Regency: Innocents & Intrigues: Marrying Miss Monkton / Beauty in Breeches

Regency: Innocents & Intrigues: Marrying Miss Monkton / Beauty in Breeches
Helen Dickson

A Question of Marriage! Sir Charles Osbourne has made a promise against his better judgement. He will rescue one Miss Maria Monkton and deliver her to her betrothed — a man whose reputation he cares little for. Travelling alone with her protector, Maria finds herself falling in love — but she is promised to another and Charles has no mind for marriage!The Wedding Wager Unconventional orphan Miss Beatrice Fanshaw is determined to win back her ancestral home from the distinguished but disreputable Julius Chadwick. Knowing his weakness for a flutter, she’ll play the Marquess at his own game. A wager is on — the fastest horseman wins! Astride her horse — in her breeches — should she win, Beatrice is poised to name her forfeit! Two BRAND NEW, DAZZLING Regency tales!

REGENCY Innocents & Intrigues

Lose yourself with two gorgeous Regency romances from Helen Dickson

About the Author

HELEN DICKSON was born and lives in South Yorkshire with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.

Regency

Innocents & Intrigues

Marrying

Miss Monkton

Beauty in Breeches

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Marrying

Miss Monkton

Helen Dickson

Chapter One

The day was wet and blustery. Charles had slept little, and uneasily, for the problem of going out of his way to call at Chateau Feroc was an added irritant he could do without. He lifted his lean face so that trickles of water ran down his cheeks. The weather suited his mood.

He rode into a small village with one main street. It was no different from any other village in France, with its huddle of poor cottages, a church tower on the outskirts, a windmill and a tavern. A particular stench arose from the gutters to assail his nostrils and touch like icy fingers upon his deepest fears. It was the stench of poverty, the foul, unacceptable smell of humanity at its lowest.

The wind had risen and the fallen leaves went whipping along the ground and collected in roadside ditches. The road along which he slowly rode was narrow and crooked and paved with cobblestones, glistening with the rain. There were few people about, and the few he saw were ragged; when they turned to face him on hearing his horse’s hooves, he could see raw hunger in their eyes, and every time he saw it he wanted to curse.

These were troubled and dangerous times in France. The country was suffering financial difficulties, which stemmed from the heavy costs incurred by France during the war with America, which had left the Treasury bankrupt. But the ordinary masses were of the opinion, and rightly so, that France’s troubles were not helped by lavish court spending. To pay the heavy taxes imposed on them, people starved while the nobility were busy at the elaborate idleness in their grand chateaus or at the palace of Versailles, in the swim of the gay life of Louis XVI’s artificial paradise. Revolution was already apparent in the minds of the masses.

On the edge of the village Charles saw an old man and a child of no more than five or six, a boy, he thought, stooping and carefully picking up sticks and placing them in a sack. It was, he knew, their only means of warmth and to cook the meagre rations that came their way. Stumbling, the old man dropped the sack and his precious kindling tumbled out. The child bent to retrieve them, his fingers young and nimble compared to those of the elder. Charles stopped and dismounted and helped them in their task.

When the sticks had been retrieved, the old man smiled at Charles out of his lined face.

‘My thanks, monsieur,’ he said.

Charles looked at him, wondering how old he was. He knew he was probably many years younger than he looked, but when he asked him, his answer shocked him.

‘Thirty-two.’ His smile broadened when he saw shock register in the stranger’s eyes. ‘Hunger makes old men of us all, monsieur.’

The distant sound of carriage wheels rumbling on the cobbles reached their ears, an impatient drumming that came slowly nearer, growing louder and sounding clearer. All three looked ahead and stepped aside to avoid being run down by the coach and four bowling towards them. The uniformed coachman was lashing the horses, the black coach careering so fast that the wheels were almost lifted clear of the ground, the horses’ hooves making sparks against the cobblestones.

Charles caught a glimpse of its occupant, an elegantly attired young gentlewoman wearing black. The coach was travelling so fast that it was impossible to see her face properly, but his sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a pale face surrounded by black hair.

‘Look at her,’ the peasant growled. ‘Aristocrat! Ere long we’ll make an end to the likes of them and their arrogant breed—and good riddance is what I say. They’ll get what’s coming to them—had it coming for a long time, they have. They’ll be shown no mercy on the day of reckoning.’ So saying he spat on the ground and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

‘You pay your dues to the Seigneur?’

‘I give him everything. I pay to grind my corn at his mill. I pay to transport it across bridges not once but a hundred times. I pay to press my own grapes for wine. When winter comes we go hungry and we have to feed the children on bran and roots, which swell their bellies up; one of my daughters died last winter—a painful death. My wife is too weak to work. We killed the oxen for food, and the bailiffs come to search my house for salt.’

‘They found some?’

He nodded. ‘They fined me all the money I had left. The taxes are eating us up. We have decided to leave the house and take to the road. We shall leave everything—the furniture, the land—everything. Let them take it. With nothing we can’t be taxed.’

‘I am sorry for you,’ Charles said with deep sincerity. Shoving his hand in his pocket and bringing out a louis, Charles handed it to the man. ‘Here, take this. Buy yourself and your family something to eat.’

The man shook his head, making no attempt to take it. ‘Where would I spend a louis? Have you nothing smaller, monsieur? Were I to present such a large coin at the baker’s or the grocer’s or anywhere else, it would raise suspicion and attract the attention of the bailiffs. They would demand to know where I came by such a coin and my assessment would be increased.’

Charles took back the louis and gave him some small coins, not worth as much, but the man was satisfied and stuffed them into his pocket. They would enable him to feed his family for days, if not weeks, if he and his wife were careful.

‘There are terrible times ahead for France,’ Charles said, hoisting himself back into the saddle. ‘There is a great fear. All over the country, the lines are crumbling.’

The man nodded. ‘Aye, monsieur, you are right,’ he said, his voice hoarse with real emotion. His sunken cheeks already wet with the rain, became more so when the tears that gathered in his eyes spilled over. ‘I doubt I shall live to see it.’ Taking the child’s hand, he nodded his thanks and went on his way.

Charles rode on slowly, unable to shake off his meeting with the man and boy. He had seen much suffering since he had come to France. The peasantry was in debt, increasingly resentful—and suffering from the catastrophic effects of the previous year’s bad harvest. The populace blamed the nobility for the high price of grain and was enraged against them.

Since the recent storming of the Bastille in Paris, revolution had spread to the countryside. Mob violence had broken out in many regions. The whole of France was like a tinder box. One strike and there was no knowing what would follow. He knew the temper of the mob. If they saw blood they became like mad wolves. It was the kind of violence that gave Charles many a qualm about the rightness of their cause, for some of the mobs were made up of villainous, evil-smelling brutes, who, he swore to God, had never been starving peasants or anything else but brigands.

He had seen it all, recording it all in his mind, so that he could set it down when he put up in some inn or other, where he would rest for the night before setting off again on his journey back to England. But before embarking for his home country, he had a slight detour to make. To the Chateau Feroc, here in Alsace.

Coming to the next village, Charles had a feeling of unease. Crowds were gathered in the cobbled square in little knots, having suspended their operations to watch a young woman who, against all reason and judgement, with a large basket on her arm was distributing food to a small group of scrawny, hungry children. A carriage, the one that had passed him on the road, waited across the street, the driver seeming uncomfortable and clearly wishing he were somewhere else.

Charles reined to a canter as he rode slowly into the square. He could feel the pulse and panic of the people swirling about him from the very atmosphere beating down on him. There was an ominous silence as he passed and a menacing mutter that rose at his back, and the faces that watched him were questioning, insolent or uneasy.

His progress became slower as he rode towards the woman, fighting down his apprehension and his fear. There was a danger that he could get himself involved in a riot, and he might have to draw his pistol and shoot, for the mob was like an animal, and like an animal it could sense fear.

The woman was perfectly calm, and quite uninterested, he thought, irrationally swinging from the extremes of fear to the limits of exasperation, in the dangers of the situation. She paused in her work and looked up, frowning a little at the sight of him. Dismounting, holding the reins, he moved closer, the children stuffing bread into their mouths with dirty little hands as they scuttled away.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, taking her arm and drawing her aside.

‘And who, may I ask, are you?’ the young woman enquired, looking him up and down with icy disdain and shaking off his hand. There was insolence in the way he stood, in the lean, rangy line of his body, that gave the impression of dangerous vitality, and in the firm set line of his well-shaped mouth. Even the slender brown hand that had gripped her arm recalled the talon of a bird of prey, while the look in those pale blue eyes was unnervingly intent. She was very lovely, but she was maddened by his interference in something she considered none of his concern.

‘It doesn’t matter who I am,’ he snapped, deliberately keeping his voice low. ‘Have you no sense? Take a look around you and then maybe you will understand my concern.’

She did as he told her and studied the groups of people. They were watching her, glaring, the men brutish, openly hostile, quiet and threatening. She looked again at the stranger. ‘These people know me—I do not believe they will harm me.’

‘If you believe that, then you are more foolish than I thought. The quality of your clothes and the mere fact that you have access to food represents authority, and that sets you apart.’