“I do not need an escort, my lord. I have nothing worth stealing.”
“Except your good name.” It was out before he could stop it, and he knew he had laid himself open to a sharp retort. He was not disappointed.
“That, my lord, was stolen earlier in the day and by someone I should have been able to trust.”
“It was not stolen. It was freely given,” he said, equal to the challenge.
“Lady Fitz said you were a rake, and how right she was,” she said, ignoring the truth of his remark.
“And you are a tease.” He was angry now. He had thought she was in danger from ruffians, had expected gratitude, not this bitter exchange of accusations. Rake, indeed! “If you behave like a demirep, then you must expect to be treated like one.”
Mistress of Madderlea Harlequin Historical #177—
MARY NICHOLS
was born in Singapore, and came to England when she was three. She has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children and four grandchildren.
Mistress of Madderlea
Mary Nichols
Available from Harlequin® Historical and MARY NICHOLS
The Incomparable Countess #156
Lady Lavinia’s Match #163
A Lady of Consequence #169
Mistress of Madderlea #177
Contents
Chapter One
1817
‘This is no good, no good at all,’ William Hundon muttered, reading a letter which had just been brought to the breakfast table. ‘Something must be done.’
‘My dear, do not frown so,’ his wife said, glancing up from the piece of toast she was buttering to look at him. ‘You will give yourself wrinkles.’
‘Wrinkles!’ he exclaimed. ‘If that were all I had to concern me, I should count myself fortunate…’
‘That is a letter from Mr Sparrow, is it not?’ she went on. ‘Only Mr Sparrow could put you in such an ill humour.’ Although an invalid and a martyr to rheumatics, his wife insisted on coming downstairs in a dressing gown to have breakfast en famille, which included their daughter, Charlotte, and her niece, Sophie, who had lived with them for the last two years.
Sophie, alerted by the mention of Mr Sparrow’s name, looked up at her uncle. ‘Is there something untoward at Madderlea, Uncle William?’
‘There is always something untoward at Madderlea.’ He stopped speaking to tap at the letter with the back of his hand. ‘This time he wants money for repairs to the stable block, last week it was the roof of the west wing that was leaking. I do not know whether he is incompetent or criminal…’
‘Surely not criminal?’ his wife asked, taken aback by his vehemence.
‘Could you not employ another agent to manage Madderlea?’ Sophie asked.
‘And how could I be sure another would be any better? It is a highly unsatisfactory arrangement. We live too far from Madderlea for me to be constantly going to and fro to see that the man is doing his job. Besides, he does not own the place and one cannot expect him to have the same care as the family.’
‘But, Papa, there is no family, except Sophie,’ Charlotte put in, then stopped in confusion when her mother gave her a look of disapproval. The loss of her family was hardly ever mentioned in Sophie’s hearing to save her pain.
‘Precisely,’ he said.
Madderlea Hall was the home of generations of the Roswell family. Her father had always referred to it as home, even when they lived in Brussels, and it was to Madderlea he had taken her when Napoleon’s conquests and tyrannical rule had made living on the continent too dangerous for an Englishman. It had been a terrifying journey for a fifteen-year-old.
Because of the blockade of European ports, they had been obliged to travel eastwards to Gdansk where British ships were bringing guns and ammunition to the Russians who were retreating before Napoleon’s march on Moscow, and she had seen sights which were indelibly printed on her memory. Troops were left to forage for food from a countryside laid waste by its people in order not to feed the invaders. The fields remained untilled or scorched by fire, the livestock slaughtered. Men and horses starved, even during the advance.
It had taken all her father’s savings and her late mother’s jewellery, everything they possessed, except the clothes they wore, to buy food and a passage home in a cargo ship which pitched and tossed on the rough sea until she was sick as a dog. From London, where they landed, Papa had taken her to her uncle, the Earl of Peterborough, and then gone off and got himself killed fighting in Spain.
The experience had made her seem older and wiser than her years, able to take the ordinary ups and downs of life in her stride, resourceful and unafraid. Nor was she often sad; life was too short for that and the serious side of her nature was balanced by a sense of fun.
Uncle Henry had treated her like the daughter he never had and she had loved him and his wife
