Chapter One

Four years later

It was late at night when Miss Jane Verey’s laggardly suitor finally arrived at Ambergate. Dinner had been held for hours until Cook had complained bitterly that the sauce béarnaise had curdled and the pheasant compote had dried out and stuck to the serving dish. With a sigh and a glance at the clock, Lady Verey had had the food brought in and had eaten alone with her daughter, both of them uncomfortable in the unaccustomed finery donned especially for their visitor.

After dinner, they had sat for another hour in virtual silence, broken only by Lady Verey’s plaintive cry of, ‘But why does he not come? I am certain that he said the fifteenth! Perhaps he has had an accident on the road…’

Jane had fidgeted with her needlework, but had said nothing at all. There seemed to be little to say. After two months of vague promises and broken arrangements, Lord Philip Delahaye had still not honoured their agreement and met his chosen bride. He seemed a reluctant lover indeed, which sat ill with the information Jane had been given that the Delahaye match, as well as having her late father’s blessing, was Lord Philip’s most earnest desire.

Eventually, when Jane’s yawns had become too pronounced to be ignored and the clock had chimed twelve, Lady Verey patted her daughter’s cheek.

‘You had best retire for the night, Jane. I shall wait up in case Lord Philip comes. Such disappointment is hard to bear, I know, but perhaps the morning will bring better news.’

Jane kissed her mother and went off to bed. She did not feel it necessary to explain that her disappointment amounted to very little at all. She had been persuaded to receive Lord Philip’s addresses since it had been made very plain to her that they were now quite poor and that her father’s dying wish was that her future be secured. Her brother Simon, the new Lord Verey, had been fighting with Wellington’s armies and had not been heard of for a twelvemonth. Ambergate was falling about their ears and the servants stayed only out of loyalty. It was a melancholy picture.

It is not that I do not wish to marry, Jane thought, as she climbed the stairs in the candlelight, for I know I have very little choice. It is just that I imagined-hoped-that it might be so very different…And she thought of her henwitted friend Sophia Marchment, and could not help smiling. Sophia had imagined herself in love with no less than four young gentlemen in the last six months, but then she had remembered that none of them resembled the young man she had dreamed of so long ago on St Agnes Eve…

Jane had no illusions that her marriage would be other than a business arrangement, a matter for sound common sense, and yet part of her wished for, if not a romantic passion, at least a mutual regard.

If I can just like him, she thought, then matters need not be so bad. And I hope that I do like him, for Mama can be most determined and I know that she means for the match to be made…

She stood before her bedroom mirror for a moment and wondered whether Lord Philip would like her. So familiar was she with her own features that Jane could scarcely see their charm. She decided that she looked rather like a cat, though admittedly a sleeker creature than the mangy tom that patrolled their stables. Her face had lost all its childhood fat and was now almost triangular, tapering from wide-set hazel eyes to a pointed little chin. Her mother was always telling her that she had the Verey nose, a delicate little projection that always looked weak on the face of Jane’s male ancestors but suited her own proportions far better. The whole was framed by thick black hair as dark as night.

Jane sighed and started to undress for bed. She could see little to commend herself and did not recognise her own intriguing mixture of innocence and allure. She donned her cotton nightdress hastily, for the spring evenings were still chilly and Ambergate had many draughts. Her best dress of slightly faded white silk was laid carefully aside, looking as forlorn as Jane felt.

It was five minutes after Jane had slipped into her bed that the front door bell pealed, harsh and loud in the night. It rang once, then several more times, with irritable repetition.

A loud male voice shouted, ‘Deuce take it! Is the whole house asleep? Hello there! Wake up, I say!’

Jane slid out of bed and tiptoed along the corridor to the wide landing at the top of the stairs. She could see Bramson, the butler, hastily shrugging himself into his coat as he hurried to the door. The old man was almost visibly shaking at the shock of the sudden arrival and all the noise, and Jane could not but wish Lord Philip would leave the bell alone. The continuous jangling was giving her a headache.

Lady Verey herself now came running out of the parlour just as Bramson swung the door open. It was clear to Jane that her mother must have fallen asleep in front of the fire, for her coiffure had started to come down on one side and there was a vivid red mark on her cheek where it must have been pressed against the side of the chair. She had had no time to tidy herself and was straightening her dress with nervous fingers. Jane’s heart went out to her as she saw the anxious look that creased Lady Verey’s face. She was heartbreakingly eager for the visit to be a success.

‘What the devil do you mean by keeping me standing out there in the cold!’ The same loud, masculine voice demanded wrathfully, as Lord Philip stepped into the hall. ‘You!’ He pointed at Bramson. ‘See to the stabling of my horses! They are worn to the bone by these devilish bad roads! And you…’ he turned towards Lady Verey ‘…kindly take me to your mistress!’

With horror, Jane realised that he had mistaken her mother for the housekeeper. Fortunately, Lady Verey’s good manners, if not Lord Philip’s, were up to the occasion.

She dropped a slight curtsy.

‘How do you do, sir. I am Clarissa Verey. I am sorry to hear you have had so poor a journey. Would you care for some refreshment before you retire?’

Jane waited to hear Lord Philip apologise for his late arrival, his poor manners or perhaps both. Instead, he looked down his nose as though he could not quite believe that the fright who was addressing him could really be the mistress of the house. He gave a slight bow. ‘How do you do, ma’am. Some dinner would be excellent.’

‘The servants are all abed,’ Lady Verey said, colouring a little under Lord Philip’s critical scrutiny. ‘I hope a cold supper in your room will suit your lordship…’

Lord Philip gave a sigh. ‘I suppose that will suffice! What extraordinary hours you do keep in the country, ma’am! Why, if this were London, we would only now be sitting down to our second course! Quite extraordinary!’

Jane shrank back into the shadows as her mother steered their guest towards the staircase, but she had ample chance to see Lord Philip’s rather disparaging look as he took in the old-fashioned furnishings and the threadbare carpet. Something close to fury rose in her. She could see that Lady Verey was both offended and upset, but was bravely trying to maintain a flow of pleasantries as they mounted the stairs.

Lord Philip, however, was only concerned with the arrangements for his luggage and turned to shout over his shoulder at the footman, ‘See to it that someone brings my bags up carefully, man! The last time I stayed in the country some dolt of a servant managed to ruin half my cravats with his man-handling!’

For a moment Jane indulged in the satisfying thought of kicking Lord Philip’s bags straight down the stairs, then she dived for her bedroom door as her mother ushered him down the corridor. She huddled under her covers, knees drawn up to her chin, and thought about what she had just seen and heard. How could this be her intended husband, this arrogant, boorish man who had made his contempt for country manners and country living so obvious in the space of only a few minutes? How could he humiliate his hostess so? His rudeness and scorn were not to be tolerated!

Her thoughts were distracted by the rattle of a tray and the chink of china. Lady Verey had sent hotfoot to the kitchens and even now she was labouring along the corridor, weighed down with food. Jane slipped out of bed again, opened her door a crack and pressed her ear to the gap. She heard the door of the green bedroom open and Lord Philip drawl in a tone very different from the one last used,

‘Well, my pretty, what good fortune can have sent you to me?’

Jane pressed a hand to her mouth. Surely he could not be addressing Lady Verey! Then she realised that her mother must have left Lord Philip to the mercy of the servants and it was Betsey, the prettiest of the maids, who had run the errand. Betsey was giggling.

‘I’ve brought your supper, sir!’ There was a pertness in her tone that Jane had heard before when Betsey was flirting with the youngest footman, or Jack from the stables.

There was a crash and another giggle from the maid. ‘Oh, sir! And you come a-courting here, as well! Whatever will Miss Verey say?’

‘A pox on Miss Verey!’ Jane heard Lord Philip say lazily. ‘What do I care for her? And a pox on this paltry dish! Here’s one much more to my liking! You’re a cosy armful-come and give me a kiss…’

The door swung closed. Jane, burning with a mixture of embarrassment and fury, slammed her own door, careless of the noise. How dared he! First to arrive so late that he missed dinner, then to scorn Lady Verey’s hospitality and show his contempt for her home, and finally to seduce one of the maids before he was barely across the threshold! Jane knew that she would never accept Lord Philip now, even if he went down on bended knee.

Surely…surely Lady Verey would not insist on the match now…Jane shivered in the draught from the door. If only she could be that sure, but their situation was so perilous. With Simon missing, they had no one to protect them. The estate needed firm management and a great deal of hard work. Lord Verey’s entire fortune was left to Simon, but for Lady Verey’s widow’s jointure and Jane’s small dowry. It seemed inevitable that her mother would wish her to marry well and marry soon, perhaps so soon that she would be prepared to overlook Lord Philip’s crass bad manners.