A Regency Scandal Read online

  A REGENCY SCANDAL

  Alice Chetwynd Ley

  To ELIZABETH STEVENS,

  who has given me so much help and encouragement.

  Table of Contents

  PART I

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  PART II

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CHAPTER XXIX

  CHAPTER XXX

  CHAPTER XXXI

  CHAPTER XXXII

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  CHAPTER XXXV

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  MORE BOOKS BY ALICE CHETWYND LEY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PART I

  Alvington

  1789-1805

  “For our time is a very shadow that passeth away.”

  CHAPTER I

  The day in 1789 that Neville, Viscount Shaldon, only son of the fifth Earl of Alvington, attained his majority, the gates of Alvington Hall were flung wide to admit all the Earl’s tenants and outdoor staff to an alfresco feast in the grounds.

  Alvington Hall was an imposing edifice, as befitted the great house of the neighbourhood. It stood at the end of a long avenue of the beeches for which Buckinghamshire is famous, and about it a pleasant park had been formed by the eminent landscape gardener, Capability Brown. The first Earl had caused the house to be built in the prevailing Jacobean style; but subsequent owners had kept abreast of the architectural whims of their day, so that now the Hall presented a pleasant classical appearance. The windows of the west front looked out onto a terrace from which steps led down to lawns and flower beds; beyond was a view of the two lakes and surrounding parkland. The main entrance was on the north side of the house, while to the east was a large stable block surrounding a courtyard, with the land agent’s commodious quarters fronting it. As sometimes happens on large estates which have been in existence for centuries, the church which served both house and village was within the park, separated by a mere fifty yards from the south side of the mansion, a conveniently short distance which enabled the Earl’s household to be punctual at their devotions. Fortunately, an early ancestor had caused the graveyard to be removed from the grounds to a more distant site in the village; and though the village people of that time had regarded this as a sacrilegious act which was bound to bring down disaster on the family, so far the prophecy remained unfulfilled.

  Every servant, indoors and out, had been up betimes on this bright day in late May, from the stately butler and buxom cook to the humblest kitchen maid and still more lowly bootblack. There had been scoldings in plenty and even boxed ears, in the general fuss and flurry before all was ready, and the long trestle tables, loaded with all manner of tempting viands, had been set out at a discreet distance from the house.

  There were boiled fowls; huge rounds of tongue, ham, and beef; and weighty game pies with brown, crisp crust decorated by the hand of an artist. There were great bowls of salamagundy, pyramids of jellies and syllabubs, massive dishes of succulent fruit, and mounds of hot, crusty bread fresh from the oven. Kegs of ale had been brought out ready to fill the tankards which would presently be raised to drink young Master’s health; and the crowning triumph of the feast was an ox which was being roasted nearby, well away from the trees, giving off the most mouth-watering smells imaginable.

  Eager with anticipation of these delights, the villagers trooped in to join those who worked on the estate, all clad in their Sunday best and with manners to match. Even the youngest child among them knew that the Earl of Alvington, though genial enough today, was an ill man to cross. One word or action out of place could have dire results when everyone’s livelihood depended upon the Earl’s patronage. They knew well enough, too, that their master’s domination extended even to his own family. The Countess was a meek lady who could not say boo to a goose, let alone attempt to oppose her autocratic husband. Pale, languid, almost a shadowy creature, she did her duty at board and in bed without either involvement or complaint. She had managed to bring only this one child into the world, every subsequent pregnancy having ended in miscarriage. To the Earl it was a symbol of her general ineffectualness; but at least she had managed to present him with an heir to the title and estate before her productivity ceased. As for sexual excitement, that was easy enough for him to find in London, where he always had one expensive mistress or another in keeping. Such affairs were a commonplace with men of rank and wealth, and caused no comment among his own circle beyond the usual cynical jest as they laid bets about who Alvington’s next ladybird would be.

  As for the young Viscount — Master Neville, as many of the older retainers still thought of him — he was no match for his sire. Since he had been trained from childhood in implicit obedience to his father’s will, and was still dependent upon him financially, his coming of age today would make no difference to the existing relationship between parent and son. The Earl would still call the tune and Master Neville would dance to it, however reluctantly.

  They watched him now, as he walked about amongst them paying civilities with that air of easy charm which warmed people to him momentarily, even though most of them in time came to realise that it meant nothing. The Strattons — the family name of the Earls of Alvington — had always been handsome men, right back to the first Earl in the time of Charles the Second. Neville, Viscount Shaldon was no exception — tall and slim, but with good shoulders, his features almost of a classical perfection, marred only by a slight weakness about the chin. The most distinctive mark of his Stratton heredity was his hair, at present unpowdered and worn tied back with a plain black ribbon. It was of a deep, rich auburn colour that could be seen in all the family portraits hanging on the walls of Alvington Hall. Altogether he appeared a fine figure of a man as he paced beside his father among their humble guests, causing spontaneous murmurs to be heard of “Good health and fortune, m’lud,” or more simply, “God bless ye, Master Neville.”

  “Fine day for it,” said the Earl, glancing up at the cloudless blue sky. “Good thing. Easier to get the mess cleaned up afterwards. Better for the ball tonight, too, as some of ’em will have a long drive home. Speaking of the ball, I’ve been turning things over in my mind, thinking about your future.”

  “My — my future, sir?” repeated Neville, uneasily.

  “Yes — your marriage, m’boy.” He gave a short laugh as he saw his son’s startled look. “Well, got to get hitched some time, ain’t you? Thing is, who to choose. Plenty of likely candidates for a young fellow of rank and fortune like yourself — and not too ill-looking a chap, at that, though I say it myself.”

  “But surely, sir,” protested Neville, feebly, “one and twenty is a trifle young to be considering matrimony? I must confess no such thought has so far crossed my mind.”

  “Let it do so now,” recommended the Earl briskly. “No need to press the business on for … say a twelvemonth, but time to start looking about you. I collect by what you say that so far your fancy hasn’t l
ighted on any particular gal?”

  He paused in his stride to cast a keen glance at his son. The steel-grey eyes which missed nothing detected a certain uneasiness in Neville’s face.

  “It has, eh? Who is she, then? Come on, out with it!”

  Neville shook his head vigorously, avoiding that keen eye. “No, no, assure you, Father! No one in particular. Of course, a man can’t avoid noticing a female here and there. Only human,” he added, with an attempt at a man-of-the-world air.

  The Earl emitted a crack of laughter. “As you say, m’boy. Glad to know there’s a streak of the Strattons in you, for don’t mind telling you at times I’ve set you down as a regular milksop.

  “Well, if you’ve no fancy for anyone in particular, so much the better, since I’ve hit on a very desirable match for you, myself. One of the biggest fortunes in the country, and a considerable land holding. Only child, too, like yourself, so it would all come to you. Don’t doubt her father’d be glad enough to settle, for who wouldn’t want his daughter to marry into an earldom when he’s only a baronet himself? Old family, mind, good name, no drawback there.”

  Neville listened to this in stunned silence.

  “I suppose,” he said at last, “you must mean Sir William Cottesford’s daughter, Maria.”

  “Is her name Maria?” asked the Earl. “Known them these twenty years, but never troubled myself to find out. Yes, that’s the one. What d’you say?”

  “I — well — I scarce know what to say—”

  “Fustian! Where would you find a better match, now, tell me that?” retorted his father, forcefully. “Name, fortune, land. What more d’you want?”

  “I agree it’s a good match from that point of view,” replied Neville, hesitantly.

  “What other point of view is there?” The Earl’s tone was impatient.

  “Well, it’s just that — Maria Cottesford is not a very personable young lady—”

  “What’s that to say to anything? She looks the lady, don’t she? All you need in a wife, believe me — that, and a strong sense of duty,” he added, thinking with satisfaction of his own wife in this respect. “If it’s something a bit more fluffy you want, plenty of ladybirds to be had for the asking. Marriage is what we’re talking of now, and marriage is a matter of business, not pleasure. Sooner you get that into your head, the faster we’ll get on. Eh, what d’you say?”

  Neville was obliged to reply to the salutations of some of his father’s tenants at this juncture, and so was able to gain time for his reply. A surge of helpless frustration boiled up inside him, almost choking him; yet his face wore an easy smile while his lips uttered the polite words which the occasion required. Would he never be free from his father’s tyranny, he wondered, never be able to live his own life, choose his own wife? But even through his inward raging the chill voice of reason warned him that even had he been free to choose, he still could not choose where his inclination lay at this moment.

  By the time he turned to his father again, he had all but mastered his emotions.

  “Well?” repeated the Earl, impatiently.

  “I — I suppose you are right, sir. Yes, I will consider it.”

  “More than that, m’boy, more than that,” insisted the Earl. “Push on with the business. Give the gal some hint of how the land lies. Do the pretty to her at this ball tonight. Try to fix your interest with her — or, at least, make a start. We Strattons have always been a success with women. I’ll wager you’re no exception, if you put your mind to it.” He broke off as he saw the stewards directing the crowd to the tables. “No time for more now. They’ll be wanting to drink your health. This puts me in mind of my own coming of age, damme if it don’t. Ah, well, life goes on in much the same way from generation to generation. Nothing changes, eh?”

  The ballroom at Alvington Hall was part of an extensive new wing built onto the original structure some thirty years previously in the style of Robert Adam. Columns of green-veined pink alabaster supported a ceiling decorated with delicate plaster arabesques; the walls were coloured a pastel pink shade, and elegant gilt chairs and sofas were disposed at intervals along them. The brilliant light provided by several magnificent crystal chandeliers was reflected in the highly polished oak floor. It also added lustre to the soft colours of the ladies’ gowns and set their jewels sparkling with living fire as they moved about the room in company with gentlemen in knee breeches of snowy white satin and coats of plum red, olive green, cinnamon or blue.

  The Earl looked about him complacently, remarking to his wife that nothing was lacking to make young Neville’s majority ball a resounding success.

  “Everyone’s here that matters, m’dear, in this county and the next. All that’s wanting now is for the boy to show some interest in that direction.”

  He nodded his head towards two ladies sitting on a sofa against the wall at some distance away. As there were several groups intervening, his wife was understandably puzzled.

  “In what direction, my love? I’m afraid I don’t perfectly understand you,” she replied, timidly.

  “Don’t be more stupid than you can help, Jane. I was speaking to you of it only yesterday — the Cottesford gal.”

  “Oh — oh, yes, I beg your pardon — of course.”

  The Countess cast a weary glance in the direction indicated by her husband. She considered the younger of the two ladies thoughtfully. Maria Cottesford was not well known to her, but she had an uneasy suspicion that the girl was scarcely likely to make an instant appeal to such an undoubtedly handsome young man as Neville, who would surely desire — and might reasonably expect to win — a much prettier female as a bride. There was no escaping the fact that Maria was not well favoured. Her figure was trim and neat enough, and her air ladylike. But her nose was too long and her mouth too wide for such a small, thin face; while all the brilliance of the chandeliers failed to draw out any glints in her dull, mouse-coloured hair. The gown she was wearing of a soft apricot shade did what it could for her complexion, but it could not completely disguise a sallow tinge to the skin. There must be at least a score of young ladies in this very room who would be more to her son’s taste, reflected the Countess; but she knew it was useless to say as much to her autocratic husband.

  She smiled weakly as she said, “I’m sure she’s a very nice girl.”

  The Earl snorted. “Nice? Of course she’s nice! Well-bred female, ain’t she? Fortune, too. What more’s wanting, I’d like to know? Now where the devil’s that boy?”

  Viscount Shaldon was at that moment talking to a young man of about his own age in another corner of the ballroom.

  The Honourable Edward Lydney lived on a neighbouring estate, and the two had been closely associated since childhood, though they had little in common except propinquity. Baron Lydney’s son was both physically and temperamentally different from young Viscount Shaldon. He was as dark as Neville was fair, was more stockily built, and gave an impression of greater virility. Although he was half a head shorter than his companion, he seemed in no way overshadowed. His air of assurance, springing from the knowledge that he was able to order his own life very much as he chose, was more complete than Neville’s, which concealed an insecurity engendered by quite a different upbringing. Nevertheless, Edward was the only person in whom Neville ever confided. Lydney would listen to his friend’s problems with a mixture of contempt and compassion, afterwards offering such advice and help as he could manage without putting himself to undue trouble. His more vigorous nature would sometimes prompt him to suggest solutions which he realised the vacillating Neville would never find either the courage or the resolution to adopt; but when diplomacy would serve his friend’s purpose, he could sometimes find an acceptable way for Neville to resolve his difficulties.

  He listened now, as best he could in a crowded ballroom, to the account Neville was giving him of the recent conversation with his father.

  “Well, what of it?” he asked, a shade impatiently, at the end of this tedious recital. �
��It would be a good match, surely? Not that a fellow wants to become leg-shackled too early in life unless he’s pinched in the pocket, but you say he don’t mean to push the business on too fast. And I think the lady will keep,” he added, glancing across the room towards the spot where Lady Cottesford was seated with her daughter, his lips twisting in a sneer. “She’s had a couple of seasons in Town, and by all accounts she didn’t take there, in spite of being an heiress.”

  “And pray why should I be saddled with a female whom no one else wants?” demanded Neville, petulantly.

  Lydney shrugged. “Nothing against the girl, beyond she’s no beauty. I hear she’s well liked by other females of her age, which argues a good disposition; for the little dears have sharp enough claws where their own sex is concerned, however sweet and charming they may choose to appear before ours. No, my advice is to take her, dear fellow. I’m sure she’s yours for the asking.”

  “But I don’t want her — not if she had twice the fortune!” expostulated Neville. “Fact is, Ned” — he lowered his voice and looked cautiously about him to make sure that no one was within earshot — “there’s someone else, someone infinitely more desirable in every way.”

  Lydney’s eyebrows shot up. “Oho!” he said, softly. “And would your father think so?”

  The change in Neville’s expression gave him his answer.

  “Well, then,” he continued, “I think you’d best put that lady out of your mind — at least, as far as matrimony is concerned. Of course, if some other little arrangement is possible…”

  Neville shook his head. “Not with her. She — oh, the devil, Ned, I can’t tell you about it now! And there’s my father making signs to me to go over to him. I must go. I’ll call on you tomorrow, and you shall hear the whole.”

  This prospect held no particular appeal for Edward Lydney, but he agreed amiably enough as he turned away with relief to claim his partner for the next dance, a lively young lady whom he had been watching out of the corner of his eye during the whole of his conversation with the Viscount.