“No? Surely not? You are funning me!” Olivia laughed delightedly as her sister shook her head and assured her every word was true. “It sounds positively gothic—like one of those popular novels that has everyone laughing in public and terrified in private.”
“Dear Mrs Radcliffe.” Beatrice smiled. “The Mysteries of Udolpho was quite my favourite. How amusing her stories are to be sure. What you say is right, Olivia…but it is not quite as funny when you have to live near such a disreputable man.”
Olivia nodded. “No, I suppose it would be uncomfortable. Tell me, did the present Earl inherit his title from the one who banished his son and killed himself?”
“Yes. After the death of the Earl and his son Lord Angmering there was no one else left—or at least, if Rupert left an heir no one has heard of him to this very day.” Beatrice shook her head. “No, I am very sure there was no child. An exhaustive search was made at the time, I have no doubt, and no record of a marriage or a child was found. Had it not been so, the title could not legally have passed to Thomas Cleeve, and it was all done according to the laws of England, I am very sure.”
Olivia nodded, acknowledging the truth of this. “Besides, even if Lord Angmering had by some chance had a son…what would there be for him to inherit if his grandfather had lost all his money gambling?”
“Nothing in law, I suppose. You may be certain, had there been an heir, he would have come forward long ago, to claim his title and anything that might still belong to his family.”
“I suppose so…” Olivia was reluctant to let her romantic notion go, and smiled at her sister. “That was a fascinating story. I wish someone would come back to the villages and declare himself Lord Angmering’s son, don’t you?”
Beatrice threw back her head and laughed heartily. “I should never have told you—you will be expecting something to happen, and I do assure you it will not. No, my dearest sister, I must disappoint you. I think the Earl of Yardley is secure in his title—and since his fortune is his own, he does not need to prove anything.”
“No, of course not.” Olivia stood up and went to embrace her sister. “Thank you for telling me that story—and thank you for taking me in with such kindness.”
“You are my sister. I have always loved you. I would not have wished for you to be in such circumstances—but I am happy to have you living here with us.” Beatrice looked at her intently. “You have not regretted your decision to jilt Lord Ravensden?”
“I regret that I was deceived into accepting him,” Olivia replied, “but I do not regret telling him that I would not marry him.”
“What did he say to you?”
“I—I wrote to him,” Olivia said, her cheeks pink. “I could not have faced him, Beatrice. I was so…angry.”
“What made you change your mind about marrying him, dearest?”
“I was told by a rather spiteful girl…a girl I had hitherto thought of as my friend…that Ravensden was marrying me only to oblige Lord Burton, that he wanted me only as a brood mare, because he desperately needs an heir. He is past his green days, and no doubt imagined I should be grateful for the offer…”
“He could not have been so cold-blooded?” Beatrice was shocked. “My dearest sister! I believe you have had a fortunate escape. Had you not learned of his callousness before your wedding, you would have been condemned to a life of misery at this brute’s hands.”
Olivia took her hands eagerly. “You do understand my feelings,” she cried, her lovely eyes glowing. “I was afraid you would think me capricious—but when I realised what he had done…I realised I could not love him. In fact, I saw that I had been misled by his charm and his compliments.”
“His charm?” Beatrice frowned. How could this be? It did not equate with the monster she had pictured. “Was he so very charming?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. Everyone thought so…but I found his humour a little harsh. Though of course he was toadied to by almost everyone because of his wealth, and the Regent thinks him a great wit.”
“It seems to me the man was eaten up by his own conceit,” said Beatrice, who had never met him in her life. “I see what it was—you were the catch of the Season and Burton’s heir. He wanted the fortune…”
“But most of it will be his anyway,” Olivia said, frowning. “That is what is so particularly cruel. He had no need to oblige his cousin. Why propose to me if he did not care for me in the least?”
Beatrice saw that her sister was not so indifferent as she pretended. Whether it was her heart or her pride that was most affected, it was equally painful for her.
“Well, we shall talk of this again,” she said. “Do not distress yourself, dearest. You will have no need to meet Lord Ravensden again, so you may forget him. One thing is certain, he will not dare to follow you here…”
Beatrice spent a restless night dreaming of dis-inherited heirs, pagan orgies and—inexplicably!—a man being boiled in oil. She woke early, feeling tired and uneasy. Which served her right for spending a great deal of the evening recounting stories of the wicked Marquis, making them as lurid as possible for her sister—who was clearly of a romantic disposition.
Had Olivia been other than she was, she might have settled for the comfort marriage to Lord Ravensden could provide, but she could not help her nature, and Beatrice could not but think she had made the right decision.
“Let me but get my hands on that creature,” muttered Beatrice.
Oh, he should pay, he should pay!
Olivia was certainly trying to settle to her new life, and had so far been very brave, but it was bound to be hard for her. They must all do whatever they could to lift her spirits in the coming months.
Such were Beatrice’s thoughts as she left her father’s house that morning, the day after her sister’s arrival. It was the beginning of November now and a little misty. Mindful of the cold, she had wrapped up well in her old grey cloak, which was long past its best.
She had decided to visit the vicarage, her intention to ask the Reverend Edward Hartwell and his wife to dine with them the next week. She would also send a message to Ghislaine, and beg her to come if she could. It was the best she could offer Olivia by way of entertainment, though obviously not what she was accustomed to…The sound of hooves pounding on the hard ground gave her a little start.
She paused, watching as horse and rider came towards her at a gentle canter. This was not the bruising rider who had almost knocked her down a week ago, but a stranger. She had never seen this gentleman in Abbot Giles or any of the four villages.
His clothes proclaimed him a man of fashion, even though he was dressed simply for riding. As he came nearer, she could see that he looked rather attractive, even handsome, his features striking. He had a straight nose, a firm, square chin, and what she thought must be called a noble bearing.
Beatrice realised the rider was stopping. He swept off his hat to her, revealing hair as thick and glossy as it was dark—almost as black as a raven’s wing. He wore it short, brushed carelessly forward in an artfully artless way that gave him a dashing air. He might have come straight from the pages of Sir Walter Scott’s poems, some noble creature of ancient lineage.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the stranger said, giving her a smile that was at the same time both sweet and unnerving in that it seemed to challenge. “I wonder if I could trouble you to ask for directions? I have lost my way in the mist.”
“Of course. If I can help, sir.” Beatrice glanced up into his eyes. So startlingly blue that she was mesmerised. Goodness! What a remarkable man he was to be sure.