Nicola Cornick - The Notorious Marriage

Kit rested his arm across his eyes and tried not to be sick. Then he tried to think, but the effort was monstrously difficult. His head felt as though it were two sizes too large and stuffed with paper into the bargain. And there was something troubling him, a memory at the edge of his mind…

‘Eleanor!’ He sat up bolt upright, and then sank back with a groan.

‘Steady, old fellow,’ the same voice said. ‘No cause for alarm.’

Kit opened his eyes and surveyed his companion with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

‘Hello, Harry. What the devil are you doing here?’

Captain Henry Luttrell grinned. ‘That’s the spirit! Knew you’d feel more the thing shortly!’

Kit sat up again, gingerly this time. The room was still swaying, but he realised that that was because he was on a ship. It was a pleasant cabin, well appointed, comfortable. The HMS Gresham, out of Southampton, just as arranged. Something had gone spectacularly wrong. He rubbed his hand across his forehead.

‘Harry. Where are we?’

Henry Luttrell’s handsome face creased into a slight frown. ‘Two days out, on the way to Ireland. I thought you knew…’

Kit shook his head slowly. ‘I went to the meet at the Feathers, but it was to pass a message to Castlereagh that I could not go…’

Now it was Luttrell’s turn to shake his head. ‘Don’t you remember, Kit? It was agreed to stage it all—the fight, the press gang…’

Kit looked at him. ‘I don’t remember a thing. What happened?’

Luttrell shifted against the bulkhead. ‘You walked in, Benson hit you, we carted you off here…It was all arranged…’

Kit groaned again. ‘Harry, I went there to tell Benson it was all off…’

‘You never got the chance, old chap,’ Luttrell pointed out. ‘Benson hit you first, no questions asked.’

Kit rubbed his head ruefully. ‘Yes, I can tell! And yes, I do remember we had agreed to stage it that way, but…devil take it, what about Nell! I only got married the day before…’

Luttrell’s eyebrows shot up into his hair. ‘Married! Thought you were keeping away from the petticoats, Kit!’

‘Well of course I was, but it just…happened!’ Kit said furiously. His head was aching more than ever now. ‘I married Eleanor the day before I went to the meet—that was why I was going to tell Benson I couldn’t make this trip!’ He put his head in his hands. ‘For God’s sake, Harry, do you hear me? I’ve just got married! I’ve left my bride all alone with no idea where I am…’

Luttrell put a calming hand on his shoulder. ‘Deuced bad luck, old fellow, but how was Benson to know? Besides, that was three days ago now…’

Kit raised his head and stared at him, his eyes wild. ‘Eleanor’s been alone with no word for three days now? Hell and the devil…’

‘You can send word when we get to Dublin,’ Luttrell suggested. ‘Besides, we’ll only be gone a few weeks, Kit. All over before you know it and no harm done. Surely your bride will understand when you explain…’

Kit shook his head, but he did not reply. There were two distinct sorts of sickness, he discovered. He had never been a good sailor but could deal with seasickness. It was purely physical. But the second…His heart ached. He remembered Eleanor, smiling at him and begging him prettily not to be gone too long…He groaned aloud. Three days ago!

Luttrell was getting to his feet. ‘I’ll bring you some hot water and something to drink,’ he said. ‘There’s food, too, if you feel up to it, though you still look a bit green, old fellow…’

Kit gave him a half-smile. ‘My thanks, Harry. Much appreciated. Is there pen and paper here?’

Luttrell gestured towards the desk. ‘Over there.’ He went out.

Kit stood up and stretched. He felt bruised all over. It must have been a hell of a blow to the head, but then he had always suspected that Benson did not like him. For all that they had worked together on various operations, he had never quite trusted the other man. Harry was a different matter, of course, dashing, devil may care, but utterly trustworthy. A true friend. If anyone could help him out of this mess…

Kit sat down at the writing desk and drew the paper slowly towards him. This was probably not the best time to write to Eleanor, when his head felt the size of a stuffed marrow, but he had to try. He would never forgive himself otherwise. Probably he would never forgive himself anyway and as for asking her pardon…Kit grimaced, momentarily wishing for a return to oblivion. It was a true nightmare and it had only just begun.

May 1814

Eleanor Mostyn knew that she was in trouble even before the landlord told her, with a sideways wink and a leer, that there was only one bedchamber and there would be no coaches calling until the next morning. Eleanor, following him into the tiny inn parlour, thoughtfully concluded that the signs were all there: they were miles from the nearest village, it was pouring with rain and the carriage had mysteriously lost a spar when only yards from this isolated inn. What had started out as a simple journey from Richmond to London looked set fair to turn into a tiresome attempted seduction.

It had happened to her before, of course—it was one of the penalties of having a shady reputation and no husband to protect her. However, she had never misjudged the situation as badly as this. This time, the relative youth and apparent innocence of her suitor had taken her in. Sir Charles Paulet was only two-and-twenty, and a poet. Though why poets should be considered more honourable than other men was open to question. Eleanor realised that her first mistake had been in assuming it must be so.

She knew that Sir Charles had been trying to charm his way into her bed with his bad poetry for at least a month. The baronet was a long, lanky and intense young man who laboured under the misapprehension that he was as talented as Lord Byron. Still, she had thought his attentions were a great deal more acceptable than those paid to her by some other men during the Season. He might be trying to seduce her but she had believed that the only real danger she was in was of being bored to death by his verse. That had to be mistake number two.

Eleanor removed her sodden bonnet and decided against unpinning her hair, even though it would dry more quickly that way. She had no wish to inflame Sir Charles’s desires by any actions of her own, and she knew that her long, dark brown hair was one of her best features. No doubt her hopeful seducer had written a sonnet to it already. At the moment he was out in the yard, giving instructions to his groom and coachman, but she knew that she had very little time before he joined her in the parlour, and then she would need to be quick-witted indeed. The lonely inn, the unfortunate accident, the single bedroom…And he had been dancing attendance on her for the past four weeks and she had been vain enough to be flattered…

Here Eleanor sighed as she looked at her damp reflection in the mirror. Eleanor, Lady Mostyn, passably good-looking, only nineteen years old and already infamous, having been both married and deserted within the space of a week. She could remember her come-out vividly, for it had only been the Season before. Then, she had been accorded the scrupulous courtesy due to all innocent débutantes; now she was a prey to every dubious roué and rake in town.

Her re-emergence into the Ton this Season had set all the tongues wagging once again about her notorious marriage, just as Eleanor had known it would. Not enough time had passed for the scandal to die down, but she had been foolishly determined to confront the gossips, to prove that though her husband were gone, squiring opera dancers around the Continent if the stories were true, she was not repining. She had the Trevithick pride—plenty of it—and at first it had prompted her to defiance. Let them talk—she would not regard it.