Mistress Of Madderlea

Charlotte appealed to Sophie and, receiving a slight nod, turned back to him. ‘That is excessively kind of you, my lord, we should be most happy to accept.’

What else could she have done? Sophie asked herself, after he had arranged to call for them the following morning at ten and taken his leave. It would have been ungracious to have spurned his help, especially when she acknowledged they probably needed it.

‘He has fastened himself to us like a leech,’ Charlotte said as they went up to their rooms to divest themselves of their outdoor clothes. ‘It is Madderlea and your fortune he has in his sights and I wish it were not so. We shall both be ruined when the truth comes out that I am not mistress of Madderlea and have no fortune.’

‘Why?’ Sophie threw her bonnet on the bed and followed it with her cloak, glad to be rid of the out-modish garments. ‘Young gentlemen of the ton are forever playing tricks on people. They bam their way into select gatherings, pretend to be coachmen or highwaymen and no one thinks anything of it. Why shouldn’t we?’

‘We are not young gentlemen.’

‘No, but we have gone too far to turn back now. We will tell everyone when we return to Leicestershire at the end of the Season. No harm will be done because you are going back to Freddie and as for me…’

‘Yes? What about you?’

‘Unless I can find a man who comes up to my expectations and has humour enough to laugh at our masquerade, I shall go back single.’

‘What about Lord Braybrooke? Are you not a little taken with him?’

‘No, I am not,’ Sophie retorted, far too quickly to be convincing. ‘He is too arrogant and you heard all those questions about Madderlea. He is undoubtedly counting his chickens.’

‘He does not need Madderlea, he is heir to a dukedom.’

‘Then he is also greedy.’

It was all very well to find fault with the man, to try to convince herself that he had not come within a mile of her expectations; the truth was that, in the space of two days, he had touched a chord in her, made her aware of feelings and desires she never knew she had. The pressure of his hand, the light in his eye, the soft cadences of his voice when he was not sparring with her, even his disapproval, excited her and lulled her at the same time. He was a threat to her peace of mind. She must remember Madderlea and her responsibilities and perhaps the danger would go away.

‘He is not the only fish in the sea,’ she said. ‘We must make a push to meet more people and buying a carriage is the beginning of our crusade.’

‘Chickens! Fish!’ Charlotte laughed. ‘Are we to make a tasty dinner of him?’

They both fell on to the bed in paroxysms of mirth at the idea. ‘Served with potatoes and cabbage and a sharp sauce.’ Sophie giggled. ‘Followed by humble pie.’

There was nothing humble about Viscount Braybrooke and Sophie was obliged to acknowledge that when he called to accompany them to buy the carriage. He was dressed in frockcoat and pantaloons with a neatly tied cravat peeping over a yellow and white striped waistcoat. His dark curls were topped by a high-crowned hat with a curled brim which made him seem taller and more magnificent than ever. She was determined not to let him undermine her confidence and treated him with cool disdain, an attitude he seemed hardly to notice, being equally determined to pay particular attention to Charlotte.

But when it came to discussing the different carriages on offer at Robinson and Cook’s premises in Mount Street, Charlotte, aware that it was Sophie who would be paying for it, once again fell silent. It was Sophie who found questions to ask about the advantages and disadvantages of curricles, phaetons, high-perch and low-slung barouches, landaus and tilburys, and their comparative prices, and it was Sophie who asked about horses once they had chosen a barouche because it could seat four easily and Lady Fitzpatrick would inevitably be accompanying them on most of their jaunts.

Once the arrangements had been made for it to be finished in dark green and the Roswell coat of arms to be painted on the doors, they left and were driven by Richard to Tattersall’s where he purchased a pair of matched greys on their behalf and arranged for them to be delivered to the mews which served the houses in Holles Street. Luke would be in seventh heaven looking after them, Sophie knew, and prompted Charlotte politely to decline his lordship’s offer of interviewing coachmen.

They arrived home in good time for nuncheon and he stopped to pay his respects to Lady Fitzgerald, treating her with great courtesy and earning her enthusiastic approbation.

‘We are beholden to you, my lord,’ she said on being told of the successful outcome of their visit to the coachbuilder. ‘I am sure Miss Roswell could not have made such a bargain without you.’

‘Indeed, no,’ Charlotte said. ‘We are in your debt.’ He smiled and bowed towards her. ‘Then, if you wish, you may discharge it by coming riding with me tomorrow morning. Mr Gosport has said he will be delighted to escort Miss Hundon.’

Surprisingly she did not consult Sophie before accepting. ‘Thank you, we shall be delighted.’

Sophie’s feelings about that were so ambivalent she spent the remainder of the day going from depression to elation and back again in the blinking of an eye. Richard Braybrooke had, all unknowingly, wormed his way into her heart while so patently wooing the Roswell fortune embodied in her cousin. Mentally she went over the list of attributes she had decided were required for the master of Madderlea and incidentally, the husband of its mistress, and realised she knew very little about Richard, Viscount Braybrooke.

True, he was handsome and well turned out, but he was also conceited and arrogant. Was he kind to his servants, good with children, an honourable man? She did not know and only further acquaintance would tell her, a prospect that filled her with joyful anticipation, until she remembered that his attention had been almost entirely focused on Charlotte, the supposed heiress, which made her wonder if his grandfather, the Duke, was not as plump in the pocket as everyone had supposed and her fortune was the main attraction. Or was she maligning him—was his heart really set on Charlotte?

Jealousy and her love for her cousin raged within her so that she could not sit still, could not sew or read, was snappy with everyone and then immediately sorry. Charlotte could not bring her out of it, because Charlotte herself was worried about the deception they were practising and what she was going to say to his lordship should he offer for her.

‘I like him well enough,’ she told Sophie in the privacy of her room. ‘But I would never consider him as a husband. I am determined on marrying Freddie and nothing and no one will change that. Besides, as soon as he discovers that you are the heiress and he has been deceived…’

‘He will want neither of us,’ Sophie snapped. ‘So there is no need to put ourselves into a quake over it.’

It was a relief to find a pile of invitations on the breakfast table the following morning. Lady Fitzpatrick, in a housegown and with her hair pushed under a mob cap, was delighted. ‘I knew it would happen, as soon as you were seen out with Lord Braybrooke,’ she said. ‘None of the mamas of unmarried daughters are going to let you have a clear field where he is concerned. And the ladies with sons will not allow him to take all the limelight when you have so much to offer, dear Charlotte.’

She chuckled. ‘Oh, this is going to be a very interesting Season. Now, girls, go and dress for your ride. I have already sent for your mounts to be brought to the door.’ She waved the bundle of invitations at them. ‘When you return we will decide on which of these to accept and make plans for your own come-out ball.’

‘A ball?’ queried Charlotte as they mounted the stairs together. ‘How can we possibly have a ball here? There is no ballroom and the drawing room is too small, even if we moved all the furniture out.’

Sophie was too tense to worry about the answer to that question. ‘No doubt her ladyship will find a way. Let us take one day at a time. Today is the day for riding.’

In spite of her mental anguish, Sophie longed for the exhilaration of a good ride and made up her mind that she would enjoy it and not spend precious time worrying about what could not be helped. She had not bought a new riding habit because the one she already had was perfectly serviceable. Frogged in military style with silver braid, it was of deep blue velvet and fitted closely to a neat waist, becoming fuller over the hips. Her beaver hat, trimmed with a long iridescent peacock feather which curled around the brim and swept across one cheek, was a creation to turn heads.