The Reluctant Marchioness

Chapter One

Idly glancing out of the parlour window, Lady Carstairs noticed a fine carriage, pulled by a team of gleaming black horses, draw to a halt before a certain house in the Square. Her interest was immediately captured, not so much by the sight of the fine equipage, but by the lady who, a moment or two later, alighted from it, and stood statue-like on the pavement, staring fixedly up at that certain superior dwelling.

‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘I wonder if there has been a death in the Stapleford family, Serena? I cannot recall having heard of any such recent event.’

Her daughter, raising her head from between the covers of the book obtained that morning from the lending library, transferred her short-sighted gaze to the relevant spot across the Square. ‘Just because the lady happens to be dressed from head to toe in black, Mama, does not necessarily mean that she is in mourning,’ she pointed out. ‘A great many females display a marked partiality for decking themselves out in that particular colour.’

Lady Carstairs frequently found her elder daughter’s sound common sense most irritating. On this occasion, however, she was prepared to overlook it. ‘You are right, of course. And the veil may have been donned merely to conceal her identity.’ A distinctly malicious glint added a sparkle to her eyes. ‘And I for one could not blame her for taking such a precaution if she intends to call upon that odiously unfeeling Marquis of Wroxam!’

Serena could not forbear a smile. Her mother never missed an opportunity of passing some disparaging remark about the haughty aristocrat who continued to ignore her very existence. ‘I’ve heard you utter a great deal to Lord Wroxam’s discredit over the years, Mama, and perhaps you have good reason, for he has undoubtedly earned himself the reputation of being excessively high in the instep, but I am forced to own that on the few occasions I have seen him at some ball or rout, his conduct has always been exemplary.’

‘Ha!’ Lady Carstairs scoffed. ‘And with good reason! He’d not wish to bring more disgrace to the proud name he bears than he already has done. There was enough gossip and scandal surrounding him years ago over the mysterious disappearance of his young bride.’

‘Yes, so I understand.’ Beneath the crop of tightly crimped brown hair, Serena’s brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. ‘However, I have never for one moment believed that silly rumour that he’d killed her.’

Lady Carstairs allowed irritation to surface this time. ‘And why not, pray? Are you so well acquainted with the Marquis that you can be sure that he had nothing whatsoever to do with her disappearance?’

‘No, Mama,’ Serena responded in her quiet way. ‘I cannot recall that I’ve ever spoken to him in my life. I doubt he’s even aware of my existence. Nevertheless, I’ve heard enough about him over the years to be sure that he’s a highly intelligent man, not given to foolish starts, or prone to wildly eccentric behaviour. Therefore, I cannot help wondering why he married Lady Jennifer Audley in the first place if he had not truly wished to do so. After all, he’s very wealthy, possibly one of the richest men in the country. I doubt very much that money was ever a consideration when he chose to marry the late Earl of Chard’s daughter.’

‘I suppose there is something in what you say,’ her ladyship was forced to concede.

‘Furthermore, if he had arranged her death, he must have had a very good reason for doing so. If it had been because he had suddenly desired to marry someone else, surely he would have wanted his wife’s body to be found so that her demise was beyond question. And the Marchioness never was found, you know,’ she reminded her mother.

Her ladyship merely nodded her head in agreement this time.

‘I know that his name has been linked with numerous beautiful women over the years, but I never heard tell that he betrayed the least desire to marry any one of them. Also, he is a stickler for the proprieties. Common report would have us believe that he never permits any of his paramours to stay at Wroxam Park, nor does he encourage them to visit his town residence either. Unchaperoned ladies are never welcome at his home. Which makes me wonder,’ she added, once again gazing across the Square, ‘whether the female now mounting the steps will succeed in gaining admission.’

It was precisely this very problem which was to tax the young footman, Thomas, when he opened the door a moment later. He knew his master’s views on admitting unchaperoned females, no matter what age, into the house. None the less, this caller was undoubtedly a lady, and one of some means if the carriage which had conveyed her here and her attire were anything to go by. Furthermore, she only wished to enter in order to leave his lordship a letter. What possible harm could there be in that?

‘What seems to be the trouble?’ a voice from directly behind him suddenly demanded to know, and Thomas, hurriedly moving to one side, was more than happy to leave the decision of whether or not to admit the caller in the hands of his strict mentor.

One swift, assessing glance was sufficient to convince the highly discerning and experienced butler that the visitor was certainly respectable. He did not, however, permit this consideration to weigh with him. ‘Lord Wroxam is not at home, madam,’ he confirmed, polite but resolute. ‘I would therefore suggest that you call again tomorrow, when we expect his lordship to return, if that is convenient.’

‘No, Slocombe, it most certainly is not convenient,’ the caller astonished him by responding in a quiet, well-spoken voice. ‘You barred my entry to this house once before, as I remember… You shall never do so again. Now stand aside!’

It was not so much the cool, authoritative tone which had the butler automatically obeying the command as the sudden awakening of a long-dormant memory which sent an icy-cold shiver of apprehension scudding its way down the length of his slightly arthritic spine.

Closing the door quietly, he turned to stare at the slender figure now standing in the hall, the unshakeable sense of foreboding growing ever stronger as he tried ineffectually to glimpse the features behind the veil. ‘If you would kindly state your name and business,’ he said in a voice which distinctly lacked its customary aplomb, ‘I could perhaps be of some assistance to you in his lordship’s absence.’

There was a moment’s silence before the lady slowly turned and raised one shapely hand to her veil. ‘I believe you already know precisely who I am, Slocombe.’

Thomas, an interested bystander, could hardly believe the evidence of his own eyes. It was not so much the first glimpse of the exquisite face, framed in a riot of the deepest auburn curls, which had him almost gaping in astonishment as the sight of his strict mentor’s suddenly ashen features.

‘M-my lady… So it is you!’ Slocombe murmured, quite oblivious to the fact that the young footman was now quietly slinking away, eager to inform his compatriots belowstairs of the astonishing fact that the iron ruler of the household staff had betrayed clear signs of having lost his composure for the very first time.

‘As you see,’ she responded, her own voice remaining cool and controlled, betraying no hint of emotion. ‘As you are very well aware, I am quite unfamiliar with the layout of this house, so you may indeed assist me, Slocombe, by directing me to the library, where I shall undoubtedly obtain all the materials necessary to write your master a brief letter.’

The butler once again found himself automatically obeying the command. Leading the way across the chequered hall, he opened a door to allow the visitor to sweep majestically past him and noticed, as she did so, the faint smile appear as she took swift stock of her surroundings.

‘Yes,’ she murmured, while moving across to the desk. ‘I had imagined the library here would be just like this.’

Without uttering anything further, she calmly seated herself, took out a sheet of paper from the top drawer, and reached for the pen in the standish. Not once did Slocombe see the slender white hand that moved back and forth across the page falter even for a single moment. Evidently she knew precisely what she wished to write, and did so quickly, signing her name with a flourish at the bottom of the page, before sanding the letter and sealing it with a wafer.

‘Until this day I have never given you an order, Slocombe,’ she reminded him, rising to her feet, ‘but I am about to give you yet another now. I entrust this into your safe keeping. You are to hand it to your master, personally, on his return.’

Slocombe found himself automatically accepting the letter held out to him. ‘It shall be as you wish, my lady,’ he replied, and then watched her walk gracefully back across to the door. ‘My lady, I…’

As his voice faltered, she turned again to look at him, her striking green eyes distinctly lacking any semblance of the youthful warmth he well remembered. ‘Regrets, like sins, cast very long shadows, Slocombe, do they not? No matter how much we might wish to do so, neither of us can alter what has taken place in the past, so I would advise you not to waste your time or mine in making the attempt. I bid you goodday,’ and with that she walked quietly out of the house, leaving Slocombe prey to painful memories and many bitter regrets.

He shook his head sadly, not quite knowing what to make of this totally unexpected turn of events. One thing was very certain, however—her ladyship’s return would ensure that nothing in the Stapleford household would ever be quite the same again.

An hour later the lady whose visit had had such an effect on Lord Wroxam’s butler was entering a house in another fashionable part of the town. After dispensing with her outdoor garments, she went straight into the sunny front parlour, and had only just made herself comfortable in the chair by the window when the door opened, and a young woman of similar age entered the room.

‘Ah, Mary!’ She held out her hand. ‘Come to see if I’m any the worse for my ordeal?’

Mary grasped the outstretched hand, giving the slender fingers an affectionate squeeze before releasing her hold, and subjecting the lovely face smiling up at her to a swift scrutiny. ‘Well, I must say, Miss Jenny, you don’t look as if you’ve suffered any ill effects.’

‘No, I found the visit remarkably painless, but perhaps that was because he wasn’t there.’

Mary paused in her straightening of the drapes. ‘And where had he taken himself off to?’

‘I didn’t choose to enquire. And Slocombe, unlike you, Mary, is a very correct and conventional servant. He would never willingly volunteer such information.’ A hint of a smile played around perfectly formed lips. ‘And my unexpected appearance had discomposed the poor man quite sufficiently without my adding to his discomfiture by demanding to know his master’s whereabouts.’

‘Bah! I’ll discompose him right enough, if ever I get my hands on the heathen man!’

The smile grew more pronounced. ‘Your devotion to me, Mary, is always most touching, but you do poor Slocombe a grave injustice by thinking him unfeeling. He was merely following his master’s instructions to the letter when he barred my entry to the town house all those years ago. I do not doubt for a moment that he honestly believed my uncle would offer me asylum. And talking of my oh, so loving relative…’

Rising to her feet, Jennifer went across to the escritoire to collect the list she had made that morning, and glanced briefly at the single sheet. ‘It is the Chard ball this evening. I think—yes—I rather think it is time that Lady Jennifer Audley Stapleford, Marchioness of Wroxam, announced her return to the polite world. My uncle found himself quite unable to offer me sanctuary years ago. It will be amusing to see his reaction tonight when I turn up, uninvited, to his ball.’

Mary looked gravely across the room at her young mistress, thinking as she did so that there was little resemblance now to that lost and frightened girl she had discovered wandering the streets of the capital.

‘Miss Jenny, are you certain sure you’re doing the right thing? I cannot help but feel myself you’d have been better to have remained in Ireland. You were safe there.’

‘And I shall be safe here,’ Jennifer responded, once again touched by her loyal friend’s evident concern. ‘As I’ve mentioned before, my uncle is an immensely weak and ineffectual man. He’ll cause me no problems.’

‘Pshaw! I weren’t meaning that little squint! It’s himself I’m thinking of. If half the tales I’ve learned about him are true—’

‘Why is it, Mary,’ Jennifer interrupted, ‘that you always become so very Irish when you’re concerned or annoyed?’

‘Because I am Irish. And proud of it, I am too!’

‘And so you should be.’ The glance Jennifer cast her contained more than just a hint of affection. ‘But as I’ve already mentioned, Wroxam’s not due home until tomorrow, so there’s not the remotest possibility that I shall come face to face with him tonight.’

‘But you’re bound to do so sooner or later.’

‘That, sadly, is inevitable now that I have set the wheels in motion. None the less, I am prepared.’

A moment’s silence, then, ‘But what if he should find out, Miss Jenny?’

‘I have taken great pains to ensure that he does not.’ The reassuring smile did not come so easily to her lips this time. ‘Come, Mary, stop worrying. Your time would be much better spent in making me look the part for my debut into the polite world of London Society.’

Since her arrival in the capital a month before, Jennifer had deliberately kept her identity secret. She had not, however, remained hidden away in the house she had hired for the duration of her planned stay in town. Apart from that one occasion long ago, when she had travelled to London on the common stage in the hope of seeing her husband, only to find herself barred from entering the town house, she had never visited the capital before nor since, until now. Consequently she had found much to occupy her during her present stay and had visited many places of interest.

She had also taken the opportunity to refurbish her wardrobe, and it had been during one of those several visits which she had made to a certain famous modiste in Bond Street that she had discovered that her uncle and his Countess held an annual ball at the beginning of each Season. By all accounts it was a truly splendid occasion, attended by the cream of society, an event not to be missed.

Just when the notion had first occurred to her to attend the ball, Jennifer was not perfectly sure. Her sole reason for returning to England had been to seek an interview with her estranged husband, and request that he take immediate steps to end their fiasco of a marriage. That remained her main objective. At the same time, however, she saw no earthly reason why she should not enjoy herself for the duration of her stay. For several reasons she had been denied the pleasure of a Season in town, and it had occurred to her that this was the golden opportunity to rectify this sad lack of experience.

As she mounted the impressive staircase that night, her ever lively sense of humour came to the fore. The servant who had relieved her of her elegant evening cloak had not attempted to question her lack of invitation card. How different her reception had been this time compared to years ago, when her appearance on the doorstep after being denied entrance to Wroxam’s town house had been met with a certain amount of suspicion, and her uncle’s reception had been anything but warm. She doubted very much that he would be precisely overjoyed by her unexpected arrival now. One thing she was determined on—she would never grant her uncle the opportunity of asking her to leave a second time!

As she reached the head of the stairs and moved along the passageway towards the crowded ballroom, she realised she had timed her arrival to perfection. The Earl of Chard and his Countess, no doubt believing that they had greeted the last of the latecomers, had abandoned their positions by the door, but were still close enough to the entrance to hear their servant, his voice clear and carrying, announce her.

The momentary hush which followed was almost too much for Jennifer’s self-control, and it was only by exerting a tremendous effort that she stopped herself from bursting into laughter at the astonished glances bent in her direction as she moved gracefully forward, her beautifully made black evening gown clinging to her every curve, its colour enhancing the perfection of her flawless complexion.

‘Good evening, Uncle Frederick,’ she said, when at last she reached him.

She could not forbear a further smile at his expression of astonished disbelief. She may at one time have harboured less than charitable feelings towards him for not coming to her assistance when she had desperately needed some comfort and support, but that was no longer the case. Her father and his younger brother, she clearly remembered, had never been close, so Jennifer could hardly blame her uncle for not wishing to become involved in the affairs of a niece he barely knew. Added to which her husband had earned himself the reputation of being a hard and ruthless man to those who crossed him, as she had discovered for herself. Only a fool, or perhaps a very brave soul, would ever cross swords with the Marquis of Wroxam.

‘I can quite understand your astonishment at seeing me again after all these years, Uncle, but I am in truth your niece Jennifer.’ Not offering him the opportunity to respond, even had he felt able to do so, which she very much doubted, she turned her attention to his Countess, a female she barely remembered. ‘Ma’am, it has been many years since last we met, not since my dear mama’s demise, if my memory serves me correctly.’

‘Er—that is correct,’ her ladyship managed faintly, momentarily glancing at the beautifully arranged dark auburn hair, and the glinting green gems adorning the slender neck and small, perfectly shaped ears.

‘I hope you will overlook my impertinence in inviting myself to your party. And please do not blame your servants for admitting me to the house. I’m afraid I led them to believe that I had merely mislaid my invitation card.’

‘Do not give it another thought,’ the Countess responded promptly, thereby proving that she at least was beginning to regain her equilibrium, even if her husband was still a long way from regaining his. ‘Of course you are most welcome.’

Jennifer doubted that this was true, but decided not to prolong their discomfiture, and took the opportunity presented by the arrival of yet another latecomer of moving away.

By this time her identity was beginning to spread through the ballroom like wildfire. She strongly suspected that, before too many more minutes had passed, there wouldn’t be a guest present who hadn’t been informed of precisely who she was. She was fast becoming the cynosure of all eyes, some of which were openly admiring, while others betrayed varying degrees of curiosity or astonishment. As she moved further into the room, it occurred to her that, when she had made her first and very brief visit to the capital, she would have been overawed by such blatant interest. This, however, was not now the case. She was no longer a diffident child, but a self-assured young woman, quite unafraid to hold her head up proudly, and return bold stares from strangers without so much as a single blink.

Had her upbringing been different, had she not tragically lost her dear mama fifteen years ago, the people now present tonight might not all have been total strangers, she reflected, moving ever further down the long, brightly lit room. Had her mother lived, her father might have continued to take an interest in the estate, instead of spending most of his time in London, foolishly squandering vast sums of money at the gaming tables. His frequent absences from the ancestral pile had meant that few people had ever visited the house, and Jennifer quite clearly recalled the loneliness and seclusion she had been forced to endure during her formative years, having only the servants and her governess to bear her company, and receiving the occasional visit from a considerate neighbour or two.

One might have expected her marriage at the ridiculously young age of sixteen to the Marquis of Wroxam to have improved her lot, and to a certain extent it most certainly had, for she had enjoyed far more freedom, and had made several new friends during her months at Wroxam Park. Her father’s demise within a few weeks of the wedding taking place had, quite naturally, curtailed any kind of socialising on a grand scale, and the visit to the capital which her husband had planned had been postponed until the following spring, by which time, of course, Wroxam and his Marchioness had gone their separate ways.

‘Who? Who did you say it was, Serena?’ The question, spoken in a high-pitched, carrying voice, broke into Jennifer’s sombre reflections, and she turned her head to discover an elderly lady, dressed in a purple gown and sporting an ugly turban in the same dark hue, regarding her more keenly than most. ‘So, you’re Caroline Westbury’s gel, are you?’

‘Caroline Westbury was my mother, certainly,’ Jennifer responded, inclined to be more amused than annoyed by the impertinent enquiry. ‘You have the advantage of me, ma’am.’

‘May I present my godmother, the Dowager Lady Fairfax, my lady.’

Jennifer transferred her gaze to the young woman who had been sitting beside the Dowager and had now risen to her feet. ‘And my name is Serena Carstairs,’ she added, in response to Jennifer’s finely arched, questioning brow.

‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Carstairs,’ Jennifer responded, bestowing a warm smile upon the tall young woman who appeared decidedly ill at ease.

‘I knew your father too,’ the Dowager suddenly announced, evidently experiencing none of her goddaughter’s embarrassment. ‘Charming rogue!’ She cast a vague glance in the general direction of their host. ‘Not like the present holder of the title. What a devilish dull dog he is!’

‘Godmama, please!’ Serena said faintly, casting a further apologetic glance, but Jennifer was not in the least offended, for the Dowager had spoken no less than the truth, and yet she found herself, surprisingly, automatically coming to her uncle’s defence.

‘He is certainly lacking the charm my father at one time was reputed to have in abundance. My uncle is, I understand, a man of sober habits. Which, I might add, I consider no bad thing. At least he would never bring disgrace to the proud name he bears, and he has, so I am led to believe, restored the ancestral home to its former glory.’

‘There’s no denying your father turned into something of a rakehelly fellow in later years,’ the Dowager conceded. ‘Changed after your mother died, as I remember,’ she added, thereby betraying the fact that she had known the