Margaret McPhee - Regency Debutantes - The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress

‘My dear Georgiana, I’ve spoken to your stepfather’s man and explained that you’re not sufficiently recovered to travel home today. Why, such a journey would be sure to leave you with a chill, and is quite out of the question. The carriage has departed with a letter to your stepfather explaining my decision.’ Mirabelle did not miss the brief flicker in Georgiana’s bleak eyes.

‘My father did not come in person?’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘No, my dear. I’m sure he must have important matters to deal with that prevent his presence. Don’t concern yourself over it. It’s well and good that he didn’t come here himself, as he’s clearly busy, and gentlemen do so dislike a wasted journey.’ She adjusted her skirts and sat herself down on the bed. Taking hold of Georgiana’s hand, she studied the girl’s face with undue attention. ‘I understand that you would be much happier to be going home today.’

A careful guard slotted in place over the white features.

‘But can you reconcile yourself as a guest at Farleigh Hall for a few more days?’

The grey-blue eyes widened in surprise.

Mirabelle saw the blatant relief, felt the lapse of tension in the hand positioned beneath her own.

‘Of course. Thank you, Lady Farleigh…Mirabelle. I have been feeling a little unwell,’ Georgiana lied. The river experience had caused exhaustion, bruising, a sore throat and some cuts to her hands, nothing more. But the knowledge that Walter Praxton had tricked them all to force her into marriage affected her far more deeply. And the loathing that it engendered made her wonder just how she could endure such a thing. He stood for everything that she despised and now she had no choice but to marry him. ‘No choice at all.’ The mumbled words had escaped her before she realised what she was about. Her eyes slid to Lady Farleigh’s in a panic and she pressed her fingers to her lips as if to stopper any further traitorous disclosures.

Her ladyship’s bright blue eyes looked back, and Georgiana could have sworn that they held in them an understanding that belied the lady’s blithe manner. She held her breath and waited.

‘If something is wrong, Georgiana, you need only tell me and I will try to help.’ Her small face was unusually still.

Georgiana pressed her palms to her forehead. Dare she trust Mirabelle Farleigh? ‘I’m afraid that it’s a matter of some delicacy, ma’am.’

Lady Farleigh gently touched Georgiana’s arm. ‘I thought it might be, my dear. Rest assured I won’t discuss your story with anyone else.’

She so desperately needed to speak to someone, to tell another of Walter Praxton’s lies. She remembered Nathaniel Hawke’s concern and how he’d offered her the opportunity to confide in him. But he was a man, and a very attractive one at that. And she didn’t doubt that he had mistaken her situation with Walter Praxton entirely. Why else had she been forced to reveal the wretched betrothal? Lady Farleigh was different altogether. She undoubtedly liked to chatter. That wasn’t what worried Georgiana. The nature of her concern lay more in whether the lady’s preferences stretched to gossip. She twisted her fingers nervously together and contemplated further. If that was the case, then the damage was already done, for Georgiana was certain that the conversation witnessed by Lady Farleigh could do nothing but lead her to conclude that Georgiana had indulged in grossly inappropriate behaviour with Mr Praxton. And that man’s—she could no longer say gentleman’s—manner had done everything to foster the impression that he was her suitor. Heaven forbid that Lady Farleigh thought Georgiana and Walter Praxton lovers as Lord Nathaniel had done! The greatest harm had happened. Telling the truth couldn’t make it worse, and might even go some way to helping her situation. The prospect seemed appealing.

All the while Mirabelle Farleigh had sat, quietly watching the play of conflicting emotions on Georgiana’s face. ‘If you choose not to speak of what’s bothering you, then I’ll say nothing further on the matter other than there’s always a choice, no matter what you might think, and you must always remember that.’

The words confirmed Georgiana’s decision and with a sigh she uttered, ‘There’s so much to tell, I scarcely know where to begin.’

Mirabelle’s curls swayed as she lowered her head. ‘You must start at the beginning, it is usually the best place.’ And, so saying, she made herself comfortable upon the bedcovers and prepared to hear Georgiana’s tale.

It was some considerable time later that Lady Farleigh had heard it all. Her ladyship was fairly bursting with indignation. ‘I cannot conceive that a gentleman could be so profoundly dishonest and despicable. Indeed, his actions are most definitely not those of a gentleman and I refuse to call him that.’ She paced up and down the bedroom, her hands pulling at her skirts, her cheeks a blaze of furious colour. ‘Of course you won’t marry him.’ She honed her gimlet eye upon Georgiana, who was already feeling much better for having unburdened herself.

‘No. I had no intention of accepting his addresses when he indicated that his affections lay in my direction. I made sure that he fully understood that I wouldn’t look favourably upon him—that’s why he resorted to this scheme.’ She had swung her legs from beneath the covers and was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Lady Farleigh struggled to understand the motivation behind such a dastardly deed. ‘He must be mad for love of you; when he realised that you’d no intention of accepting his suit, it forced him to take desperate measures. What other explanation can there be?’

‘I don’t know.’ Georgiana shook her head. ‘But I cannot believe that he loves me, for all his declarations.’ She moved her bare toes across the rug. ‘Indeed, I cannot believe that he loves anyone other than himself. My friends, Sarah and Fanny, can barely contain themselves in his presence. They swear that he’s quite the most handsome man they’ve seen. Their response seems ludicrous to me, for I cannot find him handsome in the slightest. He’s a cruel and unfeeling man with no regard for the welfare of others.’

The small woman was regarding her quizzically. ‘Have you seen evidence of his nature to reach such a conclusion?’

Georgiana stood up and found herself a full head taller than her hostess. ‘Mirabelle,’ she implored, casting her hands out before her, ‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He owns the paper mill in Whitchurch and, because of his friendship with my family, invited us to visit. I attended with my mama and papa and explored all through the mill. Oh, Mirabelle, you wouldn’t believe how that man treats his employees. It’s truly awful. I saw one poor boy, who couldn’t have been more than five years old, running around gathering any rags that had fallen on the floor. He was as thin as a stick and couldn’t stop coughing. The child had the misfortune to drop a piece of material close to Mr Praxton—not that it touched him in any way at all. And do you know what that man did?’ Georgiana’s face contorted with anger. She swept on heedless of Mirabelle’s reply, fuelled by wrathful indignation. ‘He struck the boy hard across the head with his cane. Can you believe it?’ Her breast heaved dramatically, leaving Lady Farleigh in no doubt as to the extent of Miss Raithwaite’s feelings. ‘Blood ran from the child’s crown and the boy didn’t dare to utter a sound. Not one sound. That is the essence of Mr Praxton’s nature. Nothing excuses such callous behaviour.’ Georgiana’s eyes flashed with all the fervour of the stormiest sea, grey and green lights shimmering in their depths. ‘These people have nothing, Mirabelle. They steal bread to feed their families, such is their plight. And for that crime, Walter Praxton would have them flogged as thieves. He was the one who reported Tom Jenkins, and you know what fate that poor soul met.’