Her feet were deposited on a hard floor eventually.
“You may remove your blindfold, mamselle,” the highwayman said. “I shall see to refreshments for you and shall be back in a few minutes to satisfy some of your curiosity at least.”
By the time she had dragged the silk scarf free of her head, she was alone.
Kate looked around her. The room was fairly small and square, neatly but sparsely furnished. The floor was of bare wooden boards, with a woven mat before the fireplace and a worn leather chair beside it. A wooden settle stood at the other side of the fireplace. A square wooden table, with a chair on each of two sides of it, stood in one corner. A smaller table, on which stood a single lamp, was beside the window. Dark cotton curtains covered the window.
Kate’s first move was to cross the room and throw aside the curtains. She did not find the bars that she expected to see. But there was no knowing where the building was, even if she were familiar with the area. All was pitch black outside. She turned and rushed across the room to the door. It was locked, as she expected. She raced back to the window, determined to open it and escape. She had not been carried up any stairs. A leap into the darkness was unlikely to break her neck.
“I would not waste energy if I were you,” that voice with its annoying French accent said from behind her. She had heard the door open but had not given up her struggle with the catch of the window. “That latch has defied the strongest hands since I came here. I believe that the only way to open the window is to punch out the glass.”
Kate turned and glared at her captor. His cloak and tricorne had been removed, but he still wore the mask. It almost completely covered his face. Its black color contrasted markedly with the gleaming blond of his hair, which he wore long and tied back in an unfashionable queue. He looked just as disturbingly large and strong standing before her without his coat as he had looked when she had gazed up at him on horseback and as he had felt when she leaned against him during their long ride. Her terror and near-panic returned. He could do anything he wished with her, and she would he utterly helpless to resist.
She raised her chin and glared at him. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this enforced visit, pray?” she asked icily. She felt instantly proud of the steadiness of her voice.
“Shall we discuss the matter over some refreshments?” he suggested politely, indicating the tray he had set on the table. “I cannot produce anything for a delicate palate, I’m afraid. Will bread, cheese, and some cold beef suffice?”
“A carriage to convey me to Barton Abbey will suffice,” Kate said without moving from her position before the window. “I would not touch your food with a long oar, sir.”
“A pity, mamselle,” he said with a shrug. “You will perhaps lose your shapely figure before you leave here if you keep to your resolve.”
“And to whom do I owe the indignity of this captivity?” Kate asked haughtily. “Who are you?”
“Now that, you will be surprised to hear,” he said with that flashing grin she had seen before in the darkness, “I am prepared to answer.” He made her a deep bow. “Nicholas Seyton, Earl of Barton, at your service, dear cousin.”
Kate stared, incredulous, before giving vent to a short and inelegant bark of laughter. “You are as much the Earl of Barton as I am Lady Thelma Seyton,” she said.
Chapter 2
Autumn, 1786
The harvest was almost all in. The countryside of northern France was left bare and golden, though the reds, browns, and yellows of the autumn leaves on the trees added a richness to the scene. The air held a fresh coolness that was welcomed by the fashionable traveler after the heat of the summer in Italy and southern France. In fact, it felt good to be going home to England despite the fact that the almost nine months of his Grand Tour had been the most exciting period of his life. He had heard it said before that one appreciated the rains and chill of England far more when one had been away for a while. There was no place like home, when all was said and done.
Yet Jonathan Seyton, Viscount Stoughton, had one more stop to make before returning home. He had been traveling for months, experiencing places and events beyond his wildest imaginings, meeting innumerable interesting people both from his own land and from the various countries of Europe. These people had included many lovely females, a few of whom he had possessed, and several more of whom he had engaged in flirtations. Yet he had been unable to put from his mind the first lady of birth and breeding he had met after leaving England. He must see her again before returning home to look about him for an English bride.
Annette Marcelin. She was not even a girl of any great social significance. Beautiful, yes, with her tiny, very shapely figure, and her very dark hair and eyes. She lived with her widowed mother in Belleville, a small village north of Paris. They were of genteel birth but sadly reduced in circumstances. Viscount Stoughton had rented rooms from them while the friend with whom he was traveling at the time spent a few days with friends nearby.
He had chafed at the delay at first and had even considered the idea of going on alone. It had seemed too provoking to be not even in Paris yet and to have to spend almost a week in a village that offered nothing out of the ordinary for his entertainment. But it did have something out of the ordinary, he had discovered very soon. It had Annette, beautiful, quiet, yet with a warm charm that soon had him using his self-conscious French without awkwardness or embarrassment. They had talked endlessly and walked out together along country lanes and across fields, despite the cold of winter. The nippy air had served only to bring a rosier glow to her cheeks and a brighter sparkle to her eyes.
After a few days he had found himself making her all sorts of rash declarations and promises. And he had made love to her during the last two days, in a cold field the first time and in her bed several times, both of them silent and tense, in fear of discovery by her mother. And yet the stealth, which in some ways had inhibited their lovemaking, in another way had accentuated the excitement. He had left her on the return of Lord Lindstrom, his traveling companion, full of promises to return that he had no intention of keeping.
But the little French girl had wrapped herself around his heartstrings, and he had to go back to see her once more before going home. He had no one to please but himself. Lindstrom had decided to extend his tour by joining a party to Greece. They had parted company in Italy several weeks before. A few days with Annette would satisfy his appetites. It would be easy enough to leave her again with promises to return the following summer. Who knew? Perhaps he really would return. He could do a great deal worse for a mistress.
When he presented himself at the house in Belleville, however, it was to be greeted by a somewhat cold and formal Madame Marcelin. She sent for her daughter when Stoughton asked after her health and watched him with wooden expression when a very largely pregnant Annette came into the room, flushed and uncomfortable.
Viscount Stoughton had lived an easy and privileged existence for his two-and-twenty years. He was not an original thinker. He had always taken for granted that he would in due time take himself a bride among the British aristocracy and breed an heir and a few other children. He would eventually succeed his father to the estate and earldom of Barton and to the other property and fortune that would come with them. He would amuse himself with hunting and socializing. He would doubtless take mistresses, since from his observations marriage did not seem to bring a great deal of excitement or satisfaction of a man’s sexual appetites.
He was not of an original turn of mind, but neither was he a vicious or unprincipled man. Annette was gently born. He had brought shame and dishonor on both her and her mother. He had ruined her chances of a decent life. He must marry her. He did not quite know why the notion had not struck him before, in fact. Just because she was French, perhaps? But what was wrong with having a foreign bride? The idea of bringing home with him such a dark little beauty suddenly had great appeal. Not in her present state, of course. It would be in very poor taste, and not a little embarrassing, to present her thus to his father. After the birth of the child. His child! It was a sobering truth.
In fact, on further thought, he considered that the whole business of breaking the news to his father was going to be deucedly awkward. If the truth were known, he was a little afraid of the earl, who ruled all around him, including his son, with a heavy hand. Lord Barton would not approve of a French bride, particularly one who had been increasing for all of eight months. Better to provide handsomely for the bastard child and turn his back on that youthful episode of his life, the earl would advise. Command, rather. Stoughton could almost hear him.
It was not his habit to defy his father. But seeing the well-controlled unhappiness of Madame Marcelin and the almost frightened hope in the eyes of his little Annette gave Stoughton the courage that he knew with some discomfort he would not have if his father were anywhere near. He decided to do the decent thing and make an honest woman of Annette and a legitimate child of her offspring.
While arrangements were being made for a hasty wedding, Stoughton basked in a sense of his own noble gesture. Madame Marcelin was suddenly the charming lady she had been on his first visit. Annette, though huge and ungainly, was again the warm, smiling beauty he had been unable to forget during the months of his tour.
He married her one week after his arrival and kissed her farewell the same day. It was impossible for her to travel when she was within a few weeks of her confinement. And it was out of the question for him to stay for long. He must return to Barton Abbey to inform his father that he had taken a wife and that soon there was to be a child, a boy it was to be hoped. The new viscountess was tearful and clung to his neck awkwardly, hindered by her large bulk. But she was forced to admit the wisdom of his decision. He would return within the month, perhaps even before the birth of their child.
By the time he reached the shore of England several days later, Viscount Stoughton was finding it hard to believe in the reality of the last couple of weeks. He did not feel like a married man. He did not feel any different at all. And his own precipitate action in marrying Annette seemed to him decidedly rash under the cloudy skies of home. It was not that he did not love his wife or want his child. If he had only himself to please, he would feel well-satisfied with his choice. But he had to face his father with the news, and the prospect was even more daunting now than it had seemed earlier. In fact, he really did not know how he was to go about it.
