Lady of the Lock Read online

Another turn onto an even narrower road, which ran through a thick copse of trees. Mandy let out a sudden gasp and realized she’d been holding her breath. Fool! She had to be calm, stoic. Montsale must never know how much she cared.

  The trees suddenly parted to reveal a small church, its golden stone similar to the stonework in Bath and Oxford, but before Mandy could get a good look, it was gone as the post chaise plunged into another tunnel of trees. A short one. Another gasp as they emerged from the trees and Castle Carewe rose before them. “It’s a real castle,” Mandy whispered. It’s . . . crenellated.”

  “With a moat,” John added just as softly. “I didn’t think there was a moat in England that hadn’t been filled in long since.”

  The post boy pulled the horses up at the gatehouse, with Mandy shamelessly listening to his brief exchange with the gatekeeper. “Straight across the bridge and into the bailey,” she repeated, thoroughly awed. “Papa, it’s straight out of a fairytale.”

  The gate swung open and the post boy moved slowly forward over a narrow bridge, sun-kissed water sparkling on both sides. If there had once been a drawbridge, Mandy saw no sign of it. “Do you think it has a portcullis?” she asked, still whispering.

  “Very likely, but I suspect it’s been fixed in the up position for many a year now.”

  Mandy had visions of the portcullis crashing down, shutting them out, if not cutting the post chaise in two, the Merriwethers along with it. They truly did not belong in this grand place, a proud symbol of the Challenors since . . . “How old is it, do you think?”

  “Fourteenth century without a doubt. And the most well-preserved example I’ve ever seen.”

  “Fourteenth?” Mandy echoed. “How is it possible?”

  “In those days they built walls strong enough to fend off armies, and clearly five centuries of Challenors have kept it in good repair.”

  They were now close to the castle, driving across a well-scythed, if modest, park. Mandy, more curious than worried about her dignity, stuck her head out the window. “There is a portcullis,” she called, peering upward as they clattered beneath the sharply pointed iron teeth. Eyes shining, she turned back to her father. “I cannot believe it. Surely no one lives like this anymore.”

  John Merriwether’s answering smile faded as the questionable purpose of their visit to Castle Carewe reared its ugly head. “You’re quite right, my dear. Very few, except royalty, live in this style. It is a burden as well as a privilege.”

  As the chaise rattled to a stop, Mandy bowed her head, swept by despair. At High Meadows it had been possible to dream, but Castle Carewe shattered her dreams to dust. She had allowed herself a slim hope that the duchess’s invitation was well-meant, but now there could be no doubt. The invitation was intended to put her in her place, to show the engineer’s daughter how wholly inadequate she was to join five hundred years of chatelaines at Carewe family seat.

  So be it. The post chaise had rattled to a stop, a footman was opening the door. Quickly now! Mandy sucked in a breath, lifted her chin high, and accepted the footman’s hand. Papa and she were guests for a week. She would not turn tail and run.

  They sat down twenty-two to dinner. Mandy could only thank the duchess for placing her far down the table from the formidable Duke of Carewe, who had taken one look at her when they were introduced, proffered an abrupt nod enhanced by a scowl, and moved on to his next guest. The duchess, thankfully, had been all that was gracious, enough so that Mandy renewed her hope she would get through the week with minimal nastiness from Lady Christabel and Lady Olympia. For, naturally, both Mandy’s bêtes noires were present, along with their parents, although the girls’ fathers seemed more inclined to run appreciate gazes over her body than object to her doubtful ancestry.

  Not surprisingly, Montsale’s sister Lavinia, her husband, and two friends of the Challenor brothers, whose names Mandy could not remember, were among the guests gathering in an elegantly appointed anteroom for sherry before dinner. Also present was a Mr. Edward Fawley, accompanied by his wife and daughter, a shy young thing of marriageable age. Fawley was a member of the K&A Canal Committee and well-known to her papa—a gracious gesture by the duchess, Mandy had to admit. But her determinedly proud façade nearly broke when she realized Lady Drucilla Lunsford, an attractive and charming widow, had been invited to keep her father amused. The last persons to join the group for sherry before dinner were the vicar and his wife, a genial couple of late middle-age who seemed determined to be pleasant to one and all.

  Dinner passed in a blur, with Mandy never able to recall what she ate. Somehow she managed a lively conversation with Mr. Chester Carlisle, a friend of Jeremy’s, and managed to ask the right questions of Lord Eagleton, Montsale’s new brother-in-law, who was seated on her left, setting that gentleman off on a monologue about his finest hunts. But having Montsale seated directly across from her, with no bulging epergne or vase of flowers to hide behind was most disconcerting. No matter how hard she strove to keep her eyes on her plate or gaze with rapt attention at her dinner partners, somehow she ended up looking at Montsale just as he looked at her. Enough to give anyone the shivers, let alone a lowly cit attempting to pass herself off as quality.

  Those flint gray eyes singed her. They hurt.

  Her worst fears were about to come true. The invitation to Castle Carewe was all a sham. After dinner the ladies would shred her into little pieces and call for a footman to throw her remains into the moat.

  Ah no! She was the granddaughter of a duke, great-granddaughter of an earl. Just because Bridgewater had never married and the title had died with him didn’t mean the blood in her veins was any less noble.

  If only she felt noble. But she lived and breathed a world of work, where everyone did their appointed task and received wages in return. She could never be part of a world where women were prized only for their skill at producing heirs. And, well—Mandy felt hot blood rushing to her face—perhaps for other skills as well . . . but surely those were mostly left to mistresses.

  “Miss Merriwether, are you quite all right?”

  Hastily, Mandy assured Lord Eagleton there was no problem, but of course she glanced up straight into Montsale’s inquiring eyes. She gulped, ducked her head, and settled down to surviving what her papa later described as “enough courses to choke a horse.” It was the longest dinner of her life. And the evening was only beginning.

  Bourne chafed while the gentlemen drank port. Visions of Mandy being attacked from all sides danced before his eyes. Surely Maman would not allow it. But the drawing room was large, and the duchess could not be everywhere at once. Yet hopefully, she was keeping Mandy by her side . . . buttressing her with the vicar’s wife on the other. Bourne had been long enough in Bath to hear just how vicious the Pontesbury and Silverdale witches could be, with their daughters eagerly following their lead.

  “I say, Montsale,” declared Lord Giles, a friend since Oxford days, “that’s quite an array of fillies your mama has lined up. Jumping into parson’s mousetrap, are you?”

  “Since I have sworn not to marry ’til well past thirty, Maman must be parading ’em for Jeremy. Isn’t that right, brother dear?” Bourne added, raising his voice to carry half-way down the table.

  “I’d take the leap this very night . . . if I could have Miss Merriwether,” Lord Jeremy returned without so much as a blink. “What say you, Vicar? Will you tie the knot?”

  The vicar, though a trifle pale, turned a stern look on the youngest Challenor. “As you know quite well, my lord, I cannot do so without a special license. Nor,” he added with great clarity, “without either Mr. Merriwether’s or the young lady’s consent.”

  “Enough!” the duke interjected. “We are celebrating Montsale’s birthday, not planning a wedding. And I believe it is long past time we should join the ladies.” After a scowl for his younger son, who had obviously imbibed more port than he could hold, the Duke of Carewe rose and led the gentlemen to the drawing room.

  Mandy swore she
would be indebted to the duchess for the rest of her life. She had kept Mandy by her side, graciously steering the conversation away from London gossip toward topics in which Mandy could participate. The duchess recounted the various activities available for the ladies’ entertainment and invited them to choose those of most interest. The ladies soon settled on a visit to Roman ruins, a sketching party, and an afternoon of archery for the younger ladies, and, inevitably, a shopping excursion to Banbury. Except for archery, the duchess said with a rueful smile, the men would undoubtedly not be seen from dawn to dusk, being fully occupied with shooting, fishing, cards, and billiards.

  Mandy was almost feeling comfortable as the gentlemen wandered into the room. Until she saw her papa’s face. Oh. Dear. What had happened?

  The duke, uncharacteristically jovial, clapped his hand and declared, “Come now, ladies, we are thoroughly tired of our own company. Who will be the first to entertain us?”

  “I will,” his eldest son returned. “And Miss Merriwether shall turn my pages.” Smiling broadly, he held out a hand toward Mandy.

  God bless him. It seemed likely she might escape being hounded to perform, at least for this one night.

  They managed two classical pieces and an old folk tune, for which Mandy was quite certain Montsale needed no music. Which was just as well because she occasionally missed his infinitesimal nod, forcing him to hiss at her to turn the page. Demonstrating, once again, what an ignoramus she was when it came to music. Hopefully, however, only Bourne recognized her failings.

  Bourne. Merciful heavens, what if she forgot and called him by the name she reserved for her dreams. The name that never should have reared its head in a gathering in the drawing room of a ducal mansion.

  The other three young ladies performed on the pianoforte, although Miss Isabel Fawley had to be coaxed before demonstrating a fine soprano, well suited to two songs in the style of Italian bel canto. But it was Lady Drucilla who astounded them all, with a deft-fingered turn on the harp that would rival the finest professional musicians. Mandy heard exclamations of “By Jove! and “Capital!” echoing from the men. She glanced at her father, to discover his scowl banished, his face wreathed in admiration. Poor Mrs. Honeycutt. Mandy almost felt sorry for her. Whatever trap the duchess was baiting, her father seemed to have walked straight in.

  Montsale suggested cards, and during the hubbub of deciding what games would be played and who would partner whom, Mandy slipped out of the drawing room. The moon was full and the gardens beckoned, her nerves much in need of restoration. With the help of a footman she found her way to the back of the house and exited into the moonlit garden.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A cool night breeze wafted over the high stone walls that enclosed the garden, adding a nip to the night, but it was just what Mandy needed—a sharp draft to clear her head of conflicting impressions that threatened to tear her apart. She paused, breathing in the fresh breeze, the scent of earth and a surprising array of flowers for September. She moved deeper into the garden, admiring a container spilling over with fuschia. In the dim light the only other flowers she recognized were the tall silhouettes of hollyhocks at the back of a border and bright dahlias, mums, and rudebeckia nearer the front. Somewhere ahead, a fountain tinkled, drawing her ever forward.

  Four curved benches of white marble circled the fountain in the center of the garden. After lowering herself to one of the seats, Mandy allowed her shoulders to slump, her chin drooping toward the décolletage of her best dinner gown. Words that had echoed in the back of her head all evening came rushing in with the force of an agonized scream.

  “You cannot expect me to dine with that . . . that creature!” Lady Christabel shouted just as Mandy passed the Mainwarings’ suite of rooms on her way downstairs to dinner.

  “However much we may despise the chit,” Lady Pontesbury’s voice declared, “she is a guest of the duchess—though what maggot got into her head I cannot imagine. Therefore, if you have any hope of taking her place one day, you will conduct yourself like the lady you are supposed to be.”

  Mandy, both horrified and fascinated, did the unthinkable. She paused, openly eavesdropping.

  “She is a nobody,” Lady Christabel hissed. “She has no right to set so much as a toe inside the castle walls.”

  “Men are ever drawn to a pretty face—”

  “And a cow-like figure,” her daughter snapped. “I swear every man in Bath attempted to peer down her décolletage.”

  “The truth is”—Lady Pontesbury heaved a sigh loud enough to penetrate the crack of the not-quite-closed door—“the girl is a beauty, with a clever tongue and far too much intelligence. She is dangerous, Christabel. As much as we do not care to admit it, she is a worthy adversary, and nastiness will gain you nothing. Every word you say against the girl will cause Montsale to dig in his heels and champion her even more strongly.”

  “No-o. You cannot mean it!”

  “Men do not always think with their heads, my dear.” Lady Pontesbury coughed. “Though perhaps you do not understand what I mean. “A lovely face, a flirtatious eye, the flash of a smile, a glimpse of bosom, and a man is lost, his head awhirl with a fantasy of delights which have nothing to do with common sense. You would do well to remember the old adage about honey catching more flies than vinegar. Treat the girl badly and Montsale will not leave her side. Be gracious and you may yet salvage the plans the tradesman’s daughter so rudely interrupted.”

  Lady Christabel’s reply was lost in the soft shuffling of two people rising to their feet and moving toward the door, obviously ready to descend the stairs to dinner. Mandy picked up her skirts and ran, clutching the banister to keep from tumbling down the staircase and breaking her neck on the black marble floor far below.

  A footman had led her to an ornate antechamber where the guests were assembling before dinner. A surge of relief as her father saw her, a welcoming smile lighting his handsome face. That he could tear himself away from the alluring Lady Drucilla long enough to be sure his only child was served a glass of sherry and inserted into a conversation with the Fawley family went a long way to soothe the inner turmoil stirred up by Lady Christabel’s animosity.

  The Fawleys, particularly Miss Isabel, were most agreeable, Mandy had to admit, as was the duchess as she circulated among her guests, making a point of greeting each one. But her daughter, the newlywed Lady Lavinia Eagleton, kept sending Mandy glances that seemed to indicate she expected Miss Merriwether to sprout horns and a tail at any moment. Jeremy, however, was his usual charming self, joining their group and introducing the two young gentlemen from London, Sir Giles Dunstan and Mr. Chester Carlisle.

  Due to her warm reception by the Fawley family, as well as the three young men, Mandy’s wounded spirits were close to recovery by the time the duchess gave the signal to go in to dinner. And in a blur of movement only those born and bred to the ton could comprehend, the occupants of the anteroom turned, shifted, moving gracefully toward the correct partner, as if by some atavistic instinct. Mandy stood, bewildered, while Sir Giles offered his arm to Miss Fawley and Lady Drucilla steered her father into place behind them. The Fawleys and the vicar and his wife followed, leaving Mandy staring after them.

  Mr. Chester Carlisle, the only gentleman left, offered his arm along with a doleful face. “Tail of the parade,” he announced. “Inevitably, ’tis I.” He winked, suddenly breaking into a dazzling smile. “But that leaves me to escort the loveliest lady in the room.”

  Mandy, felled by too many emotional ups and downs, could only manage a quivery smile in return. She laid her hand on his arm and sailed into dinner, head high. But pride and the kindness of Sir Giles and the Fawleys could only go so far. Below the salt. Well, of course she was below the salt. ’Twas a wonder she was allowed in the dining room at all, where portraits of centuries of Dukes of Carewe stared down from the walls, all of them ready to sneer, “You don’t belong here, girl!”

  “Good evening.”

  Mandy’
s suddenly thudding heart somersaulted into her throat, making speech impossible. She could only stare up at the aristocratically sculptured silhouette, outlined by light drifting from the castle windows, but with the voice she’d recognize at the far ends of the earth.

  “Cat got your tongue?” the marquess inquired. “A-ah! Did they treat you so shabbily you had to flee? My apologies. My mother has the strangest ideas about compatible house guests.”

  Temper sparked a sudden recovery. “She does indeed, my lord, for what I am doing here I cannot begin to imagine. Are Papa and I the entertainment for the week? Delectable morsels for your friends’ sharp teeth? ‘Such fine sport, don’t you know, old chap,’” Mandy mimicked. “‘Better than boxing the watch.’”

  “If any of my friends have not treated you with respect, I promise you they will sent on their way this instant. Tell me!”

  “I beg your pardon,” Mandy cried. “It’s my wretched tongue. Your friends have been nothing but kind.”

  “And the ladies?” Montsale returned after a short pause, his tone all the more ominous for the silk in it.

  “The duchess has been all that is gracious.”

  “And . . .?” he prompted.

  “Miss Fawley seems a likable young lady. I am pleased to make her acquaintance. And that of Sir Giles.”

  “Continue.”

  “I wish you would not hover over me, Montsale, like some dark dragon of the night!” Now, that she should not have said, for if he sat down, he would be directly beside her, and that was not at all her intention. Was it?

  And, sure enough, there he was, shoulder to shoulder with her on the bench, as if he could scarcely wait for the invitation.

  “You were saying?” he prompted.

  “You know quite well I am not a favorite with the Mainwarings or the Betancourts, and I fear your sister has heard all their sorry tales. But do not disturb yourself, my lord. It is only what I expected when we accepted your mother’s gracious invitation. I confess a curiosity to see Castle Carewe triumphed over my common sense. I daresay I shall survive the week with only minor wounds and be all the better for having had such a sharp lesson in remembering my place in the world.”