Chapter Ten

C aptain Oliver Featherstone called at Ormonde Abbey at precisely three o'clock in the afternoon, having ridden down from Marlborough on his flashy bay in the continued good weather. Ysella, who had been standing sentry at the window overlooking the front drive, spotted his figure in the distance. With a squeal of delight, she rushed first to inform Morvoren that her beau was on his way, and secondly down the stairs into the drawing room to join Mama, who was engaged in stitching a bonnet for young Master George.

Neither Mama nor Kit had been at all pleased that she'd invited a gentleman caller, although this time, forewarned by Morvoren's reaction, Ysella omitted to mention his friendship with Cousin Fitz. That would not have endeared him to Kit in any way, and she dearly wanted Oliver to make a good impression on her brother. After all, he'd said he had to have her, and that must mean only one thing. That he intended to offer for her hand. Perhaps he would do it today. How exciting that would be.

But Kit had taken umbrage and gone out onto the estate with Sam Beauchamp visiting their tenants and was not yet returned. Why he had to do that on a day when a very important question might need posing escaped Ysella. But gone he had. Brothers. They were a law unto themselves and most irritating.

Sam, who'd been there when Ysella had announced to Kit the imminent arrival of a beau from London, had bestowed a look of misery on Ysella that must surely have been on account of his not wanting to visit all those tenants. Ysella could only agree with that sentiment. Very boring that would be, even if most of them happened to be nice people. Ysella was glad, yet again, for having been born a girl without the responsibilities her brother had inherited.

Snatching up her own sewing—a nightgown to match the bonnet but without so much embroidery required, which was lucky as Ysella was very bad at embroidery—she sat down beside Mama with the intention of pretending she'd been industriously occupied since luncheon. Mama, who had also expressed annoyance in no uncertain terms at Ysella issuing invitations to a house of sickness, gave Ysella a reproving frown. Both she and Kit had been forced to agree that sending a messenger to Marlborough to avert the visit was unthinkable, but that didn't mean they'd given it the seal of their approval.

A five-minute wait brought Bannerman to the door, opening it to allow Oliver to enter. "Captain Featherstone, Milady," he said to Mama.

Oliver swaggered into the airy room, his presence filling it, or so it appeared to Ysella. His resemblance to one of her idealized romantic heroes seemed even greater in this setting. Her bosom physically heaved at the sight of him, more handsome than ever with his gently curling hair arranged in an upsweep of curls that added to his already impressive height. This time, he wore an impeccable blue tailcoat over buff breeches, with the points of his collar even higher than they'd been in London, making it hard for him to turn his head. His top boots still shone, but were lightly flecked with mud from his ride over from Marlborough.

He swept a flamboyant bow to Mama. "Lady Ormonde, charmed to make your acquaintance once again. I swear you get younger every time I see you."

Ysella suppressed an unladylike snort. What a lie. No one could get younger, so he was just being flattering, and it was a mistake, because Mama was not susceptible to that kind of flattery. She should have warned him.

Mama held out her hand, which he took and kissed. "How perfectly lovely to see you again, Captain. And so soon…" Both her tone and her arched eyebrows insinuated the inappropriateness of his visit, and Ysella's forehead furrowed. This might be more difficult than she'd been anticipating.

"Won't you take a seat for a few minutes," Mama said, her clipped words suggesting a few minutes was all the time he would be allowed to stay for.

Oliver flicked the tails of his coat out of the way, and perched on one of the stiffly upholstered chairs, his eyes resting on Mama still. A wise move. Although, the thought of Mama catching a glimpse of the hot gaze meant for her made Ysella stiff with fear. The niceties of social etiquette needed to be adhered to for Mama's sake, even if in private. But Ysella was aching for Oliver to take her in his arms and bestow another kiss like yesterday's upon her. Inside her satin slippers, her toes curled in delight at the thought and a warm glow suffused her. The memory of that kiss and how it had felt had grown in her imagination out of all proportion.

"Are you passing through on your way somewhere?" Mama asked, managing to stitch and regard Oliver at the same time.

He shook his head. "Not quite. I've taken a room in Marlborough—at the Castle Inn. It came well recommended by a friend, and I'm finding it most comfortable."

"Do you have acquaintances in the locality that you intend to visit?" To Ysella's oversensitive ears, Mama's voice sounded stiff with reproach. Or was that her imagination? Enough to put off the most ardent of beaux. Would she be this forbidding if Oliver were to have a title to his name, or, like Meliora's boring husband, a lucrative career? Although, of course, he might be heir to a title she didn't know about. Just because his father was a bishop, it didn't mean he had no claim to an aristocratic lineage. An interesting thought.

Oliver nodded. "In a way, although I doubt very much my particular friend is in residence. Captain Fitzwilliam Carlyon of Denby Castle. I believe he is your nephew."

Oh no. Now Mama would tell Kit that Oliver was a friend of Fitz's. If only she could have warned him not to mention it.

A small smile twitched at the corner of Mama's mouth. She had a soft spot for Fitz, as did Ysella. She'd once told her daughter that a man who was a rake, as Fitz was, commanded an undeniable attraction for the ladies, perhaps leading them to hope they might reform him. "Dear Fitz," Mama said, with a slightly wistful smile. "I believe he is on leave from his regiment and in London at the moment, for the season. I'm sure I saw him at the Denby House ball looking handsome in his regimentals."

Oliver nodded. "You did indeed, Lady Ormonde. And it is due to him that I'm down here in Wiltshire. I told him I fancied some time in the country, and he was kind enough to describe to me how beautiful Wiltshire is. I might ride over to Denby Castle in a day or two, if it takes my fancy. Just to see if it's as lovely as Fitz informed me."

A tiny nub of worry formed in Ysella's heart, as Oliver demonstrated his adeptness at telling lies, something Mama, and Papa when he was alive, had always drummed into her was to be abhorred, whatever the cause. Not that she always adhered to that rule herself. But this must be the sort of expedient lie that didn't matter so much, taking the place of a truth Mama could not hear. She must never find out that Ysella had invited Oliver down here herself. She'd think it far too forward.

Mama managed another rather forced smile. "You have chosen the loveliest of seasons, although at the moment the weather is a little inclement for my liking."

An idea seized Ysella. "Might I ride out with Captain Featherstone a few times—to show him the country?" She looked from Mama back to him. "My brother, Lord Ormonde, has set up some obstacles in our woods. They make a ride so much more fun. I love to jump and my horse is agile as a cat."

Mama frowned. "I don't think Captain Featherstone will have the time to ride out with you, Ysella. Will you, Captain?" To Ysella's deep annoyance, everything about her tone implied the answer she expected should be a "no."

He met Mama's challenging gaze. "I could make time, if it would amuse Miss Carlyon."

Mama's eyes flashed a warning. She did not like to be crossed.

This was not going the way Ysella had planned. Why was Mama so hostile to Oliver? She needed to do something. A glance at the long windows gave her an idea. "Would you care to see our gardens and hothouses, Captain Featherstone? We're very proud of our pineapple plants."

Mama frowned.

Oliver, however, smiled and nodded. "If Lady Ormonde doesn't object. I have a particular fascination for hothouse growing."

Did he? That was news to Ysella, but as it provided a good excuse to escape from the drawing room, she wasn't about to complain.

Mama inclined her head. "Perhaps just for a short while as Ysella has a gown to finish sewing for her new little nephew. My son has been lucky enough to have gained an heir, Captain. A little early in his arrival, which has taken us by surprise, and we are behind in our sewing."

Before Mama could change her mind, Ysella leapt to her feet with such haste that the unfinished baby gown fell to the floor. Oliver bent and retrieved it, placing it with elaborate care on the table in front of Mama. He held out his arm. "Lead on, Miss Carlyon." And she tucked her hand into its crook.

Having sent for Martha to bring her a spencer, as despite the brightness of the day it was chilly for wandering slowly around the garden, Ysella and Oliver left by one of the numerous side doors that led into the formal gardens.

*

Sam and Kit rode up the hill from the ornamental lake, the rooftops and random arrangement of chimneys belonging to the Abbey coming slowly into view over the brow. Sam glanced across at his employer and friend. While they'd been out visiting the tenants, he'd seemed perfectly happy, recounting to farmer's wife after farmer's wife, and some of the farmers as well, how his own wife and new son were doing.

It seemed news of Morvoren's illness had spread across the estate like wildfire, and at many of the homes they'd called at, small gifts had been pressed upon them. Sam's saddlebags bulged with crumbling pastries and paper-wrapped sweetmeats, and Kit's contained little bonnets and bootees, sachets of lavender festooned with lovingly handmade lace, and a selection of gaudy spring flowers picked from cottage gardens, their stalks wrapped in damp rags. These last must have been drooping by now, with their close proximity to the horses' warm bodies.

"I never cease to be amazed by the generosity of my tenants," Kit said, narrowing his eyes against the lowering sun. "It seems a cliché to call them the salt of the Earth, but I can find no other words to describe them. They have so little, and yet they all wanted to give something to Morvoren and my son. It humbles me."

Sam nodded. "Even the Widow Brooks, with her arthritis, had been out in her garden to pick flowers for Lady Ormonde."

Kit grinned. "She's made herself popular amongst the poor, with her constant concern for their welfare. If I'm not careful, I'm going to find I have no income at all from rents, for she'll have told them all they don't need to pay while they're struggling." He chuckled. "And then you'll have trouble balancing your books, old friend, and I'll be the one in need of handouts."

Sam let his reins slip through his fingers and his horse stretched its neck in appreciation. "All the same, I did wonder why you were so keen to get out of the house. I rather fancied you'd remain at your wife's side, with her so recently ill." He forbore from saying "at death's door" but that had been the gossip in the servants' hall. No doubt this thought had crossed Kit's mind as well, but it was best left unsaid, especially with her recovery so fresh.

"I had my reasons," Kit said, a frown marring his brow. "And Morvoren needs to sleep. I'm not needed now to sit beside her bed. Mama and Loveday have been competing with me for that honor."

Sam raised his eyebrows and waited for Kit to continue.

"Oh, very well," Kit snapped, as though driven to enlarging on his reasons. "It seems the beau my silly little sister has ensnared is not someone I would like her to associate with. Not someone any young lady's guardian would like her to even pass the time of day with, in fact. You heard her say he was coming to call today? Well, when she let slip his name, I recognized it. I know for a fact he's a friend of my cousin Fitz's, and while that in itself would render him unsuitable, I've heard rumors about him from acquaintances at White's who've had dealings with him that outweigh any association with Fitz."

He ran a hand through his unruly hair. "I can only hope the sentiments involved are entirely on his part, although Ysella is such a fool, I wouldn't be surprised if she hasn't hatched a fancy for him. She never did have any more sense than a…" He paused, as though lost for words to describe his sister. "Than a goldfish. And from what I've heard, the man's a cad, through and through."

A hollow formed in Sam's stomach as he remembered Ysella's face as she informed Kit of Captain Featherstone's imminent arrival. His heart twisted and sank into the toes of his boots. His hands tightened on the reins and his horse tossed his head. His whole body had stiffened, and a cold shiver ran down his spine.

Oblivious to Sam's reaction, Kit went on. "I've heard he's a man in need of a wealthy wife, although I've also heard he's the type of blackguard who would swindle you out of your money on some hairbrained get-rich-quick scheme. A bogus silver mine in Argentina is what was quoted to me. But I also heard that he's fought at least three duels in the past few years. A man died, I believe, but his father is high up in the church with a brother in government who hushed it up."

Everything coming out of Kit's mouth sounded like a death knell to Sam. His poor Ysella, duped and taken in by a scoundrel. This had to be stopped.

They had nearly reached the side of the house. Kit shook his head. "I'll put a stop to it, of course. After today's little fait accompli, I shall make sure she never sees him again, even if I have to keep her immured down here at Ormonde until Christmas. Let him set his sights on someone else's sister or daughter. Not mine." He grinned. "We'll take the horses around the back to the stables. I have a fancy to stand grooming them for a while."

They rode under the clock-towered archway into the stableyard and slid to the cobbles. Two grooms came hurrying out, but Kit waved them away. "We don't need you, thank you. We'll tend to our horses ourselves."

When they'd gone, he turned back to Sam. "He should be gone by now, unless he has fewer manners than I thought. I asked Mama not to let him stay too long. He's a mere captain in the militia, and I don't doubt but that he already knows Ysella has a small fortune in dowry coming to her, or he wouldn't have put himself out to come all the way down here after her. I don't want to see him if I don't have to. Not at the moment. I'm not in the mood for fending off my sister's suitors. I can trust Mama to have made it clear he's not welcome here again."

That sounded good to Sam's ears. He could trust Kit and the dowager to keep Ysella safe. Couldn't he?

Once in the looseboxes, sorting out the horses didn't take that long. Sam rushed the brush over his horse's flanks, picked out his hooves and then slung an armful of hay into his manger. Kit was deep in a conversation with his own horse, so Sam tossed an armful of hay in for him as well and walked out into the stable courtyard.

No one was around, and not having the same confidence as Kit that the captain would have recognized his dismissal by the dowager, he didn't fancy going inside the house in case he ran into him. Instead, he left by the archway and turned left, heading towards the gardens. He might just go and sit in the summerhouse, his favored spot for contemplation since his childhood. He had a lot he needed to contemplate today.

An archway sheltered an ornate ironwork gate set in the high brick wall surrounding the formal gardens. He pushed this gate open and headed away from the terrace and the house. He had to pass the Orangery, which was what the dowager called the hothouses, and as he did, he happened to glance through the windows.

They were arched, but not large, the heat inside being furnished by stoves rather than exclusively from sunlight. Greenery hung in abundance, and could produce all manner of fruits unavailable to those without benefit of a hothouse: grapes, oranges and lemons, cherries, peaches and figs, as well, of course, as the pineapples which Ormonde prided itself on. In addition to the fruits, a fine selection of exotic flowers grew within the capacious walls of the Orangery—among them oleander, hibiscus, and camellias that could be used even in winter to decorate the house.

But right at that moment, the exotic produce of the hothouse was not what caught his attention. Instead, his eyes riveted on the two people inside. One of them was Ysella, wearing a navy-blue spencer over a paler blue gown, but the other was a man. He was tall, made taller still by hair fluffed up in the artful curls that were the height of London fashion. Combined with those ridiculously high collar points, he resembled nothing more than a complete nincompoop. There was no denying, however, that he possessed a perfect Grecian profile: a long straight nose, a determined chin, and a high, pale brow. And the cut of his coat clung to his broad shoulders like a second skin.

It had to be the captain. Sam stared, unable to drag his gaze away. Neither Ysella nor this paragon seemed to have noticed him, so intent were they on staring into each other's eyes. They stood face to face, their bodies only inches apart, and the captain—that dandy —had her hands clasped in his as he leered down at her. Yes, that was a leer for certain.

Sam's fists clenched at his sides. How he would love to wipe that dreadful smug smile off that nincompoop's face. He'd done a lot of boxing growing up with Kit, who, being an only son, had required a partner to spar with. Kit had attended Eton, where boxing was part of the curriculum, unlike at the local grammar school in Marlborough, where Sam had boarded. He could surely land a facer on that immaculate nose and set it out of kilter. Hopefully for good.

As he watched, held fascinated by the sight, the captain, who was nothing more than the cad Kit had called him, inclined his head to Ysella's and their lips met. Sam's fury rose like the lava in a volcano, and it was all he could do not to charge for the doors and rush inside to break them apart. But it was not his position to do this, and besides which, it was only a kiss. Wasn't it? Was he not going to have to live with the idea that Ysella would kiss another man? But not this cad, this nincompoop, this dandy . How could she bring herself to kiss someone like that?

However, Ysella seemed to be returning the kiss with untoward enthusiasm. If it made her happy…

Something inside Sam cracked. Was it his heart?

He watched as she lifted her arms and, it had to be admitted with diffidence, put them around the captain's neck. The captain's hands on her waist drew her closer…

"Sam? Where are you?" Kit's voice rang out across the gardens.

Inside the Orangery, the two lovers sprang apart. Were they laughing? Sam turned and hurried towards the summerhouse. They must never guess he'd been spying on them.

Kit came stomping through the gate, perhaps a little put out that Sam had deserted him in the stables. And at the same time, Ysella and her captain emerged from the Orangery looking as demure and innocent as babes. A quick glance over Sam's shoulder showed him her hair slightly disarranged, and her cheeks becomingly flushed, but that was all.

"Kitto," she called out in delight. "There you are. I have someone I'd like you to meet."

Sam couldn't stay to watch this. He hurried his footsteps past the summerhouse and out of the bottom gate. He did not want to see Ysella with a man, any man, that she'd just kissed .