Perhaps the dinner at Fratcombe Manor was part of that punishment, an ordeal she had to undergo in order to be cleansed? That thought was oddly calming. The pounding in her head was even beginning to recede. It was a sign.
She was going to have to find a way of meeting, and enduring, the trial to come. It was her only hope of overcoming the demons that haunted her.
It was late afternoon when Jon strolled into his mother’s sitting room in the east wing of Portbury Abbey, his principal estate. She always sat here in the afternoons, to avoid the sun, she said, which was ruinous to a lady’s complexion. Since Jon had returned from Spain as brown as a nut, she had stopped adding that the sun was ruinous to a gentleman’s complexion, too.
‘Jonathan! At last! I had almost given you up!’
He came forward to kiss her hand. ‘Good afternoon, Mama. I hope I see you well?’
‘Tolerably so, my dear.’ She patted the place by her side, but before he could sit down, she said, ‘Have you ordered tea? No, of course you have not. Ring the bell, would you, dear?’
Nothing had changed. His mother was well-intentioned, but she did have a lamentable tendency to treat her sons as though they were still in short coats.
He crossed to the empty fireplace to pull the bell. How long would it be before she drove him to distraction, all over again? He had told her he planned to remain at the Abbey for three weeks, to deal with estate business, but he had barely set foot in the place before he was wondering whether he might need to create an urgent summons back to the peace of Fratcombe. It was yet another reminder of the duty he had been trying to ignore. If he wanted to reorder this house according to his own lights, rather than his mother’s, he had to find himself a wife. This time, however, he was determined that the wife would be a lady of his own careful choosing. He planned to take his time. Eventually, he would install a new countess at the Abbey, and his mother would move back to the Dower House. Eventually, he would have peace.
The door opened. Jon ignored it. It was his mother’s role to give instructions to the servants.
‘Oh, forgive me!’ It was a young and educated voice, not a servant’s.
Jon spun round. Standing in the doorway was possibly the loveliest young woman he had ever seen, with guinea-gold curls framing a heart-shaped face and eyes the colour of bluebells. Damn it! His mother was match- making again! Just how many beauties had she installed here to tempt him? Had she turned his working visit into a house party on the sly?
The young lady dropped Jon a very elegant curtsy and then came into the room. ‘Forgive me, ma’am,’ she said again. ‘Had I known you had company, I should not have intruded.’
‘This is not company, this is my son, Jonathan, home to do his duty as host. And about time, too.’ His mother rose. ‘You will permit me to present him to you?’
The girl blushed the colour of overripe strawberries.
‘Lady Cissy, I should like to introduce my son, the Earl of Portbury, lately a major with the army in Spain. Jonathan, make your bow to Lady Cissy Middleton, second daughter of the Duke of Sherford.’
Jonathan swallowed his ire and bowed courteously. It was not the child’s fault, after all, that his mother was overstepping the mark yet again. As a dutiful son, he could not possibly respond in kind.
Lady Cissy sank into a deep curtsy. When she rose, she offered him her hand with practised elegance. ‘I am delighted to meet you at last, my lord,’ she said, looking up at him through thick golden lashes and then opening her eyes very wide, as if she were beholding something amazing.
‘Practised’ was definitely the word, Jon decided, with an inward groan. Why did his mother always choose rank and artifice over principles and honesty? He found himself remembering Beth Aubrey’s sharp retorts with more admiration than he had felt at the time. She told the truth. She defended the weak. And she did not flirt. Unlike Lady Cissy.
He helped the girl to a seat beside his mother. He had a feeling this was going to be a very tedious afternoon.
Three sentences from the lady’s lips confirmed his worst fears. She was as empty-headed as most of her ilk. What’s more, she had a high-pitched giggle that would drive any sane man to drink.
Chapter Four
Jon ignored his brother and ate his breakfast in silence. His house party ordeal was almost over. Three interminable weeks, just as he had feared. Escape had been impossible, of course, for what reason could he possibly have given for deserting a houseful of his own guests? He had been trapped by his own good manners. At least, none of the resident beauties had trapped Jon into proposing, in spite of the underhand tricks that one or two of them had tried. The rest were either so shy that they were struck dumb in his presence, or so empty-headed that their conversation bored him to death. They all had rank or beauty, to be sure, but that was no compensation. It was a relief that they would all be gone on the morrow. There was not one restful woman among them.
The door opened to admit an unexpected visitor.
‘Miss Mountjoy! How splendid!’ Jon’s brother, the Honourable George Foxe-Garway, sprang up and stepped forward to bow over the lady’s hand. Then he waved the butler away and pulled out a chair for her.
Jon also rose and bowed, distantly. From their very first meeting, a week before his wedding to Alicia, he had instinctively distrusted Louisa Mountjoy, who was Alicia’s long-time companion and bosom bow. He had discovered soon enough that his instincts were right.
In the early weeks of their marriage, Alicia had played the loving, doting wife, in public and in private. For Jon, it was a glorious liberation from his father’s emotional tyranny. He dared to have feelings again, and even to show them. Until the day of his twenty-first birthday, when he came upon Alicia cavorting naked with her lover-Louisa Mountjoy!
He had instantly seen how he had been manipulated, but he could say and do nothing, for fear of scandal. He had realised he would remain bound, until death, to a woman who would play the part of his wife in public, but would never again share his bed. His only solace was to vow that no one-and especially no woman-would ever have the power to humiliate him again. His father was clearly right-feelings made a man vulnerable. Only a fool trusted anyone but himself.
Now, all these years later, Jon was free of Alicia at last. He was not free of Louisa Mountjoy, however. Under the terms of Alicia’s will, he had been required to provide an annuity for the Mountjoy woman so that she might enjoy financial independence for life. Jon had been sure she would be gone from King’s Portbury when he returned from Spain. Unfortunately, she had taken a cottage in the village and was a frequent visitor to the Dower House instead. It was much too late now for Jon to tell his mother the real truth.
George, Jon’s only surviving brother, was talking animatedly to their visitor. Judging from his expression, George thought at least as highly of Miss Mountjoy as his mother did. That was surprising, given George’s tastes in women: he frequented low-class brothels and thought nothing of attacking defenceless servant girls. Not in Jon’s house, though. Not any more. On the last occasion, Jon had almost broken George’s jaw. And he had made it clear that if George repeated the offence, he would find himself booted into the gutter, and penniless.
If George had the run of the estate, no woman would be safe. And none of the tenants, either. George had no idea of duty. He believed the purpose of an estate was purely to provide money to fund the owner’s pleasures. In Jon’s absence, George had ‘persuaded’ the agent at Fratcombe to advance him considerable sums against his expectations as Jon’s heir. The results were disastrous, as Jon had discovered for himself during that one brief spell of home leave. He knew Portbury would have been next. In the end, Jon had had to sell out and come back to England to prevent his brother from doing irreparable damage.
He turned to their visitor. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, ma’am?’ he asked, silkily. It was a peculiar time for her to pay a call. Most of the lady guests were still asleep; any that were awake would be breakfasting in bed.
‘Oh, nothing of importance by contrast with the great affairs of running an estate. Merely a receipt that I promised to your lady mother.’
A receipt? The Dowager had never in her life concerned herself with receipts. Cooking was to be left to cooks.
