Blackmail and the Bride (The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington Book 5) Page 5

At last, both Cressida and Richard found themselves wrapped in woollen robes, toasting their toes by a small fire, and sipping tea.

  “It could be worse,” observed Richard.

  “Yes indeed,” sighed Cressida, running a hand through her short curls. “It’s strange though. Very strange.”

  Richard was up and prowling again, this time walking to the small writing desk. He casually lifted the lid. “Ah, we have reading material.” He pulled out newspapers. “Couple of weeks old, though.”

  She turned. “That’s all right. Perhaps we should get caught up on the doings in town?”

  He passed some of the sheets to her and returned to his seat. The only sounds for the next few moments were those of clinking teacups and rustling newspapers.

  Suddenly Richard sat up with a muttered oath on his lips. “Mother of…”

  Cressida turned and frowned at his expression. “What? What did you find?”

  He looked at her with concern. “What was your father’s name?”

  She blinked. “Er…Roland. Sir Roland Branscombe. He died not long after I was born.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Elizabeth…” Anxiety crept over her.

  “I’m not sure you’ll want to read this.”

  Her heart started to pound. “Oh God. If it’s bad news, then you’d better read it.” She put down her tea and her papers and stared at him.

  He nodded briefly. “It’s in one of those gossip pieces. Listen…

  We note with interest the recent revelations concerning the eminently respectable B_____ family. How shocking it has been to learn that a certain red-haired young lady’s alleged parentage is not as previously believed. Miss C____ B____, daughter of the late Sir R____ B____ who passed away almost two decades ago, has been revealed to be the offspring of a different sire. Documents pertaining to her birth have come to light, uncovered in the estate of her unfortunate Mama, Lady E_____B_____, who has also departed this life.

  While these events are not, in themselves, cause for alarm, the identity of Miss B_____’s real parent has many of us reeling with surprise. It has not been too long since privateers sailed our waters and protected the honor of our King and Country. Among such brave heroes of the sea, the name Gerrard Hatfield, will be remembered—but not for his service. He is notorious for his traitorous betrayal of his captain and crew. The abhorrent monster received his just dues on the gallows of Newgate four years ago, after a lengthy trial.

  What a surprise to learn that a traitor’s offspring has mingled with the decent and law abiding members of society, and even now is in Brussels with our brave troops. One can only hope that the father’s blood does not run too strongly in the daughter.”

  “Oh, my God.” Cressida fell back in her chair, her skin cold, her eyes wide. “You think that’s about me?”

  “Are there any other young women with those initials and red hair in Society at the moment?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t think of any.” She put her hands to her forehead. “I can’t think of anything right now…”

  Richard stood and moved to her side, kneeling next to her and refilling her teacup. “Here. Drink.”

  She tried to take it, but her hands were shaking too badly. He had to hold it to her lips and encourage her to take a sip or two. “Now breathe, Cressida. Just breathe.”

  She did as he bid, closing her eyes and focusing on taking several deep breaths. Zizi, who had been dozing on the hearth, jumped up and landed in Cressida’s lap, as if to add some comfort of her own.

  “Good girl.” He stood and pulled his own chair closer to hers. “Now, when you’ve collected your thoughts, let’s talk things through.”

  It took her more than a moment, but her husband was apparently more patient than she’d expected. He sat quietly, his legs crossed at the ankles, staring into the fire. It had begun to rain and the sound of the drops against the window was oddly soothing.

  At last she straightened. “Right then. Firstly, I’m not sure I believe any of it. But it does make everything a lot clearer, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded. “I believe so, but perhaps we should share our thoughts on this.”

  “Very well.” She gulped down the urge to swear profusely. “My interpretation of that story is that something of Mama’s has come to light, which I am assuming means found by the news sheets, and it alleges that my father wasn’t Sir Roland, but some pirate by the name of Hatfield. And now, of course, Society is doing what it does best, which is go into paroxysms of delight at having someone’s reputation to shred.”

  “An excellent summation, which concurs with my own.” He touched her shoulder. “But to continue that thought and extrapolate it to our situation, it helps explain all these amazingly precise travel details we’ve noted.”

  She turned to him. “They knew. All of them. They knew, Richard. It’s the only explanation. Aunt Phyllida knew and told the Earl. Or told the Countess, most likely. Who then told the Earl, and between them they cooked up this entire get married, leave Brussels, disappear to Branscombe Magna arrangement for me. They got rid of a potential embarrassment without any fuss whatsoever. Except that Flick had to take the family to Tunbridge Wells.” Her mouth turned down. “That’s a hard betrayal. I thought she was my friend.”

  “You didn’t read the papers while you were in Brussels?”

  She snorted. “No. I don’t like war, or the thought of soldiers losing bits of themselves. Or worse. No, I didn’t read the papers.”

  Richard glanced again at one of the sheets. “The date on this particular edition was nearly three weeks ago.” He let it fall to the floor. “Yes, that would have given them adequate time to set up a plan like this, and with the Earl’s gift for organization…well, it would have been a fait accompli long before you and I had even heard of each other.”

  “I was obviously the reason for it all. To hush up a potential scandal, not only for the Branscombes, but for anyone who associated with me. All I had to do was provide a little fuss…which I obligingly did…and they could be rid of me.” A sour taste filled her mouth. “And you, Richard? You were blackmailed into marrying me. A very convenient victim.”

  His eyelids lowered a little as he thought over her words. She had to wonder if he would be angry at her.

  “Do you…should we…I mean…” she sighed. “Now that this scandal is shedding dirt all over me, do you want a divorce? Or—no wait—we could get an annulment…”

  “Don’t be silly.” He dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. “I’m a Ridlington. When it comes to scandals, that name has its own collection of dirt, just not so recent.”

  She took a deep breath of air into her lungs, and wondered if perhaps the sun had come out unexpectedly. She wouldn’t have to face this alone, and that was a huge relief. She smiled. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Knowing I have a friend beside me, is going to make this all much easier.”

  He smiled back. “You have a husband beside you, Cressida. But it’s good that we’re starting our marriage as friends…”

  She would like to have considered those words more fully, and deciphered any implications, but the immediate situation was pressing, and decisions needed to be made. “So what is your suggestion as to our next move?”

  Richard shrugged. “We do as is expected. For right now, anyway.” He held out his hand to her, and she took it, drawing comfort from his warmth. “We go to Branscombe Magna.”

  Chapter Six

  Their departure from the Metropolis was as low key as had been their arrival.

  Fairleigh had been present to bid them farewell, having received—as he noted quite clearly—instructions as to their travel arrangements. Everything was well in hand, he informed them. He had even accepted the letter from Richard to his family—hastily scrawled over the breakfast tray which appeared in their room—assuring him that it would be sent on to Ridlington post haste, as would the brief note directed to Lady Venetia Allington. Richard had been given severa
l documents and notes for his perusal on their journey, and the door had closed in their faces without further ado.

  Cressida’s face had fallen, but Richard kept her chatting, and finally she relaxed. Which was a happy situation, since their travels to Branscombe Magna would take them to the distant ends of the earth. Making such a trip with a depressed wife wouldn’t have been a pleasant experience.

  It did indeed feel like the ends of the earth when, after three days in a carriage with less rest on their stops than they needed, their destination neared.

  Situated on the North Devon coast, the house was nestled into the landscape, tucked between large hills, with a spectacular view of the sea lashing the coastline less than a mile away from the front door. The terrain was unspoiled, dramatic and probably better for sheep than cows, thought Richard, as he surveyed the steep hills and narrow valleys.

  Or perhaps this was a part of England ruled by the ocean and he should get used to a diet of mostly fresh fish.

  Which, when he thought about it, wasn’t a bad thing. He smiled at the recollection of cooking a freshly caught mackerel over a small fire with Edmund. It had tasted like nothing in the world—divine came close to describing it.

  “You’re smiling,” commented Cressida. “I will assume that’s because our journey’s end is in sight?”

  “Well, yes.” He gestured to the letters they’d been given upon their departure from London. “I’m also relieved that we’ll be financially taken care of, for a while at least.” He grinned. “And I’ll confess that my rear end will be pleased to bid farewell to carriages for a bit.”

  “I’m hoping for a stretch of decent weather.” Cressida stretched for the umpteenth time. “If it had been better, we could have ridden more. And perhaps made better time.”

  “You’re English,” grinned Richard. “You know about rain. It always happens when you don’t want it to, and never when you could use a good solid downpour. Plus, we would need good horses. We have to settle our funds before we can look to remedy that situation. Let’s get there first.”

  “True.” She turned to the window again. “Oh…in a few moments we should get a full view of Branscombe Magna.”

  She was correct. After carefully negotiating another steep incline, the road leveled into a turn which led to the property itself.

  And silence fell in the carriage.

  “It doesn’t look very welcoming, does it?” Cressida frowned at the sight.

  “Well, no, to be honest. But that may well be because the shrubberies have been allowed to run wild.”

  “And the grimy windows?”

  “Dust from the overgrown shrubberies?”

  She threw up her hands and laughed. “Well tried, sir. Well tried.”

  They drew to a halt in front of a solid set of granite steps, which led to a front door that had not aged as well as it probably should have.

  The wood had whitened where the sun hit it, and probably whitened some more with the salt air that Richard could taste on his tongue. There was a wind—and given the position of the house, there was probably always a wind—and the clouds threatened rain again, or least mist, within a couple of hours.

  Shabby door or not, Richard was ready to go inside.

  While Cressida walked Zizi, and both stretched their legs, he gathered their bags and bade farewell to the driver and the carriage.

  Standing on the top step, he seized the large knocker, but given the state of the wood, he let it fall more softly, hearing the dull boom echo within.

  Four long minutes later—he counted out the seconds—the door creaked open to reveal an elderly face, peering nervously around the thick wood. “Wot yer want?”

  “To come inside, if you please.” Cressida raised her chin. “I am Cressida Branscombe. Well,” she added, “I’m now Cressida Ridlington, but nevertheless, this is my family’s home.”

  “Yer sure?” The gnomish face squinted up at her. “Miss Cressy had red hair.”

  A smile curved her lips, as Richard watched this exchange in fascination. She removed her bonnet. “Satisfied now, Worsnop?”

  A matching smile, although with less teeth, spread over the old man’s visage. “Aye, that’s yer alright, Miss Cressy. Yer come right in now, out o’ the cold. Bring yer man.”

  Strong arms grabbed bags, and Richard dodged out of the way as Worsnop carried several into the house, nearly tripping over the threshold as he did so.

  “Parsnip’ll be ‘appy ter see yer, Miss Cressy.” He shot a sharp look at Richard from under massive eyebrows. “S’pose we should be callin’ yer Missis somethin’ now?”

  “I believe Mrs. Richard will do, thank you. How is your wife?”

  “Gettin’ on. Ain’t we all?”

  Richard assumed it was a rhetorical question, since he was still struggling with the notion of a wife called Parsnip. Parsnip Worsnop.

  *~~*~~*

  “Oh dear.”

  Cressida looked around at the master bedroom, the one Worsnop referred to as the Lord’s room, then turned to Richard. “It’s not quite as I remembered, I’m afraid.”

  Richard wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

  The furniture could well have been at least three hundred years old. And it didn’t look like it had been dusted since then, either. Dark wood, heavy carvings and walls paneled with the stuff…the entire room was murky, to say the least. The nearly opaque curtained bow window of the small sitting room allowed barely any light to penetrate the layers of dirt that had accumulated over time on the glass. The adjoining smaller bedroom, the Lady’s room, was in the same state.

  “Well, this might help…” He walked to the windows and pulled back the thick curtains as far as they would go, stirring up a cloud of dust that had them both coughing. “Or not.” At least the fabric hadn’t given way, but the glass was grimy and let in not much more in the way of daylight.

  “What are we going to do?”

  Her voice trembled, and Richard felt for her. This was now her home, and the welcome she was receiving lacked everything she might have hoped for.

  “We are going to take care of all this. Not today, for we’re both tired. I suggest we find a smaller room, make it as habitable as possible, and then tomorrow we can set about hiring some additional maids and perhaps a footman or two.” He moved to her side and put his arm around her shoulder to offer comfort. “Don’t concern yourself. We’re not on a boat, not in a carriage, and we don’t have to travel tomorrow. I’m thankful for all three.”

  For a moment, she rested her head against his chest. Something stirred inside him—a protective instinct perhaps—and his arm turned into a hug.

  She nodded and straightened. “Right then. Let’s see what the other rooms are like.”

  Zizi, who had followed them upstairs, sneezed in agreement, then decided to take off on an exploratory investigation of her own.

  There were at least half a dozen other suites on this floor, and Richard realized that this was no small country house, but actually a well-built mansion left untended for too long. Most of the bedrooms were in similar straits, dusty, disused and smelling of must.

  One room, however, at the very end of the corridor, contained furniture covered with cloths which, when removed, revealed much cleaner dressers and a desk. It had a tiny dressing room off to one side, and Cressida voice the opinion that it would most likely to have been set aside for a governess.

  Richard looked at the bed. It was small, but would hold them both.

  It was going to have to, since there was no couch, clean or otherwise, where he could logically rest for the night, and damned if he was going to take the floor.

  There was even an old chair near the foot of the bed that would do for Zizi.

  “This will do, I think,” he said. “I’ll bring our bags here, at least for now.”

  Cressida nodded. “Yes, agreed.” She walked to the window and cautiously moved a curtain. The dust was less and once drawn back, the sunlight actually brightened everything
.

  “It would seem the rain washes this window a little more often,” mused Richard. “But that is a lovely view.”

  “Indeed.” Cressida sighed. “I don’t remember being in here, but I know the parlor must be beneath us, because I do recall that view. I used to play in there with Mama and Papa before he died…” Her voice trailed off. “God. He wasn’t my Papa.”

  “Cressida.” Richard spoke firmly. “Put that aside if you can. I know it’s been a blow, but there is much to do before we can sit down and assess that particular situation.”

  She looked at him, and then shook her head. “I have married a practical man. I find this fact hard to believe.”

  Richard blinked. “Actually, so do I. What you just heard was my sister-in-law, Rosaline. And I have no idea why. She just popped out and spoke through me.”

  Cressida laughed. “She sounds like an extraordinarily intelligent woman.”

  “She is. And we must make sure to go to Ridlington at the earliest possible opportunity.”

  “But not before we put Branscombe Magna back into some kind of order…”

  “Yes, that is definitely a priority.” He looked around again, and wondered if he’d see his family any time within the next two years.

  “It’s rather overwhelming,” Cressida said as she bent to check the damper in the fireplace. “I’m almost afraid to even mention lighting a fire.”

  “Leave that worry ter me, Miss Cressy.” A stern voice came from the open door.

  Richard spun on his heel, jumping at the sound, and found himself nearly face to face with a very large woman, dressed simply, with an apron and a cap indicating her position.

  “Mrs. Worsnop, I presume?” He nodded politely at her.

  She bobbed a quick curtsey, an adroit move that surprised him given her size. “Aye, sir. An’ yer the young Missy’s husband now, are yer then?”

  “I have that honour, yes.”

  “Mrs. Parsnip,” sighed Cressida, rising and walking over to her, a break in her voice. “I am so very glad to see you.” She put her arms around as much of the other woman as she could and hugged, almost disappearing into the abundant apron as Mrs. Parsnip returned the affectionate gesture with enthusiasm.