The Danbury Scandals Read online

  There was no one about except a footman standing beside the front door; she stopped, wondering if he had instructions to prevent her leaving. She turned and went back along the corridor, intending to find another exit, but was brought up short when she heard her own name being spoken by Caroline Danbury on the other side of a closed door.

  ‘Send her back where she came from, no one will ever know the truth.’

  ‘I cannot, the Reverend Mr Cudlipp is not expecting her to return.’ This was Lord Danbury. ‘And, besides, I do not want to; she has been ill-used enough. All I ask is that you be kind to her...’

  ‘Kind to her!’ The girl’s voice was a squeak of outrage. ‘She’s one of your by-blows, isn’t that it? Papa, how could you insult us by bringing her here? And taking her up to Her Grace. I can’t think what Great-Aunt was thinking of to allow it. It’s enough to make Mama turn in her grave.’

  Maryanne did not wait to hear more. She turned and ran towards the front door. The startled footman sprang to open it and she hurtled down the steps and away across the lawn.

  Her flying feet took her across the park between the tall cedars which gave the mansion its name, to the wall which enclosed the immediate grounds, where she found a small gate which led into the woods. Here it was quiet and cool and she stopped running to catch her breath. She did not know where she was going; all she wanted was to get away from that great house and people who made hateful insinuations which made her blood boil.

  But she could not help remembering a titbit of gossip told to her by the housemaid at Beckford Rectory. ‘They say ‘is lordship left his wife and ran off with a kitchen maid. They say he went abroad with ‘er, but ‘e came back a year or two later all by ‘isself and settled down as if nothing ‘ad ‘appened. Though they do say there was a bebby...’

  She had scolded the girl and dismissed it as nonsense, but could there have been some truth in it after all? She remembered, too, that when she first came to Beckford as a ten-year-old there had been some gossip about her which concerned her mother, but her guardian had soon silenced it and she had never learned what it was. He always referred to her mother, when he spoke of her at all, as ‘that poor misguided lady’ in condescending tones which infuriated Maryanne. There couldn’t be a connection, could there?

  She stumbled on, with her head in too much of a turmoil to notice where her feet were taking her, unaware of anyone else on the path until she found herself imprisoned against a broad chest. She let out a squeal of terror and began to struggle.

  Six feet and more of bone and rippling muscle, he held her in a grip so powerful that she could not pull herself away until he chose to release her. ‘Let me go!’ she shouted, trying to beat on his chest with her fists. ‘Let me go!’

  He put her gently from him, but still retained her hand. ‘Your pardon, mam’selle.’

  Startled by his accent, she looked up at his face. His hair was thickly curled and he had a small scar over his left eyebrow which made it look as if it were lifted in a permanent expression of doubt, but it was his eyes she remembered most of all; fringed with enviably long dark lashes, they were like brown velvet with a sheen of gold and now regarded her in a way which made her blush to the roots of her fair hair. ‘Why, it’s you... the gypsy... the poacher... the man I saw...’ She stopped suddenly, wondering why she had been such a ninny as to let him know she remembered him.

  She had encountered him only three days before on her way back from a walk across the downs, when she had been taking a short cut through Lord Danbury’s woods. Unlike today, when he was dressed in riding breeches, he had been wearing a rough labourer’s coat and had no collar or cravat, except a spotted neckerchief, tied flamboyantly beneath a firmly jutting chin. Strangers in Beckford were a rarity and until the interview with Lord Danbury had driven everything else out of her mind she had been much occupied wondering where he had come from and what he was doing in Beckford woods. He could have been a poacher or one of the gypsies who were camping on the downs. On the other hand, when he had bidden her good-day, he had sounded French. She had wondered if he was a spy or had escaped from one of the many French ships which had been captured and brought to Portsmouth as prison hulks. But he had not been doing any harm and the war was so nearly over, so it hardly mattered. If the reports from the Continent could be believed, the Prussians, Russians and Austrians had, at last, decided to work together and Napoleon was near to defeat. She had said nothing of the encounter to anyone, but now she wondered if she had been right not to do so. To meet him twice and both times on land belonging to the Danbury family seemed more than coincidental.

  ‘Why, it is ma petite duchesse,’ he said, with a tiny twitch to the corner of his mouth and a slight lifting of the scar above his eye.

  ‘I am not a duchess,’ she retorted. ‘And you must know that or you would not be so forward. Please release me.’

  He smiled, but showed no sign of doing as she asked. ‘Eh bien! It is not often a beautiful young wood nymph throws herself into my arms.’

  ‘I did nothing of the kind. Please let me go.’

  ‘If you tell me your name.’

  ‘Maryanne Paynter.’ Why had she answered him? She should have put her nose in the air and insisted on being allowed to pass, but it was difficult to stand on her dignity with her eyes full of unaccustomed tears.

  He looked down at her small hand imprisoned in his and noted the absence of a ring. ‘Mam’selle Paynter, I am enchante to make your acquaintance.’ He lifted her hand to his lips and added, in a voice that was surprisingly warm and without a trace of an accent, ‘Forgive me, I did not mean to make you cry.’

  ‘I am not crying. I have some dust in my eye.’

  ‘Then let me remove it for you.’ He took her face in his hands, tipping it up towards him. His eyes, searching hers, were like soft brown velvet, belying his strength and masculinity. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek and shivered involuntarily.

  ‘Tip your head up,’ he commanded, taking a handkerchief, which was miraculously clean and soft, from his pocket. ‘Which eye is it?’

  She blinked and a tear slid slowly down her cheek. Gently, he brushed it away.

  ‘I think it’s gone now,’ she murmured, but, try as she might, she could not banish the tears, nor could she stifle the little sob which escaped her. If only he would go away; she did not like anyone to see her in such a weak state. She tried to turn from him, but found herself, once again, imprisoned against his chest.

  ‘Ma pauvre,’ he murmured. ‘What have they been doing to you?’

  ‘N... nothing.’ Held securely in his arms, she felt warm and protected and, at that moment, there was nothing she needed more. No one, since her mother’s death, had attempted to embrace her; neither the Reverend Mr Cudlipp nor his strait-laced wife would even have considered an affectionate hug let alone a kiss. No one had told her they cared for her. Not that he had said anything of the sort, nor did she expect it but, with her head lying snugly against his shoulder, it was a delicious self-indulgence to dream.

  ‘Nothing?’

  Tears blurred her vision as he took her chin in his big hand and tilted her face up to him. ‘Nothing? No one has even taken the tiniest liberty?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This.’ Before she could protest, he had bent his head and was kissing her in a way which sent a tremor of delicious anticipation through her body. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before and she did not understand it. Unversed in the ways of flirtation, she allowed it to continue.

  Suddenly coming to her senses, she wrenched herself out of his grasp and stood breathlessly facing him, like a young fawn catching the scent of the hunt and ready to bolt, he later described it. It was her expressive violet eyes which gave her away; they were wide and bright with a kind of knowing innocence. She was every inch a woman, but she still had an aura of childhood about her, seemed untouched by the tawdry world of those who lived in that great house, and yet she had come from t
here. But perhaps she was not one of them, and, if that were so he had committed an unforgivable sin. He put out a hand to her, intending nothing but to reassure her, but she misunderstood him and tried to push past him, tripping over a tree root in her haste. He caught her as she fell.

  ‘A thousand pardons, ma’amselle,’ he said, steadying her. ‘But I am not a man to resist temptation, and when it is overwhelming...’

  It was really much too late to pretend to any hauteur, but the whole encounter was getting out of hand. She lifted her chin and faced him squarely. ‘Please allow me to pass, Mr...’

  ‘Daw,’ he finished for her. ‘Jack Daw.’

  She stared at him for a moment and then laughed shakily. ‘I don’t believe you. I don’t believe anyone could be given such a preposterous name. You’ve made it up.’

  He laughed, throwing back his fine head so that she was aware of the strong arch of his neck and the breadth of his chest. ‘I assure you, that is the name I am known by.’

  ‘What are you doing here? Are you a French spy?’

  ‘Do you think I would tell you if I were?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ she admitted. ‘At first I thought you were a poacher or a gypsy, but you are not like any gypsy I have ever met.’

  ‘And have you met many gypsies?’ he asked, with a smile and a lifting of his brows which made the little scar more obvious. ‘I would never have guessed.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Nor French spies?’

  ‘Now you are laughing at me. It is very uncivil of you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He was chuckling openly now. ‘But you would hardly expect a gypsy or a spy to deal in civilities.’

  ‘Who are you, then? What are you doing here?’

  ‘You are an inquisitive young lady, are you not? What is it they say - "Curiosity killed the cat"? Beware of too much curiosity.’

  Being curious about other people was one way to stop Maryanne thinking of her own bewilderment and insecurity, but suddenly it all came flooding back. A tear slid down her cheek, followed by another and then another and she, who, until today, had prided herself on her self-control, could do nothing to stop them.

  He smiled and handed her his handkerchief. ‘More dust?’

  ‘I... no. Please let me pass.’

  ‘If you tell me where you were going in such haste.’

  ‘To Portsmouth,’ she said suddenly. ‘To visit my uncle.’

  ‘Without bonnet or cloak? I know that spring has come but we are not yet at high summer. And how were you expecting to arrive there?’

  ‘By stage,’ she said, saying the first thing that came into her head. ‘From the village inn.’

  ‘Forgive me, my dear Miss Paynter, if I do not believe you. Why are you so desperate you must run away? Have they been unkind to you?’

  ‘Who?’

  He jerked his head in the direction of the big house. `The people up there. The Danburys.’

  ‘What do you know of them?’

  ‘Very little,’ he said laconically. ‘But they seem to have a talent for making people unhappy. The man you came with in the coach, who was he?’

  ‘Came with? How do you know how I came?’

  ‘I saw you arrive. Tell me, was that the Duke of Wiltshire?’

  ‘No, it was his cousin, Viscount Danbury.’

  ‘So that was Lord Danbury.’

  Something in his tone made her look up sharply. ‘Why are you so interested?’

  He pretended indifference, though she was not deceived. ‘If he made you cry...’

  ‘It wasn’t him, it was...’ She stopped, uncomfortably reminded of the conversation she had overheard. She forced herself to speak brightly. ‘It was my own foolishness and nothing that need concern you.’

  ‘Oh, but it does,’ he said softly. ‘When I saw you in that coach, you looked so...’ He paused. ‘So anxious, big troubled eyes and furrowed brow. You know, you should not frown, it spoils your looks.’

  ‘You are insufferable,’ she said, frustration making her forget her tears. ‘What do you know of him, or me, or anything at all?’

  ‘I know you are unhappy,’ he said softly. ‘And it distresses me to see someone so young and beautiful in tears.’

  ‘If I am in tears it is because I am so angry,’ she said.

  ‘With me?’ he asked softly.

  ‘No, no, not with you,’ she said, then laughed. ‘Though I don’t know why not. You are not behaving like a gentleman.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s because gypsies and poachers are not gentlemen,’ he said. ‘And I am loath to part with you.’

  ‘Mr Daw, if that is your name, I have had outside of enough to contend with today and I would beg you not to add to it. Take your hand from my arm and allow me to pass.’

  He laughed. ‘Now I know you are a duchess! No one else would be so toplofty.’

  She laughed in spite of herself. ‘Where did you learn that word?’

  ‘At my mother’s knee; she was...’ He seemed to falter before going on. ‘She was English.’

  Her laughter faded. ‘Was?’

  ‘She died.’ He spoke flatly, but she saw the pain behind his brown eyes.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘It was a long time ago now.’ He paused, as if mentally brushing himself down. ‘Would you like me to take you to Portsmouth? I could, you know.’

  ‘Certainly not!’ she said sharply.

  ‘But you do not want to go back to the house? Why not?’

  ‘I... I was confused. I didn’t know why I had been brought here, and things were said...’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘No, something I overheard, but it’s of no consequence.’

  ‘It most certainly is, if it was bad enough to make you run away.’

  ‘I was not running away and it is unkind of you to remind me...’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ He smiled. ‘But I’ll wager you are no coward, so why not go back and face them? Stand up to them, don’t let them see you are afraid.’

  ‘I’m not afraid, I wish only to be left in peace.’

  ‘Peace,’ he said softly. ‘You do not wish it any more than I do.’ He took her arm and turned to walk beside her.

  She did not know what to do. Neither his words nor actions were those she would have expected a gypsy to use, nor, for that matter, a gentleman, and she was thoroughly nervous. Although he seemed to be relaxed, there was a certain tension about his shoulders and the way he held his head, as if he was watching for something or someone, and needed to be constantly alert. Occasionally his right hand strayed to the handle of the small dagger held in his belt, as if to reassure himself it was still there.

  When they reached the edge of the wood, he stopped. ‘Better you go on alone,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to cause you more grief. I would be obliged if you told no one of our meeting.’

  ‘Why not? Have you something to hide?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said blandly. ‘But it would hardly do, would it? We have been alone for some time and I believe the English are decidedly strait-laced on such matters.’

  She smiled a little wanly, dreading what his lordship would have to say on her return. ‘Goodbye, Mr Daw.’

  He bowed and kissed her hand. ‘Au revoir, little wood nymph.’

  She had to face the future. She took a deep breath and set out across the grass towards the house. She did not look back but somehow she knew he was standing in the shadow of the trees, watching her. Was he hiding? And, if so, from whom? She refused to believe his name was really Jack Daw and she doubted he was a gypsy; she had a feeling that he was dangerous to know and she had better try to forget him. It would be difficult while the memory of that kiss lingered but it would fade as time passed, just as childhood recollections faded; happiness and misery both received the same treatment from Father Time.

  Her hope of returning to the room she had left without being seen was dashed when she saw Caroline standing in the hall, dressed for outdoors and tappi
ng her foot impatiently on the floor. She whirled towards Maryanne. ‘Just where do you think you’ve been?’

  ‘I went for a walk.’

  ‘You know, of course, that you have missed luncheon and delayed our departure. Papa would not leave without you.’

  ‘I am sorry. I missed my way. Where is his lordship?’

  ‘Gone looking for you and decidedly cross. One does not keep a Viscount waiting.’

  ‘I have said I’m sorry, Miss Danbury. If I had not been kept waiting myself, I would not have gone out...’

  ‘Such impudence! Who do you think you are?’ She turned as Lord Danbury came in through the front door. ‘She’s back, Papa, and has the effrontery to say we kept her waiting.’

  ‘So we did,’ his lordship said calmly, then to Maryanne, ‘You must forgive us, my aunt was taken suddenly worse.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

  ‘It was the excitement, I think, but she is comfortable again now and we can all return to Beckford. Where is Mark?’

  ‘Gone to the stables,’ Caroline told him. ‘He don’t trust his precious rig to His Grace’s grooms.’

  His lordship smiled at Maryanne, trying to put her at her ease. ‘Caroline came with her brother in his curricle, she enjoys being frightened to death by his driving. Our coach may be slow and cumbersome, but at least one can have a civilised conversation in it, and I want to have a long talk to you.’ Hearing the rumble of the vehicle at the door, he smiled at Maryanne and beckoned to the footman to help her on with her cloak. ‘Come, my dear.’

  Maryanne, taking a deep breath to calm herself, followed him out of the front door and into the coach and in a few minutes Castle Cedars had been left behind and the horses were trotting at a sedate pace along the roads they had traversed that morning. Maryanne, sitting with her hands clasped nervously in her lap, found herself going over the last two days in her mind. Everything about the Danburys seemed to be cloaked in mystery, even down to trespassers and gypsies who were not really gypsies at all, and men with accents which disappeared when they had something serious to say. And she was part of it, part of part of something she did not understand. She turned to his lordship. ‘You said we would talk...’