a mistake and that he was sure she would not have accepted had she known.
Nonetheless, she had great hopes of reanimating the duke’s affections, but Lady Godolphin had made her continued stay impossible with her loud, vulgar remarks.
Then there was that wispy Frederica-thing. Lady James hated Frederica Armitage and blamed her for her own enforced leave-taking. That girl had masqueraded as a chambermaid under another name,and when she had been unmasked, instead of being packed off in disgrace, she had aroused knight-errant feelings in the Duke of Pembury that no one had hitherto suspected existed.
Had the duke not decided to try to pretend to be a saint in front of the colourless Miss Armitage then he would surely have looked once again on her own undoubted charms with affection.
But Lady James was clever enough not to stay in a place where she was being shown to increasing disadvantage. She made a graceful and affectionate leavetaking, and did it so well that the duke had smiled at her for the first time and had said very warmly that he hoped to call on her in town.
Lady James’s ego had, however, been sadly bruised. Only now was she realizing how much the end of her lucrative affair with the Duke of Pembury had hurt her. While she had been his mistress, society had fawned on her and courted her. Once the affair was over, it became all too clear that she was regarded, despite her title, as a member of the Fashionable Impure. Lady James now craved respectability almost as much as she craved money and jewels. When the invitation to Hatton Abbey had arrived, she had hoped he not only meant to renew the affair but perhaps to propose marriage as well. Before her affair with the duke, Lady James had always been the one to terminate the affair, enjoying the white-faced misery of her rejected lovers. She had not wanted to marry again. Now, she longed for marriage.
She took out her temper on the servants at the posting house where she had decided to break her journey on the road back to London.
She raged when she found there was no private parlour available. She stormed that she would not eat in the common dining room. While she berated the poor landlord, the noise of her tirade through the open door of her bedchamber attracted the attention of a tall gentleman who was making his way along the passage.
He stepped into the room. ‘May I be of service, ma’am?’ he asked. ‘I have a private parlour. You are welcome to it, or, better still, I would esteem it a great honour if you would be my guest for dinner.’
Lady James smiled, a wide cat-like smile. The man was handsome and well-dressed, and she badly needed proof that her charms were still as potent as ever.
‘I should be delighted … Mr …?’
‘Wentwater,’ said the man. ‘Guy Wentwater, at your service.’
Perhaps the vicar of St Charles and St Jude, the Reverend Charles Armitage, felt his fall from respectability as keenly as Lady James.
Frederica had given him a rather scared little ‘goodbye’ and had made it quite obvious she preferred to stay in a houseful of strangers rather than return to Hopeworth with her father.
When Mrs Armitage had been alive, the vicar’s affairs had been brief and discreet. But Sarah’s lustyyouth and blooming looks had made him throw discretion to the winds.
Since he had travelled to Hatton Abbey in Lord Sylvester’s carriage, John Summer had had to drive over in the vicarage carriage to bring the reverend home.
The vicar heard the tale of Sarah’s unfaithfulness with a mixture of relief and anger. He was relieved that he now had a perfect excuse for getting rid of Sarah. He was furious that that old thorn in the flesh of the Armitages, Guy Wentwater, had had the nerve to come back.
Guy Wentwater had been courting Annabelle, but when the Armitages found he was a slave trader, they had forbidden him to call, and the vicar had subsequently hounded him out of the country. He had returned to try his luck with
Nonetheless, she had great hopes of reanimating the duke’s affections, but Lady Godolphin had made her continued stay impossible with her loud, vulgar remarks.
Then there was that wispy Frederica-thing. Lady James hated Frederica Armitage and blamed her for her own enforced leave-taking. That girl had masqueraded as a chambermaid under another name,and when she had been unmasked, instead of being packed off in disgrace, she had aroused knight-errant feelings in the Duke of Pembury that no one had hitherto suspected existed.
Had the duke not decided to try to pretend to be a saint in front of the colourless Miss Armitage then he would surely have looked once again on her own undoubted charms with affection.
But Lady James was clever enough not to stay in a place where she was being shown to increasing disadvantage. She made a graceful and affectionate leavetaking, and did it so well that the duke had smiled at her for the first time and had said very warmly that he hoped to call on her in town.
Lady James’s ego had, however, been sadly bruised. Only now was she realizing how much the end of her lucrative affair with the Duke of Pembury had hurt her. While she had been his mistress, society had fawned on her and courted her. Once the affair was over, it became all too clear that she was regarded, despite her title, as a member of the Fashionable Impure. Lady James now craved respectability almost as much as she craved money and jewels. When the invitation to Hatton Abbey had arrived, she had hoped he not only meant to renew the affair but perhaps to propose marriage as well. Before her affair with the duke, Lady James had always been the one to terminate the affair, enjoying the white-faced misery of her rejected lovers. She had not wanted to marry again. Now, she longed for marriage.
She took out her temper on the servants at the posting house where she had decided to break her journey on the road back to London.
She raged when she found there was no private parlour available. She stormed that she would not eat in the common dining room. While she berated the poor landlord, the noise of her tirade through the open door of her bedchamber attracted the attention of a tall gentleman who was making his way along the passage.
He stepped into the room. ‘May I be of service, ma’am?’ he asked. ‘I have a private parlour. You are welcome to it, or, better still, I would esteem it a great honour if you would be my guest for dinner.’
Lady James smiled, a wide cat-like smile. The man was handsome and well-dressed, and she badly needed proof that her charms were still as potent as ever.
‘I should be delighted … Mr …?’
‘Wentwater,’ said the man. ‘Guy Wentwater, at your service.’
Perhaps the vicar of St Charles and St Jude, the Reverend Charles Armitage, felt his fall from respectability as keenly as Lady James.
Frederica had given him a rather scared little ‘goodbye’ and had made it quite obvious she preferred to stay in a houseful of strangers rather than return to Hopeworth with her father.
When Mrs Armitage had been alive, the vicar’s affairs had been brief and discreet. But Sarah’s lustyyouth and blooming looks had made him throw discretion to the winds.
Since he had travelled to Hatton Abbey in Lord Sylvester’s carriage, John Summer had had to drive over in the vicarage carriage to bring the reverend home.
The vicar heard the tale of Sarah’s unfaithfulness with a mixture of relief and anger. He was relieved that he now had a perfect excuse for getting rid of Sarah. He was furious that that old thorn in the flesh of the Armitages, Guy Wentwater, had had the nerve to come back.
Guy Wentwater had been courting Annabelle, but when the Armitages found he was a slave trader, they had forbidden him to call, and the vicar had subsequently hounded him out of the country. He had returned to try his luck with
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