Lord Ravenscars Revenge

Chapter One 1807-1

Chapter One

1807As the Hackney carriage drew up outside the tall house in Curzon Street, Romara Shaldon saw with relief that there were lights in the windows.

She had been afraid that she would be so late that everyone would have gone to bed and there would be no one to answer her knock.

The stagecoach that had brought her from the country had been delayed by a lot of tiresome incidents, which resulted in its arrival in London several hours overdue.

She had also had difficulty in finding a Hackney carriage at the Two-Necked Swan in Islington.

Those that were still plying for hire were not interested in carrying an unaccompanied woman who was obviously not wealthy and had only one small trunk.

But at last, after what seemed an interminable time, she had reached Curzon Street and found her sister’s house.

She had been anxious, in fact deeply perturbed, ever since she had received a letter from Caryl begging her to come to her at once.

It was very unlike Caryl to write in such a hysterical manner and she thought that even her handwriting appeared distraught. But the letter explained nothing, merely begging Romara to come to her side, and there was nothing to prevent her from doing so.

Two months ago it would have been a very different story.

Then her father would have forbidden her to listen to anything that Caryl might say, for he had laid it down that her name was not to be mentioned in the house.

It was, in fact, Romara had often thought, her father’s authoritative and uncompromising opposition to Caryl’s attachment to Sir Harvey Wychbold that had precipitated her into his arms.

There was something fascinating about meeting him clandestinely when she had been forbidden to do so and, although Romara had never liked Sir Harvey, she could understand that the sophisticated much older man of the world would prove irresistible to her sister.

Caryl was lovely, there was no mistaking that, but she knew nothing of life outside the small village in Huntingdonshire where they lived and had met few men except the son of the local Squire and the friends he brought home with him in the vacations from Oxford.

Romara, although she was only a year older than her sister, had travelled far more.

She had gone on a long visit to Bath with her grandmother when she was taking the waters for her rheumatism and another year she had stayed with her at Harrogate.

It made her feel in some ways that she was years older and wiser than Caryl and yet her sister had been brave enough to defy her father’s instructions and run away with Sir Harvey Wychbold.

General Sir Alexander Shaldon always treated his daughters as if they were raw recruits under his command.

It never even occurred to him that they might disobey commands he snapped at them and Romara knew that, when Caryl had run away from home, leaving a note behind her to explain what she had done, her father was at first stunned at her audacity.

Then he had said firmly,

“Caryl no longer exists. You will not communicate with her. She will never enter this house again!”

“But – Papa – whatever she has done, she is still your daughter!” Romara protested.

“I have one daughter and one daughter only,” the General retorted, “and that is you.”

But now her father was dead as the result of wounds he had received in the various campaigns in which he had taken part.

So when Caryl’s letter came, Romara was thankful that she could answer what she could not help feeling was a cry for help.

‘What could have happened?’ she asked herself all the time the stagecoach was rumbling over the dusty roads.

The horses had moved slowly because as usual the coach was overloaded both with passengers and with baggage.

Caryl would now be married to the man she loved and, after all they had gone through to make this possible, it seemed incredible that anything should have gone wrong.

‘I am sure I am being needlessly apprehensive,’ Romara told herself sensibly.

Now, as she stepped out of the Hackney carriage, she was vividly aware that in a few minutes she would learn the truth and discover how she could help her sister.

The cabman had already climbed down from the box in front of the vehicle to raise the knocker on the front door.

He then returned to collect Romara’s trunk.

She thought that his attentions sprang from the fact that he was impressed by the house and that he would in consequence expect a generous tip.

Fortunately, she had enough money to give it to him and, when the door was opened by a liveried manservant and her trunk was carried in, she thanked the cabman and put the money in his hand.

Then she turned to look at the manservant to see that he was staring at her with an expression of surprise.

“I am Miss Shaldon.”

His expression did not alter and she enquired,

“This is Sir Harvey Wychbold’s house?”

“It is, miss.”

“Then her Ladyship is expecting me. Will you tell her that I have arrived?”

The man looked vaguely towards the stairs as if he was uncertain what to do.

Then at that moment there was a cry and Caryl came running into the hall.

“Romara! Romara!” she cried. “You have come! Oh, thank God!”

She flung her arms round her sister’s neck, holding her tightly in a frantic manner which told Romara that there was something very wrong.

“I am here, dearest,” she said quietly. “I am sorry I am late, but the stagecoach was as slow as a tortoise.”

She tried to speak lightly to relieve the tension, but Caryl, taking her by the hand, was pulling her across the hall towards an open door.

“You are here and that is all that matters,” she murmured, “and it is better that you have arrived now, as it happens, because Harvey is – out.”

It seemed to Romara that her voice trembled on her husband’s name.

Then they were in a small well-furnished sitting room and Caryl slammed the door behind them.

“Oh, Romara, you are here! I was so afraid you would not come!”

There were tears in her eyes and her voice seemed to choke on the words.

Romara took off her travelling cloak, laid it on a chair, and began to undo the ribbons of her bonnet before she asked,

“What has happened? I was sure by your letter that you were upset.”

“Upset?” Caryl repeated and now the tears were running down her cheeks.

Romara put her bonnet and handbag down on top of her cloak and, moving to her sister’s side, put her arm round her shoulders.

“What is this all about?” she asked. “I have always thought of you being so happy.”

“How – can I be – happy?”

“Shall we sit down and talk about it?” Romara asked quietly. “And if it is possible I would like something to drink. I am not hungry but very thirsty.”

“Yes, of course!” Caryl said. “There is champagne here. Would that do?”

“Champagne?” Romara questioned.

Caryl walked to the table in the corner of the room and Romara saw that there was a bottle of champagne resting in an ice bucket.

There was also a plate of sandwiches and, although she had said she was not hungry, it was in fact a long time since she had eaten anything.

As if Caryl read her thoughts, she said,

“The sandwiches are there for – Harvey – but I am sure he would not notice if you had – one or two.”

“Not notice?” Romara repeated in a puzzled way.

Then she asked,

“Are you saying that Sir Harvey does not know I am arriving to stay with you?”

Caryl handed her a glass of champagne, but as she did so Romara looked sharply at her sister and realised how much she had changed in appearance.

She was still lovely, there was no denying that, but her face was much thinner than when she had left home and there were dark lines under her eyes that she had never had before.

Holding a sandwich in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, Romara deliberately walked to the sofa and sat down on it.

“I am rather bewildered, dearest,” she said in her soft voice, “so suppose you start at the beginning and tell me exactly why you are unhappy and why you wanted me to come to you.”

She took a little sip of the champagne as she spoke, feeling that it would fortify her against what she was about to hear.

Very slowly Caryl followed her to the sofa and sat down.

She was wearing an elegant negligée trimmed with frill upon frill of expensive lace, but the light in her eyes, which had given her a sort of radiance, was missing, her mouth drooped at the corners and there were still tears on her cheeks.

“Tell me what has happened,” Romara repeated coaxingly.

“I-I am going to have a – baby,” Caryl answered, “and – and I am not married.”

For a moment Romara was paralysed into immobility; then, putting down the glass of champagne on the table beside her, she said,

“Did I hear you aright, Caryl? You are not – married? But Sir Harvey asked you over and over again to be his wife.”

“Yes, I know,” Caryl said, “but, when we reached London and I belonged to him, he kept making excuses until finally I realised that he did not intend to marry me.”

“I have never heard of such a thing! How could he behave so despicably?” Romara cried.

“It’s not only that,” Caryl said in a small miserable voice. “He is not pleased that I am having a baby and – I think, Romara, that he is growing – tired of me.”

Romara put out her arms and drew her sister close to her.

“I cannot believe that is true, dearest,” she said. “But he must marry you! Of course he must marry you! I will speak to him.”

“He will not listen to you,” Caryl said, “and I think he will be very angry that I have asked you to come here. He does not let me meet any of his friends or go anywhere.”

“Do you mean to say that you just stay here all day by yourself?” Romara enquired.

“It was different when I first ran away with him,” Caryl replied. “We went to Covent Garden and Sadler’s Wells and we visited Vauxhall Gardens and it was all very exciting! I loved every – moment of it!”

She gave a heartrending little sob as she added,

“I – loved Harvey too.”

“I know you did, dearest,” Romara said. “That is why I understood, even though Papa was so angry, when you ran away.”

Caryl put her hands up to her face.

“Why did I do – anything so stupid? Why did I not – I listen to you and Papa?”

Her voice broke on the words and now she was sobbing helplessly against Romara’s shoulder.

Romara was trying frantically to think what she should do.

It was too late now, she thought, for regrets. They might have known that, if nothing else, their father was a shrewd judge of character.

He had disliked and despised Sir Harvey Wychbold from the first moment that Caryl had first met him at the meet of the hounds.

He had been staying in the neighbourhood and had insisted on his host introducing him to Caryl and from that moment he had pursued her indefatigably.

He had sent her notes and flowers and had called daily until the General had turned him out of the house.

Then he had inveigled Caryl into meeting him in secret.

Romara could understand how fascinating it had been to a girl, who had never received such fulsome compliments, to be made love to by a man who was extremely experienced in the art of seduction.

But it still astounded her that Sir Harvey, who was a gentleman by birth, should have gone back on his promise to marry Caryl and reduced her to this state.

As her father was dead, it was now her duty to try to rouse Sir Harvey to a sense of his responsibilities, but nevertheless her heart sank at the thought.

“Stop crying, dearest,” she urged Caryl, “and tell me when Sir Harvey is likely to return.”

“I-I have – no idea,” Caryl answered. “Sometimes he stays out until dawn – and I think he is with – a woman who – attracts him more than I do.”

Her words brought on another tempest of tears and Romara could do nothing but hold her closer and wish as she had never wished before that her father was still alive.