A Bachelor Establishment

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Action & Adventure Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

High adventure and dark mystery combine in this sparkling historical romance from the internationally bestselling author of the Chronicles of St Mary's series. Elinor Bascombe, widowed and tied to an impoverished estate, has learned to ask little of life. With no hope of leaving, the years have passed her by. Lord Ryde, exiled abroad after a scandal, has returned to strip his estate and make a new start in America. A chance encounter changes their plans, plunging Elinor and Lord Ryde into adventure and not a little peril until, finally, they are forced to confront the mystery of what happened on That Night, all those years ago. Are they both so entangled in the riddles of the past that they are about to miss this one last opportunity for future happiness? Readers love Jodi Taylor: ' Q uirky, historical fiction, well seasoned with humour' 'Witty, fast-paced, fun and fantastic ' ' I can't remember when I last enjoyed a book this much ' ' R evels in the speech, habits and atmosphere of the Regency'

Release date: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 207

Sample

Chapter One

Since no one had told her that Lord Ryde had returned to his neglected ancestral acres, Mrs Elinor Bascombe felt she was perfectly justified in feeling a little bit aggrieved when he blamed her for trying to kill him. His subsequent leap into one of his own ditches did nothing to improve his temper, either.

The day being blustery but fine, Mrs Bascombe, had, as usual, dispensed with the services of her groom and set out alone. Having successfully inspected the early crops in the North Field, met two of her more remote tenants and listened to their grievances without committing herself in any way, she was consequently feeling pleased with herself and life in general. She and her horse, Rufus, celebrated their brief but welcome freedom with a good gallop along Green Lane.

Spring was now considerably advanced. Soft new leaves were thrusting themselves from every shoot. Birds sang in the overgrown hedgerows and a brisk but warm breeze pushed white fluffy clouds around the sky like so many obedient sheep.

It was, Mrs Bascombe reflected, a good day on which to be alive and she intended to make the most of it. She pushed Rufus onwards and, nothing loth, he picked up the pace. The miles flew by under his easy stride, until finally, she pulled up so both horse and rider could regain their breath before turning for home.

Suspecting that the hour was later than she thought, Mrs Bascombe decided on her favourite shortcut. That this involved a brief excursion across one of Lord Ryde’s fields troubled neither her nor Rufus one whit. His lordship was a careless landlord and had been absent these many years.

Mrs Bascombe put Rufus at the hedge at her usual spanking pace. He pricked his ears, shortened his stride, and cleared it with a good six inches to spare. They had only a very fleeting glimpse of his lordship, as, with a thunderous oath, he threw himself sideways, landing in the ditch with more of a squelch than a splash.

Pulling up with some difficulty, Mrs Bascombe wheeled her horse around, and more frightened than she would care to admit, returned to the scene of her crime.

‘What the devil …?’ roared his lordship, pulling himself free from a closer inspection of his ditch than he had possibly intended that morning. Never sartorially magnificent in the first place, immersion in mud and stagnant water had not improved his appearance in any way. Coat, breeches, and boots were all liberally mired and the aroma of ditchwater hung about him.

Correctly apprehending that the unknown but furious figure before her was unhurt, and conscious that she was guilty of both trespass and careless riding, Mrs Bascombe shortened her reins and prepared to flee the scene. Before she could do so, however, his lordship, hatless and stickless, strode forwards and seized her bridle. Unaccustomed to such treatment, Rufus snorted and plunged. His lordship was forced to relinquish his hold and his temper worsened.

Each contemplated the other.

Mrs Bascombe saw a tall, carelessly-dressed, hard-eyed stranger, at the moment quite pardonably flushed with rage. Some inkling began to dawn upon her.

His lordship, a stranger in his own land, had no such advantage and found himself at a loss to place her. He saw a female, well past her best years; only a little younger than he himself. Her horse, fretting to be off again, was a prime bit of blood and not at all what was proper, or indeed safe, for a female of her advanced – for a female not in her first flush of youth. On the other hand, the lady – as he reluctantly must suppose her to be – was unaccompanied by a groom. He stifled his first urge, which had been to drag her from her horse and box her ears.

Now quite confident her victim was uninjured, and conscious of being very much in the wrong, Mrs Bascombe demanded to know, in haughty accents, if he was aware that he was trespassing.

The urge to physically assault her returned in force.

‘I’m trespassing?’ he exclaimed, too astonished by this barefaced gall to make a more telling retort.

‘Yes, you are. I thought we had established that. This land belongs to Lord Ryde and you should be grateful his lordship has not set foot here these last twenty years, or you would find yourself up before the magistrates.’

‘I am very well aware of who owns this land, madam. The question is, are you?’

A nasty, cold certainty settled upon Mrs Bascombe.

‘You’re Lord Ryde, aren’t you?’

‘I am, madam, and as such, entitled to walk my own fields without let or hindrance. I certainly do not expect to be menaced by some hoyden barely able to control her husband’s horse. I do not know who you are, madam, nor do I wish to know, but I beg leave to inform you that your behaviour …’

‘Is none of your business, my lord. You yourself have said you are not my husband. I am not accountable to you for my actions. And I take leave to inform you that this path has been so heavily used over the last twenty years or so that it has practically become a right of way. And that if you cut your hedges occasionally we would easily have seen each other. And that neglect of your ditches has contributed far more towards the currently – informal – state of your clothing than anything I may have done. In short, my lord, you are justly served for your neglect.’

This was too much. His lordship, wet and simmering, took a hasty step towards her, again reaching for her bridle.

‘By God, madam, if you were mine I would beat you.’

Mrs Bascombe’s mud-freckled face grew very white and still. A certain contempt showed in her eyes. Over the years, Lord Ryde had endured many women looking at him in many ways, but very few with such scathing scorn and – yes – repulsion. He was suddenly aware that she was alone, miles from anywhere, and not a soul within earshot should he decide to carry out his threat. He was conscious of a sudden shame and a need to make reparation for ungentlemanly conduct.

Too late.

She pulled herself up in her saddle.

‘You are right, sir. The fault is mine. I am trespassing. My badly-managed horse and I will depart forthwith. May I suggest your time here would be better spent attempting to bring your lands into some sort of order, rather than recklessly hurling yourself under the hooves of chance-met neighbours. Good day to you.’

And then she was gone, thundering across the field and popping her horse neatly over the hedge at the far end.

His lordship, reflecting that there was nothing more irritating than being denied the last word, particularly when one was in the right, declined to re-enter his infamous ditch to retrieve his hat and stick, and stamped off back to his ancestral pile in no good mood.

Which was not improved any upon his arrival. Entering through his own front door – left ajar for some reason – he found his secretary and general factotum, Mr Charles Martin, crossing the hall. Waiting in vain for the appearance of that erratic retainer, Munch, to divest him of his coat, his lordship, in exasperation, flung it across the dusty table just inside the door.

‘Good God,’ said Mr Martin, surveying his employer and friend of many years in astonishment. ‘What in the world has happened?’

Lord Ryde looked down at himself.

‘I’ve been in a ditch, Charles. Ridden down by a madwoman. Have you ever actually seen a horse from underneath? My life flashed before my eyes. Even including those two days in Prague we agreed to forget.’

The aged retainer, Munch, put in a belated appearance, causing his lordship to reflect, as he often did, on the disadvantages of a bachelor establishment. However, since the only unacceptable alternative was to fill the place with even more unacceptable females, he was prepared to tolerate these disadvantages with good grace. Munch, however, although aged, bent, stubborn and, when it suited him, deaf, apparently had no difficulty identifying the culprit.

‘Chestnut. White blaze. Blue riding habit. Rides like the devil.’

‘Yes,’ said his lordship, disentangling this without difficulty.

‘Mrs Bascombe,’ announced Munch.

Startled, his lordship looked around. ‘Where?’

Munch sighed. ‘Mrs Bascombe, my lord. Her land borders yours to the west.’

Enlightenment dawned. ‘Ned Bascombe’s wife? What the devil is he doing letting his wife career round the countryside like that?’

‘Not a lot, my lord. He’s dead.’

‘What? Ned Bascombe’s dead? Why does no one ever tell me anything?’ demanded his lordship, unconsciously echoing Mrs Bascombe’s complaint on her return to her own house.

‘Dead these last five years and more, my lord.’

‘Oh? Did she trample him into the ground, too?’

Mr Martin intervened.

‘He broke his neck, I believe. Hunting accident.’

‘Why don’t I know this?’

‘Because, sir, you never pay any attention either to your estate, or your neighbours. Because your stated intention was to arrive, raise as much money as possible, in as short a time as possible, and be gone again before having to waste any time being polite to the natives.’

‘Did I say that?’

‘That was the abridged version, my lord. The original was a great deal more vigorously expressed.’

‘Well, why should I bother? They don’t care for me any more than I care for them. They can go to the devil for all I care. Mrs Bascombe first.’

The front door bell rattled. Its pealing days were long gone.

Somewhat startled, Lord Ryde and Mr Martin watched the elderly Munch embark on what his lordship privately thought of as his death-shuffle, returning moments later to announce, ‘Sir William Elliot, my lord.’

Mrs Bascombe, meanwhile, had returned to her own home, Westfield, by the more conventional route, but still at her normal, headlong pace. Her particular friends, Miss Laura Fairburn and Lady Elliott had long since ceased to remonstrate with her. Her ladyship had once, long ago, mentioned her concerns to her husband, Sir William.

‘Why?’ she wailed. ‘Why must she career all over the countryside in that fashion? It’s not only unseemly, Sir William, it’s downright dangerous. My dear, you must speak to her.’

This however, Sir William had refused to do and if he had his own ideas about why Mrs Bascombe felt compelled to hurtle headlong around the place on a horse more suited to a young blood than a middle-aged lady, he kept them to himself.

Westfield was an old building, modernised by Mrs Bascombe’s late father-in-law. South facing, it was built of a warm, grey stone that had mellowed well. The grounds were small, and mostly turned over the production of fruit and vegetables. Like Mrs Bascombe herself, everything was neat and in its place.

Cantering up the avenue at Westfield, her front door was opened by the immaculate Porlock, her butler of many years standing, and on more than one occasion in the past, a loyal friend.

Once inside, she stripped off her gloves and glanced around in approval. Her house was clean and comfortable – unmistakeably a woman’s house. No fishing rods or muddy boots littered her spotless floor. The tiles shone, the wooden furniture gleamed, and everything smelled faintly of beeswax and lemon. Crossing the hall towards the stairs, she enquired of the whereabouts of Miss Fairburn.

‘Gone to visit the Misses Crosby, madam,’ he replied, deftly taking her hat, gloves and whip. ‘You will not have forgotten Lady Elliott is lunching with you today?’

‘No. I’ve plenty of time to change, but thank you.’

With these words, she caught up her habit and ran lightly up to her room where her maid, Tiller, awaited her. Watching his mistress go, Porlock reflected that she had not lost as much of her youthful spring as she sometimes thought she had. Sighing, he returned to decanting the sherry. Mrs Bascombe hated the stuff, but her ladyship was partial to a glass before lunch.

Muttering darkly, Tiller assisted her mistress into a neat morning gown of dark blue and made high at the neck, admirably becoming to her plump figure. Whilst riding, Mrs Bascombe’s hair had, as usual, escaped her hairnet. Tiller redressed her soft, fair hair and proffered, without hope, a very pretty lace cap with pale blue ribbons to tie under her chin. As she knew her mistress would do, Mrs Bascombe waved it aside. Tiller knew better than to press the matter. It took all of her time and energy to persuade her mistress to wear something on her head outside the house. Within her own walls, Mrs Bascombe was steadfast in her refusal.

‘Thank you, Tilly. Once again you have made a silk purse from a sow’s ear.’

Her maid merely sighed and despite the stiffness of her left arm, began to collect up Mrs Bascombe’s discarded habit and boots. Neither lady mentioned this awkwardness and Mrs Bascombe knew better than to offer to help. Reminding her mistress again of Lady Elliott, Tiller withdrew.

Running back downstairs, Mrs Bascombe again encountered Porlock, on the watch for Lady Elliott, who was a big favourite of his, and requested a moment of his time. She led the way into her parlour, a small but sunny room, papered in the modern style, where a cheerful fire burned.

‘Porlock, do I understand Lord Ryde has returned to the district?’

Porlock inclined his head. ‘I believe so, madam.’

‘Tell me quickly, before Lady Elliott arrives. Why does no one ever speak of him? What did he do? No one even mentions his name.’

‘It all occurred before your time, madam.’

‘Yes, I know, but what did he do?’ Recalling that carelessly dressed figure with those hard, grey eyes, she could believe him capable of almost anything.

Porlock hesitated.

‘A not-unfamiliar story, madam, but none the less regrettable for all that.’

‘But what did he do that was so bad?’

He sighed.

‘Master Jack – as he was then, was …’ he paused, lost in the past for a moment. ‘A tall boy, he was, a real Ryde, madam, if you will excuse my saying so. Athletic. Clever. He read Classics at university, I believe.’

‘But you are describing a virtuous man.’

‘Oh no, madam. Not at all. He had his faults. Many of them. He was careless, restless, mischievous, and very easily bored.’

‘Ah.’

‘Just so, madam. It’s not my place to say, of course, but I always felt the old lord made a mistake not encouraging Master Jack – Lord Ryde, I should say – to interest himself in estate management. Very autocratic, the old lord. He alone must hold the reins. I sometimes wonder if Master Jack might not have shown a little more affection for the place if … if perhaps he had been given a small manor of his own to manage for himself; if he had been entrusted with a little responsibility … but old Lord Ryde wouldn’t, madam. He wouldn’t let him go to London, either. And when one considers Master Jack’s excesses perhaps he had the right of it. Be that as it may, he kept him here, dancing attendance on him. It was bound to lead to trouble.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, I never heard he turned to poaching, but other than that, madam, nearly everything. Cards, of course. For very high stakes. Cockfighting, milling, slipping out to attend prize-fights, steeplechasing, you name it. He challenged Sir Matthew Reeth – he’s gone now, you didn’t know him – to a curricle race on the old pike road and nearly killed them both. Rumour had it he was involved in smuggling further up the coast. Nothing was ever proved though, and it was quickly hushed up.’

‘But apart from the smuggling, these are the occupations of any bored young man with too much time and no occupation.’

‘Indeed, madam, but …’ he hesitated.

‘Tell me please, Porlock. What don’t I know that everyone else does?’

‘There were – incidents – with the ladies, madam.’

She was conscious of sudden, irrational disappointment.

‘Village girls?’

‘Oh no, madam. No one eve laid those charges at his door. Give Master Jack his due, he stayed with his own kind. Married ladies, madam, with conveniently complaisant husbands, if you know what I mean.’

‘I do. Go on.’

‘Sir Matthew Reeth, madam, had a wife. A very pretty wife. And Master Jack, handsome and bored …’

‘I understand, go on.’

‘Only Sir Matthew wasn’t quite as complaisant as he seemed. There was a meeting.’

‘A duel?’

’Indeed, madam.’

‘What happened?’

‘They met at Cranham Woods. Master Jack deloped. The action of a guilty man, they said. Sir Matthew – a crack shot – put a bullet in him that just missed his heart. If it wasn’t for the seconds and Dr Joseph, he’d have bled to death on the spot.’

Mrs Bascombe shivered.

‘It hardly bears thinking about. To delope, and then stand, waiting, for a crack shot and wronged husband to take aim … What must have gone through his head …?’

‘He never budged, madam. In fact, local rumour has it that he called out to Sir Matthew to take his time. There was no haste …’

He paused for . . .