Mary Nichols - Mistress Of Madderlea

“Except your good name.” It was out before he could stop it, and he knew he had laid himself open to a sharp retort. He was not disappointed.

“That, my lord, was stolen earlier in the day and by someone I should have been able to trust.”

“It was not stolen. It was freely given,” he said, equal to the challenge.

“Lady Fitz said you were a rake, and how right she was,” she said, ignoring the truth of his remark.

“And you are a tease.” He was angry now. He had thought she was in danger from ruffians, had expected gratitude, not this bitter exchange of accusations. Rake, indeed! “If you behave like a demirep, then you must expect to be treated like one.”

Mistress of Madderlea Harlequin Historical #177—

was born in Singapore, and came to England when she was three. She has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children and four grandchildren.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Incomparable Countess #156

Lady Lavinia’s Match #163

A Lady of Consequence #169

Mistress of Madderlea #177

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

1817

‘This is no good, no good at all,’ William Hundon muttered, reading a letter which had just been brought to the breakfast table. ‘Something must be done.’

‘My dear, do not frown so,’ his wife said, glancing up from the piece of toast she was buttering to look at him. ‘You will give yourself wrinkles.’

‘Wrinkles!’ he exclaimed. ‘If that were all I had to concern me, I should count myself fortunate…’

‘That is a letter from Mr Sparrow, is it not?’ she went on. ‘Only Mr Sparrow could put you in such an ill humour.’ Although an invalid and a martyr to rheumatics, his wife insisted on coming downstairs in a dressing gown to have breakfast en famille, which included their daughter, Charlotte, and her niece, Sophie, who had lived with them for the last two years.

Sophie, alerted by the mention of Mr Sparrow’s name, looked up at her uncle. ‘Is there something untoward at Madderlea, Uncle William?’

‘There is always something untoward at Madderlea.’ He stopped speaking to tap at the letter with the back of his hand. ‘This time he wants money for repairs to the stable block, last week it was the roof of the west wing that was leaking. I do not know whether he is incompetent or criminal…’

‘Surely not criminal?’ his wife asked, taken aback by his vehemence.

‘Could you not employ another agent to manage Madderlea?’ Sophie asked.

‘And how could I be sure another would be any better? It is a highly unsatisfactory arrangement. We live too far from Madderlea for me to be constantly going to and fro to see that the man is doing his job. Besides, he does not own the place and one cannot expect him to have the same care as the family.’

‘But, Papa, there is no family, except Sophie,’ Charlotte put in, then stopped in confusion when her mother gave her a look of disapproval. The loss of her family was hardly ever mentioned in Sophie’s hearing to save her pain.

‘Precisely,’ he said.

Madderlea Hall was the home of generations of the Roswell family. Her father had always referred to it as home, even when they lived in Brussels, and it was to Madderlea he had taken her when Napoleon’s conquests and tyrannical rule had made living on the continent too dangerous for an Englishman. It had been a terrifying journey for a fifteen-year-old.

Because of the blockade of European ports, they had been obliged to travel eastwards to Gdansk where British ships were bringing guns and ammunition to the Russians who were retreating before Napoleon’s march on Moscow, and she had seen sights which were indelibly printed on her memory. Troops were left to forage for food from a countryside laid waste by its people in order not to feed the invaders. The fields remained untilled or scorched by fire, the livestock slaughtered. Men and horses starved, even during the advance.

It had taken all her father’s savings and her late mother’s jewellery, everything they possessed, except the clothes they wore, to buy food and a passage home in a cargo ship which pitched and tossed on the rough sea until she was sick as a dog. From London, where they landed, Papa had taken her to her uncle, the Earl of Peterborough, and then gone off and got himself killed fighting in Spain.

The experience had made her seem older and wiser than her years, able to take the ordinary ups and downs of life in her stride, resourceful and unafraid. Nor was she often sad; life was too short for that and the serious side of her nature was balanced by a sense of fun.

Uncle Henry had treated her like the daughter he never had and she had loved him and his wife as a second set of parents. It did not diminish the fond memories she had of her mother, who had died years before, nor of her brave and loving father, but Madderlea had become her home too, a safe haven, a beautiful and happy place, the villagers content because the people at the big house cared about them. Until…

She didn’t want to think of that day, but it would always be there in the back of her mind, a day in her life she would never forget, a day which had transformed her from a bright happy young lady looking forward to her first Season, into a quiet, withdrawn woman, who was never free of pain, both physical and mental. Almost two years on, her body had miraculously healed, but the mental images were still with her and would be to the day she died. Even now, sitting at the breakfast table in her Uncle William’s comfortable but unpretentious house, they returned to haunt her.

They had been on their way to London for the Season and she was to have a come-out. She had been full of happy anticipation, making plans, talking about the gowns and fripperies she was going to buy, confident of finding a husband among the many beaux who would attend all the social occasions. Aunt Margaret had assured her she would be the catch of the Season and she had no reason to doubt her.

She did not consider herself beautiful, being rather too tall and slim for the current fashion, and her hair was red-gold at a time when dark locks were favoured, but she carried herself well and her complexion was good. Her greeny-grey eyes were her best feature, or so her aunt had told her. She had been promised a considerable dowry too, provided her choice met the approval of her aunt and uncle, but that was only fair and she had no qualms about it.

The weather had been fine when they set out in the family coach from Madderlea in Norfolk, but by the time they reached Newmarket Heath, black clouds had gathered and it became almost as dark as night. Long before it began to rain, lightning flashed across the heath and thunder rumbled ominously. There was nowhere to stop and take shelter. Her aunt had wanted to turn back but, as Uncle Henry pointed out, the clouds were moving northwards and turning back would mean travelling with them instead of against them; if they kept going they would soon be under clear skies again.