Lady Sabrina’s Secret Read online

  Lady Sabrina’s Secret

  HATE AT FIRST SIGHT

  From the moment Deborah met the Duke of Gretton, he filled her with rage. Let others call him devilishly handsome, charming, wealthy, powerful, and the most eligible lord in the realm. Let the brilliant and ravishing actress Kate Hatherley revel in her role as his latest mistress.

  As for Deborah, she thought him insufferably rude, arrogant, selfish, and supremely self-centered – quite the most repulsive so-called gentleman she had ever encountered.

  Until now, at this ball … as he whirled her in a dizzying dance … as he apologized to her in the most elegant way for his boorish behavior … as he exquisitely kissed her hand before driving off in his carriage.

  Deborah remained where she was. She could still feel the touch of his lips upon her hand, and it was a sensation which made her feel unaccountably vulnerable. It had been so much easier to despise him, for there was safety in hostility….

  Lady Sabrina’s Secret

  Jeannie Machin

  Contents

  Praise

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  A fierce March wind roared in from the open sea, and huge waves crashed against the rocky Dorset shore as the storm reached its height. Both sea and sky were leaden in color, so that the horizon was blurred and indistinct, and far out on the water a naval brig fled before the gale, her sails straining so much that it seemed they must soon rip from the masts. Spindrift flew through the salt-laden air, and the screams of gulls resounded all around as the lone horsewoman rode to the top of the windswept cliffs and then reined in to look down into the narrow cove below.

  Deborah Marchant was twenty-seven years old and very striking, with a creamy complexion, large gray eyes, and heavy black curls that were piled up beneath her brown beaver hat. She wore a russet riding habit, and the white gauze scarf tied around the crown of her hat whipped and flapped as if it wanted to fly away inland over the mellow Dorset countryside. The horse was uneasy, but she controlled it with almost absent-minded ease, her attention upon the seething white-flecked waves thundering against the rocks at the foot of the cliffs.

  There were tears in her eyes as she watched the fury of the storm, for it was here, on a day like this three years ago, that her husband’s frigate had been driven on to the rocks, and he and all his crew had perished. The loss of HMS Thetis had shocked the whole of England, for the storm had sprung up within minutes and had gone again just as quickly, leaving devastation in its wake. There was no trace now of the doomed frigate, and Captain Jonathan Marchant and many of his crew lay buried in his nearby home village of St Mary Magna, which nestled so safely in a fold of the hills, protected from the gales that sometimes swept in so willfully from the ocean.

  As Deborah continued to look down into the cove, it seemed that the din of the storm became suddenly muffled, and she could hear Jonathan’s parting words to her. I will not be away for more than four months, my darling, and if I can be with you for our anniversary, then I swear I will. I love you, Deborah.

  The Thetis had set sail from Portsmouth, beating eastward into the storm, and cruel fate had decreed not only that he and his crew should perish before they had a chance to engage the French, but that they should do so right here, within a mile of his home. She had slept through the tragedy, and the first she knew of what had happened had been when the vicar of St Mary’s had come to break the news as gently as he could.

  The three years had passed now, but the grief was sometimes as fresh as if it had only been three months ago. When the wind blew like this, the pain was most keen, piercing her with grief and guilt, for she could not forgive herself that while Jonathan had been meeting his death, she had slept safe and unknowing in their bed. Intuition should have aroused her; she should have sensed that he was in mortal danger. But nothing had disturbed her dreams, nothing at all.

  Tears were wet on her cheeks as she gathered the reins and turned her horse away from the clifftops. She rode wildly, trying to use the exhilaration of the gallop to stem the flow of the tears. The land sloped gradually away from the cliffs, and soon the noise of the sea began to dwindle away behind her. Ahead of her the gentle Dorset countryside rolled away inland, as wooded and beautiful as the shore was savage and bleak, and in a valley that followed the course of the little River Chaldon rose the tower of St Mary’s church.

  The daffodils were out in the gardens of St Mary Magna, and there was blossom on the trees. The rambling thatched cottages had stood so long beside the river that they seemed to have grown out of the earth without the help of human hands. Smoke was whisked away from the chimneys, but the wind did not reach right down to the winding road that led toward the church and the manor house, her home from the moment she’d married Jonathan some six years before.

  She reined in briefly by the lych-gate of the church-yard, her gaze drawn unwillingly toward the Marchant family chapel, which had been built on to the church in the fifteenth century when the Marchants had become lords of St Mary Magna. Jonathan lay there now with his forebears, and she was alone with her memories. They had been so much in love, and so very, very happy together that they had never dreamed they would have so little time. All their hopes had ended the day the Thetis foundered on the rocks, and with Jonathan’s death the Marchant line had become extinct, for she had never given him a child. They had planned to have such a large family, to fill the house with voices and laughter….

  More tears stung her eyes, and she urged her horse on again, past the churchyard wall and in through the wrought iron gates of the manor house. The gravel drive was not long and passed through grounds that were bright with daffodils and crocuses. It finished in a circular area that was wide enough for a carriage-and-six to turn with ease, and the arched, iron-studded doorway was approached up a flight of four steps. The house itself dated from the beginning of the fifteenth century and was dominated by a huge oriel window on the first floor. This window faced down the village street and now simply enjoyed a fine view of the river and cottages, but once it had given warning of approaching enemies. There were no longer any enemies; nor were there any Marchants to be on their guard.

  Her horse kicked up the gravel as she drew it to a standstill by the door, and a groom hurried from the stables at the rear of the house to take the reins. Her return would have been anticipated from the moment she’d begun the descent from the clifftops, for she would have been clearly visible from the stable yard. The groom gave her a curious glance as he saw her tears, and he paused to gaze after her as she hastened into the house without giving him the customary word of thanks. But then he glanced up at the racing clouds overhead and remembered.

  As the main door swung to behind her, Deborah’s steps faltered, and she halted for a moment in the great hall to try to regain her composure. She’d been foolish to ride up to the cliffs on a day like this, for the memories were bound to be particularly painful. She blinked the tears away fiercely. She wouldn’t give in, she wouldn’t! She must take a grip on herself, for it was long since time that she
took up her life again instead of hiding away in seclusion like this. Her friends despaired of her, and her brother Richard was thoroughly vexed. Richard was a carefree bachelor who enjoyed society life to the full, and even though he had sympathized greatly with her when Jonathan had first died, the commencement of a third year without her showing any inclination to rejoin the beau monde had made him cross with her, a fact he’d made very plain indeed on the last of his infrequent visits.

  Taking a steadying breath, she put her riding crop down on a table and began to tease off her gloves. The hall was old and very comfortable, with a stone floor that was worn with age, magnificent oak paneling on the walls, and furniture of such antiquity that at least one chair was older than the house itself. There were crimson velvet curtains on either side of the doors and windows, and bowls of spring flowers on the tables, so that everything was cheerful, but still her sadness intruded today.

  ‘Madam?’ The butler’s voice made her start.

  ‘Yes, Briggs? What is it?’ She turned as he emerged from the shadows beyond the foot of the staircase at the far end of the hall. He should have retired by now but was most unwilling to do so, and she did not like to offend him by suggesting that it might be time he enjoyed the cottage that had been set aside for him. He had once been tall and ramrod straight but now was bent and frail, with a powdered wig to conceal his completely bald head. He wore a blue coat and dark gray breeches, and his brown eyes were watery as he picked up a silver tray from one of the tables. There was a brown paper package on the tray, and he held it out to her.

  ‘This has arrived for you by special messenger, madam. It is from Mr Wexford and appears to be rather urgent.’

  From Richard? Deborah was rather taken aback, for it was unheard of to receive a communication of any kind from her brother. His visits were always unannounced, and in between there were months of absolute silence. Puzzled, she took the package. It was very tightly tied with string, and a great deal of sealing wax had been used to make certain it could not be easily opened. What on earth could it be?

  Briggs bowed to her. ‘Madam, I have taken the liberty of having some tea served in the winter parlor.’

  ‘Mm? Oh, yes. Thank you, Briggs, that was most thoughtful.’ Deborah looked up from studying the package and smiled at him.

  ‘Madam.’ Bowing once more, he withdrew.

  Deciding not to open the package until she was comfortably seated with a dish of tea, she gathered her rather cumbersome russet skirts and hastened to the grand staircase to go up to the winter parlor on the floor above.

  A moment or so later she was warmly ensconced in a high-backed chair by the fireplace, with the March daylight filtering into the room behind her from the huge oriel window. In the distance were the windswept cliffs, and closer lay the matchless view along the village street, but her attention was solely upon the package.

  Splinters of sealing wax fell onto her lap as she undid the string, and as she unfolded the paper she saw that the package contained a small box and a letter. In the box there was a gentleman’s gold pocket watch of such exquisite workmanship that the Prince Regent himself would have been proud to own it. Diamonds and pearls were studded around the case, and when she opened it she saw an inscription on the inside. To my beloved Richard, my love always, Sabrina. The tenth of March, 1811.

  The tenth of March, exactly one week ago, had been Richard’s twenty-ninth birthday, and so the timepiece was evidently a birthday gift from a sweetheart, Sabrina. But why on earth had he sent it here to St Mary Magna? No doubt all would be revealed in the letter.

  Resting the letter on her lap to read, she picked up her dish of tea and sipped it. The address at the top of the letter was Royal Crescent, Bath, which meant that he was staying with their old friends, Henry and Jenny Masterson, who resided there with Jenny’s widowed aunt, the ebullient and singular Mrs McNeil. The Mastersons came from the same part of Herefordshire as the Wexfords, and their friendship with Richard and Deborah went back to childhood. Deborah was a little surprised to realize her brother was in Bath, for she had believed him to be in his lodgings in London’s Bond Street.

  She began to read the letter, and almost immediately her heart sank with dismay and disbelief, for what she read was very troubling indeed.

  My dearest Deborah

  No matter what you might read of me in the newspapers in the coming days, I am innocent of all wrong-doing, but fate has left me no choice except to go into hiding. My arrest is imminent, and I must flee if I am to save myself from the conspiracy of my one-time friend, Sir James Uppingham, and his unlikely partner in crime, Lady Ann Appleby.

  Deborah stared at the letter. Wrongdoing? Arrest? Conspiracy? Her hand trembled, and she put her dish of tea down upon the table before continuing to read.

  The pocket watch I enclose with this letter is more precious to me than you can ever know, for it was given to me by the woman I will always love with all my heart, and who would still love me were it not for this conspiracy to ruin my good name and honor. If all had gone as we planned, she and I would have eloped by now, but instead she believes only ill of me, and has decided to continue with a match arranged this long time by her family. How can I blame her when she has been led to believe that not only am I a thief, but also that I have been deceiving her with Lady Ann?

  Deborah, I am not a thief, no matter what Uppingham may pretend to have seen, and I would never play Sabrina false with anyone, I love her too completely for that.

  Please keep the watch safe for me at St Mary Magna, tell no one of its existence, and above all do not mention Sabrina’s name to anyone. I wish to protect her now, and can only do that by staying out of her life. She is not strong, and is terrified of scandal.

  Henry and Jenny know nothing of Sabrina, nor does Mrs McNeil, for I have kept my own counsel, as well I should as I have been conducting a secret affair which would shock society were it ever to come to light.

  Forgive me for embroiling you, but I could not think of anywhere else to send the pocket watch and be certain of its safekeeping. No one must ever know that Sabrina gave me a gift with such an inscription at the very time when her family was proceeding with plans for her betrothal.

  I do not know where I will go now, but I will write to you again when I can. Please do not think ill of me for fleeing and thus exposing the family name to odium.

  Believe in me, I beg of you.

  Your loving brother,

  Richard.

  Shaken, Deborah slowly put the letter aside and then rose to her feet. Was it really possible that such things had happened to her brother? She went to the oriel window and stared down the village street. What had really gone on in Bath? Why had Richard been falsely accused by this Sir James Uppingham and by Lady Ann Appleby? What reason could they have for so wickedly conspiring against him? And who was the mysterious Sabrina, whose name was to be protected at all costs? She had to be a lady of some wealth to be able to afford a timepiece as valuable as the one she had had so lovingly inscribed.

  Deborah exhaled slowly. She felt so helpless, and so very, very angry, for there was nothing she could do to help, and she didn’t even know where Richard was.

  She thought about the letter. Richard had mentioned that she might read about it all in the newspapers. Perhaps she would learn more when she did. Then, depending upon what she discovered, she would decide what to do. Richard needed her, and she would not fail him, nor would she stand idly by and allow him to be the victim of others’ villainy. If she felt that there was anything to gain by going to Bath to make inquiries of her own, then that was what she would do. Her three years of self-imposed seclusion would be brought to an end in the cause of clearing her brother’s name and bringing the real culprits to justice.

  CHAPTER 2

  It was still stormy and overcast the next morning when Deborah awoke after a restless, virtually sleepless night. She’d tossed and turned anxiously because of Richard and had been lying staring at the tester over her bed
for a long time when at last her maid came with the morning tea.

  Amy Jenkinson had been with her ever since she’d married Jonathan and come to St Mary Magna, indeed the maid had been born in the village, and her family had served the Marchants for generations. She was a neat, fair-haired young woman with pale blue eyes and freckles, and she wore a fresh green-and-white gingham dress, a white apron, and a starched mobcap. She placed the tea beside her mistress’s bed, and then went to draw back the curtains.

  The pale March daylight brightened the room, but coldly so, and with a shiver the maid went to do what she could to poke the embers of the fire into more life. As Amy knelt before the hearth, Deborah sat up in the bed, reaching over the coverlet for her warm shawl and putting it around her shoulders. Her coal black curls tumbled over her shoulders, and her gray eyes were tired as she picked up the dish of tea.

  The room was the one she and Jonathan had shared and was the largest bedroom in the house. It faced over the walled garden and bowling green at the rear of the house and boasted no fewer than three embrasured windows set deep into the thick stone outer wall. Inside it was paneled, and there were tapestries depicting scenes from medieval romances. There were rugs on the polished wooden floor and a yellow brocade armchair by the fire. The four-poster bed was hung with white silk, and through the archway in the wall there was a dressing room where the same white silk had been draped over the dressing table. At the windows the curtains were made of yellow velvet, forming a bright frame for the gray March day outside.

  At last Amy coaxed some flames from the fire, and quickly she selected a suitable log from the rack beside the hearth, pressing it firmly onto the fire before getting to her feet again and coming to the foot of the bed.

  ‘What shall you wear today, madam?’