The Silverton Scandal
Amanda Grange
© Amanda Grange 2002
http://www.amandagrange.com
The moral right of the author has been asserted
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any real person or incident is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
First published in hardback by Robert Hale Ltd. under the title of The Silverton Scandal
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Praise for Amanda Grange
“Absolutely fascinating” – Historical Novel Society
“Hits the Regency language and tone on the head” – Library Journal
“Lots of fun” – Woman
“Rich atmospheric details” – Publishers’ Weekly
“Affectionate” – Washington Post
“Sure to delight Austen fans” – Cheshire Life
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter One
The sunshine poured into the breakfast room in the autumn of 1810, lighting up the gilded mirrors and the rather battered furniture. Miss Eleanor Grantham sipped her cup of morning chocolate and gave a happy smile. After five years of difficulties, the clouds had finally parted and the future was full of promise.
Her younger sister, Arabella, was sitting at the opposite side of the table, opening the morning mail. Arabella was as pretty as a picture, with golden hair and large blue eyes, and she looked adorable in her high-waisted muslin gown, which was trimmed with pink ribbon.
Eleanor watched her with more than sisterly pride. Ever since their parents had died, Eleanor had been a mother and father, as well as a sister, to Arabella.
The responsibility had been a constant source of worry to her, not because Arabella was difficult, but because Eleanor was too young for such a role. It had aged her, making her feel as though she were thirty-six instead of twenty-six. But today, for the first time in years, she felt light-hearted and carefree. Arabella would soon be married, to the kind, good, charming Charles, and Eleanor would be able to live her own life – whatever that might be.
The delightful feeling lasted for a full three minutes before Arabella’s face took on a look of horror and she let out a cry.
‘Oh, no!’
She turned cornflower blue eyes to Eleanor. They were limpid with distress.
‘What is it?’ asked Eleanor.
‘I cannot believe it,’ said Arabella, looking down at the mail she had just opened. ‘I thought those silly letters must have been lost or thrown away years ago.’
‘Letters?’
Arabella blushed, an even pink colour spreading delightfully over her smooth, clear skin.
‘Yes, you remember, the ones I sent to Thomas.’
‘Ah, yes! The ones where you told him he was a knight in shining armour, and promised to love him until your dying day.’
Arabella looked mortified.
‘Well, I was only sixteen, and he had written me some very pretty poems,’ she said.
‘Yes, I remember,’ remarked Eleanor teasingly. ‘I particularly liked his Ode to an Angel’s Hair and his Sonnet to a Fairy’s Eyes.’
‘He was very romantic,’ Arabella said with a nostalgic sigh. ‘It all seemed lovely at the time.’
‘Is the mail from Thomas, then?’
‘No. It is something far worse.’ Her face fell. ‘It is from a Mr Kendrick.’ She grew pale. ‘Mr Kendrick now has the letters in his possession, and he will not return them to me unless I give him a thousand guineas. Otherwise, he says he will send them to Charles’s father.’
‘What? Blackmail?’ asked Eleanor in disgust. ‘But how absurd. Charles will understand.’
‘Charles will, but his family . . . Eleanor, they are such high sticklers, and small wonder. Charles is the heir to a dukedom and his family can trace their line back to the Conqueror. They are not happy about him marrying me anyway —’
‘No one could fail to love you, Bella,’ said Eleanor.
‘Oh, they like me well enough, I know, but I am not the sort of young lady they wanted Charles to marry. I am not from an old family, I don’t have any dowry and I don’t have any grand connections.’
‘No. Instead you have the sweetest nature, the biggest blue eyes and the softest golden hair that I, or anyone else, has ever met with,’ said Eleanor.
‘Oh, for shame, you will make my head swell,’ said Arabella with a laugh.
And that is why everyone loves Bella, thought Eleanor. She is exquisite and sweet and lovely, but she does not know it. She thinks she is just as ordinary as everyone else.
‘But if Charles’s family see those letters, it will be one more reason for them to dislike me as a match for Charles, and they may forbid the wedding altogether. They almost forbade it when Charles first told them of his plans to marry me, but they were persuaded to overlook my defects because I was a good, pure girl who would give them pretty grandchildren. You see, I am not under any illusions about them. But now . . . ’
‘Charles would never abandon you.’
‘No, I know,’ said Arabella. ‘But if his family threatened to disinherit him, I could not marry him. I could not allow him to give up his birthright for me.’
‘Let me see that,’ said Eleanor.
She read the short, business like note. It said that if Arabella brought the money to a certain private address, then the whole business could be satisfactorily concluded.
‘There is no proof he has the letters,’ said Eleanor.
‘Unfortunately, there is,’ said Arabella. ‘He sent me this as proof.’
She handed over a small sheet of paper which carried the lingering scent of lavender. It was written in Arabella’s hand, and it was full of romantic effusions.
‘But how did he get hold of them?’ mused Eleanor.
‘There was a burglary at Thomas’s house a few months ago, I remember,’ said Arabella. ‘The letters must have been inside something that was stolen.’ She blushed. ‘Thomas once told me that he kept them in a Grecian urn.’
‘A Grecian urn?’ said Eleanor with a laugh. ‘Oh, Bella, I am so glad you did not marry him. He was very romantic, but so impractical.’
Arabella smiled. But then her smile faded and she said, ‘Ellie, what am I going to do? I do not have a thousand guineas, nor anything like it.’
Eleanor shook her head in affectionate dismay. It seemed that her days of looking after Arabella were not over just yet.
‘Never fear. I will go and see Mr Kendrick and explain things to him. We have a little money, and I am sure I can make him see reason. If he cannot get a thousand guineas, then he might as well take fifty.’
‘Oh, we cannot give him our savings!’ said Arabella, shocked.
‘Why not? We don’t need them. You will soon be married to Charles, and I
. . . . ’
‘And you will come and live with us.’
‘No, Bella dear, I will not. You and Charles need some time to yourselves.’
‘We do not,’ said Arabella stoutly. ‘My home is your home, you know that, Ellie.’
‘Well, my dear, I need some time to myself, then,’ said Eleanor.
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Arabella. ‘I know I have been a trial to you over the years.’
‘You have been nothing of the kind. But it is better this way. And now I must be off to see Mr Kendrick. And you must hurry up. You have a long journey ahead of you. This is your last chance to visit your friends before you are married, and they are expecting you. You must be off within the hour.’
‘Yes, I am looking forward to it,’ said Arabella. ‘Are you sure you will not be lonely whilst I am away?’
‘I am never lonely,’ said Eleanor stoutly. ‘Now off you go and get ready.’
When Arabella had gone, Eleanor picked up Mr Kendrick’s missive again. She looked at the address. It was a street she knew, in a poor part of Bath, and it was full of boarding houses. Mr Kendrick no doubt rented a room there when it suited his purposes, and left at a moment’s notice if things became too hot for him.
She wondered briefly whether she should contact her mother’s friends, Lydia and Frederick. They had always taken an interest in Eleanor and Arabella, but they lived some distance away, and Eleanor decided against it. Besides, Frederick, a magistrate, would no doubt be tempted to have Mr Kendrick arrested and although Eleanor heartily approved of the idea, she feared that in the ensuing muddle, Bella’s love letters might well pass into the wrong hands.
She glanced at the clock. Mr Kendrick’s instructions were to meet him at ten o’clock and she must be on her way.
The boarding house was a run-down dwelling in a run-down street, but there were plenty of people walking past and Eleanor felt only the slightest apprehension as she knocked on the door. The sound of shouting, children crying and dogs barking came from inside.
For a few minutes nothing happened, and then the door opened to reveal a slatternly woman with hair falling across her face.
‘What do you want?’ she asked abruptly.
‘I have come to see Mr Kendrick,’ said Eleanor.
‘Might have guessed,’ said the woman. ‘But you’re too late. He’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Out the window,’ she said with a grin. ‘Reckon someone came looking for him. One of the drawbacks of his trade.’
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’ asked Eleanor.
‘Not for weeks if I know him.’
‘But I have to see him. It’s urgent. Where has he gone?’
The woman shrugged. But then, as Eleanor’s face fell, she relented slightly and said, ‘Saw him heading for the coaching inn. Reckon he’s done a bunk.’
‘Thank you,’ said Eleanor.
The woman nodded briefly then closed the door. Belatedly, Eleanor wondered how she would recognise Mr Kendrick, but her repeated knocks on the door brought no reply. She could not let things rest there, however, and so she turned her steps towards the coaching inn.
It was not far away. The sound of horses whinnying and the unmistakeable smell of the stables guided her to the right spot and a busy scene met her eyes. There were ostlers shouting as they harnessed and unharnessed horses, carriages, stray dogs alternately barking and skulking, and people of all kinds hurrying across the yard. But which of them was Mr Kendrick?
And then fortune favoured her. As her eyes came to rest on two men standing at the side of the yard and talking quietly together, she heard one man call the other “Kendrick”.
He did not look like a blackmailer. Instead, he looked like a businessman in his well-cut tail coat, his white linen and his neatly-arranged cravat. His companion, a stocky man with dark brown hair, looked equally unremarkable. But there was a hint of colour still on his face, and the dampness of perspiration, which showed that he had recently been running.
The two men parted and Mr Kendrick climbed aboard the stage coach.
‘Where is that coach going?’ she asked one of the ostlers.
‘London, miss,’ he said. ‘If you want to go there too you’d better hurry up and get your ticket, it’s leaving soon.’
Eleanor hesitated, but if she lost Mr Kendrick now she would probably never find him again.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
She quickly purchased her ticket and followed Mr Kendrick onto the coach.
He was sitting inside, with a case across his lap. She wondered if Arabella’s letters were in the case. It seemed only too likely. As soon as the coach stopped for the night, she must speak to him and do what she could to retrieve them.
She thought of the fifty guineas in her purse and her heart sank. She had been looking forward to a few treats, some new clothes, perhaps, and some improvements to the house. But it was far more important to secure Arabella’s future, and if she could retrieve the letters, it would be money well spent.
Several more passengers climbed inside, the door was shut and the coach pulled away.
It was a pity she was on such an unpleasant errand, she thought, as the coach headed out of town, for the countryside was beautiful. It was rich with the reds, oranges and yellows of autumn, as the leaves on the trees changed colour and fluttered to the ground. The bright blue sky was streaked with a few white clouds and the sun shone down with brilliance, if not warmth.
She engaged in some desultory conversation with her fellow passengers and the time passed pleasantly enough.
‘Not much further now,’ said the clergyman sitting next to Eleanor as the light began to fade. ‘Then we’ll be stopping for the night.’
Eleanor wondered whether Mr Kendrick would stay at the coaching inn overnight, or whether he would go on when the horses had been changed. She hoped the former. It would mean she did not have so far to travel and, even better, she was in familiar territory, for the town at which they would stop was the one where her mother’s friends, Lydia and Frederick lived.
Her spirits began to rise. It was possible that she would have a chance to speak to Mr Kendrick, buy back the compromising letters and then stay with Lydia and Frederick overnight.
At that moment, her thoughts were broken into by the sound of galloping hooves. She looked out of the window. The stagecoach had met with few other travellers on its journey, and none at all since dusk had started to fall. She was just wondering whether it would be a young buck, riding to a local dinner party, or a man of commerce, returning home after a busy day, when a loud cry rent the air.
‘Stand and deliver!’
There was a moment of disbelief as the passengers looked at one another, and then a mood of panic broke out in the coach. The bony clergyman crossed himself, crying, ‘Lord, spare us!’ whilst the stout matron sitting next to him gasped, ‘Mercy me!’
Mr Kendrick did not seem frightened. He did, however, hold on to his case very tightly.
What a pity, thought Eleanor. If he had let go of it, then in the confusion she might have been able to open it and see if Arabella’s letters were inside, but there was no chance of her looking now.
She glanced out of the window to see what was happening. The coach driver was wrestling with the horses and trying to stop them rearing as he brought the coach to a sudden halt. Ahead of him, sitting astride a coal-black horse, was a tall figure swathed in a dark cloak. Eleanor peered through the gloom and tried to make out the highwayman’s features, but even in the daylight it would have been difficult, and in the fading light it was impossible. A handkerchief was tied across the lower half of his face, and a tricorne hat was pulled down low over his eyes.
Motioning with his pistols the highwayman ordered the coachman down from his box. Then he turned his attention to the passengers on the roof and indicated that they were to follow. When they were lined up in a row at the side of the road, the highwayman rode over to the door of the coach. His eye
s ran over the passengers inside and one by one they looked away, unable to meet his gaze. But Eleanor did not. Instead of looking away she returned his regard.
So this is what a highwayman is like, she thought.
He was tall, and dark, and controlled his dancing horse with ease. His face was largely hidden, but she could see his eyes. They were steely blue, and they were looking directly into her own. They traced the lines of her face, dropping from her hazel eyes to her fine cheekbones and full mouth, and unaccountably she shivered.
At first she thought she must be afraid. But no, the shiver did not feel like fear. It was more like . . . she shook her head. She could not place it. But whatever it was, she was determined not to let it show.
She lifted her chin a fraction. Just for a moment she thought she saw a glimmer of respect in the highwayman’s eyes, but she must be mistaken. No highwayman would feel respect for one of his victims.
A moment later the expression was gone, and she was left with the belief that she must have imagined it, for nothing now remained in his eyes but the cold ruthlessness she would have expected.
Breaking their locked gaze he danced his horse back a few paces and gestured for the passengers to disembark.
There was a commotion inside the coach. The stout matron pulled her shawl more firmly around her shoulders. She gripped the handle of her basket extra tightly before pushing open the door and climbing out, spilling an apple out of her basket in the process.
The clergyman crossed himself before exclaiming, ‘May the good lord protect us!’ and following her down the steps.
Mr Kendrick motioned Eleanor to go next. He still had tight hold of his case. She bent to retrieve the matron’s apple before stepping out of the coach.
The night air was cold, and she was glad of her cloak. The wind stung her cheeks and whipped at the tendrils of dark brown hair which had escaped from her chignon. It tugged at the pins that held it up, threatening to spill her hair about her shoulders. She reached up and pushed them securely into place.