Disrobed and Dishonored. Louise AllenЧитать онлайн книгу.
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Disrobed and Dishonored
Louise Allen
Author Note
I was delighted to be able to contribute to the exciting Mills & Boon Historical Undone series and to revisit the Ravenhurst cousins part of the way through their adventures. Disrobed and Dishonoured is the story of what happens when a respectable young lady with a problem meets a rakish highwayman whose solution to her dilemma is anything but respectable. Jonathan's suggestion gets Miss Sarah Tatton out of one predicament and into his bed – which is no place for a virtuous young lady. Luckily for her she knows the new Lady Standon (wife of The Shocking Lord Standon) and through her meets more of the Ravenhurst clan who throw themselves with characteristically unconventional enthusiasm into rescuing the ill-matched pair of lovers. There is one Ravenhurst story still to be told. Far away in Jamaica the youngest cousin, Clemence, is blissfully unaware that her happy, privileged lifestyle is about to come to an abrupt end and she will find herself on the high seas as The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst.
To the brilliant team at Richmond with thanks for all
their support.
Chapter One
July 1816, Norfolk
The man in the mask ran one hand down the neck of the ugly gray hunter. ‘Patience, Tolly. One more to go and then it’s oats for you and two dozen of the finest old brandy for me.’
The horse snorted, his ear flicking back to listen to his rider’s voice as Jonathan slouched into the familiar comfort of the saddle, eyes narrowed against the late-evening light. It was past eight now and no traffic had passed along the lane for half an hour. Up to then business had been brisk and last night’s wager seemed easily won. He dug a hand in his pocket and drew out the tokens he had claimed, proofs of a kiss from each of the first five women who passed down the lane on their way back from market in St. Margaret’s to the villages of Saint’s Mead and Saint’s Ford.
There was a downy feather from the empty egg bucket of the country lass who had giggled and returned his kiss with relish; a tiny corn dolly from the elderly dame driving her donkey cart back, her baskets of straw plait almost empty, a twinkle in her eyes as she pinched his chin; a paper of pins from the thin-faced spinster who had blushed like a peony when he had respectfully saluted her papery cheek; and a promissory note for one ginger kitten (guaranteed of good mousing stock) from the farmer’s wife who had roared with laughter and tipped up her round red face with cheerful anticipation.
Jonathan pinned the corn dolly to his lapel, stuck the feather in his hat brim and wondered which of his housekeepers would most appreciate a kitten. His pleasure in the evening’s sport began to wane. He had another hour before he was due to join his friends at The Golden Lion for supper to present evidence of his success and the chances of the required fifth female happening along seemed increasingly poor.
Tolly lifted his head and pricked his ears. ‘Hoofbeats,’ Jonathan concurred. ‘One horse—likely to be a man.’ He nudged the gray through a gap in the thick hedgerow, drew the empty pistol, laid it along his thigh and waited.
‘Despicable, hypocritical swine,’ Sarah Tatton repeated, reining in her mare to a walk and dashing the tears out of her eyes with an impatient hand. Careering around the countryside sidesaddle in evening dress was far from comfortable now that her initial fury had simmered down, to be replaced by something approaching panic.
How could she have been so meek, so trustingly innocent? Eighteen months sitting in the country, perfecting her wifely skills in domestic management, needlework and entertaining, while Papa boasted to all and sundry of the excellent match he had made for his daughter—and what had she to show for it? Her linen cupboard was immaculate, her stillroom a marvel, she could play a sonata and hold her own in the most trying dinner-party conversation and, finally, her betrothed had deigned to turn up to discuss the wedding.
Sir Jeremy Peters might be only moderately good-looking and not possess a sparkling wit, but he was, as everyone had told her during the course of her second Season, a catch for the daughter of a country baronet with moderate looks and a moderate dowry to match. Wealthy, well-connected—she could not hope to do better to oblige her papa.
‘Respectable?’ Sarah swore under her breath. Half an hour in his company, during which he had congratulated her on her modest gown and presented her with a hideous string of lumpy freshwater pearls had made her heart sink; she had not remembered him as being so dull. But when she had gone upstairs to change for dinner Mary, her maid, had broken down in floods of tears as she fastened her gown.
‘I’ve got to tell you, Miss Sarah. I cannot let you marry him, not even if it means my place,’ she had wailed. What Sarah had heard took her breath away and left her sick and shaken. Sir Jeremy had assaulted Mary at the house party where he had proposed to Sarah and threatened that he would tell Sir Hugh Tatton that she had offered herself for money if she said one word of it.
So Sarah confronted her father with the fact that she had discovered her betrothed was the sort of man who would ravish defenseless young women—and Papa had dismissed the matter.
‘Nonsense,’ he blustered, slapping his newspaper down on his desk in irritation. ‘Some young trollop looking to earn herself a few shillings, I’ve no doubt. Asking for it.’
‘But no, Papa! This is a respectable girl.’ She did not dare tell him who, not with the memory of the housemaid turned off without a character when Cousin William’s visit had left her pregnant. Her father was of the old school when it came to domestic discipline. ‘And even if it were the case that she was willing, you cannot expect me to marry a man of such loose morals.’
‘A lady ignores such matters. It is her duty to remain faithful, above reproach, and to raise her children. Her husband may seek diversion elsewhere—’
‘Diversion!’
He scowled. ‘Diversion. It means nothing and no lady of refined mind should think of such things, let alone admit to knowing of them.’
‘I cannot possibly marry Sir Jeremy,’ she announced flatly.
‘You most certainly will, my girl! I’m not letting a good match like that slip through my fingers because of some missish scruples. You marry him—or I will find out who has been filling your head with this scurrilous nonsense and see they suffer for it. Do you understand me?’
How could she find Mary a suitable new post, one where she would be safe from her father’s wrath? If she had been in London she could have gone to a good agency, given her glowing references, but here, deep in the country, such a plan would have to be conducted by letter and Papa insisted on her chaperone reading all her correspondence.
And how she was going to be able to keep a civil tongue in her head over dinner she had no idea. She had stood outside the drawing room gathering her composure to enter when she heard the men talking inside.
‘Modest virtue, that is the thing about Miss Tatton,’ Sir Jeremy was saying. ‘The assurance that one is marrying a virgin of impeccable upbringing and not one of those flighty girls who live for nothing but their beaux and their parties. How precious is a lady’s purity! I searched long and hard before I was confident I had found such a prize.’
The hypocrite valued only her virginity? He debauched young women and yet he could say such things to her father who would smugly accept them?
Sarah turned on her heel. ‘Tell Sir Hugh that I have a migraine and regret I will not be able to come down this evening,’ she said to the footman. The moment his back was turned she was away to the stables.
Leaving the house for an hour or so at least gave her a chance to cool her temper, but what to do now? Fear