they had safely negotiated the blockage in the road and were once more on their way, Lydia sought to express her gratitude for his help and began an explanation of how they came to be on the road and why their coach was not as roadworthy as it should have been. ‘It has not been out of Suffolk for years,’ she said. ‘And our coachman knows the roads around our home so well there has never been the least chance we should fall into a hole.’ If she had hoped that this statement might persaude him to similar explanations, she was wrong; he appeared not to wish for conversation. He had obviously discharged his duty as he saw it but that was as far as he was prepared to go; polite exchanges and confidences were no part of it. Very well, if he wanted to be a stiff-neck, so be it; they would soon be off his hands.

She turned to watch out of the window for Tom, but mile succeeded mile and they met no one. Surely they could not have missed each other on the way? ‘Do you know the road well, my lord?’ she asked.

He came out of a brown study to answer her. ‘Tolerably well.’

‘Then how much further is it to the posting inn?’

He smiled suddenly and his grim expression lightened so that she became aware of the humour behind his hazel eyes. ‘I am poor company, Miss Wenthorpe, I realise that, but be assured I am as anxious to arrive at my destination as you are.’

‘And what is your destination?’

‘Ultimately London, but for tonight a good bed and a change of horses.’