There she stood, draped in mud and weeds, a quiz of a sunbonnet stuck on her head. But Marcus seemed quite taken with her. I began to think he had fallen in love at first sight with this farmyard beauty.’ She paused dramatically. ‘I was almost jealous!’
There were shouts of disbelief and laughter and Charmian smiled like a satisfied cat. ‘But I haven’t finished yet—you must hear this—it beats all the rest. She wasn’t a village girl at all, it seems. Marcus said she owned most of the land round about. A positive heiress in disguise, looking for a prince. So which of you is going to rescue her, muddy boots and all?’
Marcus walked over to the side and helped himself to more wine. He said nothing.
‘I wager it was Fanny Shelwood,’ said Lord Witham.
‘Shelwood?’ said one of the others. ‘Of Shelwood Manor?’
‘Yes—her mother was Verity Shelwood. Now, ask me who her father was…No? I’ll tell you. Richard Beaudon.’ There was a significant pause. ‘D’you see? The girl was sired by Richard Beaudon, but her name is Shelwood. Not Beaudon. Adopted by her grandfather. You follow me?’
Having ensured by sundry nods and winks that his guests had indeed followed, Lord Witham went on in malicious enjoyment, ‘I don’t suppose many of you know about the Shelwoods. They keep quieter now than they used. But when the old fellow was alive, he was always boring on about the company I invited down here. As if it was any of his business! A bunch of killjoys, the Shelwoods. I told him more than once—a chap can have a few friends in his own house if he wants, can’t he? Have a bit of fun?
‘But Sir John never liked me—a real holier-than-thou johnny, he was. And then—’he started to grin ‘—and then old Sir Piety’s daughter kicks over the traces with Rake Beaudon, and runs off to the West Indies with him. All without benefit of clergy.’
‘You mean that girl is a…a love-child?’ breathed Charmian. ‘The poor thing! So very plain, too. It hardly seems fair. But who was Rake Beaudon?’
‘You never met him? A great gun, he was. Played hard, rode hard, had more mistresses than any other man in London. Didn’t give a damn for anyone.’
‘I don’t think I’d have liked him,’ said Charmian.
Lord Witham smiled cynically. ‘Oh yes, you would, my dear. The ladies found him irresistible. That’s how he managed to seduce the daughter of old Straight-lace Shelwood himself. Didn’t profit from it, though. Sir John disinherited her. Refused to see her again. That’s probably why Beaudon never married her.’
‘Then why is this Fanny girl here now?’
‘Father packed her off when her mother died. Didn’t want to be saddled with a bastard, did he? Cramped his style a bit.’
‘If she’s coming in to the Shelwood estate, I wouldn’t object to making an offer and giving her a name myself. Tidy bit of land there,’ someone said. ‘I could do with it, I don’t mind telling you. Shockin’ load of debts to clear.’
‘Don’t think of it, Rufus, old dear. Waste of time. Charmian’s wrong to say the girl owns the land. She don’t own anything, and, what’s more, she never will. The estate belongs to her aunt, and she wouldn’t leave her niece her last year’s bonnet. Hates little Fanny.’
‘I find this all quite remarkably tedious,’ said Marcus, yawning. ‘I don’t mind gossip—Lady Forrest’s latest Society on-dits are always worth hearing—but…what one’s neighbours in the country get up to…really! The last word in boredom.’
‘Don’t stop him, Marcus! I’ve finished my fund of stories, and I find this quite fascinating!’ said Charmian. ‘Come, Charlie. Tell us the rest. It’s just the thing for a good after-supper story. What did this Fanny do?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t Fanny who dished Cassandra Shelwood. It was her mother. Verity Shelwood stole her sister’s beau—the only one the poor woman ever had.’
‘Rake Beaudon was going to marry Cassandra Shelwood? I don’t believe it,’ said the man called Rufus.
‘It hadn’t got as far as that. But he was making a push to fix his interest with her. He wanted the Shelwood money, y’see, and Cassandra was the elder sister. But when he saw Verity, he lost his head, and ended up running off with her. Not surprised. The elder Miss Shelwood was always a hag, and Verity was a little beauty. Tiny, she was, with golden curls, brown eyes—a real little stunner.’
He paused. ‘Y’know, it’s damned odd—she was a beauty, Rake Beaudon was a devilishly good-looking fellow, but Fanny, their daughter, is as plain as they come. And when Auntie kicks the bucket, which, from what I’ve heard, could happen any minute, the poor girl will be looking for a roof over her head. Shame she don’t take after her ma—a pretty face might have helped to find one, eh, Rufus? But she must be well into her twenties; she don’t even know how to begin to please. Never been taught, d’y’see?’
‘I thought we were here to play cards,’ said Marcus coldly. ‘Or is it your intention to gossip all night?’
‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Marcus,’ said Charmian. She turned to Witham. ‘Marcus doesn’t think she’s plain.’
‘You may ignore her, Witham. I made the mistake of saying something complimentary about one woman to another. It is always fatal, even to someone as beautiful as Lady Forrest. Are we to play?’
Marcus was angry, but taking care to conceal it. His first impulse had been to rush to Francesca’s defence, to tell them to stop their lewd, offensive gossip about a girl who had never done any of them any harm. But second thoughts had prevailed. To enter the lists on her behalf would do more harm than good—it would merely give them more food for speculation. Better to keep calm and distract their tawdry minds. They would soon lose interest now they had got to the bottom of Francesca’s story, as they thought. Cards would soon occupy their thoughts, once they were back at the tables.
But he himself found concentration difficult that evening. From all accounts, Francesca’s life was no happier now than it had been nine years before—and there was every reason to fear that it might get worse. He had been angry at her rudeness on the road, and with some justice, but looking back, surely there had been desperation in her tone? She had looked…ridiculous, standing there covered in mud as he drove past. Ridiculous, but gallant. Endearingly so.
Francesca had refused to gaze after the chaise as it disappeared in the direction of the village. Instead, she had turned to walk briskly back to the Manor, for as the mud dried her clothes were becoming stiff and uncomfortable. She had no wish to compound her discomfort by getting caught in the storm. But she was in a state of quite uncharacteristic agitation.
She was normally a philosophical girl. She had learned over the years to endure what she could not change, to find pleasure in small things instead of pining for what she could not have. She had gradually taught herself to be content with her friendship with Madame Elisabeth, her old governess, who lived in the village, to find pleasure in her drawing and sketching, and to abandon childish dreams of encountering love and affection from anyone else and of having a home and family of her own.
But just this once, she found herself wishing passionately that she was powerful, rich and beautiful enough to give this oaf the set-down he deserved! The awareness that she still felt a strange attraction to the oaf was impatiently dismissed. Her conduct during their earlier acquaintance was a dreadful warning
