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CHAPTER ONE

Margaret

I climbed into the carriage, my heart fluttering with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation of the journey to Altheney Court.

Once settled, Juliana, Countess of Claremont, pressed my hand.

She and I had no notion when we set out from Rochester, the sun beaming on the Medway, that filthy weather was not far distant.

“Are you looking forward to seeing the Earl and Mr. Hodgson again?”

My voice shook slightly as I answered, “It should be very pleasant to see both gentlemen.” My thoughts turned to Ralph Hodgson.

A vision of my sister, Marianne, shaken and forlorn at the treachery of Willoughby, came to mind.

Ralph’s reputation as a heartless rake might presage the same fate for me.

Spencer Hodgson, Earl of Altheney, was undeniably kind and gentlemanly, with none of the haughty airs of much of the nobility. The fiancé of my friend, Juliana Beauvillier, Countess Claremont. I had nothing to fear from him.

The kernel of the unease was facing his cousin, Ralph Hodgson.

Juliana told me he would join the house party once his business in London finished.

Mr. Hodgson was personable, too personable.

My susceptibility to his charms was all too evident, at least to Juliana, who had warned me about his rakish antics and roguish reputation.

His silver tongue beguiled me with talk of London balls and dinners. Visits to the theater. Private and public concerts. Rides on Rotten Row. Carriage racing through the streets in the dead of night. I longed to taste these delights for myself.

Above medium height, his thick copper hair with restrained sideburns undulated like waves lapping a shore.

Each brow had an endearing quirk in the middle.

Bowed lips, the upper thin but the bottom generously full, with a crease underneath that accentuated the perfect oval of his face.

The soft stroke of his fingers against my cheek …

But it was the eyes, deep-set, that framed the long, straight nose of a Greek god, that entranced me.

They were changeable, from a crystalline green that sparkled like emeralds beneath slightly hooded eyes to a murky pond, hinting at hidden depths and desires.

Eyes that were at once captivating and mysterious.

When he regarded me, his mesmerizing orbs led me into a magic web of communion I could not break.

We secretly exchanged a few letters, then I sought the approval of my always hopeful mother to continue the correspondence when I returned to Devon. We continued once I was recalled to my post as Lady Juliana’s companion. Recently, he sent me a miniature on a chain to wear under my chemise.

I shifted in the seat as a cramp interrupted my daydreams. Ralph and I had met the previous autumn when he had accompanied then Viscount Kintleford to Rochester.

where they represented the viscount’s father, the Earl, on a committee to plan reconstruction of part of the Chatham dockyards after a disastrous fire.

Noticing Ralph and my mutual interest, Spenser Hodgson warned me his cousin was a rogue, fond of gambling, racing, with an eye for the ladies.

He advised me that as a penniless dependent, Ralph had a duty to find a rich wife.

But all I could see was an athletic gentleman with an aristocratic air, and his conversations about books, the theater, music, and the politics of the day gave us much to discuss, even if the Earl’s disquisitions on astronomy, which so enthralled Lady Juliana, overshadowed our discourse.

At our first change of horses, the ostler remarked we should watch out for expected storms. I sat in the cozy area by the fire, while Juliana spoke with the landlord about refreshments for our party.

I took out Ralph’s most recent missive, dropping the dried posy into my lap, then tracing the letters in his hasty italic hand.

My darling Margot. I am in London to watch my thoroughbreds compete.

I hope to make a few sales if they win. And yet, if I could, I would join you in Rochester, now that you are returned from Barton Cottage.

Please let me know when you and Lady Juliana will be in London.

My soul feels empty when I am away from you.

As we regained the coach, distant grumbles of thunder belched from heavy dark clouds obscuring the sky. By the second inn, streaks of lightning made the air crackle around us.

Then the skies opened and rain obscured everything.

Sheets of rain pounded on the roof of the coach, punctuating my melancholy musings.

When the first heavy drops hit the roof of the conveyance, Juliana cried out in surprise.

Mary, Juliana’s lady’s maid, cowered in a corner of the vehicle and made small screaming sounds whenever a loud peal of thunder crashed overhead.

The swish of water trickled in through the doors as roads turned into rivers. When the deluge receded, the mud left behind taxed both horses and driver. Several times we swerved to avoid other vehicles, once ending in a shallow ditch where we were fortunate not to overturn.

Our coachman sent the postillion forward to a farmhouse nearby for aid as the wheels, encased in mud, refused to budge. The farmer and his three sons rode up, shovel and hoe at the ready, with stout ropes looping from shoulder to chest to back.

The boy perched behind the farmer, maintaining a precarious hold on the man’s belt.

Wading through mud, the men hitched their horses in front of our team and dug around the wheels.

Then, we stood to the side to watch the coachman guide the animals forward while the rest pushed from the rear, eventually freeing the carriage, their coats and shirts splashed with muddy water.

When we arrived at the next staging inn, the host found us a room and we alighted with relief.

Even the prospect of sharing accommodation with strangers was preferable to sallying forth into the tempest. There was no letup on the next day, and we spent weary hours watching rain sluice down the windows of the taproom.

I had the solace of Ralph’s letters and spent hours perusing his portrait, while Juliana read a worn copy of The Scottish Chiefs by Miss Jane Porter, a favorite.

We had lost a full day and a quarter, with no way to inform the Earl of our delay.

A weak, watery sun greeted us on the third day, and despite the mud, we could make reasonable progress.

Bouncing and jouncing in the Countess’ coach with its smart turnout was undeniably preferable to a public stage to Rye crowded with strangers, the sole option if I had been traveling alone.

The wearisome distance, even though much more convenient than that of Devonshire, where I lived at Barton Cottage with my mother to Rochester, the Countess’ home, still seemed intolerable.

A fairy godmother would have been welcome hours ago.

Juliana tapped my folded hands with her fan. “Wake up, Margaret. We have reached the grounds of the estate.”

I covered my mouth with one palm to hide a yawn. “Really, Juliana. I was not asleep, just resting my eyes. The dust from the road is dreadful, even with the quarter lights closed.” Twisting on the seat, I raised my feet into her lap in order to stretch my cramped limbs.

“What an ill-mannered imp you are, my dear. Put your feet down directly. What if someone spied your unladylike behavior?”

I dropped them, stamping on the floor of the coach, and cast a glare of displeasure in her direction. “No one is in the vicinity and we have not yet reached the house. One blessing is there are only three of us in the coach.”

Juliana cleared her throat, indicating a change of subject. “Do you see the manor in the distance?”

“Not yet,” I replied before lowering the glass and sticking my head out to see better. “The road curves. I expect the trees must hide the house.”

Unlike Juliana, who had spent time at Altheney earlier in the year, I had not visited the manor, the promised paradise at the end of the long, twisting drive through a thick avenue of beech. When it came into view, I gasped as a seventeenth-century Venetian vision rose before us.

“Spencer told me the first earl built the house of brick, but that his grandfather encased it in limestone and created a portico at the entrance, along with chimneys at each end of the building.” Juliana settled herself with a smile.

The roof looked gray and metallic. “Is the roof covered with lead?” I asked. All the lead roofs I had seen in the past covered medieval structures.

“Indeed. And did you notice the cupola in the center? Such an imposing feature.”

With an effort to relieve my aching backside, I shifted from side to side, looking out one window, then another. “I can hardly wait to wander the grounds. Ralph told me Capability Brown originally landscaped the gardens. And he has a dozen horses in the stables, most of them chasers.”

Juliana cast a sharp look. “Are you mooning after that young man? I don’t know that Mr. Hodgson is a suitable companion for you.”

“I know he is a gambler and carouser, but …”

“Reforming him may be more difficult than you imagine. Next year, you will attend balls in London, where more eligible candidates might catch your eye. Remember your sister’s first unfortunate love affair.”

With a sigh at the reminder about Marianne, I gazed out the window, but all I could see was Ralph.

Liveried footmen wrenched open the coach doors, not the man in my daydream. They handed us out with impressive ceremony. Windblown, grimy, our dresses crumpled and not fit for company, we trailed past the butler as he flung open the massive entrance in welcome.

“Welcome, Lady Juliana and Miss Dashwood. We are delighted you have arrived. The news of bad weather made us fear a delay, but you are both unhurt and that is the most important thing.”

“Thank you, Bishop,” Juliana said, her voice flat and laced with weariness.

I stored the name in my memory. As we entered, Juliana whispered, “The maid standing there is Susan. You will find her most useful.”