Fated Folly

 

 

FATED FOLLY

 

Elizabeth Bailey

 

©
Elizabeth Bailey 2013

 

All rights reserved.

 

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

 

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

 

First published in Great Britain by Elizabeth Bailey 2013

Published by Elizabeth Bailey on Smashwords 2013

www.elizabethbailey.co.uk

 

© Cover art and design by David Evans Bailey 2013

www.davidevansbailey.com

 

FATED FOLLY

 

When youthful Clare Carradale beards the ogre in his den, she is instantly smitten with Sir Rupert Wolverley's raw and powerful attraction. In an attempt to prevent her brother eloping with Sir Rupert's niece, Clare is herself compromised. She must either marry his young cousin, Lord Ashendon, whom she detests, or Rupert himself.

Can Clare's hopes of a radiant future be realised in this uneven and improbable match? Both Fate and Ashendon conspire against her. But Clare's true battle lies in overcoming Rupert's inner demons, if she is to save her marriage and win through to a promise of happiness.

Chapter One

 

The news was disheartening, and the butler spoke in apologetic tones. ‘Miss Wolverley is not yet returned, miss.'

‘
Oh, drat,' uttered the caller, all outward perturbation. ‘She said eleven.'

Brookland permitted himself a faint click of the tongue. ‘I fear you are in advance of the hour, Miss Carradale.'

The visitor gave an exaggerated start of surprise. ‘Am I indeed? What is the time then?'

As the butler went about the business of consulting his fob-watch, observed without interest by the page boy who accompanied Miss Carradale and who remained waiting patiently a little behind her under the ornate pillared portico, the young lady bit her lip on a reprehensible giggle.

She was not a very tall young lady, and the slim grace of her youthful form, coupled with a piquant little countenance surrounded by a frame of flaxen curls, gave her an angelic look that was singularly misleading. For under the chip hat, trimmed with blue ribbon and a wreath of satin rosebuds, her eyes sparkled with mischief. But she quickly schooled her features to solemnity as Brookland made his announcement.

‘
It wants precisely sixteen minutes to the hour, miss.'

Clare Carradale succeeded in looking daunted for a moment. ‘Oh dear, Brookland, what is to be done? It is hardly worth my walking home again.'

In fact, the Carradale home in Hill Street ran only two roads parallel to Charles Street where the Wolverley town house was situated, but although it was unusually fine for April, there was a chill in the air.

‘
No, miss,' the butler agreed. ‘By the time you had arrived, you must turn back again.'

Clare waited expectantly, all innocence, a smile playing about her mouth, her lashes fluttering a little.

Brookland visibly succumbed. Adopting an avuncular tone, he held wide the front door. ‘Perhaps you would care to wait, miss?'

‘
Thank you, Brookland,' said Miss Carradale warmly, tripping into the hall. ‘How kind of you.' She beckoned to the page boy hovering on the doorstep. ‘Come along, Dobbin.'

The boy hesitated, warily eyeing the butler. He was a raw youth of fifteen or so, possessed of a vacant stare that accurately mirrored the contents of his head. But his burly frame served admirably to deflect annoyances and Clare had appropriated him for her personal footman. She had, she insisted against her parents' expressed doubts, a soft spot for poor Dobbin. After all, he was the son of her old nurse, Mrs Voy, now honourably retired, thank goodness. She had never been an easy target. Her son was much more malleable. And it was not to be denied that an obedient and docile manservant was a useful adjunct on an errand such as this.

But Dobbin's experience of butlers—and, it must be said, many of his senior colleagues—was unhappy. They were all too often apt, in their impatience with his feeble wits, to fetch him a clip round the side of the head. His protectress was firm, however.

‘
I am sure Mr Brookland will let you wait in the kitchens, will you not?' She turned to flash another of those appealing looks at the butler and was rewarded at once.

‘
Certainly, miss.'

His forefinger summoned the boy, who obeyed with alacrity, and he passed him along the hall, pointing to a door at the back. Dobbin ambled through it, and Brookland turned for the stairs.

‘
I will take you up to the yellow saloon, Miss Carradale.'

‘
Oh no, stay!' Clare darted forward, glancing briefly up to the quiet of the floor above and then lowering her voice conspiratorially. ‘Could I not wait in the downstairs parlour, Brookland? I have no wish to encounter your master.' She added, as the butler hesitated, ‘He is home, is he not?'

The man frowned very slightly, and his voice took on a note of austerity. ‘If you mean Sir Rupert, miss—'

‘
Of course I mean Sir Rupert,' Clare uttered in a distracted way. ‘Pippa—I mean, Miss Wolverley—has told me all, Brookland. So you need not fear to betray any secrets. Is he here?'

‘
Why, yes, miss,' admitted the servitor, plainly puzzled by her sudden agitation, ‘but I don't see—'

‘
Brookland, I don't want to run into him,' announced Miss Carradale in a dramatic whisper. ‘Only think how embarrassing.'

It was evident that the butler had no difficulty in interpreting this speech. Clare must suppose it to be common knowledge that the burgeoning romance between her brother Justin and her friend Philippa Wolverley had been unceremoniously nipped in the bud by Pippa's guardian. Sir Rupert, arriving unexpectedly in London not two nights ago, in response to the rumours that had reached him of his youthful niece's attachment to a younger son with no profession and few prospects, had summarily forbidden the banns. And, incidentally, thoroughly intimidated all parties concerned—his niece, her suitor and her duenna, too.

But Brookland, although he clearly understood the import of her words, equally clearly disapproved of her freedom in mentioning the matter. He drew himself up, but Clare intervened before he could deliver the reproof no doubt hovering on his lips.

‘
Oh, don't poker up, Brookland, pray. I would not have said anything, but for having to wait. Only assure me that Sir Rupert is safe in his study, or some such thing, and let me stay down here in the parlour, and I shall be satisfied.'

‘
Sir Rupert is in the bookroom, miss,' the butler told her, unbending a little as he retraced his steps and led the way into the small parlour by the front door. ‘It is across the hall abovestairs, so you will not be heard.'

‘
What if he comes down?' asked Clare with a creditable assumption of apprehension.

‘
Unlikely, miss. When in town, Sir Rupert is usually busy at his desk until noon, when he repairs to his club.'

‘
Then he will be fixed up there until after I've gone,' Clare said, fetching a relieved sigh.

‘
You will be quite safe here, miss,' Brookland assured her, his tone, to her secret amusement, now soothing.

Seating herself demurely in a chair by the window, from where she said she might watch for Pippa's arrival, Clare refused all offers of refreshment, and waited for Brookland to bow himself out of the room.

No sooner had the door closed than she jumped up and tiptoed across to it, setting her ear close to the wood and listening to the stately footsteps retreating down the hall. There was the sound of a door closing, and then silence.

Cautiously she turned the handle and stealthily opened the door. As she poked her head around it, she became conscious of the quickening of her heartbeat.

Come, she encouraged herself, he cannot be quite an ogre. Although Pippa was clearly afraid of him. Sir Rupert, so her orphaned friend had said, was himself a widower, which, she claimed, was why he was so bad-tempered and horridly strict.

‘
As if it was
my
fault his beastly wife died.'

‘
Why was she beastly?' Clare demanded.

Pippa shrugged. ‘How in the world should I know? I don't even remember her. But I've heard my cousin Flimwell say so, times out of mind. And she must know.'

Miss Flimwell was Pippa's duenna, and a more ineffectual creature Clare could not imagine. It struck her as odd that a guardian as strict as Sir Rupert would not have provided his niece with more of a dragon to watch over her. Yet her brother's testimony could not be ignored, for Justin had described the man as hateful and cold.

‘
Anyone would think I was an ineligible fortune hunter,' he complained bitterly.

‘
Well, he can't have thought that,' Clare argued practically, ‘for Pippa has no fortune. A respectable competence only.'

‘
Yes, and so have I. And I love her. But he wouldn't listen to a word I said. He wouldn't even let me speak.'

‘
Poor Justin.' Clare gave him a sisterly hug. As she stood back, the light of mischief burgeoned in her breast. ‘Shall I charm him into submission for you?'

‘
Don't be childish, Clare,' Justin snapped. ‘This is serious. It's my life. It is not like asking for a—a pretty toy, or a new horse, you know. And Sir Rupert is not like papa.'

But Clare, once fired with the idea, would not readily relinquish it. Even as a little girl she had been aware of the subtle power of manipulation she possessed. At seventeen she was adept at using it. Middle-aged men, she knew, were particularly susceptible. Sir Rupert must be just of an age to succumb to her wiles.

Brookland had been easy prey, she told herself now, drawing a breath to steady her jumping nerves. Why should Sir Rupert Wolverley prove more difficult? So far her plan had gone like clockwork. Pippa would not put in an appearance before half past the hour, for Clare had deliberately appointed the later time. By then Clare would either have successfully completed her self-appointed mission, or, she thought with an irrepressible giggle, have been shown the door.

But she did not really think Sir Rupert would throw her out, she decided, as she sneaked across the hall and began swiftly to ascend the stairs, holding up the skirts of her sprigged muslin gown.

Nevertheless, excitement and apprehension mounted as she reached the first floor and turned towards the two doors down the side Brookland had indicated. She hesitated. Now which one was the library? She crept to the first door and listened intently. Nothing disturbed the stillness. Making no sound in her light kid slippers, she went to the second door towards the front of the house. A rustling of paper came to her ear as she bent it to the woodwork.

She felt sick suddenly, and had to swallow on a dry throat. Drat you, Clare Carradale, she told herself sternly, he can't eat you!

Dropping to her haunches, she peeped through the keyhole. The limited view afforded a sight of part of a large desk, a pair of crossed legs below it, and above a dark bent head, its face, from this angle, concealed by a paper held in a strong hand.

Trepidation caught at Clare suddenly, and she rose hastily to her feet, her heart thumping heavily. She turned away to the railing above the hall, remembering all at once her brother's words.
He wouldn't even let me speak
. And he had positively thundered at his niece, Pippa had said, and rung a fine peal over Miss Flimwell for allowing matters between the lovers to proceed to this extreme.