Annie Burrows - Four Regency Rogues

‘Now why did he have to go and do that?’ Lady Brandon said in annoyance. Then, to Martha, ‘Did you know he was coming as Harlequin?’

‘No, Mama, but I told him I was to be Columbine.’

‘Foolish girl!’ her mother exclaimed.

Other guests followed them, kings and queens, knights and nymphs, strange animals, historical figures, maids and highwaymen, twittering and excited, exclaiming over the decorations as they made their way into the ballroom where the orchestra, replete on Mrs Cater’s cooking, were tuning their instruments ready for the first dance. It wanted only the arrival of the Earl of Amerleigh to make the evening a huge success.

Roland had ridden to Shrewsbury to see Charles Mount-ford. The day before, poking about in the attics to find a costume for the ball, he had come across a chest full of very old documents. Some of them were crumbling to dust, others illegible and written in a script he could not decipher. One had a huge red seal and appeared to be signed by a Royal hand. Realising they might be the ancient deeds to Amerleigh Hall, he had decided to take them to Mountford at once.

‘It will be interesting to learn if the old family story of the estate being given to my ancestor by Queen Elizabeth is correct,’ he told him. ‘Or perhaps it is a fairy tale.’

‘If it is what I think it is, this will detail exactly what land is included,’ Charles said, scrutinising them with a magnifying glass. ‘Some may have been acquired later, during the war between King and Parliament, for instance. You need to show them to an expert who can decipher them. Professor Lundy would do it, but he lives in London.’

‘I see. You cannot read it?’

‘Only a few words here and there, not enough to be sure I was advising you correctly.’

‘Then perhaps I’ll take them myself when I have time.’

‘Very well. Now you are here, have you time to go over the financial affairs of the estate? I think you need to reconsider your options.’

They had spent some time on the subject. The money he had brought back with him from Portugal was almost exhausted, though he did have his annuity, his half-pay from the army and the income from the tenants’ rents, all of which would have to be carefully husbanded. ‘Of course, if you had the income from the Browhill mine, it might help,’ Mountford said.

‘No, I have told you not to proceed with that litigation and I will not change my mind.’

‘Then the best advice I can you give you, my lord, is to marry the present owner of Browhill. It would be the best way of repossessing it.’

‘And that is advice I can well do without,’ Roland said sharply, effectively ending the conversation. He took his leave and rode home with a great deal on his mind.

Tonight was the night of the ball. He had wondered if his invitation might be withdrawn, or, if it were not, whether to stay away. Charlotte would surely not wish to see him? On the other hand, his absence would cause comment. After telling himself over and over again he did not want to see her, he knew he did, that the hours and days when he did not meet her seemed barren and uninteresting. He must talk to her and make her understand that the youth who had so cruelly rejected her six years before was not the man who had come back to take up his responsibilities as Earl of Amerleigh, that he could not go on, day by day, doing his duty, looking after the estate, making plans for his deaf school, without her forgiveness. Or was that going too far?

He hurried into the house to find Geoffrey and Elizabeth with his mother and Miles ready to leave for the ball. Geoffrey was dressed as a Tudor gentleman and Elizabeth a lady of the same period, while a bewigged Miles wore satin small clothes and a pink brocade coat with enormous pockets, his wrists covered in cascading lace. The Countess was not in costume, but in a lilac evening gown trimmed with white lace. ‘Roland, you will make us all late,’ she said. ‘Where have you been?’

‘To see Mountford. You go on in the coach, I will follow in the gig.’

‘You will get soaked.’

‘No, the rain has stopped.’

He declined anything to eat, saying he would drink a dish of chocolate in his room while he changed. He had found a basket full of costumes in the attic; he supposed that many of the lavish entertainments his father had put on had included costume balls for which he had obviously provided the clothes. He had chosen to be a medieval knight, wearing a cross of St George on his jerkin. The imitation chainmail was knitted in some thick shiny material, but the effect was good and nothing like as heavy as the real thing. It also had a helmet with a visor, which would do away with the need for a mask. He pulled on his boots and fastened a sword belt about his waist. ‘How do I look?’ he asked Travers.

Travers grinned. ‘Will I saddle your horse? A knight cannot go rescuing damsels in distress without his trusty charger, can he?’

‘Corporal, I do believe you are bamming me.’

‘No, sir, not at all, sir.’ But his smile was almost enough to split his face.

‘Then go and bring the gig round. I will drive myself. And there is no need for you to wait up for me.’ He flung a cloak over his costume and went downstairs, wondering what the evening might have in store for him.

Chapter Eight

Because he arrived after everyone else had gone in, Roland’s entrance was observed by the whole company. His costume was no disguise either; he was so tall and broad-shouldered, his figure could not be mistaken. He looked about him for his hostess among the costume-clad figures that crowded the room. Surely, even in disguise, he would know her? Lady Ratcliffe hurried forward to greet him.

‘My lord, I am pleased you have come. The dancing has already begun. Miss Cartwright is about somewhere. I will go and find her.’

‘Please do not trouble yourself, my lady,’ Roland said. ‘I will go and join my mother.’ He had seen the Countess sitting with Lady Gilford and smiled to himself. So Lady Gilford had overcome her scruples over Charlotte’s lack of breeding and decided to attend, had she? There was no sign of her husband. He crossed the room and made his bow to the ladies and then stationed himself behind his mother’s chair to watch proceedings and look out for Charlotte, though how he was going to contrive to see her alone, he did not yet know.

Charlotte had seen him and shrank behind Miles Hartley with whom she was dancing, peeping over his shoulder as the Earl spoke to her great-aunt and then moved forwards into the room. He looked magnificent in his costume; Saint George, ready to do battle for a lady’s honour, and all the ladies present were sighing over him. She was not sighing, she was crying inside, and if she were not very careful the tears would come to the surface.

‘Please excuse me,’ she said. ‘I must go and see that supper will be ready on time.’ And with that she hurried away. She felt sick. And the reason she felt so ill was that she had suddenly realised she was in love with the Earl, hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him. How could she have let it happen? How could she have been so foolish as to forget they were enemies, that he had cruelly disdained her and they were at daggers drawn over a piece of land that neither was prepared to relinquish?

Roland saw her go and wondered what they had been talking about so earnestly, but he could do nothing about it because the musicians had begun another dance and the floor was crowded. He bowed before the young lady nearest to him and only then did he realise it was Martha dressed as Columbine. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, looking anxiously about her for her mother.