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Overview
The Hartleys are on the brink of disaster. Viscount Mainwaring has died, unaccountably leaving his entire fortune to an American. Worst of all, Anne Hartley’s future is in jeopardy. She has been forbidden from marrying the nobleman she has adored since the moment she found him thrown from his horse in Hyde Park.
With two society families up in arms, the unwitting new Viscount Mainwaring arrives in England to claim his title. That’s when Anne’s scheming stepmother comes up with a plan to save them all from imminent ruin. All that proper, sensible Anne has to do is transform the uncouth Virginian into an English gentleman. But Jason Hughes isn’t the ill-mannered boor everyone expects. And love was never part of the bargain.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497697775 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 01/13/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 231 |
| Sales rank: | 436,877 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Elizabeth Mansfield is a pseudonym of Paula Schwartz, which she used for more than two dozen Regency romances. Schwartz also wrote an American immigrant family saga, A Morning Moon, as Paula Reibel, and two American history romances—To Spite the Devil, as Paula Jonas, and Rachel’s Passage, as Paula Reid.
Read an Excerpt
Regency Sting
By Elizabeth Mansfield
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1980 Paula SchwartzAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9777-5
CHAPTER 1
The letter was delivered at eleven in the morning to the Mainwaring town house on Curzon Street and was carried by the first footman to the butler, Mr. Coyne, who was belowstairs in his shirtsleeves polishing the silver. "Why did you bring it here?" the butler asked in some annoyance. "Take it directly to Lady Harriet, you whopstraw!"
The footman took a step backward and shook his head nervously. "Not me!" he said stubbornly. "I've a suspicion o' what's in that letter, an' if you was to ask me, I'd say that it should be you what takes that kind o' news to her."
The butler frowned at his subordinate and took the letter from him. One look at the sender's name—Lucious R. Brindle, Solicitor—was enough to inform Coyne of the letter's contents: Lady Harriet's brother, the Viscount Mainwaring, had passed on. "I don't see why you're in a quake over this," the butler said, unmoved. "Lord Mainwaring's demise should come as no surprise to her ladyship." It should come as a surprise to nobody in London, the butler thought, for William Osborn Hughes, Viscount Mainwaring, was known to have suffered several severe attacks of apoplexy during the past few months. It was generally believed that the Viscount would not outlast the summer of 1810, but here it was almost November, well past the expected time.
"You mean her ladyship's expectin' this news?" the footman asked.
"So I would imagine," the butler said shortly. "Therefore, if you please, put the letter on the salver and take it to her."
"But ... she's still sitting wi' Lady Mathilda Claybridge."
"I know that, you nodcock. But they've been closeted for more than an hour. Lady Mathilda was wearing a sour face when she came in, and I've no doubt the visit is no joy for her ladyship. Lady Harriet will be glad of an interruption."
"But what if Lady Harriet don't take the news in good part? What if she turns on the waterworks or somethin'?"
"Waterworks? Lady Harriet? You are noddy. Lady Harriet ain't the sort who excites herself or has the vapors—you know that. The way you carry on, one would think Lady Harriet was fond of that stiff-rumped old—" Coyne caught himself up and fixed his eye on the footman severely. "Just do as I say. Bring her the letter, and don't make such a pother."
The footman, with obvious reluctance, put the letter on a newly polished silver tray and started from the room. At the doorway he turned and looked back at the butler with a pleading, frightened-puppy look. "I ain't never had to break such news before. Please, Mr. Coyne, won't you—?"
Coyne exploded. "Look here, you blockhead, do you see what I'm wearing? An apron. I'm in my shirtsleeves. This teapot has not yet been finished, and I've all the Storr plate yet to do."
"But Mr. Coyne ... please ..."
In utter digust, Coyne snatched the tray with the letter from the hand of the craven footman. "Oh, give it over. I'll do it myself. Here, help me off with this apron and get my coat. And while I'm gone, you can finish the teapot. But if I find so much as a smudge on it when I return, you'll be out on the street before the day is out!"
In the drawing room above, Lady Harriet Hartley was clenching her fingers in her lap and telling herself over and over to remember to remain calm. She had long ago trained herself to keep her emotions in control. Her father had frequently indulged in choleric fits of anger and had died in his thirties of a heart seizure. Her elder brother was also abnormally short-tempered and as a result suffered from severe bouts of apoplexy. Harriet therefore had realized early that if she were to avoid a similar fate, she must not permit herself to indulge in tantrums, tears or tempers. And when she found herself, as at this moment, in situations which promised to irritate her nerves, she pressed her hands together in her lap, pressed her feet flat on the floor, attempted to regulate her breathing and talked to herself soothingly.
Lady Mathilda Claybridge was just the type of woman to irritate Harriet's nerves. She was small, thin and given to jerky little movements of her hands when she spoke. Her voice was high and her speech quick, and one half-hour in her presence made Harriet yearn for the company of a plump, even-tempered, placid matron like herself.
It had taken Mathilda more than half-an-hour to get to the point of her visit. After much roundaboutation, she had confessed that she was unhappy about her son Arthur's interest in Lady Harriet's stepdaughter, Anne. It had taken a great deal of patient questioning on Harriet's part to discover the reason. Mathilda Claybridge, recently widowed, had learned that her husband had gambled away a great deal of his fortune and had left the estate hopelessly encumbered. "So you see, Harriet," she had admitted at last, "it is absolutely fatal for Arthur to ally himself to a penniless girl like Anne. You know, my dear, that I'm very fond of Anne. Truly I am. There is no young lady in London I admire more. Why, how often have I said to you that I wish my Marianne had some of Anne's style and elegance?"
"Very often, Mathilda, my dear, very often," Harriet murmured politely.
"Of course. And I am most sincere when I say there is no one I'd rather have as a daughter-in-law—"
"Daughter-in-law?" Harriet sat upright in surprise. "I had no idea that matters between Anne and Arthur had progressed so far! Has Arthur made her an offer?"
"No, I don't think it has yet come to that, but it's plain as pikestaff that it's May Moon with them both. That's why I've come today. We must dosomething before things go too far. That is ... unless ..." Lady Mathilda paused and reddened in embarrassment.
"Unless ...?" Harriet urged.
"This is very difficult for me to say, Harriet, but I believe we must be aboveboard in this matter, don't you?"
"Yes, let us be aboveboard, by all means."
"Good. Then I shall ask you frankly—does your brother intend to deal with Anne ... er ... shall we say 'handsomely'?"
It was at this point that Lady Harriet began to clench her fingers, check her breathing and warn herself to keep calm. "If by that you mean to ask if he will leave her a legacy, I can only tell you that I have no idea what my brother's intentions are," she said flatly.
"I see. I suppose there is no hope that Anne's father, your late husband, left any—"
Harriet shook her head. "No, Mathilda. I think you know quite well that the Hartleys never had a feather to fly with."
"Well, then, you must see—"
"I'm afraid I don't see. What is it you want of me, Mathilda?"
"I want you to help me keep them apart."
Harriet sighed. "But how?"
"We must forbid them to see each other."
"Nonsense. That's just the sort of thing that drives lovers into each other's arms."
"Not if we are firm. Believe me, Harriet dear, I've given this matter a great deal of thought. I can think of no other way. I'm convinced that, if I have your support, and if we both remain firm, we shall brush through."
Harriet was dubious. "I would like nothing better than to encourage Anne to turn her thoughts elsewhere, but I cannot like—"
It was at that moment that Coyne scratched at the door. Lady Harriet called an eager "Come in," and he entered with his silver tray. His step was measured, his face composed, his manner unconcerned. He had been the Hartleys' butler ever since Lady Harriet was first married, almost twenty years ago. He knew that she was not given to emotional outbursts. He was convinced that she would read the letter and take the news of her brother's demise with her customary complacency.
As he expected, Lady Harriet smiled at him with unmistakable gratitude in her eyes. Plainly she was not enjoying Lady Claybridge's visit. He offered her the letter with his leisurely bow, and she opened it in her usual, unhurried, placid manner. As she glanced over the contents, she blinked, paled, and made a choking sound. She read the words a second time. "I must remain calm." she muttered under her breath, the letter beginning to tremble in her hand. "I must remain ca-a-a-a-lm!" The last word was more like a shuddering sigh, and the placid, complacent Lady Harriet toppled to the floor in a swoon.
Lady Mathilda uttered a little, shocked cry, and the butler stared at her ladyship's prostrate form goggle-eyed. He could not believe what he saw. In all these years, he had rarely seen his mistress in a taking. She had hardly ever raised her voice. She had never hurried, nor shed tears, nor given way to the vapors. And she had certainly never swooned.
As soon as he could recover from the shock, he knelt beside her and began awkwardly to chafe her hands. His movements nudged Lady Claybridge to her senses. Mathilda Claybridge had frequently indulged in fainting spells, and she tremblingly reached into her reticule for the hartshorn she always carried. A great deal of chafing and sniffing of hartshorn was necessary before Lady Harriet could be brought round, but at last she opened her eyes and permitted herself to be helped to the sofa. She fell back against the cushions, pressing her hand against her heaving chest. "Oh, my heart," she murmured. "I must remain calm."
"May I get you a glass of brandy, your ladyship?" Coyne asked, bending over her in concern. "A sip of brandy is most efficacious in these circumstances."
"No, thank you, Coyne," she said weakly.
"Yes, Coyne, it's the very thing," Lady Claybridge said. Coyne ran out of the room and down the hall to the dining room where a decanter of brandy was kept on the sideboard. As he passed the library, the sound of his footsteps was heard by Lady Harriet's seventeen-year-old son, Peter, who had been sitting there reading his Cicero. Disturbed, he placed a finger in his book to mark his place and wandered down the hall. As he passed the drawing-room doorway, he caught a glimpse of his mother stretched out on the sofa, with Lady Claybridge standing over her in an attitude of tender solicitude. Never having seen his mother indisposed, he adjusted his spectacles to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him. "Good heavens, Mama, what's amiss?" he asked, half in alarm and half in annoyance at having been distracted from his studies.
"Oh, Peter," she said tearfully, attempting to sit up, "please come in. There's something I ..." Then, with a glance at Lady Claybridge, she bit her lip and relapsed into silence.
Lady Claybridge smiled reassuringly at Peter. "Your mother has merely had a little fainting spell—"
"Fainting spell? Mama?" Peter asked incredulously.
"It was nothing," Harriet said quickly. "Mathilda, you've been very kind, but I ... I'm quite myself now. There's no reason for me to detain you ..."
Lady Claybridge looked quickly from mother to son. "Yes, of course," she said, rising. "You needn't look so dumbfounded, Peter dear. After all, a little fainting spell can scarcely be considered at all serious. Ah, here's Coyne. He can see me out."
"Of course, my lady," Coyne said, coming into the room with the brandy, "as soon as Lady Harriet has had her restorative."
"No, thank you, Coyne, I won't need that dreadful stuff. Do take it away and show Lady Claybridge to her carriage."
Lady Claybridge went to the door. There she hesitated. "You won't forget what we talked about, will you, Harriet? I am counting on your support in the matter."
"No, no, I won't forget," Harriet said abstractedly.
As soon as they were alone, Peter sat down beside his mother and studied her curiously. "I've never known you to do such a thing. What's wrong, Mama?"
Harriet looked at him tearfully. "Oh, my dear," she said in a quavering voice, "what a catastrophic blow we've had!"
She handed him the missive which she'd been clutching even during her period of unconsciousness. Peter adjusted his spectacles and read it quickly. Then, completely unmoved, he looked up at his mother. "I don't see why you're in such a taking," he remarked. "Everyone expected Uncle Osborn to stick his spoon into the wall at any time during this past year."
"I didn't expect it," his mother said weakly. "He wasn't much past sixty, he was the strongest and hardiest man in the family despite his apoplexy, and although he was the eldest, he was always used to say that he would outlive us all. Besides, it is not at all kind in you to use so dreadful an expression. Stick his spoon into the wall, indeed! Have you no respect for the dead?"
"Dash it, Mama," Peter said defensively, "you surely don't expect me to carry on over this, do you? Because I see no cause to put on a long face over the demise of a man I hardly knew. I admit that he was generous with money, if one cares for such things, but I detest the sort of sham which prompts one to praise—after he dies—a man one despised while he was alive."
Lady Harriet shook her head and sighed hopelessly. I must remain calm, she told herself. Peter was not being rude. Although little more than a boy, her son was an independent-minded, scholarly youth who had adopted strong latitudinarian principles. He cared for little but his books and his imminent entrance into Oxford. She was utterly devoted to him and very proud of his scholarly abilities, but she had to admit that she did not always understand him. She knew that his slender physique and his lack of sporting prowess were a disappointment to him. It was too bad that his father had died when he was so young, and that her now-deceased brother had never taken an interest in the boy. He needed the influence of a strong man. But her brother had always been selfish and reclusive, and it was too late now to change things. "I suppose I should not have expected you to grieve for your Uncle Osborn," she said regretfully, "but you may find that you have other reasons to mourn. You should grieve, if not for your uncle, then for Anne—and for yourself."
"Why? What do you mean?"
"Did you not read the letter through?" she asked, trying with a perceptible effort to regain her composure, but not quite succeeding. "Osborn left everything to ... to ..." Here, her self-control broke down again. "... to that rebel!"
"Rebel?" Peter asked, perplexed. "What rebel? Do you mean your brother Henry's son?"
"Of course I mean Henry's son!"
"Well, really, Mama, you can scarcely call him a rebel. He can't be more than twenty-five or six. The American uprising was over before he was born!"
"What has that to say to anything?" his mother demanded with unaccustomed irritability, unable to recapture her normal complacency. "His father—my rackety second brother, Henry—was a rebel, wasn't he?"
"Not at all," Peter explained, shifting the book he carried to his other hand and seating himself beside his mother. "As I understand it, my Uncle Henry was a perfectly respectable British officer of the line who discharged his duties quite honorably. Just because he chose not to return to England with his regiment after the war does not make him a rebel."
"Any man who would choose to remain abroad and give up his homeland is a rebel in my view. Besides, he married a rebel, did he not? You'll have to admit that, even if Henry couldn't be called a rebel in the strictest sense, his son is a rebel—on his mother's side, at least."
Peter shrugged. "A tendency to rebellion," he said, repressing a smile, "is not inherited. Anyway, I don't see why you're upsetting yourself over all this now, Mama. It isn't at all like you."
"It's because I cannot understand why Osborn left everything to an American, while my son is given nothing at all," she answered, pulling a handkerchief from the bosom of her dress and sniffing into it piteously.
"But you must have understood all these years that the inheritance had to pass on down the male line—"
"I suppose I should have understood," his mother admitted miserably, "but I kept hoping ... all sorts of foolish hopes that Anne would marry well ... that Osborn would live for years and years ... or that he would make proper provision ..." Her voice quivered pathetically. "Oh, dear, I must be calm," she warned herself.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Regency Sting by Elizabeth Mansfield. Copyright © 1980 Paula Schwartz. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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