different from the south?”
“Oh, they are!” Relieved, Hester launched into a description of conditions in the manufacturing towns. She was flattered by the attention the gentleman was paying to her words, and failed to notice at first how very close to her he was sitting, his arm along the back of the sofa. It seemed very warm in the room, and she was relieved when he got up and walked over to one of the bookcases. But her relief was short-lived. When he returned with a heavy volume, he sat even more closely, his thigh pressing against hers.
“We shall look at this together,” he said with a smile, and opened the page at a spectacularly undressed lady…
Even today, six years later, she could still feel the shock. She had sat paralysed for a moment, and Canford had taken the opportunity to turn her head to his…His lips came down on hers with brutal force, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. One hand clutched the front of her bodice…With a scream of outrage and horror she had leapt away, snatched up her glass of wine, which was still very full, and emptied it over him. She made for the door.
Canford was beside himself with rage. “My coat! Look at my coat, you damned little vixen!” he snarled, picking up his stick and lifting it threateningly as he chased after her. She managed to unlock the door before he reached her, but then he grabbed her hair and wrenched it painfully as he pulled her back.
She screamed again, whereupon the door burst open, knocking her aside, and Hugo rushed in. What happened next was a blur, but it ended with Canford and her brother crashing to the floor together. It was a dangerous moment, luckily interrupted by the arrival of Robert Dungarran.
“Canford! Hugo!”
Canford, recalled to sanity by Dungarran’s intervention, got up, glared at Hugo, and stormed out, swearing vengeance on all concerned.
Hugo then turned to her. After making sure she was unharmed, he lost his temper with her—comprehensively. The general drift was that he had finished with her. She had ruined not only herself, but the rest of the family in the eyes of the Ton. After a few other, similarly amiable sentiments, he had gone out after Canford to see, he snapped, whether he could limit the damage she had caused. She had been left, ashamed and humiliated, alone with Dungarran.
Hester preferred not to think of what had followed—the recriminations, the accusations, her stupid declaration of love, and his contemptuous rejection of her. If she was to meet Dungarran in April with any degree of equanimity she must put that scene out of her mind. Forget it completely.
Hester picked up the pen, put on her glasses and returned to work. This was what was important, what would be important in the future. She finished her copying and sealed the papers up. Recently Garimond had insisted that every precaution should be taken to keep her work from prying eyes. She always complied, though she couldn’t see a reason for it. Men were basically very childish with their secrets and their ciphers. The messages Zeno had sent her recently had all been to do with Romans marching into Gaul, and transport over the Alps. Did he regard himself as a latter-day Caesar? Some of it didn’t even make sense. But he was clever! His ciphers had always been devilishly ingenious, even the simpler ones he used for his covering letters…These were never published, of course.
Hester gave a little laugh. Who would think that Hester Perceval, spinster and recluse, would dare to conduct a secret correspondence with an unknown gentleman? Even parents as indulgent as hers would be shocked beyond measure at it. But Zeno could hardly be regarded as a danger, even by the strictest guardians, for, in the nature of things, she and Zeno would, regrettably, never meet! Though she felt a surprising sense of kinship with him, an astonishing similarity of humour and ideas, she could never reveal her true identity. The shock would probably kill the elderly gentleman, who sat in his club in St James, painstakingly writing his articles, and inventing the most tortuous, the most diabolically difficult ciphers—all for a woman to solve!
Hester’s eyes wandered over her attic and stopped at a dusty cupboard in the corner. Should she open it? Inside was the manuscript of The Wicked Marquis, a ridiculous novel she had written in fury after her return in the summer of 1806. Her pen might well have been dipped in vitriol, so corrosive had been the caricatures of her unsuspecting victims. No, it was better left locked away where no one else could read it. She would otherwise face ruinous actions for libel! One day she would destroy it. But writing The Wicked Marquis had undoubtedly helped her recovery. Through its absurdities she had learned to laugh not only at society, but also at herself at seventeen—naïve, arrogant, so sure that she could change the world…She smiled as she thought of the absurd plot based on tales told by the servants of the local villain, the Marquis of Sywell—the orgies in the chapel, the deflowering of local maidens, the mysterious disappearance of the Marchioness…She had surrounded him with vain, empty-headed young men with ridiculous names, caricatures of the men she had met in London—even Hugo had not escaped. The Marquis of Rapeall, Sir Hugely Perfect, Viscount Windyhead—he had hardly deserved her malice, he had been scarcely older than herself—Lord Baconwit, the dandy Beau Broombrain and—Lord Dunthinkin.
Which brought her back to Dungarran. Hester straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. At seventeen she had gone to London expecting the world to fall at her feet. At twenty-four she expected very little—merely to get through the Season with as little trouble as possible. Then she would return and continue her relationship with the only man she respected—Zeno. He was the man for her.
Lady Perceval was delighted when her daughter agreed to accompany them to London without further protest. She launched into a frenzy of discussions with the local dressmakers—already working at full capacity on Robina Perceval’s wardrobe. The house was swamped in samples and pattern books. It soon became clear that they would unfortunately not get to town in time for Sophia Cleeve’s come-out ball. This was held in March, and it was the middle of April before Sir James brought his wife and daughter to the house Hugo had found for them off Berkeley Square.
“Very pleasant!” pronounced Lady Perceval, looking round her as the family entered the spacious salon on the first floor. “How clever of you, Hugo dear, to find such a pleasant house in such a convenient situation. Hester, do you not agree?”
Mindful of her promise, Hester smiled at her brother and offered her cheek. “I would expect nothing less,” she said, as he kissed it. “I’m glad to see you, brother. You’re looking well—and very elegant.”
“I was delighted to hear you had agreed to come, Hester. I think we can do better this time, don’t you?”
Hester sighed. “I’ll try, Hugo. I’ll try. I can at least promise not to make a nuisance of myself.”
“We’ll do better than that,” he promised, smiling down at her with a glint in his eye. Her heart warmed to him. When Hugo forgot he was a nonpareil with a position to uphold, there was no one kinder or more affectionate. The older brother she had loved was still there, underneath the man of fashion.
Lowell came bounding up the stairs, falling over some valises on the way, and the mood of family unity was disturbed.
“I’m sorry, Mama, Papa,” he gasped. “I meant to be here when you arrived.”
“Ma’am,” said Hugo impatiently, turning to his mother. “Ma’am, I wish you would persuade your younger son to be less…less noisy! It’s like having a Great Dane in the drawing-room!”
Sir James laughed. “Let him be, Hugo! He’ll learn. How are you, my boy?”
“Well, sir, very well. I find London greatly to my taste—especially since I moved out of Sir Hugely Perfect’s rooms. Sharing with Gaines is much more fun.”
Hester’s
