The Chadwick Ring (6 page)

“But what?”

She heard the steel in his words, and with a deep breath she continued, “My lord, while I appreciate that you must prefer the comforts of Queenshaven to the lesser facilities available to you at Bryant House, I should have liked very much to delay a day or so before beginning the journey to Surrey. I ... I always looked forward to celebrating my bridal in the country style, with dancing and games and a charivari that would continue until dawn.” She halted abruptly as she saw a pained expression flicker across his dark features. Lud, she thought, what a pea goose I am! Her new husband was far too sophisticated a man to find pleasure in the old customs she loved, heritage of her rural upbringing. If he danced, it would be a waltz at Almack’s, never a romp on the green, and God help anyone who suggested that he allow the wedding party to lead him to her chamber and fling their stockings across the bed. “Forgive me,” she murmured stiffly, “I spoke without thinking. I should have realized that to a person of your exalted station, such rustic amusements would seem unbearably tedious.”

As Chadwick listened to her snappish words, the kindly light faded from his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was cold and heavy with sarcasm. “I do not like being called a snob,” he said disdainfully, “and I collect I must remind you—
my lady
—that for these past four hours your station has been quite as exalted as my own.”

Ginevra flushed again. “Forgive me, I ... I...”

Chadwick waved away her stammered apologies impatiently. “Leave it, and try to rest. We accomplish nothing by talking while you are tired and fretful.”

Ginevra shrank back into her corner and closed her eyes, not so much to rest as to hide the teardrops trembling on her lashes. What had come over her? He had been so kind, for a moment they had been conversing almost as ... as friends, and then she ruined everything with her outrageous remarks. Of course he was angry. To accuse a man of Lord Chadwick’s stature and accomplishments of anything so petty as snobbery was not only unjust, it was stupid and offensive. He’d probably never speak to her again.

Thus she was surprised when she heard the marquess say quietly, “My dear, I’m sorry that your wedding day has not been as festive as you wished. I know when one is very young, there is a certain appeal to all the traditional trappings and celebration, the noise and the bawdy jokes. But I beg you to remember, I am not quite so young as you—and I have had all that before.”

Ginevra’s eyes flicked open. She asked carefully, “Is that why you had no friends, no family, at the wedding? I was greatly surprised when not even your son was there.”

Chadwick shrugged. “Although I did inform Bysshe that I was remarrying, I preferred him to remain at Harrow until the end of the term. He missed several weeks of study in March when his brother ... At any rate, I have arranged special tutoring for him, and it will be another month or more before he leaves school for Queenshaven. If you wish, he may join us briefly in town in the fall.”

Ginevra protested, distressed by the cavalier manner in which her husband dismissed the presence of his younger son, his only son now. “But, my lord—”

He said, “The subject is not for discussion.”

“Yes, my lord.”

After a moment Chadwick noted, “I did invite my mother to the wedding, but she felt the journey would overtax her. However, I have strict orders to present you to her as soon as we reach London.” He observed the expression on Ginevra’s face. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you know I had a mother?”

She shook her head. “No one ever mentioned her. I suppose I assumed she was dead.”

“Oh, no, she’s very much alive, although her health is not as robust as it once was. Probably the reason you have not heard her mentioned is that until two years ago she was resident in France, under house arrest, as it were, like the other British subjects unfortunate enough to be caught in France when the First Consul decided he had had enough of the Treaty of Amiens. She was in enforced exile for over twelve years.”

“How awful!” Ginevra cried.

“Not really. She was quite comfortable. She lived in the chateau of some distant cousins of hers, members of the
ancien regime
who were ... adaptable enough to keep their heads during the Terror. At first I had some wild, half-formed notion of journeying to France clandestinely to ‘rescue’ her, but before I could work out my plans, she wrote to advise me that she had married her jailer.”

“She did
what
?”

Chadwick smiled grimly. “A remarkable woman, my mother. Instead of suffering during her exile, she acquired another title. She is not only the Dowager Marchioness of Chadwick, but also the Comtesse d’Alembert, and twice as rich as before.”

“And you resent that?” Ginevra asked.

Chadwick looked surprised. “Resent what, that she was able to manage so well under difficult conditions? No, of course not. I’m glad she and her comte—he died some three years ago—were happy together. But I was very young then, not much older than you, and I suppose it hurt to think that she didn’t need me.”

It still hurts,
Ginevra thought, but she kept silent. She tried to envision Chadwick’s mother and failed. She suspected that the lady had a personality quite as strong as that of her son, and the thought of meeting her was unsettling.

They rode on in silence for several miles, and then the marquess said, “As you grow older, Ginevra, you will find that life is not always as uncomplicated as you think now. Appearances can be deceptive, and people are often vindictive and unkind. That was one reason I invited none of my acquaintances to our nuptials.” He brushed long fingers over the lapels of his grey coat of half-mourning. “Also there would be certain social restrictions imposed on a large ceremony so soon after...” He sighed. “You must not think I regret you in any way. I did hope to spare you the kind of people who would have descended upon us like a flock of magpies had they guessed what we were about. Unfortunately, you will of necessity meet most of them soon enough, and I might as well warn you now that not all of them will be ... courteous.” He paused before adding dryly, “Certain mamas of eligible daughters have been hanging out for me for some time, and they will not take kindly to the knowledge that you have conspired to filch me from their avid clutches.”

Ginevra gasped, “But ... but I...”

Chadwick’s expression warmed. “Oh, child, don’t you know when you are being teased?”

She turned away stiffly and peered out the window of the coach again, determined to admire the lush green undulating hills. The road was smoother here, built over the remains of the old Roman highway from Silchester to Basingstoke. Behind her she heard her husband say, “I do fear that your adjustment to London society will be difficult, and I wish I could delay your return there until you have had time to gain confidence as my wife.” At the touch of his hand on her shoulder, she reluctantly looked at him again. He seemed unusually serious. “Were the choice mine, I should have liked to go abroad for our honeymoon and introduce you to some of the world you have yet to see. Barring that, I would prefer more than the bare week we may spend at Queenshaven.” He smiled ironically. “Perhaps in future we shall have time to travel, but for the moment I must remain at Castlereagh’s beck and call. The situation in Europe is explosive, and he seems to think I can be of some small service.” He observed her obvious puzzlement. “Didn’t you know I dabble in diplomacy?”

Ginevra shook her head. “I know so little about you.”

He studied her pale, intent face. He smoothed back an errant curl from her forehead, and his blue eyes lit up as he murmured, “We shall change that soon enough, little Ginnie,” and brushed his lips lightly across hers.

Lulled by the gentle rocking motion of the well-sprung carriage, Ginevra dozed through the rest of the journey. When her husband roused her, she mumbled groggily, “Where ... where are we?” and sat up, her gold eyes cloudy with bewilderment. Her cheeks colored as she realized she had been sleeping with her head on his shoulder.

Chadwick smiled at her confusion. “We are approaching Queenshaven. Don’t you recognize the countryside?”

“It’s been so long,” she said as she looked out the window. She could see that the low chalk hills of the South Downs were behind them now, and they were traversing the heavily wooded plain of the Weald. She surveyed the countryside with the increasing delight of acquaintance renewed. She pointed to a side road just ahead which wound off into the forest. “Isn’t that the turn to Dowerwood?” Chadwick nodded, and she craned her neck to gaze hungrily down the road, following in her mind’s eye the familiar route leading to the small but lovely estate where she had spent her childhood summers. Her face was glowing when she declared, “I was so happy there.” Chadwick said, “I pray you will be equally happy at Queenshaven.”

Ginevra blinked. “Yes, yes, of course,” she muttered, subsiding into the corner. She cursed herself for her foolishness. Dowerwood was not her home. Her residence in Surrey would not be the house she had loved as a child; rather she was to be mistress of Queenshaven, the impressive but gloomy Tudor mansion begun by a long-dead Glover to honor young Catherine Howard, the fifth wife of Henry VIII, who fell to the headsman’s ax before the building was completed.

The marquess watched the emotions play across the girl’s face, and he said quietly, “I fear you would find Dowerwood sadly changed from your memories of it. Your father had to dismiss most of the staff, and with only a caretaker in charge, the estate has fallen into disrepair. Would you like to ride over there one day this week? We could assess the damage and perhaps make a start of amending it.”

“I should like that very much,” Ginevra replied, “but I don’t ride.”

“Not at all? Surely I hold in my mind an image of a little girl with long honey-colored plaits, her skirts askew, who galloped a fat pony through a flock of sheep?”

Ginevra stared at him, then laughed merrily. “Oh, dear, I had forgotten that. What a bumble-broth it was! Tom—no, I think it was Bysshe, it sounds more like him—dared me, you know. He said no girl could ride bareback, so of course I had to accept the challenge. I couldn’t control the pony, and I was terrified the sheep wouldn’t scatter, but somehow I managed to stay on. When my mother found out, she gave me a very stern lecture on why I was too old for such disgraceful escapades, but Papa soothed her by promising to get me a sidesaddle so that I could learn to ride like a lady.” Her laughter faded. “He never did. That was ... that was the last summer we spent at Dowerwood.”

After a pause Chadwick said briskly, “Well, you shall have your saddle now—and a horse as well. There is a little chestnut mare, sired by Giaour, my stallion, but her dam was a docile creature. She is spirited but ... governable, and I think she would suit you very well.” He glanced at Ginevra. “That is, of course, if you wish me to teach you to ride?”

“I’d enjoy that. Thank you.”

“Good. We’ll see to it in a day or two.”

The carriage passed the stone gatehouse and lumbered up the long drive to Queenshaven. Ginevra picked up her bonnet “I’d better get ready,” she said lightly, to mask her increasing agitation.

Chadwick patted her hand. “Compose yourself, my dear. No one is going to—” He stopped abruptly, staring out the window, and his hand tightened cruelly over hers. He swore viciously.

“My lord!” Ginevra yelped in pain, and he released her bruised fingers.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to hurt you.” He spoke absently, still scowling in the direction of the main entrance. “It appears we have ... guests.”

“Guests?” Ginevra echoed. “Today?” She peeked over his shoulder and saw a trim curricle with yellow lacquered wheels pulled up in front of the steps. A small man in a smart livery stood beside the vehicle, talking to a servant who wore the distinctive grey-and-red uniform of the Chadwick household. He gesticulated with every other word, but the Queenshaven footman remained impassive. The small man jerked around at the sound of the carriage pulling to a halt behind him.

Chadwick’s face was thunderous. Shyly Ginevra asked, “Is that someone you know?”

The marquess said, “Yes. His name is Ferris. He waits upon ... an acquaintance of mine.”

“But what is he doing here?”

“God knows.” Chadwick reached for the door handle. “Remain here, and I’ll get rid of him.”

Impulsively she touched Chadwick’s arm, suddenly certain that the stranger meant them no good. “Please be careful.”

“Of Ferris?” he asked. “Ferris is not the problem.” Just for a second his long fingers curled protectively over hers; then he descended from the coach.

Ginevra watched from behind the russet window curtain as Lord Chadwick strode across the drive to the man waiting by the curricle. He dismissed his own servant with a nod; then he demanded, “Well, Ferris, to what do I owe this intrusion?”

Ferris smiled uneasily. “My lord, I ... I bring a message from my mistress.”

“Indeed.” He waited impatiently. “Well, hand it over.”

Ferris mumbled, “The message is not written, my lord. Madame de Villeneuve asked me to deliver it personally.” He hesitated, glancing sidelong at the wedding coach; then he blurted, “Madame instructed me to tell you most humbly that she regrets the incident at Vauxhall Gardens Tuesday last and she hopes that you will forgive her her ill temper and will not allow it to affect your ... your relationship.”