Francesca had changed surprisingly little. How well he now remembered that intriguing surface air of discipline, the tight control of her mouth and face, which might lead the uninitiated to believe her dull—hard, even. He knew better. The real Francesca’s feelings could suddenly blow up in rage, or melt in passion…His blood quickened even now at the memory of her total response to his kisses.
How absurd! Nine years of living in the world, three of them as a very rich man, had provided many more sophisticated affairs. None had been permanent, but few had lasted for as short a time as one day—yet he remembered none of them with half as much pleasure. How could he have forgotten?
From the first moment, he and Francesca had felt no constraint in one other’s company. Their initial encounter had effectively done away with the barrier she customarily put up to protect herself from the rest of the world. It was difficult to retain an air of cool reserve when you have just sent a perfect stranger flying into the river! But he rather thought that, even without that sensational beginning, he would have found the real Francesca. From the first he had had a strange feeling of kinship with her that he was sure she had felt, too.
He pulled a chair up to the window and sat down, his eyes fixed on the untended lawns of Witham Court without seeing them. The years faded away and what he saw was the sun, glinting through the leafy branches of the trees down on to the stream which formed the boundary between the Witham and Shelwood lands. He had come with his cousin Jack—he would never in those days have been invited for himself. Jack’s father had begged Marcus to go with his son, for the play there was deep, and Jack a compulsive gambler. It hadn’t worked.
Heedless of Marcus’s attempts to restrain him, Jack had wagered vast sums, more than he possessed, and had lost to everyone, even including his cousin. After a disastrous night of yet more hard drinking and gambling Jack, quite unable to honour his debts, and mindful of his father’s words the last time he had asked for more money, had attempted to shoot himself—a dramatic gesture, which his cousin and friends had fortunately frustrated.
Marcus smiled wryly. Jack had survived the attempt to take his own life, but it hadn’t done him much good. Just a few years later he had fallen at Waterloo along with so many other, better men. Marcus blanked out the thought of Waterloo—the memory of that carnage was best forgotten. He got up and went to the door.
‘There you are, Marcus! I was just about to send someone to look for you. Charlie’s waiting for us.’
Marcus suppressed a sigh, then smiled. ‘How charmingly you look, Charmian. That dress is particularly becoming. Do you know where Nick is?’
Later that night, when the company was relaxing over an excellent supper, he was reminded again of Francesca. Charmian brought up the incident on the road that afternoon.
‘And then we met this scarecrow of a girl! Nick pushed her into the ditch, and I swear it seemed the best place for her!’
She looked magnificent in a wine-red silk dress, her black hair piled high and caught with a diamond aigrette given to her by Marcus in the heyday of their relationship. An impressive array of other jewels—trophies from her many admirers—flashed about her person, but they glittered no more brightly than her dark eyes. She was in her element, flirting with Marcus, making the others laugh with her wicked comments on London life, and teasing a besotted Nick about his driving, laughing at him over her fan.
Nick flushed and muttered, ‘The horses were scared of the thunder. And she just stood there. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Oh, but, Nick darling, you were marvellous, I swear! Then Marcus got down and went to see what had happened—the wretched girl had vanished. Just the odd boot waving in the air, covered in mud. Pure rustic farce. Marcus insisted on going to see if she was all right, and of course she was, once he’d pulled her out. But what a sight! 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?