Anything But a Gentleman Read online

  ANYTHING BUT A GENTLEMAN

  Amanda Grange

  Chapter One

  ‘A new tenant?’ Marianne Travis, seated on her beautiful grey mare, looked out from her vantage point on Seaton Hill, across the neighbouring Billingsdale estate. It was the February of 1793, and the Billingsdale estate had been without a settled master for over a year. ‘Good. Then something will be done about the mantraps.’

  ‘I shouldn’t go counting on it, miss.’ Tom Gunther, groom to the Travis family for fifty years, spoke in his customary slow way. ‘The gennulman might not want to take an interest in the estate. He might want to leave it all to the manager.’

  ‘Do you know who he is, Tom? The gentleman?’

  ‘Lord Ravensford, Miss Marianne, if what they say in the village is true.’

  ‘It usually is,’ said Marianne with a smile.

  ‘Yes, miss. It is at that.’

  ‘It will be better, in a way, having Lord Ravensford as a neighbour,' said Marianne. 'Better than the Billingsdales. Mr Billingsdale has lived in London for so long that he has lost all interest in his estate. When I wrote to him and told him that his manager had laid mantraps in the woods he simply wrote back saying he had every confidence in the man. But if Lord Ravensford is the new tenant, then perhaps I may be able to persuade him to have the traps removed.'

  Tom nodded. 'Terrible cruel, those traps are,' he said.

  A chill breeze blew suddenly across the snow-covered hill and Marianne shivered. ‘It’s cold. We should be heading for home.’

  She suited her actions to her words and turned her horse's head. Tom, wheeling his mount, followed her down the hill, northwards, towards Seaton Hall.

  She’s a credit to my teaching, he thought ruminatively as they made their way along the border between Travis and Billingsdale land. And indeed Marianne did cut a graceful figure as she rode side-saddle on the back of her grey mare. A beaver hat was perched on her glossy black ringlets, which fell halfway down her back. A dark blue riding habit, with its white silk lapel à la Minerve, set off her trim figure, and Moroccan leather boots, blue to match her habit, encased her neatly-turned ankles.

  Just as they reached the bottom of the hill, however, Marianne came to a halt.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ asked Tom as he stopped behind her.

  ‘I thought I heard something.’

  Tom, a little hard of hearing, had heard nothing.

  ‘There it is again. A cry.’

  This time Tom heard it, too. A human wail. A human in great pain.

  ‘The mantraps!’ Marianne looked at Tom in dismay. ‘Someone’s been caught!’

  She wheeled her horse and set off at a gallop. Tom rode after her. She jumped the stream that separated the two estates and galloped on, across the white fields and into the woodland, where she was forced to pick her way more carefully. The stark branches of the trees caught at her habit and she had to duck in order not to lose her hat.

  ‘I reckon it was from over there,’ said Tom, drawing level with her as she paused, unsure which way to go. He nodded north-eastwards.

  Marianne listened.

  The cry came again. Turning her mare’s head slightly she rode slowly between the bare trees until at last she caught sight of a man writhing on the ground.

  ‘Don’t you go any further, miss,’ said Tom, slipping off his horse. ‘It won’t be a pretty sight.’

  ‘You’ll need help,’ said Marianne, dismounting. Despite the lack of a block she accomplished the movement with a minimum of fuss, and steeled herself for what she knew she would find.

  Since Mr Billingsdale's estate manager had taken to trapping the woods it was not the first time she had found a poacher caught in one of the cruel traps: when the winter was hard, many of the villagers had no choice but to catch a rabbit or two in order to stay alive. Even so, she could not prevent a shudder as she approached the man.

  Tom was already beside him, examining the vicious trap.

  ‘You’ll have to pull it open, whilst I help him to free his leg,’ Marianne said. ‘Thank goodness the trap’s an old one. The jaws are bent. With any luck it will not have broken his leg.’

  Tom nodded.

  Marianne turned to the stranger, whose face was contorted with pain. ‘We’re here to help,’ she reassured him.

  He was a short, stocky man and appeared to be about fifty years of age. His head was balding and he had a dark moustache. Despite his agony, he was trying desperately to free himself.

  Marianne and Tom applied themselves to the difficult business of helping him, and at last he was freed; but at a price. The savage jaws of the trap had badly damaged his leg, and blood ran down his calf.

  ‘Easy now,’ said Tom, as he helped the man to rise.

  The man gave a sharp intake of breath as he tried to put his injured foot to the ground. ‘Ah!’ He gasped, as beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

  ‘Who are you? Where are you from?’ asked Marianne, but he was almost unconscious with pain and could not reply. ‘Do you know him, Tom?’ she asked, turning to her groom.

  ‘No, miss. He’s not local, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Local or not, he needs a doctor, and as we don’t know where he’s from we had better take him back to the Hall.’ She looked northwards to where the roof of Seaton Hall could just be seen. ‘He can’t walk. Somehow we have to get him onto your horse.’

  Tom nodded. It would be a difficult business. But difficult though it was, it must be done.

  ‘First thing tomorrow morning I intend to call on Lord Ravensford,’ said Marianne, as the feat was at last accomplished. ‘We will set out at nine o’clock, Tom. And I will see what I can do about putting a stop to this terrible business, once and for all.’

  * * * *

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t, Miss Marianne,’ declared Trudie in outraged terms later that afternoon when Marianne revealed her intention of speaking to Lord Ravensford on the following morning. ‘Going to call on a gentleman, and you an unmarried young lady? Your mother would turn in her grave!’

  Marianne gave a tired smile as she sank down onto the chaise longue in the pretty sitting-room, back at the Hall.

  She could not be angry with Trudie, although she would not have allowed such familiarity from anyone else. Trudie had always been much more than a housekeeper in the Travis household, she had been a valued and trusted friend. Ever since Marianne’s mother had died she had looked after the little girl, providing the motherly attention that Marianne’s father, however loving, had not been able to give her.

  ‘No,' she said. 'Mama would understand. It has to be done, Trudie. You’ve seen what the traps can do to a man. Lord Ravensford must be persuaded to order their removal.’

  ‘But not by you,’ declared Trudie. ‘There’s no need for you to go persuading him, nor to go chasing around the countryside rescuing waifs and strays. Especially when you don’t know anything about them. Who is this man? That’s what I’d like to know. He could be a burglar, come to steal the silver, or an escaped convict, come to murder us all in our beds!’

  ‘I don’t think he would find it easy with his leg in bandages,’ said Marianne, as she leaned back with a tired smile.

  ‘That’s not the point, Miss Marianne, and well you know it. He could be anyone! And yet you bring him here and put him in the guest room and bandage his leg, for all the world as though it was his due.’

  ‘You know his leg needed dressing,’ said Marianne. ‘Dr Moffat’s instructions were plain. It is only fortunate that his leg was not broken.’

  ‘And that’s another thing! Paying the doctor out of your own pocket!’ said Trudie, shaking her head in exasperation. ‘Ah, well,’ she went on in a gentler tone, ‘I may
as well save my breath. Nothing I can say is going to change you. You’re too much like your mama, Miss Marianne. She was forever doctoring waifs and strays as well.’

  Marianne smiled as she remembered her dearly-loved mother.

  Trudie gave her an affectionate look and then her tone became brisk once more. ‘But as to visiting Lord Ravensford,’ she continued, tucking the end of a neatly-rolled bandage beneath one of its folds to secure it, ‘that’s another matter. With the rector's sister away there's no one to go with you as your chaperon -’

  ‘I will be taking Tom.’

  ‘Tom!’ snorted Trudie. ‘What kind of a chaperon is he for a young lady? No, Miss Marianne, it won't do. Best leave this business alone.'

  Marianne stood up wearily and walked over to the fireplace, where a cheery blaze brightened the gloomy afternoon. ‘It’s no good, Trudie, I can't let matters rest. You saw the man’s leg. It can’t go on.’

  Trudie dropped the rolled bandage into a willow basket on top of a dozen others. ‘Then wait until the rector's sister returns from visiting her aunt. Or better yet, wait for the Cosgrove ball. Lord Ravensford’ll be there, and Mr Cosgrove can introduce you. After that - well, there’ll be no harm in mentioning it then.’

  Marianne turned round to face Trudie. ‘The rector's sister will be away for another week. And as for the Cosgroves' ball, that’s nearly two weeks away. No, Trudie, I can't wait. If I do, another man may be caught in the traps. I must go tomorrow as arranged.’

  ‘Then I’m coming with you,’ Trudie declared.

  ‘No.’ Marianne was firm. ‘You will have to stay here. Now that we have so few servants there is no one else I can leave in charge. Don’t worry, Tom will see that no harm comes to me. Besides, Lord Ravensford is a gentleman. He is not likely to take advantage of a perfectly respectable neighbour.’

  ‘Just as you say, Miss Marianne,’ said Trudie, reluctantly giving in. ‘But if he gives you a minute’s trouble,’ she added darkly as she turned away, ‘he’ll feel the force of my rolling pin!’

  * * * *

  Marianne guided her horse and cart along the snowy lanes towards the Billingsdale’s house. The weather was better than she had expected, and she was relieved to find that the ground was not too slippery. She often went about with in the pretty little cart which, despite its rustic appearance, was light and easy to handle, and this was just as well, for this morning she had had no choice but to use it as her mare had been taken ill in the night. Tom was in the stables now, looking after the animal, and Marianne was managing the cart alone.

  She gave a sigh as she thought of Trudie's protests at the idea of her visiting Lord Ravensford without even Tom by her side, but Marianne had never once contemplated putting off her visit. She needed to persuade Lord Ravensford to have the traps removed as soon as possible, and that meant visiting him straight away.

  She rounded a corner, controlling the horse with an expertise born of long practice. She had reached a particularly pretty part of the lane, where arched trees met overhead, and putting all her unpleasant thoughts aside she gave herself up to enjoying the beauty of the winter scene. With the sun catching the frosty coating on the trees' bare branches and sending out gleams from the thick blanket of snow that covered the earth it was a lovely sight.

  Fir trees now began to grow down to the road, their thickly-needled branches contrasting with the stark limbs of the deciduous trees Marianne had just passed. Although beautiful, they cast a heavy patch of shadow on the lane and the ice beneath them was unmelted. Marianne gave her full attention to the horse and cart. It was a good thing she did because, as she turned another corner, she felt the cart begin to slide. The horse slipped, the cart slewed across the road - straight into the path of a man on horseback who had just come round the bend. His horse reared; there was a loud whinnying from both animals; and the man, with a curse, was thrown to the ground.

  As soon as she had brought the cart to a safe halt Marianne stepped down, shedding the stone hot water bottles that had kept her warm despite the coldness of the day, and taking care that she, too, did not go sliding across the ice.

  ‘Let me help you,’ she said, offering him her hand as he struggled to his feet.

  ‘Thank you, but you’ve done quite enough,’ he said angrily. ‘What the devil do you think you were doing, sliding across the road like that? You could have got someone killed.’

  ‘You surely can’t think I did it on purpose?’ returned Marianne. ‘My horse lost its footing and the cart skidded; something that wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t been riding at such break-neck speed. With so much ice about you were asking for a fall.’

  He stopped in the middle of dusting off his many-caped greatcoat, turning gold-brown eyes towards her. His face was arresting. High cheekbones gave it structure, whilst a firm jaw gave it character and strength. Framing all was dark hair, tied in a black ribbon bow at the nape of his neck.

  ‘I didn’t expect to run into a cart blocking the road,’ he returned curtly. He caught the reins of his horse, which had wandered several yards away, and checked the animal over. ‘Nothing broken, thank God. I suggest, in future, that you hire a groom to handle your horse, Miss . . . ’ he said, swinging one leg over the animal’s back and mounting effortlessly.

  Marianne, nettled by his implication that she could not handle her horse, did not give him the satisfaction of her name, and replied with acerbity, ‘And I suggest that you hire a groom to handle yours. And now, since you are obviously unhurt, I will thank you to take your horse and be on your way. I am about to resume my journey, and would not like to be accused of unseating you again.’

  To her surprise, his look of anger began to dissolve and he laughed, showing a gleam of white teeth. ‘Wit as well as beauty,’ he said with a mocking smile. ‘Touché!’ He touched his three-cornered hat. Then, still laughing, he spurred his horse and the animal sprang away.

  Marianne let out a sigh when he was out of sight, relieved that he hadn’t been hurt. One invalid in the house was enough. If he had been knocked unconscious she would have had to put him in the cart and take him home with her as well!

  At the thought of taking him home with her a strange shiver washed over her and, giving herself a shake, she told herself she had been standing too long in the cold. Turning her attention back to Hercules, the cart horse, she gathered up the reins and finally succeeded, by a mixture of pushing and pulling, both of the horse and the cart, in getting it straight again. It would have been so much easier if Tom had been with her, she thought, as she climbed up onto the box: skilled though she was, there was no denying that, with all the ice about, she would have preferred to let him drive. Still, there was no use repining. She would just have to take extra care until she reached the Manor.

  She settled herself comfortably on the box, arranging her cloak about her and putting her feet once again on the stone hot water bottles, before telling Hercules to 'Walk on.' Carefully manoeuvring the cart over the icy patch she guided it along the lane. The way became broader, and she was soon passing a patchwork quilt of fields on her right. They sparkled and gleamed in the sunshine, setting her thoughts wandering again, this time down different channels.

  The fields, looking so pretty under their covering of snow, had once belonged to Marianne's family, and it gave her a pang to think that they had recently been sold to Mr Billingsdale. Though Mr Billingsdale no longer took an interest in his estate, his men of business worked to keep it profitable. They had snapped up the fields, which had been a bargain, because Marianne's father had had to sell off a parcel of land in a hurry to pay off her brother's gambling debts.

  Marianne shook her head. Even now she could not believe it. She had always loved and admired Kit, and had not believed it when her father had told her that her older brother had run up huge gambling debts; especially when he said that Kit needed money urgently to pay them off. It had seemed so unlike Kit. So much so, that at first she had refused to believe it.

  But the
n Kit had admitted it himself, and if he had admitted it, it must be true. Even so, it was not like him. It must be, as rumour said, that he had been led astray. He had certainly been seen in town in the company of Luke Somerville, and Luke Somerville was, by all accounts, exceedingly wild.

  Marianne sighed. Whatever the truth of the matter she wished it had not happened. She missed Kit. And now that he had fled, in shame or disgrace, she did not know when she might see him again.

  She was now nearing Billingsdale Manor. She could see it in the distance, away to her right. In another minute she would have to turn off the road and follow the long drive up to the house.

  She slowed Hercules as she came to the gateposts. They made an imposing entrance. She carefully guided both horse and cart through the narrow opening and then made her way up the drive. The drive was long but fortunately straight, so that it was an easy matter to negotiate it, and some five minutes later she arrived at the house, cold and tired, but glad that she had come. If she went home with her mission accomplished she would rest easier, knowing the woods would once again be made safe.

  She slowed her horse at the bottom of a flight of imposing steps, expecting a groom to rush out at any minute, but none came. She frowned. The house was occupied, Tom had told her; but what if he was wrong? What if there was no one at home?

  There was only one way to find out. Looping the reins over the front of the cart she stepped carefully down. She smoothed the full skirt of her blue carriage dress and re-settled her plumed hat on her glossy black ringlets before arranging her cloak around her and then mounting the imposing flight of steps. Still no one came to greet her. She hesitated for a moment and then knocked on the door. She heard the sound echo inside the house, but the door did not open. She glanced back at Hercules, who was standing dejectedly with his head hanging down. The poor horse was cold, and she did not want to leave him standing – certainly not for any length of time - but she was loath to go with her errand undone. She hesitated again but then tried the door. It swung open. She went slowly into the hall, looking around for signs of habitation. There were none.