The Mad Lord's Daughter Read online

  And yet . . . when Braddock had asked her to dance, she’d felt pretty, she’d felt flattered, she’d felt that cruel stirring of hope she’d thought was long dead. Lord Braddock was such a handsome man, not to mention fabulously wealthy. She’d thought his quiet nature held a thoughtful soul. But she was beginning to think that he was quiet because there was nothing going on inside. How could a man stare silently out a window for two days? Had his now-dead wife left him from sheer boredom?

  Or was it that he resented her company? She knew that feeling: to be stuck in a corner of a room listening to the prattle of some old woman who felt the need to relate every event of her life no matter how tedious. Was that how he felt about her? Was he thinking: Good God, how long is this trip going to take?

  Was she that objectionable?

  At least for the journey home she could get to know her new charge. Braddock knew nothing of his niece but that she had led an even more reclusive life than that of her father. In fact, Lord Braddock believed that the girl hadn’t actually left her home in years. It was incomprehensible. Was there something wrong with the girl? Was she damaged in some way? She knew of a few aristocratic families who kept their ill-formed children hidden from view for years. No doubt there were children born who were never acknowledged, never seen in public. Perhaps this girl was one. She certainly wouldn’t know, as Lord Braddock had said nothing of his niece, and it was possible even he did not know the poor girl’s circumstances.

  “Miss Stanhope,” Lord Braddock said, startling her with his deep voice. They stood in the shadow of a once-graceful manor, the wind from the sea cold and damp.

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if I could ask you for full discretion.”

  Ah. So the girl was damaged in some way. “Of course,” she said.

  “Melissa is not my brother’s daughter. Her actual father’s identity is unknown. Perhaps I should have said something to you before, but I feared if you knew the circumstances of her birth you would decline.”

  Diane lifted her chin. “Lord Braddock, I have never been a proponent of the Bastardy Clause,” she said. It was rather brave of her to admit such a thing, given that the clause had overwhelming support and was stalwartly defended by most of society. Most, that is, but for those poor souls who became impregnated and were then tossed out to fend for themselves and their babes, shunned by even their families.

  “I have had little stomach for it myself, but I fear Parliament has no interest in any sweeping changes. You are a rare woman, indeed,” he said, his gray eyes warming a degree. “You understand it is paramount that no one know of her illegitimacy. To society she will be my niece, my brother’s daughter, now orphaned.”

  “You have no idea who the father is?”

  “It would make no difference in the eyes of society, but, no, I do not,” Lord Braddock said, and she was amazed at the venom in his voice. She knew little of Braddock’s political leanings, but she had not thought him an advocate of the poor or of women.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “When my brother met Christina, she already had the babe, and she was in a desperate situation. It is remarkable she did not turn to a baby farmer, given the state of destitution she was in. My brother wrote me—he was quite eloquent—and it was then I began to question the worth of the Bastardy Clause. Rupert loved the child as if she were his own, but she, in fact, has no legal right to any properties, not even the small inheritance my brother left to her. It is imperative that no one know this fact.”

  Something in Diane’s heart tugged. How many men would have taken a bastard into their homes simply because she was loved by their brother? This fierce protectiveness was something unexpected. “You know nothing of your niece?”

  “Only that my brother would have done anything to protect her. My brother was a good man, though I did not always agree with his method of protecting Melissa.” He looked up to a window, and Diane followed his gaze, only to see an older woman looking down upon them curiously. “She’s been a virtual prisoner in her rooms for eighteen years.”

  “A prisoner?”

  “She has not left her rooms for eighteen years. Indeed, no one has seen her as far as I know, but for servants and my brother. He went a bit mad when his wife died, forbidding me or anyone else to come to his estate. Christina died of some fever that nearly decimated the village, and he couldn’t accept the idea of his daughter’s dying as well. He thought to protect her, to save her. And to keep her hidden.”

  God only knew what such isolation had done to the child, Diane thought. “Why did you not tell me before now?” she asked, her eyes sweeping over the house.

  “I feared you would not help me. I have no idea what we shall encounter. She could be mad, herself. Unkempt. Wild. Untrained. I don’t know, and I didn’t think I could face such a thing without a woman such as you.”

  “A woman such as me?”

  His cheeks turned ruddy once again. “Someone stern and serious. Someone un-frivolous, solid.”

  “Ah.” Yes, she was certainly all those things. “Shall we proceed, then?”

  He nodded, and indicated that she should precede him up the three steps leading to the front door, which was adorned with a large, black wreath. “When we introduce the girl to society, there is a small chance the circumstances of her birth will be discovered, or at the very least questioned. I wanted you to be prepared.”

  “We shall simply tell them the truth,” she said. “That her father recently died, and that her mother died when she was a small girl. It is all anyone needs to know.”

  Diane looked up at him and tried to stop her heart from stirring, an effort that failed dismally when he gave her a small smile and said, “Thank you.” He might have said something romantic for the way her heart stirred.

  “It is nothing,” she said, and gave the bell a hard, determined turn.

  A butler opened the door almost immediately and bowed. “Lord Braddock, we’ve been expecting you,” he said, stepping back and opening the door widely. “Miss Atwell is in her rooms. If you’ll follow me.”

  The butler, who was surprisingly young to hold such a lofty position, led them briskly down a series of hallways and waited patiently for the pair of them to catch up as he stood outside a set of doors. The hall was stacked with several chests, indicating an efficient staff—or one in a hurry to get rid of the house’s last resident.

  Diane followed behind the butler, her stomach a jumble of nerves. What would they find behind that door? Would her new charge be disheveled? Would she speak? Would she scream and scratch and claw at them?

  The butler knocked politely, and Diane, with Braddock standing slightly behind her, waited. The door opened, revealing a plump, older woman, whose eyes were filled with compassion, and Diane’s heart picked up a sickening beat. Was she looking at them with compassion because of what they were about to face?

  “Miss Atwell?” the woman asked, turning back to the room.

  Behind the maid stood perhaps the loveliest girl Diane had ever seen. Her eyes were large, an unusual and almost unnatural violet, and were uptilted exotically. She was frighteningly beautiful, and a deep dread filled Diane. She was to protect this creature from the randy young men in London? She was to ease this girl into society? It would be impossible. She would create a stir simply walking into a room.

  Melissa stood in the center of the room, holding a small pelisse, wearing a bonnet that was stylish and current, even though it was of unrelieved black. She wore black from her head to her toes, and Diane couldn’t help wishing the girl could at least be in half mourning, but it had only been six months since her father’s death.

  “I am ready,” she said, nodding to Diane and her uncle, her voice low and husky. She walked toward them sedately, making Diane feel foolish for her avid imagination. Diane gave Lord Braddock an assessing look and saw the same look of stunned relief that no doubt showed upon her own countenance.

  “I am Miss Diane Stanhope,” she told the girl w
hen it appeared Braddock was going to remain silent. “I’m to be your chaperone. And this is your uncle, Lord Braddock.”

  “So pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, her diction perfect, her manner cool. “My coat, Mary?” she said, nodding to her maid, who gave the young woman a smile that could only denote fierce pride.

  How difficult must this moment be for the girl, Diane thought. If Braddock was correct, she had not crossed the threshold of her door in eighteen years. She must be nearly frightened to death, and yet she appeared calm and collected.

  Their small party backed into the hallway, and Melissa followed, the only sign of her distress coming when she approached the doorway. She hesitated, just for a moment, and pushed through the entrance like someone walking beneath a dripping eave after a rainstorm. The only other sign that the girl was finding this at all difficult was the sudden paleness in her face. She walked with fluid grace until reaching the door, which stood open to the cold, late winter day. Milky sunshine eased through the low clouds, casting the sea beyond with a pearlescent glow that softened the appearance of the cold, harsh waters of the North Sea. Melissa stopped dead, almost causing Lord Braddock to run into her.

  Melissa stared out the door, her unusual eyes wide and filled with a fear that Diane was only just beginning to recognize. The poor, poor dear. She held out her hand to the young woman, who simply turned her stricken eyes to Diane’s hand, staring at it as if she’d never before seen such an appendage.

  “Take my hand,” Diane said softly. But the girl simply clenched her own hands more tightly together against her stomach and marched forward like a convicted felon walking toward a dangling noose. When she reached the shallow steps, she proceeded down them, one at a time, planting both feet on each step, as a small child might do.

  Diane shot a look to Braddock, whose eyes were filled with a striking combination of compassion and anger. When he realized Diane was looking at him, he pressed his lips together and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Yes, he was angry at his brother. But all his compassion was for Melissa—that much was clear.

  Diane moved closer to Braddock so she could speak without Melissa’s hearing her. “We must be patient,” Diane said. When he looked down at her, his gaze softened, and he gave her the smallest smile and nodded.

  When the footman offered Melissa his hand to help her to step up into the awaiting carriage, Melissa instead pulled herself awkwardly up into the vehicle. Diane followed gracefully, sitting next to the girl, and Braddock pulled himself up and sat across from them.

  Melissa stared straight ahead, her body so rigid, Diane thought that if she gave the girl a little push, Melissa might totter over like a statue. She laid her gloved hand on the girl’s arm, and Melissa instantly stiffened. Diane immediately withdrew her hand and glanced at Braddock, who looked a bit helpless at the moment.

  “Are you ready to travel, Miss Atwell?”

  Melissa nodded, a jerking movement that clearly told Diane just how terrified the girl was.

  “This is your first time in a coach, is it not?” Braddock asked with false joviality.

  This time, Melissa’s lips curved up into the smallest of smiles. “If I have, I cannot recall it. I’ve never even seen a horse so close up. Not that I can remember. They’re terribly large, aren’t they?”

  “I daresay they are,” Braddock said. “But these are gentle and good horses, and we’ll make certain the driver takes things slowly until you’re accustomed to the movement.” Then he opened the door and gave instructions to the footman. He knocked on the roof with his walking stick, and the carriage jolted forward slowly.

  “Oh,” Melissa said, her hands clutching the seat on either side of her. She sat stiffly, head directly forward, but her eyes darted to the window, where a slice of landscape was visible through the velvet curtain.

  Gradually, she began to relax, and by the time the coach had reached the main road, Melissa was able to lift one hand and pull back the curtain. Slowly, a smile spread upon her face, and she leaned forward to get a better look.

  “Why, this is marvelous,” she said, her eyes still on the passing landscape. “Oh, look, Bamburgh Castle. It’s enormous,” she breathed. She looked back at her traveling companions. “Did you know that Grace Darling saved thirteen souls from the S.S. Forfarshire when she was only just my age?” she asked, mentioning a local legend.

  “It is one of my favorite stories,” Diane said with enthusiasm. Indeed, it was the story of Grace and her bravery that had helped Diane cope with some of her lesser problems in her youth.

  “Your father knew her, I believe,” Braddock said.

  “Oh, I know. He told me all sorts of stories about her and her father and their life in the lighthouse,” Melissa said, her eyes shining happily. And then, as if she was just remembering that her father was no longer with her, she grew quiet and subdued, and she dropped her eyes to her hands, folded in her lap.

  “This all must seem very strange to you,” Diane said.

  “I’m certain this is only the beginning,” Melissa said, forcing her mouth into the briefest of smiles. “I must say I’m a bit concerned about entering society and . . . all that entails.”

  “My dear, we have months and months before we shall introduce you,” Diane said, resisting the urge to hold her hand. She had the distinct feeling the girl did not like to be touched.

  “And if I don’t wish to be introduced?” she asked, her question directed to her uncle.

  “You will,” he said, his abrupt words tempered only slightly by a forced smile.

  Diane gave him a slight look of exasperation, for he’d come across as cold and demanding. Which was precisely how Diane had perceived the man. However, her instincts now told her he felt far more than he allowed others to see. Or perhaps this was just the wishful thinking of an old maid who found herself fascinated by a man she’d never thought to be near for longer than the space of a single dance.

  Chapter 2

  Melissa sat at the breakfast table, jerking slightly whenever someone entered the sun-filled room unexpectedly. She’d been in her uncle’s home now for two days and still could not stop herself from starting each time someone entered a room unannounced.

  Diane told her she would get better, to give herself time. The problem was, Melissa wanted nothing more than to return home, go back to her rooms, and never come out again. No. That wasn’t quite the truth. What she wanted, more than anything, was to be able to run free, to lift her face to the rain, to ride a horse thundering across a field, to stand at the edge of a cliff and stare out to the sea. However, she was an intelligent girl, and she knew that it would be beyond difficult for her to achieve any one of these things when she couldn’t even act naturally when a servant entered the room.

  She was about to take a bite of a dried-out bit of sausage (her cook had done a much finer job with breakfast, she thought), when she was startled nearly out of her seat by the entrance of a young man. He strode into the breakfast room, hair tousled, cheeks ruddy, and threw himself into her uncle’s open arms. The two men embraced with laughter and backslaps, both grinning like boys who’d been separated for weeks.

  “Welcome home, Father,” the young man bellowed, then grabbed a piece of ham off his father’s plate and popped it into his mouth. This must be, she realized, her cousin, John Atwell, Viscount of Willington. Diane had told her yesterday to expect him. So here he was. She stared at him, as she did all new people, Diane had pointed out, taking in his strange appearance, his hair, the way his beard grew in, his loosely tied cravat. She’d never been in the same room with a man so young, and she found she couldn’t help but stare, in spite of Miss Stanhope’s admonishment that she stop the disturbing habit. But how could she control her curiosity? He was completely unlike anyone she’d ever seen in her life, with unlined skin, sharp features that age hadn’t yet softened, and a vibrancy that made her uncomfortable.

  Her father had never appeared before her other than impeccably dressed. He
’d been a stickler for such things, apparently. This young man came bustling in as if blown by a gale, full of smiles and a vitality that made Melissa smile. This was what she wanted to be like. Fearless. Carefree.

  Lord Braddock regained his composure and took his seat. “This unruly young man is my son and your cousin, John,” he said. “John, Melissa Atwell.” He looked to Diane. “And you, of course, know Miss Stanhope.”

  “Of course, a pleasure, Miss Stanhope,” he said, bowing over her hand.

  Then John turned his attention to her, and she could feel her cheeks heat beneath his inspection. She found she didn’t like meeting new people, because they had a tendency to stare at her as if she had two heads.

  “Charmed,” he said, tearing his eyes away and coming over to where she sat. He held out one hand, and Melissa simply stared at it, her cheeks growing even redder.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Atwell,” she said, moving her hands to her lap. His eyes grew slightly colder as he withdrew his own hand and gave her a slight bow.

  “Actually, it’s Lord Willington.” His demeanor was definitely cooler now, and Melissa felt foolish beyond measure, but she hadn’t a notion of what she should do or say. Behind him, her uncle made a small noise. “Of course, I insist you call me John. We are, after all, first cousins.”

  Melissa forced herself to look up at him and smile, but that only made him narrow his eyes slightly. They were cold and gray like his father’s, holding none of the humor they had just moments before.

  “You wrote to me once,” she said, her smile wavering slightly. “It was on the occasion of my eighth birthday. I still have the letter.” It was, in fact, the only letter she’d ever received from anyone, and she’d cherished it for years—and still did, if she were completely honest.

  Her cousin shook his head. “I don’t remember sending it, but I’m certain I must have.”

  “You told me about fishing at your lake in the country and how pretty the perch were. And then,” she said, laughing a bit, “you told me how wonderful they tasted when your cook fried them up. I was horrified, really.”