Stephanie and the Wicked Deceiver (Wild Marchmonts #2)

3. The Unnecessary Tutelage

Chapter 3

The Unnecessary Tutelage

M aximillian Chance, the Earl of Hedley, had grown up at Hedley Court and he loved it well. Now only he alone, bar an army of servants, lived here in its vast rooms.

He had been born the last in a family of three children. He remembered, with increasing vagueness, the scampering he and his siblings, separated in age by only a year each, had made around these rooms playing chasing games. His mother and father had been warm and indulgent; they had been, he thought, an enchanted family. He had seen enough of the world now, at thirty, to know all families were not so.

But then his two siblings had died only a year apart. His elder brother, Philip, the heir, had fallen from his pony when he was just seven years old; the remaining siblings were refused their ponies after that. His sister, Beatrice, had died the next year of a degenerative illness that the doctors could not fathom. His mother, terrified that it was infectious despite the reassurance of the doctors, had refused Maximillian entry to the sick room.

But seven-year-old Max had visited his sister at night while her nurse snored in a chair. They had giggled together, he remembered, and played cards silently though they soon discovered that an earthquake could not rouse the nurse until six in the morning. They had laughed and read together until Bea’s eyes closed in the middle of the night and Max had slipped away.

This continued for months, it seemed, and each day his poor sister got weaker, her eyes closing earlier during their nightly play sessions. One night, barely able to raise her head, Bea had taken his hand. ‘Max, you must remember to ride for Philip and to laugh for me. You will, won’t you?’ He had said yes, and his eyes had filled because even so young, he already knew the finality of death. When he slid from her room, he understood that she would play with him no more.

Early the next morning he was awoken by his mother’s sobs in the corridor. She was being helped to her room by her maid. Afterwards, his mother’s health was broken and she began to quack her only living child. He must not be allowed a horse; he must walk and not run; he must never climb trees; his every cough or sneeze must be tended as though a terminal illness. It was impossible to argue this with Mama because her distress was too real and her health was failing. So Max had simply agreed to her every decree with a smile.

She had brought other children into the house so that he would not feel so alone; she had hired tutors in mathematics and Latin and Greek and read with him for hours. She had him read his own compositions for a literary group of ladies and they had applauded and discussed his words as though they were the Bard’s himself.

As he grew, she hired a dancing master and a music master, had Max converse with wits, and governed his dress so that he was the most fashionable fourteen-year-old in the county. He had a proper valet before most young gentlemen had finished school; Brumby had been his aid and his burden ever since.

All this Max had done with gusto for his mother’s happiness, and for the laughter he had promised Beatrice. His mama had asked forgiveness again and again for the restrictions she had placed on him: no school when his father suggested it, no sports, no hunting, no dangerous pursuits. Even fishing was overseen by a sleepy footman in case Max should fall in the water. His lovely mother was sorry, she said, but she must strain every nerve to keep her dear boy safe.

As a young man Max had taken her in his arms as she sobbed, and told her that he was very happy, Mama, and she should not worry .

His mother’s creation was what Miss Marchmont now conceived him to be, he thought – but there was another side to his story.

He was still seven when he had bribed his Latin master with a shilling to let him escape the schoolroom. He had left for the stables, mounted the pony that it still housed and rode off. His father, catching him in the hall on his return and smelling horse, had given him a key to a little-used side door, so that he could enter and leave more easily. They did not have to say it was a secret from Mama.

Thus his ponies had got larger and he had got his own gig until he could drive a pair, which his papa had arranged to teach him himself. They secretly hunted together, shot arrows at targets, and his father taught him the rudiments of the foil at only eleven years. The secret life between father and son had formed a bond.

One day his father had asked him why he had first bribed the Latin master. ‘I promised Bea I would laugh for her and ride for Philip,’ the boy said.

His father was too moved to speak but eventually he managed. ‘You saw Bea at the last?’

‘Every night!’ said his son.

‘Good boy, my good rebellious boy!’ His father ruffled his hair. ‘I have suffered at the thought that you were kept from her those last months. Your mama…’

‘I know, Papa. And I obey Bea’s instruction also by following Mama’s wishes. I can even caper like a monkey now,’ he said, referring to lessons with his dancing master.

‘Your mama wishes you to be a cultured fellow and to keep you occupied in case you miss too much or are bored or lonely. But I knew that the other side of you was the rough-and-tumble little chap who played with your brother. I did not wish to break that spirit.’

‘Well, Papa, I intend to be both! ’

And so, he did. His mother lived to see him take his place in London at seventeen, going to balls to pose as the handsomest, most elegant and most amusing young man who danced divinely, turned pages for ladies when they played music, and confidently read amusing poems before select groups at literary soirées.

His mama had died that year and his papa had permitted him Oxford, where he found that he was naturally gifted at all sports and that his riding and driving skills were superior when set against his classmates. His academic achievements were easily managed, too, since he had been more closely schooled than most.

By the time he returned to live with his papa at the Court, the word was out: there was a new out-and-outer, a veritable Corinthian, and his name was Maximilian, Viscount Chance, heir to the Earl of Hedley.

After ten years of the world’s approbation and a year of testing it in the French wars, he finally knew himself an adult. But a girl would arrive this morning to tutor him in manhood, and he was all agog.

Armitage was seated on a broad window ledge when the footman arrived in his chamber with news of their parole. He was overlooking the start of the riding lesson, the earl on his mother’s mare lumbering up and down in the saddle as they moved into a trot.

‘We could sell tickets in London!’ said Horace Pettigrew, looking over his shoulder.

‘The horse must be confused,’ remarked Lord Fortescue. ‘Steady hands and a lurching body.’

‘I wonder how she’ll cure him of it…’ mused Armitage. ‘His jest is diverting but wicked.’

‘You worry too much. It is not like you to disapprove.’

‘Ah, well, she is very young,’ Armitage cautioned.

‘Her own horse looks too big for her,’ said Pettigrew.

‘You are just jealous, Horace, for you might have difficulty holding him,’ remarked Fortescue.

Pettigrew protested but Armitage added, ‘Yes, a fine beast.’

Fortescue was still looking over Armitage’s shoulder. ‘I had the idea in the night that this was a strange sort of attempt at entrapment of Hedley on her part. But no one seeing her turn up in that frightful cape and bonnet must think she has any notion of enticing a man.’

‘No indeed!’

‘I wonder where she got that bonnet,’ said Pettigrew. ‘It is quite hideous.’

‘I should think it is constructed for her fair skin,’ commented Armitage, who had found himself with an arm full of grey cat once more. ‘Sun is injurious to redheads.’

‘I am worried for my poor coat,’ Pettigrew said mournfully. ‘Just got it, and what does a man two inches broader than me do but take a mind to it?’

‘It is like the bad seat,’ scoffed Armitage. ‘He is luring her into thinking him a ludicrous fashionable fribble.’

‘Here, I say !’ the young man objected at the implied insult to his coat.

‘Like you!’ added Fortescue.

‘Why I give you gentlemen the honour of my company, I do not know.’

‘Enough!’ said Benjamin Fortescue. ‘Let us go downstairs while we are released. I want some tea.’

‘Do you think she will come back in again?’

‘Not if Max’s description of the Scottish maid is to be believed. She won’t permit her to stay long in a gentleman’s house.’

‘We could go to the village!’ said Pettigrew.

‘Let us wait for Max. I want to hear all about his first lesson.’

‘Straighten your back!’ Stephanie instructed. ‘Put down your bottom. We do not canter yet.’

‘Might we not for a moment?’ asked Hedley. ‘You can tell me what the Royal Family were doing at Tremaine Towers.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, the Royal Family is what we called the earl and his wife and siblings!’

‘You did?’

‘It did not come from us at first, but one of their own. She called her brother the earl “King”, her second brother “the Crown Prince”, and her sister “Queenie”. I’ve only just met “the Princeling”, her youngest brother Dorian. He does not much visit the Towers. Poor Eliot was called “the Black Sheep”.’

‘Who is Poor Eliot?’ asked Hedley. ‘Oh – Eliot Marchmont, the middle brother. I met an Eliot Marchmont, but he did not seem like a black sheep.’

‘His sister Ophelia is a wit, you know, and she called him so since he did not gamble or waste money at the tailor’s or keep a mis—!’ Stephanie stopped dead. ‘I apologise, I am not very careful in my speech. And Ophelia just said so as a joke. But Eliot is married to my sister Naomi now, and they are very happy.’

As they trotted on, Stephanie was amazed at the good her few words of instruction had on Max’s posture.

‘I know you may be related,’ Max said, ‘but why did your family reside at Tremaine Towers?’

‘Oh, the Wild Marchmonts, as Ophelia called us, went there because of some scheme of Mama’s. It may be something to do with launching my sisters into society with their cousins. I am not interested enough to know.’

‘Why are you called the Wild Marchmonts?’

‘Because we were in half-mourning when we arrived and all of us wore outside clothes, like the dress that you disapproved of today.’

‘I did not disapprove!’

‘You did ! But I disapproved of your coat more, so I am not offended.’

Hedley saw that she had no idea she was flirting; she was teasing him, as she did her family, perhaps, but he should be careful. ‘Yes, your dress is quite dreadful … and so is your cape.’

‘But practical, unlike your coat,’ Stephanie retorted. ‘That garment is making you push your shoulder blades together as you ride in case you tear it, and it keeps you tense! We should canter now.’

‘Before we do … what disgrace did you fall into in London?’ Hedley asked tentatively. She looked amused, not annoyed, so he continued, ‘If you do not mind telling me.’

‘You are putting off the canter!’ she accused him. But when he looked sheepish, she laughed. ‘Well, the thing is, I took to exploring with my maid Sukey – and Pietro, of course. Mama found him at a show of tumblers when we first came to London and employed him because she saw that he was fast enough to keep up with me.’

‘You run away from home a good deal?’

‘Not as you mean, but only if I’m interested in something. I just follow my nose and Sukey cannot keep up.’

‘I thought Morag was your maid.’

‘No, she is Mama ’s maid. She ought to be called McLeod by rights but there were so many other McLeods working for us at the castle that she never has been. Mama sent Morag with me because she has been scolding me since I was little.’

‘I see.’ He smiled.

Stephanie liked his grey eyes and the warmth in them. She knew he was delaying but she would tell him her story and move him to a quiet canter gradually. ‘One day when I was exploring London, I saw a girl pickpocket abscond with a purse then run over roofs when the cry went up.’

‘Yes?’

‘A week later I saw her again in the same square near the amphitheatre. I ran after her and saw her climb a wall and pull herself onto a roof. Well, I followed, of course, but the overhang on the roof was a yard long and I could not for the life of me pull myself over. So I jumped down and ran along the roofs beside and remembered where I had lost sight of her last time. I had already walked the alleys and knew the area, and I thought I knew where she would be. But Pietro caught me and all was lost.’

‘Oh!’ said Hedley.

‘I was cross so Pietro agreed to come looking for her again. I especially remembered that her arms were even skinnier than mine yet when I tried the roof again, I still could not get over it. Pietro could quite easily, but then he has the arms of a blacksmith even though he is so tiny.’

Hedley seemed pale, but the story was distracting him and as she moved forward at a canter, so did he.

‘We waited many days for her. On the day there was a dancing troupe in the street, she came again. This time Pietro captured her and then I was able to offer her coins to show me her method .’

Her companion slowed, perhaps afraid of his own speed, and she, with difficulty, stopped Emperor’s fidgets that indicated he wanted a run. She continued, telling the tale that seemed to distract Hedley’s nerves and allowed his seat to be much better.

‘Her method was fascinating. She showed me some moves – it was all done less with strength than with momentum. When I showed her that I could not pull myself over that roof, she told me that if she did it as I was trying to, she would not have the strength, either.’

He seemed enraptured by her tale, and an improved seat and a slightly faster pace resulted.

She went on. ‘She showed me, and she was quite right: when she held on and tried to pull herself up, she could not. However, when she got down again and ran at the wall, scaling it as I did, then pushing herself off at the correct angle and speed using window ledges and a buttress, she could get the momentum to pull herself over. I practised but it took me many attempts to do so. A street boy began taking pennies so people could watch me fall. But I did it!

‘She showed me many tricks like that, such as using the force of another wall in a narrow alley to climb further and faster. But eventually Sukey told on us to Mama for she feared the crowds of onlookers that had begun to follow us as an audience quite as though we were from Pietro’s tumbling group … and I was sent away. It was a shame for I am sure the girl had much to teach me.

‘Pietro teaches me, too, and I can now tumble. Or a little, at least. I used his trick when I leapt from the carriage to save you. But he forgets how strong he is. I am strong too but I am not an ox, therefore it is only his tricks I can learn. I cannot outdo his strong arms and legs.’

Hedley made the mistake of riding normally a couple of times for the girl’s story had dropped his jaw. He was not laughing anymore at the notion that she could defeat Sedgewick with a foil because it might be true. He was dreaming of a day when he could practise with her truly.

He had been shocked at the female pantalons and by her lack of shame. They were not, however, revealing in any way. One could tell nothing except that there were two legs beneath her gown, which he had already intuited by the number of her feet. But though the thick cotton had allowed no form of her limb to be displayed, he had still understood her maid’s distress. The girl did not suspect the imagination of man.

Then the tale about the pickpocket (with Miss Marchmont’s lack of moral outrage a delicious aside in the tale) with her interest solely in the athletic technique. Her poor mother! What was one to do with such a girl? Equipping her with the Italian tumbler as a bodyguard seemed to suggest that this lady was of the same practical disposition as the daughter: here is a problem and here the solution. Many mamas would have sent their daughters to their rooms for a week to read their Collect and repent their behaviour.

Actually, the story had terrified Hedley. He pictured Stephanie, in her London pelisse and bonnet, falling repeatedly onto a dirty street as she attempted the feat again and again. He pictured the street boys and the rowdies who must have surrounded her watching her endeavours. The evil tumbler Pietro had a pistol, however…

Hedley had accidentally ridden at a faster pace and improved his seat and posture after receiving a few light blows from Miss Marchmont’s crop, and she insisted he ride on Emperor even though the horse was side saddled. He was very glad this was not near enough the house for his friends to see; his awkwardness on the infernal thing was not all feigned, even after she had adjusted the stirrup length.

Stephanie led Emperor in a large circle, murmuring encouraging words to Hedley, telling him it was better that he experienced sitting on a horse the right size for his body. She took it slowly and Hedley did not feign a bad seat again, for the tall stallion was a thoroughbred and had spirit; the least wrong move might cause him to spook and the reins be torn from his instructor’s hands.

The girl looked up at him from beneath the awful bonnet, her naked eyes making her look both strange and beautiful. She patted his thigh before he got down as a man might have done, and he thought that he really must warn this girl’s mother about the consequences of letting such a young thing off the leash.

Stephanie’s demeanour changed from friendly and open to the sort of motherly encouragement he remembered when his Mama had watched him struggle with Greek, and he felt an affection for her. But was it enough to stop his infernal plan? Not at all. He was far too amused.

His amusement ceased when he saw his groom grinning to himself. Soon, the whole stable yard would know that the earl had ridden side-saddle. Hedley knew Joe Starkey well; even if he ordered the man’s mouth shut, it was too good a tale for him to keep to himself.

Well, as long as Hedley’s friends did not find out.