A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance (7 page)

Eight Years Earlier

He
held the little dog up like an offering and bowed his head. But she knew he was
laughing at her. She snatched the puppy from his hands and cuddled him to her
breast, kissing the little black nose.

‘You have no right to bring a fierce
brute like him into the Park. What if it had been a child he attacked?’

‘
He
is a
she
. Bess would
never hurt a child. Look at her.’ And, indeed, the big dog was now lying
quietly beside her master, her tongue hanging out as she panted, tired after
all that enjoyable exercise.

‘Oh, well, thank you for rescuing Button,
in any event. Even if your Bess did not mean to harm him, he could have been
killed running in front of your horse as he did.’ She smiled and held out her
hand. ‘I really am very grateful.’

He stood, bent over her hand, and kissed
it. ‘Demonstrate your gratitude by allowing me to walk with you a little.’
Without waiting for her answer, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm,
and they walked on—he leading the big chestnut and followed by faithful Bess, she
meekly pulling Button by the leash.

Zanthe tumbled head over heels in love
that morning, and Launceston, for all his worldly knowledge and sophistication,
soon made it clear that he was just as deeply in love with her.

He had, however, a reputation as a
dangerous blade. The tale of his losses spread among the gentlemen in the clubs,
and they shook their heads to see a promising young man going to the devil.
Careful Mamas forbade their daughters to stand up with him at Almacks, for he was
known to be a desperate flirt, and more than one young lady had suffered a
decline upon his account.

But Launceston did not flirt with
Zanthe. From the first, there was such a bond between them that flirtation
would have seemed cheap and rather pointless. Every fine morning, Zanthe took
Button for his walk and, by seeming chance, she encountered the Viscount on her
way to Green Park, or Kensington Gardens, or any other patch of green where
they might talk of everything under the sun, oblivious to the knowing glances
that followed them.

Lady Forester, an indolent and stupid
woman, was a very bad chaperone, as it was her practice to retire to the card
room whenever she accompanied Zanthe to a ball or assembly and remain there all
night. And so, for one glorious month, Zanthe waltzed in his arms unchecked,
and upon her lovely face, there was such a glow of happiness as rendered her
beauty dazzling.

‘Who is that young lady?’ demanded Lord
Brookenby of his host, having returned to Town after an absence of some months.

The Earl of Stockport, whose ball it
was, glanced across the room to where Zanthe was seated, sipping lemonade, and
laughing at something an admirer had said to her. ‘Oh, that is Zanthe Sidney,
Rothmere’s daughter. Lovely creature, ain’t she?’

‘Rothmere? Oh, you mean the
antiquarian?’

‘That’s it; eccentric fellow. Married a
Greek lady, or perhaps she is Turkish, something outlandish at all events. But
she was a beauty, too, mind.’

‘Will you present me?’

His host cocked a knowing eye. ‘Better
watch out, Robert, my boy. You’re at the dangerous age. Won’t do to be losing
your head over a pretty face. Besides, the
on dit
is that she and
Launceston will make a match of it.’

‘Launceston? I have heard his pockets
are all to let.’

‘Oh, the girl don’t give a fig for
that.’

‘No, but her father might.’

A few minutes later, Zanthe was
confronted by her host and a tall, distinguished gentleman of perhaps
five-and-forty. ‘Allow me to present Lord Brookenby, who very much desires to
be acquainted with you.’

Zanthe stood, smiled, and dropped a
polite curtsy. She held out her hand. ‘How do you do, Sir.’

He bowed over her hand. ‘All the better
for this meeting, Miss Sidney.

She surveyed him, liking the twinkle
that lurked in his grey eyes and the kindness in his expression. When he asked
her to dance, she accepted readily enough, for she knew she must not stand up
with Launceston again that night or it would set tongues wagging and come to
her chaperone’s ears. But, later that evening, she stole away from the ballroom
to meet him in a little antechamber. He took her in his arms and kissed her,
but after a few moments, he lifted his head and said disagreeably, ‘Who was
that fellow?’

‘What fellow?’

‘The tall man you were dancing the
Boulanger with.’

‘Oh, that was Lord Brookenby. Why?’

‘He’s in love with you.’

‘Nonsense! He has only just met me. And
besides, he is quite old.’

He tightened his hold upon her and
buried his face in her hair. ‘That makes no odds. I loved you the moment I saw
you, and I swear he did, too.’

‘His wife has only been dead a year.’

‘Well, he looks lively enough to me.
I’ll wager his heart is not buried in the grave.’

She lifted her hand to caress his lean
cheek. ‘Darling Jarvis. You are jealous. But you know you have no need to be. I
liked him very well but—but—it is you that I—love.’ Naturally, after this,
neither spoke for a very long time, and when they did, what they had to say did
not concern Lord Brookenby in the least.

Zanthe had other suitors, for she was
the prettiest debutante of the Season and, although her Papa was not wealthy, she
was well-born and very charming. However, it was acknowledged by the Ton that
Launceston and Brookenby were the front-runners, and the betting was pretty
much evens until Zanthe’s father returned to England.

The first intimation she had of this was
when she walked into the breakfast room one morning and found him seated by the
fire, reading a newspaper.

‘Well, my dear,’ he said, walking
forward to give her a hug, ‘you look very well. How have you gone on without
us?’

She returned the hug and lightly kissed
his cheek. ‘Very well, just as I always have, Papa.’

‘Aye, you’re a good little thing. I have
never worried about you. But, to tell the truth, it is on your account that I
decided to return to England. I have to tell you, my dear Zanthe, that I have
had a very advantageous offer for your hand.’

‘Oh, has he written to you. I did not—’
she faltered and was silent, as it was born upon her that no one, least of all
her Papa, could call an offer from the Viscount ‘advantageous.’

‘Yes, yes,’ chuckled Lord Rothmere
indulgently. ‘I see how it is from your pretty colour. Lord Brookenby has
written a very handsome letter. You have made a complete conquest of him, you
know. He makes no bones about it. Madly in love
—
and with my
little girl! It could not be better.’

The colour he had found so pretty
drained from her cheeks. ‘Oh no! No! I cannot marry him!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Rothmere’s tone was
icy. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’

‘Lord Brookenby is everything that is
kind and obliging, but I cannot love him. Why, he is
your
age, Papa.’

This tactless remark did not help her
cause. ‘Neither his lordship nor I is exactly a dotard, Zanthe. Brookenby is
everything a young woman of sense could ask for in a husband: kind, honourable,
and well-looking. I advise you to think well before you authorize me to refuse
his offer.’ He looked at her and said shrewdly, ‘There is someone else, is
there not? It was not Brookenby’s offer you anticipated when you asked if
he
had written to me.’

 She hung her head, but when he repeated
the question, she said defiantly, ‘Viscount Launceston and I—we have—he says he
is in love with me.’

‘Indeed? Has he offered for you?’

It occurred to Zanthe that, although the
Viscount had spoken much of love, he had not mentioned marriage. She had simply
taken it for granted. ‘Not exactly,’ she admitted.

‘I think I will have a little talk with
this young man.’ She looked up in quick alarm, but he said reassuringly, ‘I
hope I am not an unreasonable man. I will not force you into marriage with
Brookenby if there is a possibility of happiness for you elsewhere. I desire
only what is best for my children.’

Zanthe was fond of her father, but she
had never seen any evidence of this concern in the past and was not sure she
believed in it now. However, a few days later, she was sitting with her aunt
and Papa in the morning-room when the butler announced the arrival of Viscount
Launceston to see Lord Rothmere. She jumped up eagerly but sat down again as
she recollected that she could not be present at this meeting, however
important to her future happiness it might be.

Her father was absent from the room for
half-an-hour, during which time Zanthe, quite unable to be still, paced the
room, sighed, picked up her work and flung it down, read the first page of a
book over and over, and generally drove her aunt distracted.

‘Oh, I hear my father’s step! Aunt, he
must be coming to summon me—what was that?’

‘Merely the front door slamming shut, my
dear.’

Zanthe ran to the window and pulled
aside the heavy crimson curtain just in time to see Launceston run down the
steps and stride off down the street. ‘He has gone. But—what—why?’

Lord Rothmere entered the room looking
grave. ‘I am so very sorry, Zanthe.’

‘Sorry? What do you mean, Papa?’

‘Come into the library. Your aunt will
excuse you.’

She followed him into the book-lined
room and sank into a chair, for her knees felt unaccountably weak. ‘He has
gone?’

Her father took up a stance by the fire,
his hands clasped behind him. ‘I am afraid so.’

‘What did he say?’

‘My dear, you were deceived in him. He
had no serious intentions. When I represented to him that he was standing in
the way of a very good match for you, he immediately agreed that it would be
best if he were to leave Town for a while
—
to allow you to
recover from your infatuation, you know.’

‘But, he loves me!’

‘Oh, I daresay he fancied himself in
love, but he was never thinking of marriage, my dear. He admitted as much. When
he marries, it must be to an heiress, for he has mortgaged his land to the hilt
and will find himself bankrupt shortly unless he can repair his fortune.’

‘No! No! I will not believe it. He could
not be so cruel!’

‘Alas, young men are cruel, my dear.
That is why I would see you wed to Brookenby. You will be safe with him.’

She saw Launceston just once more before
he left Town. She had been dancing with Brookenby when she caught sight of him
watching her. He was standing by an open window that let out onto a little
terrace. When Brookenby returned her to her aunt, she had feigned sickness and,
refusing her aunt’s escort, had made her way towards the window, claiming that
the cool air would revive her. She walked out onto the terrace and sensed that
he had followed her. She felt a light touch upon her shoulder and turned.

‘Well, Sir. I understand you are going
away.’ She spoke lightly, determined not to show him how hurt she had been.

He shrugged. ‘There is nothing for me to
stay for.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘You have accepted Brookenby’s offer?’

Her throat felt tight and painful; her
eyes burned with hot, unshed tears. Then she lifted her eyes to his face and
thought his eyes, too, looked curiously bright. ‘Papa wishes it.’

‘No doubt. Brookenby is one of the
wealthiest men in England and will make generous settlements upon you.’ He took
her hands in his. ‘We had an amusing time, Zanthe, playing at love. Will you
not kiss me goodbye?’

He bent his head, seeking her lips for
one last time. Instead, he received a stinging blow across the cheek. ‘How dare
you!’ she cried and ran from him back into the ballroom, straight into Lord
Brookenby’s arms.

‘Miss Sidney. Your aunt sent me to find
you. She was concerned. You are ill!’

‘No, no, please take me somewhere quiet.
I must be alone.’

‘I will certainly take you somewhere
where you can be quiet. But, I beg pardon, I will not leave you alone. You are
not well.’

Presently, she found herself in a
deserted parlour lit only by the light of a full moon. He made her sit upon the
sofa and seated himself beside her, patting her hand in a fatherly way.

‘Now, my dear, tell me what has
happened.’

Instead, she turned and cast herself
upon his chest, sobbing out her pain and humiliation. He wrapped his arms
around her and rocked her gently, soothing her as though she had been a little
girl. He kissed the curls that brushed his chin and then, when she looked up,
startled, he kissed her lips. ‘Marry me, dear little Zanthe. I will take care
of you and make you happy.’

And so, she did.

‘And
that was how we were parted,’ sighed Zanthe, wiping her eyes and sniffing a
little. ‘It was Papa’s doing, for Jarvis really had offered for me and—oh, it
makes me so angry—Papa told him that I was ready to accept Brookenby and wished
to be free of—of—my
entanglement
with him.’

‘Poor Lord Launceston. How he must have
suffered.’

Zanthe laughed. ‘You do not pity my
sufferings?’

‘Oh, of course. But now it can all be
put right, can it not?’

‘Yes, easily, if Jarvis were not so
stubborn. He says now he is not worthy to be my husband. Well, I have had one
worthy husband, and I do not wish for another!’

Susanna looked at her curiously. ‘What
do you plan to do?’

Zanthe looked mischievous, and her eyes
sparkled. ‘I have two strings to my bow. First, I will make him think that I
intend to marry someone even worse, and then—I shall bring up the heavy guns.’

‘The heavy guns? Whatever do you mean?’

‘You will see. But it cannot be at once,
for it might spoil things for Margery; and I must make sure she is safe first.’
She shivered a little. ‘We had better go home. It is getting chilly, and I
think it may be coming on to rain.’

Indeed it was. By the time they reached
the chair-stand, their pretty muslins were soaked through. But the chair-men
were speedy and, before long, they had been deposited, dripping, in the lofty
entrance hall of their hired house.

Margery came bustling out of the
morning-room. ‘Zanthe, Susanna, you will catch your death of cold. Run upstairs
at once and get out of those wet things.’

Zanthe’s teeth were chattering a little,
but she said, ‘Presently. Who have you got in there?’

‘It is Mr and Miss Cholmondeley and the
Signora. We are discussing the programme for the concert.’

‘Oh, excellent! I shall be down
directly. Come along, Susanna. Why, that muslin is positively indecent when wet!
I daresay mine is as bad.’

Ten minutes later, the two young ladies
entered the morning-room. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Cholmondeley, Sir. Signora Villella,
how charming it is to meet you again.’ Zanthe then drew forward Susanna. ‘Allow
me to present my young friend to you all. This is Miss Fallowfield, who is
staying with us for a little while.’

Susanna dropped a curtsey to each in
turn. The Cholmondeleys acknowledged her kindly, and the Signora with
magnificent insouciance. ‘Pretty child,’ she said, approvingly.

‘Have you worked out the programme yet?’
Zanthe seated herself beside Miss Cholmondeley and looked over her arm to the
paper she had resting upon a book on her knee. There were a great many starred
and scratched-out items, but there seemed to be the elements of a concert
there. ‘How very kind, Signora. You are giving us Handel and Mozart. What a
treat! Who else will perform?’

‘Well, Mrs Weatherspoon is very kindly
to permit Miss Amelia and Miss Katherine Weatherspoon to delight us with a duet
upon the pianoforte. And Mrs Preston will recite that charming poem,
The
Solitude of Alexander Selkirk
, Cowper, you know and young Mr Templeton and his
friend will perform the quarrel scene from
Julius Caesar
, Brutus and
Cassius—such wonderful poetry!’

Zanthe was visited by one of her sudden
impulses and made no attempt to resist it. ‘It is going to be a splendid
concert, dear Miss Cholmondeley, but perhaps you require another singer, not to
be compared with the Signora, of course, but to, shall we say, prepare the
ground for her? Miss Fallowfield sings a little, and I’m sure she would be
delighted to help in such a good cause.’

Miss Cholmondeley clasped her hands
together in an ecstasy of gratitude. ‘Oh, dear Lady Brookenby, how did you know
we were just wishing for another songstress? It would be delightful
for, of course,
Signora Villella will appear last, as befits our prima donna. And I must admit
there is perhaps just a little too much non-musical entertainment in the first
half of the programme. If Miss Fallowfield would honour us—you will? Oh, Miss
Fallowfield, how very kind!’

Zanthe glanced up and caught the full
blast of fury in the Signora’s narrowed eyes. She merely smiled and shook her
head a little. As the Cholmondeleys got up to leave, she said, ‘Signora
Villella, will you stay a moment longer? I need—er—that recipe—for—er—’

‘
Zuppa alli Pomidoro
,’ interposed
Susanna, composedly.

‘—yes, that one—that you were kind
enough to promise me.’

The prima donna sat down again with a
great rustling of silk. ‘Very well. I stay.’

Miss Cholmondeley showed a marked
inclination to linger and hear the recipe but was ushered from the room by
Margery and her brother. There was a short silence.

Then the storm broke: ‘What—what I
say—are you thinking of? Are you mad? You think I want my Susanna to sing—in
front of these—
volgari
! Was it for this I bring her to you? This is the
respectability you swore to—’

‘Yes, it is. There could be no better
way of bringing her to the attention of Society. A virtuous, pretty young woman
taking part in a charitable undertaking in company with ladies like Mrs Preston
and the Weatherspoon girls is just what will bring her the right kind of notice.’
She saw that the Signora was suddenly looking thoughtful. ‘And,’ she said in the
tone of a clincher, ‘young Mr Templeton is extremely wealthy and well-born. You
know, Ma’am, as well as I, the intimacy that a venture of this nature engenders
among the participants.’

The Signora nodded. ‘True, very true. It
was well thought of.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘You shall sing Marzelline’s
aria from Act One of
Fidelio
. It is a novelty still, here in England,
and you sing it very well. You shall be dressed all in white and wear camellias
in your hair, and this Mr Templeton will fall in love with you at once.’

Susanna merely smiled her secret, little
smile, very well pleased at the prospect of singing in public and quite
uninterested in the possibility of being fallen in love with.

It was at this moment that a smart rap
was heard at the front door and a gentleman’s voice asking for Mr Sidney
reached their ears. A few moments later, the morning-room door opened, and Sir
Marmaduke Carlyle was ushered into the room.

Sir Marmaduke was a man of a good height
and was exceptionally broad in the shoulders and chest. He had a handsome face,
very dark and with a high colour that betokened an over-indulgence in claret.
His abundant side-whiskers were glossy, curled, and scented with pomade. He was
dressed in the height of fashion, with very high peaks to the shoulders of his
coat and a wasp waist to draw attention to his athletic physique. He had a good
leg for a pantaloon and wore highly polished hessian-boots. Despite all these
attributes, Zanthe, surveying him critically, thought he did not look quite the
gentleman.

She arose from her chair, smiling, and
held out her hand. ‘Sir Marmaduke, you have come to call upon my poor brother.
This is so very kind of you. He has told me so much about you; I am very happy
to renew our acquaintance under more conventional circumstances.’

He bowed very low over her hand. ‘I have
been counting the hours until my friend Sidney should be well enough for this
visit,’ he said in an unexpectedly light voice. ‘But I am come at his request,
or I should not have ventured to intrude upon you.’

‘Oh, I know. He told me he had asked you
to call.’ She turned to Miss Fallowfield and said, ‘Susanna my love, did you
not tell me you have a letter to write? You should not lose any time. Off with
you; Sir Marmaduke will excuse you.’

Susanna slipped from the room while the
gentleman was making his bow to the Signora. That lady regarded him shrewdly
and then cast a thoughtful look at Zanthe, who was all smiles and blushes. She
pursed her lips a little and then said, ‘I, too, must take my leave. Will you
give me your arm to my carriage, Lady Brookenby?’

‘You will excuse me for a moment, Sir?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ he answered
jovially.

The shower had passed, and the sun was
once more shining. The two ladies stood upon the steps, the contrasting dark
and fair beauties making a picture worthy of a better audience than the butler
and a couple of chair-men lounging at the stand across the street.

‘You be careful what you’re about, my
dear,’ cautioned the Signora, dropping her Italian accent and mannerisms like a
cloak. ‘I see what you’re up to, of course, but if you want to make Jarvis
jealous, you should pick on someone a bit safer. I wouldn’t trust that one as
far as I could throw him. Nasty type, believe me; I’ve known a score of them.’

‘Oh, but I don’t merely want to make him
jealous. That would not fit the purpose at all, for it would just make him
unhappy and not advance my case one whit. No, he must believe he has to rescue
me. And for that, I need to be in some kind of fix.’ She laughed happily. ‘Sir
Marmaduke is exactly what I require.’

‘Have you thought what might happen if
he doesn’t rescue you?’

‘Oh, I am not afraid of that. Jarvis is
a
born
rescuer. Besides, what could happen? I am not a poor little
maidservant to be ravished by the wicked nobleman.’

‘No, but you have a handsome fortune,
and I’ll wager his pockets are pretty much to-let. I wouldn’t put it past him
to try and compromise you so you have to marry him,’ the Signora said, bluntly.

‘Oh, do you think so,’ said Zanthe in
delighted accents. ‘That would be perfect!’

Signora Villella burst out laughing. ‘Well,
I see you don’t need my advice.’

‘Not yet, but I shall certainly let you
know if I do.’ She paused and then said in a considering tone, ‘It could do no
harm, I suppose, if you just mentioned to Jarvis that you had met Sir Marmaduke
at my house. It might take a little time before the gossip reached him, otherwise.’

‘Don’t you worry; I certainly will. He
needs to keep a better eye on you, young lady, and so I shall tell him!’

The two ladies parted upon the best of
terms, and Zanthe returned to the morning-room to find Margery and her brother
entertaining Sir Marmaduke. She was somewhat put out. Parry’s presence made no
difference to her plans, but it would be difficult to flirt with Sir Marmaduke
under her sister-in-law’s disapproving nose.

However, she need not have worried. The
gentleman required no encouragement for his gallantries whatsoever. By the time
he took his leave, he had solicited both Zanthe and Margery to stand up with
him at the Fancy Ball in the Upper Rooms on the following Friday, and engaged
himself to drive Parry, with his sister in attendance, the next fine afternoon
in his phaeton so that the ‘poor old fellow’ could get out into the fresh air.

Zanthe was rather expecting a scold from
Margery when their visitor had departed, but it was no such thing. Her
sister-in-law was in raptures.

‘What a charming man! Such an air, such
breeding! My dear Zanthe, I could see how he admired you, too. It is just what
I could have wished for you.’

‘Oh? I am surprised. I had not thought
him the kind of gentleman to take your fancy. We do not know very much about
him, and—’

‘But one can see at a glance that he is
used to move in the first circles.’ She lowered her voice and, with a glance at
Parry, who was dozing beside the fire, said, ‘I have been so concerned about
you. I could see how Lord Launceston’s presence in Bath affected you. To be
sure it could not be—’

‘Launceston? What are you talking
about?’ Zanthe had never spoken so sharply to her sister-in-law before, but
Margery did not take offence. She merely took one of Zanthe’s hands between her
own and said, ‘You see—I know.’

‘You know—what?’

‘My brother told me all about it. How
Launceston won your heart and then cruelly deserted you.’

‘No! He did not. You do not know all. It
was Papa’s doing. Jarvis would have married me. He has told me how it was.’

‘Easy to say that now.’ Margery shook
her head. ‘You are too trusting, my dear.’

Zanthe toyed with the idea of showing
Margery exactly how mistaken she was about both gentlemen, but she refrained.
Launceston was no fool. It would be difficult to convince him that she truly
meant to encourage Sir Marmaduke’s suit. Margery’s innocent enthusiasm for the
connection must lend verisimilitude to her stratagem.

‘Well, we will not quarrel about it. I
must go up and change my gown before dinner. We are to go to the play tonight,
are we not?’

‘Yes, indeed. Mr Cholmondeley has taken
a box. It promises to be an enthralling evening. Shakespeare, you know.’

‘Oh,’ said Zanthe, dully. ‘Shakespeare?’

‘Hamlet.’

‘Hamlet? It is very long, is it not,
Hamlet?’

‘But full of the most wonderful poetry.’

Zanthe sighed. She was not of a bookish
turn of mind, and the only memories of Shakespeare she retained from the
schoolroom were rather painful. When Parry called after them as they departed,
‘Rather you than me, Zan,’ she responded with a comical grimace of despair.