First Season Read online

  “It is my fault,” she exclaimed.

  Her mother turned to her in surprise. “Your fault? What do you mean?”

  “If Lord Satre had not met me in London and decided to follow me here to continue to press his suit, he would never have met Betsey,” Hetty cried in dismay.

  “This unfortunate happening was in no way caused by you, Miss Biddle,” Lady Emily said firmly. “You did not invite Lord Satre to Derbyshire, and you would have had no way to keep him from coming had you known his intention.”

  “Perhaps,” Hetty acknowledged, “but I cannot help feeling partly responsible. I should have told Mr. Goodman or Mrs. Goodman about his reputation when I did learn he had come to Derbyshire.”

  “You must not blame yourself, Hetty” Mrs. Biddle seconded Lady Emily. “You could not have known to what depths he would stoop. Even your own experiences with Lord Satre would not have led you to know all he was capable of. Do not distress yourself. Perhaps your father and Mr. Goodman will overtake them before any harm comes to Betsey. We must pray that they do.”

  Lord Wakeford had finished his breakfast and was preparing to go for a ride with Lord Woodburn when a servant informed him that Squire Biddle and Mr. Goodman wished to speak to him on a matter of great urgency. His first thought was that something might be amiss with Emily or Miss Biddle, and he did not even stop to remove his banyan and put on a coat before hastening down to the salon.

  “Squire Biddle, Mr. Goodman,” he said as he entered the room. “I hope all your family is well?” he asked, looking at the squire.

  “Yes, but I fear all is not well with Mr. Goodman’s,” the squire replied, and he and Tom proceeded to tell Lord Wakeford of Betsey’s flight with Lord Satre.

  Jules felt first a great sense of relief that the bad news did not concern his sister or the Biddles, and then was ashamed of himself, for Mr. Goodman’s sister was in grave danger, and she was only a young, flighty girl who could not have begun to comprehend the potential danger of what she was doing. He focused his thoughts, trying to think where Lord Satre might have taken the young woman.

  “Lord Satre has a property near Loughborough,” he said after a moment. “I believe they are most likely headed there, particularly if Satre’s purpose is not honorable.”

  “I think there can be no doubt that his intention is to ruin her,” Tom said quietly. “A marquess would have no other use for a farmer’s daughter.”

  As a member of the aristocracy, Jules felt a twinge of guilt at Tom Goodman’s words, for he knew many of his peers would have exactly the view Tom had expressed.

  “Then I believe the best plan is for us to leave at once. Does your father go, too?” he asked Tom.

  “No, he leaves the responsibility to me. His age will not permit him to undertake such a journey.”

  “Allow me a few minutes to prepare,” Jules said. “It will take me no longer. We shall travel in my chaise; it will be swifter than a carriage. Did either of you bring arms? It would be wise to take them. If you have not, I shall provide them.”

  The squire had thought to bring a pistol, but Tom was unarmed. Jules hastened back to his chambers, first ordering that his chaise be readied, where his valet helped him into riding dress. Jules took two pistols from his luggage, and after a moment of thought put on his small sword. Gentlemen rarely wore swords anymore, except to formal entertainments, but in dealing with a person like Satre, Jules felt he needed all the advantage he could have. Lastly Jules stopped at Lord Woodburn’s study and told his host that a matter of urgent business required him to accompany Squire Biddle on a short journey and that he was not sure when he would return.

  Lord Woodburn, noting the sword, looked at his guest questioningly, silently asking if his help was needed, but Jules shook his head. He then returned to the squire and Mr. Goodman, and as soon as they were informed the chaise was ready, departed.

  The three men rode in silence for most of the journey, each immersed in his own thoughts. They stopped only to change horses and make inquiries of the ostlers to see if they had noticed an older gentleman traveling with a younger girl earlier that day. Jules’s guess as to Satre’s destination proved to be correct, for the two had indeed been seen earlier that morning.

  Slowly but surely the gap closed as the day advanced. At two in the afternoon, the ostler at a posting inn informed them that not only had he seen the couple they were seeking, but that they were at that moment inside the inn.

  Tom Goodman looked at Squire Biddle in surprise. “Why would they stop at an inn so early in the day?”

  “I suppose Satre felt that after Betsey’s note was found, we would be assumed they had gone north to Gretna,” Jules offered. “Or that he would be so far ahead, it would make no difference.” Silently Jules suspected the reason was probably far more sinister, but he did not voice his fears.

  After ascertaining what room Satre and Betsey were in, the three men ascended the stairs silently and burst into the room, pistols in hand. The sight that met their eyes made Jules’s finger tighten involuntarily on the trigger.

  Betsey lay sobbing in a corner of the room, her dress torn and stained. Lord Satre sat calmly at a table, a bottle of wine before him. At the sudden appearance of the men, his hand had gone to cover the butt of a pistol that lay on the table, but he gave no other sign of being in the least discomposed. Betsey, seeing her brother, ran to throw herself against his chest.

  “Stay here while I summon the magistrate,” Tom said to Jules, relinquishing his sister to the squire’s care.

  Lord Satre spoke, a sneering smile on his lips. “The girl came willingly. No magistrate would act in such a case.”

  “Then I demand satisfaction,” Tom said angrily. “Name your seconds.”

  “Really,” Lord Satre replied with a curl of his lip as he looked Tom up and down insolently. “This is turning into a farce of the poorest quality. I could not sully my honor by dueling with a farmer’s son. One meets only one’s peers on the field of honor.”

  Tom’s face turned purple with rage, and he advanced toward Lord Satre, but the squire restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “You cannot say I am not your equal,” Jules said quietly from his position by the door.

  “This is not your affair,” Tom said without taking his eyes from Satre.

  “He is correct, it is none of your affair, Wakeford,” Lord Satre echoed.

  “Then I shall make it my affair,” Jules said quietly. Removing one of his gloves, he stepped forward and slapped Lord Satre across his face with stinging force.

  Lord Satre’s eyes narrowed at the insult. “As you wish. If it is satisfactory to you, we shall dispense with the services of seconds, since I doubt men of suitable rank are to be found in this hamlet.”

  “As you will, Satre,” Jules replied indifferently. “But let us remove to a more suitable location.”

  “This is as good as any,” Lord Satre replied, motioning about the room. “I see you wear a sword.”

  The squire and Tom looked at Jules questioningly, knowing it would be difficult to fight in the confined space of the room.

  “It makes no difference to me,” Jules replied in the same indifferent tone. “Biddle, you and Goodman had best take Miss Betsey below and keep the indeeper from interfering should he hear a disturbance.”

  The squire nodded his understanding and shepherded Betsey from the room, but Tom hesitated, clearly not liking to leave the punishment of Lord Satre to another man.

  “Mr. Goodman?” Jules urged, waiting for the farmer to understand this was the only way for him to achieve revenged for his sister.

  A farmer, even with the support of Squire Biddle, could not touch a man of the aristocracy. A duel was inevitable now, in any case, for Lord Satre could not allow Jules to leave after the insult he had dealt him.

  Tom reluctantly left the room, and as Jules took off his coat and prepared for the duel, he realized that the confined fighting space was likely to lead to the duel being a d
eadly one. Undoubtedly that was Satre’s intent, for the older peer was known as a very skilled swordsman. At least, Jules thought wryly, he need not fear Satre would cheat as Courtney had. Satre would have no need.

  Jules faced Lord Satre, who was also ready for the duel to commence, feeling not the fatalistic calm he had during his duel with Lord Courtney, but keenly alert. Jules smoothly withdrew his small sword, abstractly admiring the beauty of the silver hilt with its inset enamel medallions. Lord Satre’s sword hilt was more elaborate, Jules noticed with detachment, heavily decorated with paste jewels.

  “En garde,” Satre commanded as the men took the customary stance, their sides presenting the smallest target. Jules pulled his left hand behind his back in the manner of the German style, feeling that would be more to his advantage in the confined space. Satre attacked with vigor, and Jules found himself forced to retreat around the table, although he knew attack was the best strategy. As he had suspected, Lord Satre was very skilled and had a great sense of form and timing.

  Still, Jules managed to hold his own until, to his dismay, he stepped back against a chair, and in the split second his attention was diverted, Lord Satre lunged and pinked his arm.

  Jules managed to keep hold of his sword, but he knew he now must attack with deadly intent, for if he were to bleed too much, he would lose the strength in his sword arm, His perceptions incredibly heightened by his imminent danger, Jules knew by a momentary widening of the pupils in Satre’s pale gray eyes that he was going to attack. Jules leaped aside and parried the lunge, at the same moment delivering a lightning riposte. He felt Lord Satre’s sword graze his side, but Jules’s blade went home, passing through Lord Satre’s breast. Satre’s hold on his sword slackened, and Jules easily disarmed his opponent.

  “I shall call a surgeon to attend you,” Jules said curtly.

  Lord Satre shook his head. “My wound is not mortal. I believe a rib deflected your blade from a vital spot. I shall attend myself.” He made an almost imperceptible bow.

  Jules did not acknowledge the obeisance, and saw by Satre’s expression that he understood Jules did not consider Satre his peer. With a final contemptuous look, Jules left the chamber to find his companions.

  “Satre?” the squire questioned Jules as he entered the room where they awaited the outcome of the duel.

  “Injured, but not mortally. I disarmed him,” he added for Tom’s benefit, knowing the farmer would understand his sister’s honor had been avenged.

  Jules observed the tenderness of Thomas Goodman toward his sister on their return journey with approbation. He would deliver the Goodmans to their farm first and then go to the squire’s to have his wound attended to. In their haste to leave the inn, Jules had waited only to have it bound with clean cloths.

  He thought wryly how he had gone through six-and-twenty years without fighting a single duel, and now since meeting Miss Biddle, he had been involved in two within the space of six months.

  When the men arrived back at the squire’s and walked into the stone-paved entrance hall, Mrs. Biddle, Hetty, and Lady Emily all emerged from the parlor. At the sight of the blood that had soaked through Jules’s coat, Hetty let out a cry and she and Lady Emily ran to his side. Lord Wakeford made light of his wound, calming their fears.

  “Mr. Goodman and Betsey?” Lady Emily asked her brother, her eyes finishing the question.

  “Mr. Goodman is unharmed and has taken his sister home, but I fear we were too late to save Miss Betsey.”

  Mrs. Biddle quietly took charge of the situation, sending for the housekeeper and ordering servants to fetch the items necessary to dress Lord Wakeford’s wounds. She then called upon the squire assist him to a bedchamber, telling Hetty and Lady Emily to keep away until she came for them.

  Hetty and Lady Emily obeyed, but waited in great anxiety while Mrs. Biddle and the housekeeper dressed Jules’s wounds. The squire sent a servant to fetch Jules’s valet and inform Lord Woodburn that his guest would be staying at the squire’s for several days.

  “I feel for the Goodmans,” Lady Emily commented to Hetty as she held her kitten in her lap and stroked it. “How distressing it must be to have their daughter ruined. I am fond of Betsey. She is young and flighty, but has no real badness in her. What a terrible price she has paid for a foolish wish to marry a lord.”

  Lady Emily’s words made Hetty realize with a start that she had not been thinking of the Goodmans at all, but only of Lord Wakeford, and felt ashamed.

  “Yes, and she no doubt did not even think that a member of the aristocracy could be so wicked. How unwise one can be when judging only by material things.”

  Steps sounded in the hall, and Mrs. Biddle stood at the parlor door, her smile reassuring. “Lord Wakeford’s wounds are not serious. His side was only grazed, and the cut on his arm is a clean one. I have given him a sleeping draft, so you will not be able to see him until the morning,” she added. “You had best have a good supper and rest tonight,” she advised before returning to her patient.

  Hetty and Lady Emily, their worries calmed by Mrs. Biddle’s assurances, ate a light repast and then played with the kitten in the parlor.

  Later in the evening, Tom Goodman called to give news of his sister.

  “Betsey is with her mother and is as well as can be expected,” he informed Hetty and Lady Emily. “As soon as she is recovered, we plan to send her to live with my mother’s sister and her husband in Lancashire, where people will not know of her disgrace. I feel sure they will take her in and provide her a home.”

  “It would be the best thing,” Lady Emily agreed.

  The three sat soberly and silently as they thought of the spirited young Betsey and the changes that were now inevitable in her life.

  In the days that followed, Hetty waited on Lord Wakeford whenever her mother and Lady Emily allowed her to. She felt both beholden to the marquess for his actions in Tom’s behalf and responsible for his willingness to involve himself and his resulting wounds.

  “You spoil me quite abominably, Miss Biddle,” Lord Wakeford commented one morning when Hetty brought him his breakfast on a tray. He reclined on a sofa in the morning parlor, his pale skin almost white with the loss of blood.

  Hetty only smiled, and, placing the tray on a table, turned to leave, but Lord Wakeford caught at her skirt and held it. When Hetty turned around to protest, the marquess smiled disarmingly and patted the sofa next to him, asking her to sit and visit a moment.

  “I promised you a renewal of the conversation we had a certain day in the woods,” he began as Hetty sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa.

  “I must ask you not to reopen that conversation,” Hetty interrupted.

  “Oh?” Lord Wakeford replied. “Are you planning to tell me your feelings have changed? I shall not believe it. For your care of me during my convalescence here has shown me quite clearly they have not.”

  “No, my feelings have not changed,” Hetty admitted. “But do you not see that after what happened to Betsey I cannot possibly jilt Mr. Goodman? I cannot be the cause of yet more unhappiness to his family.”

  “His sister’s ruin had nothing to do with you.”

  “That is what my mother and your sister tell me, but I still feel partly to blame,” Hetty confessed. “Even if I did not, I could not make Tom unhappy by calling our betrothal off. He is too fine a man to be treated in such a manner.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that Mr. Goodman is too fine a man for you to marry when you do not love him, and when in fact you love another?” Lord Wakeford asked, unconsciously echoing his sister’s words of four weeks earlier.

  Hetty turned away in distress, and started to rise, but Lord Wakeford grasped hold of her arms with unexpected strength and pulled her down to him. He pressed his lips to hers, and, caught off guard, Hetty involuntarily returned the kiss. Immediately Lord Wakeford released her and lay back on the sofa, clearly weakened, but with a satisfied look on his face.

  “Are you going to tell me you respond
to Thomas Goodman like that, Miss Biddle?” he asked. “If you cannot tell me that you do, you should not be marrying one man when you long for the touch of another.”

  Hetty jumped up and rushed toward the door, but halfway across the room she stopped and swung around to face Lord Wakeford, an expression of distress and determination on her face.

  “I must ask you not to importune me again, Lord Wakeford. Whether you consider it binding or not, I am betrothed to another man. Your kiss may have taken me unawares, to my shame, but I shall never again allow myself to be put in such a position,” she declared, and left the room head held high.

  Hetty managed to keep her composure until she reached her own bedchamber, where she flung herself down on the bed and sobbed bitterly. What was she to do? She was in love with one man and betrothed to another, yet cared enough for the man she was betrothed to that she could not end it and cause him and his family hurt. How would she ever find a way out of the coil?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hetty avoided Lord Wakeford until he returned to Lord Woodburn’s estate the following morning, even braving her parents’ censure by not going down to take proper leave. Instead she stood by the window of her bedchamber, watching Lady Emily embrace her brother and the squire help him into the carriage. As the carriage vanished down the drive, Hetty turned away from the window, a feeling of hopelessness settling on her. Not wishing to talk to anyone or join in any amusements, Hetty told Daisy to inform her mother she had a headache, and moped in her room for the remainder of the day.

  The next morning Hetty forced herself to go downstairs and join the others, knowing her mother would fear she was ill if she did not, but she still felt miserable. She suspected both her parents and Lady Emily knew something was troubling her, but she did not feel she could unburden herself to them and had no one else in whom she might confide.

  Hetty tried hard to shake off her depression of spirits, forcing herself to participate in the neighborhood entertainments over the next several days. But she was unusually quiet, although this was not noticed since the entire neighborhood was somewhat subdued in the wake of Betsey Goodman’s disgrace, the details of which had inevitably leaked out. Of Lord Satre no more had been seen; he had sent a servant to collect his belongings from Sir Archer’s, and did not return to the district.