Devil-May-Dare. Mary Nichols

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       Table of Contents

       Cover

       Excerpt

       Title Page

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      LORD WENTHORPE paused on the top stair with his hand on the polished wood balustrade, wondering what had put the notion into his head to go up to the old schoolroom floor; he had not been there in an age, not since Lydia and Tom were knee-high to a grasshopper. He had only ventured into this wing of his considerable mansion then because Nanette had upbraided him for not taking an interest in his offspring’s education. Dearest Nanette — who would have thought that the darling of the Parisian stage would make such a splendid mama? He stopped to remember and then wished he had not. The memories were painful, laughter and tears, happiness and unending sorrow. But life was like that. He sighed and turned to retrace his steps; let the memories stay locked away.

      The sound of merriment came from a door along the corridor which was not quite closed. Tom, down from Cambridge with his friend, Frank Burford; they were no doubt playing some prank on Lydia. Would they never grow up? He had glimpsed Lydia from his bedchamber that morning, long before most ladies would have dreamed of rising, galloping across the park with poor Scrivens so far behind her as to be useless to help if she took a tumble. Not that she would, he was confident of her horsemanship, but he could have sworn she was riding astride. He could ask the groom of course, but Scrivens was loyal to his mistress and he would not put him in the position of having to tattle on her. When would she learn to behave like the lady she purported to be? Eighteen — no, he corrected himself, nineteen, and still behaving like a schoolroom miss, and that in spite of acting as his housekeeper for the last six years. There were plenty of young ladies of her age already married. He ought to be thinking of getting her a husband. She was not wanting in sense and had no difficulty making decisions and giving instructions to the indoor staff; she would make some young blade a fine wife, so long as she managed to quell her tendency to mischief.

      It was his fault, of course; he had let her grow wild with only her brother for company, while he mourned the passing of their mother. If his darling Nanette had still been alive, Lydia would not now be something close to a hoyden. He had prevaricated too long. Resolutely he moved towards the schoolroom and pushed the door open.

      Lydia, in pink satin breeches, yellow stockings, brightly striped waistcoat topped by an old-fashioned coat with huge patch pockets and enough silver lace to bedeck a field marshal, not to mention a hugely knotted neckcloth, was mincing up and down in front of the two young men, who sat on the schoolroom chairs watching her. She stopped in front of them to make an elegant leg which made the white powdered wig she wore slip sideways over one ear to reveal her own dark hair. She righted it and then put up the quizzing glass which dangled from a ribbon round her neck and peered short-sightedly through it. ‘Demme,’ she said, affecting the voice of a pink of the ton. ‘Demme, if I don’t teach you young pups some manners.’

      The young men hooted with laughter.

      ‘Miss Wenthorpe, if you don’t make a most fetching dandy, I’ll consume my best beaver!’ cried Frank.

      Lydia took another turn up and down, stopping to twirl the quizzing glass, then added, ‘You think I am man enough for you, sir?’

      ‘I’ve got it!’ cried Tom triumphantly. ‘Manners maketh man.’

      Lydia dropped her pose and laughed. ‘You’d never have guessed if I hadn’t given you a hint.’ She looked up and saw her father in the doorway. His frown told her she was in for a scolding, but she was by no means subdued; her papa’s scoldings were only ever of the mildest and nothing to be afraid of. ‘Papa, we were playing charades.’

      ‘So I perceive.’ She did, indeed, make a very passable male. She was tall for a woman, long-limbed and slim-waisted. She had high cheekbones and strong, dark brows and her violet eyes, so like her mother’s, gazed back at him without the least sign of being cowed. ‘Go and change out of that frippery into something more becoming a daughter of mine, and come to me in the bookroom,’ he said gruffly, disappointed not so much in her as in himself. He turned to the young men who were scrambling to their feet. ‘Could you not think of something more manly to do? A gallop perhaps.’

      ‘Sir, it has been raining, all day,’ protested Tom.

      ‘The rain has ceased. A brisk walk to curb your high spirits before dinner, I think.’

      The young men exchanged meaningful looks and left the room with alacrity, leaving Lydia to face her father. ‘In ten minutes, miss, in the bookroom,’ he said and turned on his heel.

      Lydia, indignant that he should be so up in the boughs over something so innocent, marched off to her room to remove the offending garments. Charades was a game they had played ever since they had left the cradle. Had not Mama encouraged them in it? Had she not kept a huge basket full of costumes for that very purpose and showed them how to use stage make-up to produce almost any face they desired? Mama herself had often played a male when there were not enough men to take all the parts in the little plays they produced. Papa had always been indulgent, so what had put him into such an ill humour now?

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