The Wrong Miss Richmond Read online

  THE WRONG MISS RICHMOND

  Sandra Heath

  Chapter One

  Curzon Street

  September 10, 1803

  My dear sir,

  I am in receipt of your letter offering to release me from the projected match with your daughter, Jane, and hasten to reassure you that such a course could not be further from my mind. My recent fortunate inheritances may have advanced my circumstances beyond anything to which I had hitherto hoped to aspire, but my regard for Miss Richmond has not altered at all. I may not have yet made her acquaintance, but I know in my heart that she is the bride for me.

  In your letter you mention going to Bath next month to take the cure, and that you will be taking Sir Archibald Fitton’s house in Johnstone Street. It is now my intention to visit Bath at the same time, staying at my aunt’s residence in Royal Crescent, which is at present not in use. Perhaps the autumn ball at the Upper Assembly Rooms would provide an ideal opportunity for me to make Miss Richmond’s acquaintance? If you are in agreement, I trust you will let me know.

  I will close now, but please believe me when I say that I look forward with all my heart to meeting the lady who will one day soon be Lady St. Clement.

  I am, my dear sir,

  Ever sincerely and faithfully,

  Robert Temple

  Lord St. Clement

  The candlelight swayed over the dark drawing room as Robert sanded the letter, folded and sealed it, and then wrote the name and address: Mr. Henry Richmond, Richmond House, Stroud, Gloucestershire. Then he put the quill down and rose from the chair.

  He was tall, with broad shoulders and slender hips, and everything about him was unmistakably patrician. His face was fine-boned and very handsome, and his thick dark hair was worn long enough to brush his high collar at the back. He had arresting eyes, gray and long-lashed, and there was a sensitivity about his mouth that told of a readiness to smile.

  He looked very sophisticated and stylish in formal evening clothes, a black velvet coat and cream silk breeches, because he hadn’t long returned from dining at Carlton House with his longtime friend the Prince of Wales. At twenty-nine he was in his prime, and such was his charm and ready wit that he was regarded throughout society as one of its most attractive scions.

  Until recently his only fault had been a distinct lack of funds, a state of affairs brought about by his late father’s profligacy at the gaming tables of St. James’s. The green baize had been responsible for the frittering away of the Temple family fortune, almost to the point of sacrificing Bellstones, the Somerset country seat that had been in the family since the time of Queen Elizabeth. Bellstones had been spared at the eleventh hour because Robert’s widowed father had met with a fatal riding accident while following the Exmoor staghounds, and Robert had inherited the financial shambles he’d left behind.

  But now money was no object at all for the new Lord St. Clement, who’d unexpectedly come into two vast inheritances because of the sudden deaths of two distant cousins. From the very edge of penury he’d been raised to the heights of great wealth, and there wasn’t an estate in the realm that he could not have afforded to purchase; but Bellstones was his pride and joy, and, modest as it was by some standards, he was content to retain it as his country seat.

  It was the significant change in his financial circumstances that had brought into doubt the future of his forthcoming betrothal to Miss Jane Richmond, a young lady whose respectable fortune had originally made her an entirely suitable proposition for an impoverished lord. In society’s opinion, and in the honorable opinion of Miss Richmond’s father, it was one thing for a lord to embark upon a match because he required a wealthy wife, and because the lady’s father had long cherished an ambition for his daughter to marry into the aristocracy; it was quite another for one of England’s richest lords to continue with such a modest arranged match when his new situation could bring him a titled bride from the highest families in the land.

  If Robert and Jane had formed a deep attachment, then it might have been understood, but they hadn’t even met, and society, as well as Mr. Richmond, was going to be astounded to discover that the match was still very much on.

  The candle on the escritoire was the only light in the sumptuous white-and-gold drawing room, and its flame still swayed slightly as Robert went to pour himself a glass of cognac from the decanter on the marble console table by the window. There wasn’t a sound in the house, for it was late now and the servants had retired. Folding back the shutter, he looked out at wet, deserted Curzon Street. It was a dismal September night, the rain lashing visibly in the pools of light beneath the street-lamps. Such weather paid no compliments, even to the elegance of Mayfair.

  Swirling the cognac, he stared at the rain. He was tired of London, tired of the endless round of parties, balls, assemblies, and dinners, and above all tired of the scandal-mongering and whispering that were part and parcel of the beau monde’s existence. Indeed, sometimes he thought gossip was the raison d’etre of the grand circles in which he moved.

  Gossip and Robert Temple had always gone hand in hand, for he seemed to attract it, especially where his private life was concerned. His looks had long made him the darling of the opposite sex; indeed there was a certain salacious list in circulation that placed his name at the very top when it came to prowess between the sheets.

  London had recently been much entertained by a shocking incident on the steps of fashionable St. George’s, Hanover Square, when two bold and famous actresses, Mrs. Pickering of the Italian Opera House and Miss Jennings of Astley’s Royal Amphitheater, had both arrived in their carriages, intent upon waylaying him as he left after a friend’s wedding. Neither lady had met him before, but both intended to add him to her list of conquests, and coming face-to-face, they’d swiftly begun to argue, the disagreement culminating in a fearsome exchange of blows that had brought the street to a standstill.

  London had curled up with mirth about it, but Robert hadn’t been at all amused, for he’d found the whole thing extremely embarrassing. He wasn’t a monk, far from it, but he disliked having his name connected with ladies he knew nothing about. His amorous activities had occasionally merited a little whispering, but nothing on the scale that surrounded him now, and he was heartily tired of it.

  With each passing day the thought of returning to Bellstones and Exmoor’s wild freedom became more inviting, as did the prospect of marrying Miss Jane Richmond. He smiled at his reflection in the window, raising his glass. “Our health and happiness, sweet Jane,” he murmured.

  * * *

  On that same wet, windswept September night, a single light glimmered in Richmond House, a fine old mansion overlooking the town of Stroud, right on the edge of the Cotswold Hills. Stroud was built upon wool, for thereabouts the streams ran fast and clear, ideal for the many mills producing the fine woolen cloth for which Gloucestershire had been famous since the Middle Ages.

  Richmond House was constructed of Cotswold stone, with lichen on its many-gabled roof, and ancient ivy climbing its walls. In daylight it was a landmark visible from all around, but on such a night as this it vanished in the gloom, detectable only by the lamp burning in the bedroom of Christina, elder of Mr. Henry Richmond’s two daughters, and half-sister to Jane,

  Christina was twenty-five years old, and considered quite pretty, with large lilac eyes and a cloud of long dark-brown hair, but she was unmarried, and likely to remain so. Two important factors conspired to keep her a spinster: she was too bookish by far, and she wasn’t an heiress like Jane, whose fortune had been inherited from her mother, the second Mrs. Richmond.

  To Christina, the pages of a book were much more important than the dubious delights of socializing, and she made no eff
ort at all to rectify this undoubted fault in her character. She was content with things the way they were, for she’d yet to meet a man who’d even remotely aroused her heart.

  As far as she was concerned, there were far too many perils in arranged matches, from the unhappy thought of a lack of respect between both concerned, to the awful prospect of falling in love with a husband who took his many pleasures elsewhere. Nothing less than a love match would do for her, which would have been all very well had she conducted her life in such a way as to meet prospective suitors, but since she steadfastly resisted all occasions that might have led to such introductions, a love match seemed very unlikely indeed.

  Jane Richmond, on the other hand, was possessed of a very outgoing character, and at just eighteen was eagerly anticipating every ball, assembly, and other social gathering she could possibly attend. The sisters couldn’t have been less alike, but in spite of this they were very close indeed, and it had been Christina who’d at last prevailed upon their father to break with convention and allow an impatient Jane to embark upon the Marriage Mart.

  In Mr. Richmond’s opinion, things should have been done in the correct order, with Christina finding a husband, and then Jane, but since he was at last persuaded that his elder daughter was likely to remain ummarried, he’d agreed to attend to his younger daughter’s future first. A chance encounter with Robert Temple at an Oxford University reunion had led to the projected betrothal, a betrothal which now seemed very much in doubt.

  There was a fire in the bedroom hearth, for the September nights had been unseasonably cool, and the glowing logs cast a warm light over the sisters as they sat on the floor toasting bread on long copper forks. The difference between them had seldom been more apparent, for Christina was neat and precise in a mauve sprigged-muslin wrap, her dark hair tied back with a ribbon, but Jane was bright in buttercup yellow, her russet curls tumbling in profusion about her shoulders.

  Taller than Christina, and willowy rather than rounded, she had the sort of melting brown eyes that played havoc with the male heart. She was effervescent, impulsive, headstrong, and full of life, but her mood at present was a little depressed, for she could only fear that the exciting match with Robert Temple was about to crumble away to nothing.

  Her brown eyes were luminous in the firelight as she stared at the toast on the end of her fork. “He’s bound to want to be rid of me now, for I’m hardly the sort of catch such a man could want, am I? He could have a duke’s daughter if he wanted, or a widowed countess, someone of breeding and wealth.”

  “We don’t know that,” replied Christina gently.

  Jane glanced wryly at her. “No, but we can have a pretty good idea.”

  “He was very eager for the match in the first place; indeed, I always felt there was more to it than just an arranged contract that happened to suit both parties.”

  “You’ve said that before, but I can’t think it’s true. I simply seemed a good proposition because although I don’t have aristocratic blood, I bring a handsome inheritance. Why else would a lord take a modest landowner’s daughter as his bride? If it was a love match, I wouldn’t be worrying like this, but I’ve never met him. I know from the miniature he sent that he’s very handsome, and I know that he can write a charming letter. I also know that certain scandals have attached to his name of late ...”

  “Perhaps completely unjustly.”

  “So much smoke without fire?”

  “You can hardly expect him to have led a cloistered life.”

  “No, and anyway, it doesn’t really matter, because all I’m saying is that I don’t know him. I’ve no idea at all what he’s thinking right now.”

  “Then let’s look at it from a different angle. What does he know about you! You’ve seen his miniature, but equally he’s seen yours, so he knows that you’re very beautiful indeed. He’s also read your very pretty letters.”

  “Your very pretty letters,” reminded Jane sheepishly.

  Christina blushed a little. “He doesn’t know that.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Jane glanced at her. “If the letters you wrote for me proved anything, it was that you’re wasting yourself by being so determined to molder away.”

  “I’m not moldering away, I’m quite happy like this.”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “You know what happened earlier this year, when I was unwise enough to accept Aunt Brooke’s invitation to stay with her in London. The visit was a disaster from beginning to end, and I loathed everything about London. I just had to cut my stay short and come back here—I couldn’t stand it a moment longer. I doubt if Aunt Brooke will ever forgive me.”

  Jane nodded. “The communication she fired at poor Father was enough to blister the vellum.”

  “I told him you should have been the one to accept the invitation. It would have been a simple matter to plead illness on my part and dispatch you instead, but he would insist upon things being done correctly.”

  “I must admit that if I had gone, I’d have made the most of it.”

  “Yes, there’s no doubt about it. You’ve always longed for London. We’re chalk and cheese, aren’t we?” Christina smiled.

  “But we blend very well.”

  “Exceeding well. Mind that toast! It’s going to burn!”

  Jane gasped, snatching the fork back from the fire and inspecting the singed offering on the end. “Oh, no, it’s done to a cinder!”

  “Never mind, I think we’ve made more than enough,” said Christina, looking at the little silver toast rack keeping their midnight feast warm by the hearth.

  The room was quiet for a while, the silence broken by the scraping of the knife upon the toast. Jane watched her elder sister, taking fresh note of her flawless complexion, glossy dark hair, and lovely lilac eyes. There was no doubt about it, Christina Richmond was her own worst enemy, for she had looks enough to attract the right sort of husband, even if her lack of fortune would deny her the Lord St. Clements of the world.

  Christina perceived the long look, and correctly interpreted its meaning. “Don’t say it, Jane, for you know what my attitude is.”

  “I sometimes think you’re psychic,” grumbled Jane, accepting a slice of buttered toast.

  “I’m nothing of the sort, I’ve just been your sister long enough to read you like one of my books.”

  “I wish I could read you as well,” declared Jane with feeling, “but sometimes I just don’t understand you at all. It’s beyond me how anyone could prefer a book to a ball.”

  Christina smiled. “Eat your toast.”

  Jane poked her tongue out, but applied herself to the delicious hot toast.

  For a while they ate in companionable silence, listening to the rain on the window outside, but then Jane sighed, her thoughts returning to Robert Temple. “Oh, Christina, I do so want to be Lady St. Clement, I want it more than anything else in the world. When I think of the moment I saw his portrait for the first time ...” Her voice trailed away as she remembered.

  Christina remembered too, for she’d been with her in the library. Their father had told them Robert was said to be one of London’s most handsome gentlemen, and that the ladies apparently found him irresistible, but nothing had prepared them for the arresting male beauty of the painted face in the little golden frame. The striking gray eyes had seemed alive, and the lips curved in a way that suggested an imminent smile; Christina had been transfixed, but Jane’s breath had caught on a joyful gasp and she’d snatched up the miniature, dancing ecstatically around the room.

  Jane gave another sigh, licking her fingers and gathering her skirts to get up from the floor. “Much as I’d like some more toast, I suppose I’d better go to my room. Father and I are setting off early for Cheltenham.”

  “I wish you well.”

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind and come with us?”

  “To watch Father take the waters for three days, and you cavorting on every available dance floor? No, thank you very much.”
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  “It would be much more agreeable if you were there.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have time to notice my absence. You have invitations for every afternoon and evening, which means you’ll be in bed every morning until nearly noon. The fact that I’m not there is hardly going to make any difference, is it?”

  “No, I suppose not.” Jane shook out her yellow skirts, and then smiled down at her. “Very well, I’ll let you off this time, but next time we go anywhere, I shall insist.”

  “For a younger sister, you’re an incorrigible bully, Jane Richmond.”

  “But I’m absolutely adorable as well,” said Jane, bending to kiss her on the top of the head. “Good night, Christina.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Christina remained by the fire after the door had closed. The flames reflected in her eyes and glinted on her hair as she gazed into the glowing heart of the flames. What did the future hold? Was Jane still going to be Lady St. Clement? Only time would tell.

  Chapter Two

  Three weeks later, early on a crisp October morning, a smart green traveling carriage set out from Richmond House en route for Bath, some thirty miles away to the south. The team came swiftly up to a spanking pace, scattering the fallen autumn leaves, and the coachman’s whip cracked once as he urged the horses along the Bath road. Late in the afternoon, after a midday halt for luncheon at the Petty France Inn, the carriage would reach number 14A Johnstone Street, the house rented from Sir Archibald Fitton, an old friend of Mr. Richmond’s from Oxford University days.

  The three passengers, Mr. Henry Richmond and his two daughters, were in excellent spirits because they now knew beyond a doubt that the match with Robert Temple was still on. The letter from Curzon Street had arrived on the day Jane and her father returned from Cheltenham, and its cheering contents had done more to alleviate Mr. Richmond’s gout than the spa waters.

  Jane had been in seventh heaven ever since, bubbling with excitement and happiness. She was eagerly anticipating her first meeting with her future husband at the autumn ball in the Bath Assembly Rooms, and she’d quite worn poor Christina out by constantly rehearsing every possible conversational opening gambit.