A Matter of Class (2 page)

Lady Annabelle was the daughter of the Earl of Havercroft, whose country estate adjoined the Mason property in Wiltshire. And if there was one member of the
ton
whom Reggie's father hated more than any other, it was Havercroft. Bernard Mason had bought his property thirty years ago when his fortune had been made and had moved there with high hopes of moving also into a different world. He had extended the hand of friendship to his neighbor only to find that hand left dangling in the cold, empty air. The earl had chosen not only to snub him for his presumption, but also to ignore his very existence. He had instructed his family and all who were dependent upon him to do likewise. Mason, not to be outdone, had first denounced Havercroft as a conceited fop and then ordered
his
family and servants never so much as to
look
in his direction or that of his wife and daughter.

The best families in the neighborhood trod the tightrope of maintaining civil relations with both of
their powerful neighbors without alienating either. But their loyalties leaned toward the earl. They paid him open homage whenever he was in residence—which was mercifully infrequently—and were quietly polite to the Masons without actually including them in their social life. They would mingle with him at local assemblies only because the earl never attended them.

It had not been a comfortable thirty years. Reggie had grown up in that atmosphere of mutual hatred and scorn. He had actually come to derive some amusement from Sunday mornings at church whenever both families were in residence. Masons and Ashcrofts occupied front pews on either side of the aisle and acted as if the other family did not exist—except that, for the two men, the whole thing was ostentatious, the earl haughtily contemptuous of the family that did not exist, and Reggie's father loudly hearty as he greeted everyone except the family that did not exist. And his north country accent was always broader than usual on Sunday mornings.

“Eh?” his father said now. “What about her?”

Reggie snickered.

“She ran off with Havercroft's new coachman a few nights ago,” he said. “A handsome devil, by all accounts.
They did not get more than a dozen miles on their way to the Scottish border, though, before being caught and hauled back to town. At least,
she
was hauled back. The coachman, coward as he was, made his escape from a window at the inn where they were apprehended, and since his mashed remains were not discovered under it, it was assumed that he made his escape. Unfortunately, the two of them were seen by half the world before they were overtaken, and by now most of the
other
half of the world knows all about it too—with embellishments, I do not doubt. She is disgraced. Ruined. Illingsworth has withdrawn his suit, as one might expect, and no other man is stepping up to take his place. She will be fortunate if she can find a chimney sweep to marry her.”

He flicked a spot of lint off the sleeve of his coat.

His father was staring at him, slack-jawed.

“
Illingsworth
has withdrawn?” he said. “He is as rich as Croesus, or rather his father the duke is, anyway. How is Havercroft going to manage now?”

It was widely known that the Earl of Havercroft had made some rash investments a few years ago and that, in anticipation of making a huge profit from them, he had undertaken extensive and exorbitantly expensive renovations to his country home last year. And then his
investments had collapsed. All Season he had been single-mindedly courting Illingsworth for his daughter, his one remaining asset if he was to escape from dire financial straits.

“Ruined, is she?” Reggie's father said softly, and he smiled unseeingly into the middle distance.

Reggie became suddenly alert. His hand stilled over his sleeve.

“I am
not
,” he said, standing up abruptly and setting both hands flat on the desk, “going to marry a woman who ran off with a
servant,
for the love of God. Even if she is a lady.
With a title.
And even if you
are
visualizing marvelous revenge on your mortal enemy. If that is what you
are
contemplating, sir, you may forget it without further ado. I will not do it. Your quarrel with Havercroft is not mine.”

His father slapped one hand on the desk.

“
Ruined
is she?” he said again just as if he had not even heard his son's alarmed protest.

Reggie watched in tense silence as his father's mind worked over these salacious new facts concerning his neighbor—facts that suddenly gave him the power he had always craved. He was still smiling. It was not a pleasant sight.

“
Ruined, is she?
” he said once more, and he got to his feet and faced his son almost nose to nose across the desk. He was broad of frame and thick of waist—in contrast to Reggie's slim elegance. But they were of a height with each other. “Ee, lad,
now
we will see a thing or two.
Now
we will see who is high and mighty and who is decent enough to condescend to save him.
Now
we will see if a neighbor's hand of sympathy and friendship is not shaken after all.”

Reggie spoke through lips stiff with apprehension. He could feel a prickle of perspiration trickling down his back beneath his shirt. He could actually
hear
his heartbeat.

“You are going to call upon Havercroft to offer neighborly sympathy?” he said. “Nothing else?”

His father shook his head in exasperation at his son's obtuseness.

“For a man who was so expensively educated, Reginald,” he said, “you can be awfully daft.
Of course
I am going to offer sympathy and the hand of friendship. What are neighbors for if they can't stick together in times of trouble? But I'll offer sympathy not just in the form of airy words, lad. Anyone can offer those. My sympathy will be more practical, as has always been my
way. I am going to show him a road out of his financial troubles and a way to lift his daughter out of ruin at the same time. A coal merchant's son will be more desirable than a chimney sweep, I don't doubt. I am going to offer him
you
.”

He glared in triumph at his son.

“And if you don't like it, lad,” he added, “you have only yourself to blame. You are my flesh and blood and I have always doted on you, but right now I would have to say you deserve a haughty,
ruined
little chit for your own. And she deserves you.”

Reggie sank heavily back into his seat.

He had a strong conviction that nothing he might say would persuade his father to change his mind. He must try anyway. His father was clearly expecting it of him. He had resumed his seat behind the desk and was rubbing his hands together in anticipatory glee.

Reggie swallowed, only to find that there was not one drop of saliva in his mouth.

There was no telling yet how Havercroft would react to the proposition his father was clearly determined to make, but this match was already halfway made.

If the other half did not fall into place, he might find himself permanently estranged from his father. And
Lady Annabelle Ashton might—no,
would
—find herself ruined beyond repair.

Reggie licked his lips with a dry tongue and prepared to argue. For the moment, it was all he could do.

L
ady Annabelle Ashton, who was renowned for the rose-petal complexion that complemented her very blond hair so becomingly, was now of a complexion that
matched
her hair. She was as pale as a ghost.

It did not matter that Thomas Till had been the perfect gentleman throughout their escapade, that she had not been alone with him for very long at all, and that for most of that time she had been inside the carriage, and he up on the box driving it. It did not matter that he had never touched more than her hand as he helped her in and out of the carriage and then into the inn where they had been imprudent enough to stop for refreshments as well as a change of horses. It did not matter that he was gone from her life now, never to be a part of it again—or that she did not even know where he was. It did not matter that from the moment she had
been apprehended, she had guarded the state of her heart with silent, stubborn dignity.

None of it mattered as far as society was concerned. She was ruined anyway.

For she and Thomas had committed an unpardonable indiscretion. They had been seen leaving the Bomford ball together—at least,
she
had been seen leaving in the middle of the ball with no chaperon except her father's handsome new coachman. And they had been seen by half the inhabitants of Berkeley Square and half the servants at Havercroft House there when they had stopped for her to pick up her portmanteau from her bedchamber. Thomas had actually carried it downstairs for her and out the front doors. They had been seen by all the ostlers and grooms and indoor servants and a large number of travelers and other customers at the busy, fashionable inn where they had chosen to stop on their journey north.

And, of course, though Thomas had only touched her hand at the inn while leading her to a table for refreshments, one of those touches had been with his lips in an extravagantly courtly gesture for all to see.

Wearing his coachman's livery,
no less.

Annabelle was disgraced. Ruined. For all time. Forever and ever, amen. There was no hope for her, short of a miracle. Her confidence, which she had always possessed in no small measure, had been shaken to the core.

She would dwindle into a shriveled old maid—though
spinster
was the word her father had used, avoiding the whole concept of maidenhood. She would spend the rest of her life in sequestered obscurity, unwanted and unlamented.

Untouchable.

No man would ever have her now.

Just last week, half the gentlemen of the
ton
would gladly have had her—the ones who were single, anyway. She was reputed to be a rare beauty.

That was what she had been. Past tense.

Now the whole of the male world of
ton
would turn their backs on her if she should be foolish enough to appear before them. The
female
world would do worse. They would sweep from the room, their skirts held close to their persons lest they brush inadvertently against air that had also brushed against her, their noses all but scraping the ceiling as they went.

She was a pariah.

And she had brought it all on herself. She had stepped quite deliberately over the brink, confident that her life would unfold as she had planned it to unfold.

Now she could only feel a wave of panic clutching her stomach. She could no longer direct the course of her life. For the present at least she was totally at the mercy of outside forces, most notably her father.

It was the most wretched feeling she could possibly imagine.

She was not going to be sent back to Oakridge Park, the country home in Wiltshire where she had been brought up, her father's principal seat. Even there she might contaminate the neighbors, who so respected her father. Instead she was to be sent into the outer darkness of Meadow Hall close to the Scottish border, a minor property of her father's, which did not in any way live up to its name. Or so she had heard. She had never been there to see for herself. But that was about to change. It was where she was destined to spend the rest of her mortal days.

Barring a miracle.

She no longer believed in plans, no matter how carefully made. She was afraid to believe. She had been a fool.

Her mother was not going to be allowed to go with her, even though she had wept and pleaded and cajoled and even lost her temper—a rare occurrence that had filled Annabelle with a terrible guilt. Mama ought not to be made to suffer. But of course she
was
suffering.

At this precise moment, Annabelle was still in London, where she had been enjoying the entertainments of the Season before dashing off with Thomas Till. Though
enjoying
was not quite the right word. How could she enjoy herself when the man she loved could not similarly enjoy the same events and she could see him only rarely and under very clandestine circumstances? And how could she enjoy herself when she had been given strict orders to encourage the attentions of a man she loathed simply because he was rich enough to pay off Papa's debts in exchange for her hand in marriage?

Her father had been diligently courting the Marquess of Illingsworth for her all Season and had been confident of success. The marquess was only fourteen years older than she and only half a head shorter and only half bald.
And
he was besotted with her. She had nothing whatsoever to complain of—at least that's what Papa had always said whenever she
had
complained.

She was shut up in her room, from which all books—except the Bible—and embroidery and painting and writing supplies had been ostentatiously removed lest she find some way of amusing herself and forgetting her plight. And the door had been locked from the outside so that she could be in no doubt that she was a prisoner at her father's pleasure.