Tangled Reins (Regencies 1)

On returning home in the early hours of Saturday morning, he found that Charles had been every bit as capable as Mytton believed. Armed with Dorothea’s plans for the next two days, he was able to confine his appearances to her usual morning rides in the Park, to a ball on Saturday night and to the party she attended on Sunday evening. At the party, he found himself again under suspicion.

‘Just what are you about now?’ Dorothea enquired as they glided around the room in the only waltz of the evening.

‘I’d rather thought it was the waltz,’ returned Hazelmere, all innocence. ‘I’m generally held to be reasonably good at it.’

Dorothea regarded him much as she would an errant child. ‘And I suppose it has always been your habit to attend such eminently boring parties as this?’

‘Ah, but you forget, my love! My heart is at your feet. Didn’t you know?’

While the words were what she longed to hear, the tone left Dorothea in no doubt of how she should treat them. She laughed. ‘Oh, no! You cannot distract me so easily. You’ll have to think up a far more plausible excuse for your presence here, of all places.’

‘Is my being here so distasteful to you?’ he asked, feigning seriousness.

Seeing the lurking twinkle at the back of the hazel eyes, she had no compunction in answering, ‘Why, no! I believe I would welcome even Lord Peterborough in such company as this!’

He laughed. ‘Very neat, my dear. But why, if this party is so boring, are you gracing it with your lovely presence?’

‘I’ve no idea why Grandmama insisted on coming,’ she admitted. ‘Even she is not enjoying it, because Herbert and Marjorie are here. Thank heavens they leave for Darent Hall tomorrow. And Cecily! She’s been going around as if the sky has fallen.’ Fixing him with a direct look, she continued, ‘Incidentally, if you have any interest in that matter, you could tell Lord Fanshawe to stop encouraging her to think herself up to all the rigs, because she’s not. He has, and now she’s annoyed because he won’t let her do precisely as she wants. If he’ll only tell her quite plainly he won’t have it, she’ll stop. She always responds to firm handling.’

‘Unlike her elder sister?’ murmured Hazelmere provocatively.

‘Precisely!’ answered Dorothea.

Hazelmere had the opportunity to deliver her message to Fanshawe the next day. Thanks to Charles’s continuing efforts on his behalf, he learned that Dorothea and Cecily were to attend a select picnic at the home of Lady Oswey, escorted by that pink of the ton, Ferdie Acheson-Smythe. Feeling he could safely leave Dorothea’s welfare in Ferdie’s capable hands for the day, he collected Fanshawe and they departed to watch a prize-fight on Clapham Common. As the sisters were going to the theatre that evening in company with Lord and Lady Eglemont, Hazelmere felt no need to attend this function either. It was the early hours of the next morning when their lordships, thoroughly pleased with their day away from the rigours of the Season and somewhat the worse for wear, returned to Cavendish Square and their beds.

Ferdie and Dorothea departed Merion House on the Monday morning, expecting to pass a pleasant day at the Osweys’ house by the Thames at Twickenham. Cecily was querulous and moody, labouring under the twin goads of feeling, on the one hand, that she had treated Lord Fanshawe unfairly and, on the other, of not wishing him to order her life for her.

Observing her elder sister, she wondered why Dorothea, much more independently minded than herself, acquiesced so readily to the Marquis’s suggestions. Noting the absentminded smile that hovered on her lips as she gazed unseeingly out of the carriage window, she concluded that her sister was obviously in love with Hazelmere. She, in contrast, had clearly mistaken her heart. For surely if she was in love with Fanshawe she would be perfectly happy to allow his judgement to prevail? But he had been horridly strict and old-fashioned about her impromptu acquaintance with some of the more dashing blades present at the masquerade. The sneaking suspicion that he had been right in telling her that acquaintance with those particular gentle men would not be to her advantage did not improve her humour. In an altogether dismal mood, she alighted from the chaise at Oswey Hall.

However, the glorious sunshine, blue skies and gentle breeze—perfect conditions for a picnic by the stream in the bluebell wood—raised even Cecily’s spirits. Soon she was one of a group of chattering damsels busily comparing stories of encounters with the more eligible bachelors of the ton. Rather too old for such girlish pastimes, Dorothea settled by one of the Oswey cousins, come up to town from her home in west Hampshire to spend the Season with her relatives. Reticent and shy, Miss Delamere was grateful t

o the beautiful Miss Darent, who seemed happy to talk with her of country pastimes. Dorothea, who had not thought of the Grange for weeks, was quite content to make conversation on the topics that in years past had been her primary concern.

No chaperons were present other than the indolent Lady Margaret Oswey. Settled on a pile of cushions in the clearing where the picnic was held, she had no wish to bestir herself. Consequently only those gentlemen who could be trusted to keep the line even while out of her sight had been invited. Ferdie was one of this select group. Lords Hazelmere, Fanshawe and friends were, of course, absent.

After the repast Ferdie escorted two of the younger misses to see the fairy dell, so named because of the mixture of bluebells, crocuses and tulips which grew there. The dell was in the woods they had passed on their way to the stream, and was reached by a path which branched from the main one some little way back towards the house. Having exclaimed to their hearts’ content over the colourful carpet lining the dell, the two young things reluctantly allowed him to lead them back towards the rest of the company. Emerging on to the main track, one young lady on each of his arms, they were approached by a footman in search of Miss Darent.

‘She’s with her ladyship by the stream, I think,’ said Ferdie. Perceiving the letter on the tray the footman was holding, he asked, ‘Is that for Miss Darent?’

Assured it was and had just been delivered by a groom, Ferdie, in benign mood, said, ‘Oh, I’ll take it to her if you like. Very good friend of Miss Darent.’

As the footman had seen Ferdie arrive with the Darent sisters, he saw no reason not to leave the missive in his hands.

Ferdie needed both arms to escort the young ladies back to the stream, so he deposited the letter in the inner pocket of his coat. On reaching the clearing, he relinquished his young charges but found that Dorothea had gone for a ramble with Miss Delamere. Ferdie spent the rest of the afternoon in a tête-à-tête with Cecily. As she had reached the stage of needing someone’s shoulder to cry on, he did not have an easy time of it. However, by the end of a lengthy discussion in which featured all the real and imaginary shortcomings of an unnamed peer with whom he was well acquainted, he felt he had made some headway in getting her to think of things from his lordship’s point of view, rather than only her own.

Although he had enjoyed his day, Ferdie heaved a sigh of relief as the Merion carriage drew away from Oswey Hall late in the afternoon. After his difficult time with Cecily he completely forgot the letter for Dorothea.

The next day this missive resurfaced. Dorothea and Cecily had sent a message that they would not be riding that morning. Ferdie assumed Cecily had had a difficult time the evening before. As Lord Eglemont was convinced she would shortly be his daughter-in-law, Ferdie’s imagination did not have to work overtime to understand that their visit to the theatre might have proved an ordeal.

He was consequently breakfasting in languid style when his valet, Higgins, appeared at his elbow. ‘I found this in your coat pocket, sir.’

As it was common for him to forget letters and notes and leave them in his clothing, Ferdie thought nothing of this and opened the unaddressed letter. Reading the lines within, he frowned. He turned the single sheet over and then back and read it once more. Propping it against the salt cellar, he stared at the letter as he finished his coffee. Then he refolded it and called his valet. ‘Higgins, in which of my coats did you find this?’

‘In the blue superfine you wore at Lady Oswey’s picnic yesterday, sir.’

‘Ah. Thought that might be it.’

Ferdie dressed rapidly and set out for Hazelmere House, fervently hoping that his cousin had not already departed for a morning about town. Luck favoured him. The Marquis was descending the steps of Hazelmere House in company with Fanshawe as he entered Cavendish Square. Out of breath, he waved at them. Staggering at seeing the impeccable Mr Acheson-Smythe in anything resembling a hurry, they halted and waited for him.