One Night with a Regency Lord: Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady / The Return of Lord Conistone

‘Are you sure, Mr Spence, that there are no other legitimate heirs to the estate?’ he asked crisply.

‘None whatsoever, Lord Denville. We have done our searches very carefully, particularly …’ and here he coughed delicately ‘.in the light of the peculiar circumstances surrounding your lordship’s inheritance.’

The solicitor was far too circumspect to mention details, but Gareth knew well that Mr Spence referred to his banishment as a young man for the gravest of sins in ton circles. He had cheated at cards, or so it was alleged, a transgression that had brought instant shame to him and to his family. His grandfather had bundled him out of the country overnight, refusing to listen to his version of events.

‘Like father, like son,’ Lord Denville had said grimly. ‘I was stupid enough to let your father stay in the hope that he would reform his way of life, but he died in the gutter where he belonged. I’ll make sure that you at least cannot disgrace the family name further.’ And what, thought Gareth, had the family name come to after all?

It had all once been so different. He’d been everything to his grandfather, an unexpected light after the black years of his own father’s ruin. He remembered his childhood at Wendover Hall, his grandfather teaching him to ride and to shoot, watching over his progress to manhood with pleasure and anticipation. And then disaster, just three months on the town and accused of marking his cards.

That night was etched on his brain. The heat of the room, the guttering candles, the disarray of empty glasses. And the four other men who sat round the table: his dearest friend, Lucas Avery, General Tilney, an old ally of his grandfather’s, the languid form of Lord Petersham, whose customary lethargy belied a sharp intelligence, and Rufus Glyde, playing recklessly that night, his spiteful tongue unusually stilled. It was the General who had first seen the mark on the card and raised the alarm. He remembered the incredulous stares of his companions as it became obvious to all who had cheated.

But he hadn’t cheated. Someone there had done so, but why and how remained impenetrable. The men he played with were wealthy and had no need to cheat. But he was on a tight allowance and awaiting the next quarter’s in some desperation. It was common knowledge that he was short of money. He had vehemently protested his innocence, but his grandfather had been deaf to him and to Lucas’s staunch pleas that his friend was an honourable man; Lord Denville had listened in stiff silence and remained unmoved. General Tilney’s embarrassed account of the evening was the only one his grandfather was willing to countenance. Gareth’s disgrace was instant and so was banishment.

‘My lord, if you would be so kind, we will need to go through a number of documents for which I need signatures.’

The solicitor was trying to regain his attention. His mind left that shadowed room in Watier’s, and returned to the attorney’s untidy office. He felt he was suffocating, yet the window was wide open.

‘I need to take a walk,’ he said. ‘I need to clear my head.’

‘Of course, your lordship.’ The solicitor rose and bowed politely. ‘I will await your lordship’s pleasure.’

‘I’m staying at Crillon’s. I’ll send from there when I’m ready to go through the papers.’

‘Certainly, my lord.’

He walked quickly out of the room and down the stairs. The fresh air hit him with welcome relief. Waving away the proffered services of a jarvey, he began to make his way towards the West End of the city. He walked swiftly, street after street, hardly heeding where he went. Inside, he was seething with anger. His fortunes had changed, but his sense of betrayal remained acute. He had no wish to inherit anything that had belonged to his grandfather. Pride made it impossible that he would ever accustom himself to being the Earl of Denville or ever seek to become part of a society he deemed rotten to the core.

Without a glance, he passed the turning for St James’s, a thoroughfare housing some of the most famous gentlemen’s clubs in London, and continued as if by instinct towards Piccadilly. He came to a halt outside No. 81, Watier’s, the Great-Go as it was fondly known to its members. Somehow he’d returned to the scene of his disgrace. He walked slowly up the stairs and prepared to confront his demons.

The doorman, resplendent in black grosgrain and scarlet silk sash, bowed low.

‘Good evening, Lord Denville,’ he intoned, ‘on behalf of Watier’s, may I offer you sincere condolences on your grandfather’s death, and say how very glad we are to see you again.’

Gareth made no reply, reflecting cynically that commerce knew no moral shades. The doorman handed him on to a footman hovering by the doorway of the salon. He remembered the room immediately. The Aubusson carpet, the straw-coloured silk hangings and the endless line of chandeliers blazing light had not changed.

A group of men nearest the door looked up. They were engaged in a companionable game of faro, but at the sight of him the game stopped and for an instant their conversation withered. A man he did not know, and who was evidently in charge of the day’s bank, said something in an undervoice which caused a ripple of amusement around the table. Lord Petersham, looking a little thinner and older now, hushed the man and play continued. The incident was over in a moment, but to Gareth it was as though time had stood still. His newly acquired title and wealth might open the doors of society to him, but he would never be allowed to forget the scandal. His grim reluctance to return to England, even for a few weeks, had been prescient. He had no place here and wanted none.

He blundered down the steps and headed towards the river. The grey waters flowed bleakly by the embankment, an echo of his harsh mood. Defiantly, he decided to drink to the day he would shake the soil of England from his feet for ever and sought out a boozing-ken in a poor area of Vauxhall, known to him from his days of youthful indiscretion. He ordered a brandy and the drink was rough but fiery. He ordered another and tossed it back quickly. He wanted to sink into oblivion. Over the next hours he drank steadily, as though each drink took him one step further from a hated homeland. It was just short of dawn when he finally lurched to his feet and sought his hotel room. His brain, befuddled by brandy, was treacherous and led him in the wrong direction. Very soon he was lost in a labyrinth of unknown streets.

Fanny woke her mistress at four in the morning. She carried in her arms a set of her own clothes and clutched the stagecoach ticket tightly. She appeared nervous, her hands trembling as she gently shook her mistress awake. Her agitation was soon explained.

‘Miss Amelie, I don’t think you can go. Mr Simmonds is in the hall and he’s been sitting there all night. I was so worried I’d oversleep that I woke really early and crept downstairs to see the time. And there he was. You’ll have to stay, miss, you’ll have to meet Sir Rufus. But maybe it won’t be too bad. You’ll be rich and have your own house to manage and plenty of fine clothes and carriages and—’

‘Do you mean my father has actually set the butler to spy on me?’ Amelie was now sitting bolt upright.

‘Not exactly spy, miss. But he’s there in the hall as right as ninepence and there’s no way you’re going to get past him unseen.’

‘I have to get that coach, Fanny. I must find another way out—the back door?’

‘The scullery maids are already up and working in the kitchen. They would be bound to report it to Cook and she’ll carry it to Mr Simmonds. You’d have to get over the garden wall into the alley behind and they would know of your escape before you’d even got halfway.’

‘Then I must go out of the front—maybe you can distract Simmonds?’

Fanny looked doubtful.

‘I have it, I’ll go out of the window—we’re only on the first floor and we should be able to fashion a ladder from the sheets, long enough for me to reach the ground.’

‘You’ll never climb out of the window on sheets, Miss Amelie. It’s too dangerous. They could give way at any moment.’

‘Not if we knot them very carefully. In any case, it’s far more dangerous for me to stay. Quick, let’s hurry.’

With that she hastily dressed herself in the clothes Fanny had brought. Then, sweeping the sheets from the bed, she began to knot them urgently, calling on the maid to help. More sheets were pulled from the large linen chest, which lined the bedroom wall, and very soon they had put together an impressive rope.

‘We must make sure we’ve knotted the sheets as tightly as possible. I don’t weigh much, but it’s quite a way down.’

‘It’s as safe as I can make it.’ Fanny paused in her labours and looked anxiously at her mistress ‘ … safer than for you to be travelling alone all the way to Bath.’

‘I don’t have a choice. I have to get to my grandmother’s. I promise I’ll take care. Don’t forget,’ Amelie tried to reassure her, ‘I’ll be travelling in disguise and nobody will think of looking twice at a maidservant.’

‘But you’ll still be a very beautiful maidservant, miss, and people are bound to look at you. You must wear my cloak and make sure you pull the hood over your head whenever you’re in public.’

Her mistress fingered the black velvet robe. ‘This is your best cloak, Fanny, I can’t take it.’

‘You must, it will make people think you’re a very superior lady’s maid and they won’t bother you! And it will keep you warm. You’ve never travelled in a stagecoach before, Miss Amelie, but I’m told they’re the draughtiest vehicles out and you’ll be travelling for hours.’

‘Fanny, you’re the best friend anyone ever had.’ The maid blushed with pleasure. ‘As soon as I get to Lady St Clair’s, I’ll make sure she sends for you. Then we’ll both be safe. My father will never dare to follow us there.’

She quickly slipped the cloak over the borrowed dress, pulling the hood well down over her tangled curls. A small cloak bag lay ready with just a few of her most treasured possessions. She could take hardly anything with her, but she had no regrets. Once this room had been a beloved haven, but now it was a prison, a prison leading only to betrothal with a detested man. Sir Rufus Glyde would arrive at noon, but by then she would be miles away and her family confounded. She knew that Fanny would keep her secret, even on pain of dismissal.

She turned quickly to her. ‘I must be gone. Give me the ticket for the stage.’

‘When you get to the inn, miss, be sure to hide yourself away until it’s time for the coach to leave.’

‘I will. Once I’ve gone, you must go back to your room immediately and don’t discover my absence until the last possible moment. Please God they won’t find out that it was you who helped me.’

‘You’re not to worry, Miss Amelie. I’ll make sure they won’t know from me where you’ve gone.’ Fanny was suffused with tears, her voice cracking. ‘Now go, quickly, miss.’

She deftly tied one end of the sheet ladder to the bedpost and opened the window wide. The sash cord groaned ominously and they both held their breath. But the house was silent except for the distant sounds from the kitchen. They breathed again. Fanny played out the sheets over the window sill and helped her mistress on to the ledge. The dawn was spreading a grey light over the quiet streets. A fresh breeze fanned Amelie’s cheeks as she climbed nimbly over the ledge and began lowering herself down the improvised ladder. The descent wasn’t easy. She had to lower herself one movement at a time and the cloak bag, though light, impeded her progress. She wondered if she dared to throw it down into the cellar area below the railings. But Simmonds might well hear the noise and come to see what had caused it. So she continued to edge her way carefully downwards, the bag slung over one arm.

Fanny’s pale face was at the open window, whispering encouragement. ‘You’re doing fine, miss. Don’t look down, not far to go now.’

But her estimation proved to be optimistic. The sheets, which had seemed so prolific in the bedroom, suddenly appeared scanty and far too short. They had both forgotten the deep well below the front door steps and had calculated only to the pavement. Amelie was now at the bottom of the ladder, but still at least fifteen feet above solid ground.

She looked up at the imposing Georgian facade and then down to the terrifying black-and-gold railings that marched along the pavement. What a horrible fate that would be. She suddenly felt very sick. How on earth was she going to reach the ground? She could jump into the well, but she was more than likely to break a leg or worse. Then all chance of escape would be gone. She would have to endure her father’s fierce recriminations. She could see him now, his brow creased in red furrows and his prominent eyes glowering.

As she hung there, her light form bracing itself against the cream stucco of the house, the noise of whistling broke the stillness. Tuneless and somewhat melancholy, the whistling was coming nearer. A late reveller, perhaps, on his way home? He was almost sure to see her. Fanny had heard the noise too and began desperately to try to haul in the sheets.

‘It’s no good,’ Amelie whispered hoarsely, ‘you’ll never have the strength to get me back.’