Regency Valentines Read online

  Regency Valentines

  Jo Beverley

  Copyright © 2015 by Jo Beverley

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  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Introduction

  This book contains two previously published Regency novellas rooted in Valentine’s Day traditions.

  IF FANCY BE THE FOOD OF LOVE was first published in 1991 in A Regency Valentine. That volume contained four intertwining novellas. To published the story by itself I’ve had to disentangle it from the other stories and add elements to fill the gaps. The basic story is the same, but it is extensively rewritten.

  SAINT AGNES AND THE BLACK SHEEP was published in 2012 in a large collection, A Cast of Characters. For this edition I’ve added a prologue to bring in the Valentines element, and lengthened it with extra scenes at the end.

  Also in this book you’ll find some old time Valentine’s verses, suitable for a gentleman to send to his lady, and some romantic spells and games from a Victorian book I own. I’ve included my guide to peerage titles adapted for readers and a few other tid-bits.

  Enjoy!

  If Fancy be the Food of Love Chapter One

  The Honorable Charteris Ashby sauntered along Oakham High Street feeling both noble and disgruntled. On the one hand, here he was immediate on his arrival in the area, hurrying to attend to his uncle's dying wish. On the other, it was a glorious day for November, the hunt was out and the scent must be running breast high.

  He consoled himself with the fact they seemed in for a spell of mild winter weather ideal for the hounds and it should only take one visit to assure himself that Aunt Araminta's daughter wanted for nothing.

  Chart Ashby, eldest son of the younger son of a duke, was a pink of the ton, a renowned huntsman and the despair of matchmaking mamas. Even now he couldn't resist throwing a winning smile at a charming young miss tripping along beside her parent. The girl colored in confusion. She was doubtless destined to dream of the dashing young man with the dark wavy hair and long-lashed grey eyes, but Chart allowed her to slip from his mind as easily as she had entered it.

  Family duty had him wasting a fine day's hunting. He'd been summoned away from the Shires to Tyne Towers, seat of his grandfather the Duke of Tyne, to attend the old man's death bed. He'd gone to the duke's bedchamber to pay his last respects safe in the knowledge that he'd not spoken in over twelve hours. He need only sit by the bed for a few minutes looking solemn.

  Once in the depressing room, however, Chart had found the silence distasteful and had felt compelled to start a one-sided conversation. He was known for his easy address. He'd survived dinners beside deaf bishops and evenings with tongue-tied debutantes, so talking to a dying man was no great challenge.

  He'd started with the weather and local affairs then passed on to juicy on-dits and the hunting season. "Staying with a friend, Terance Cornwallis, sir. Has the great good fortune to have inherited a comfortable little place in Rutland, convenient for the Quorn, Belvoir and Cottesmore."

  And the old gentleman had revived.

  "Rutland? Rutland, you say?" the duke muttered in a weak, breathless voice. "That's... Minta's gel is. Ju... Julia?"

  The doctor had hastened forward. "Nothing to be concerned about now, your grace," he murmured. "Just rest."

  "Rest! Old fool. I'll soon have all the rest I need. Give me a drink." With a sigh, the doctor poured something into a glass and assisted the duke to drink it.

  The duke coughed a little then looked at Chart again. "What was I saying?" He squinted in the dim light and so Chart leaned a little closer. "That's better. You're not a bad 'un, Charteris. Better than your father. William's a nasty streak to him. He'd have cut Minta off without a shilling. I was duke though. I told him. `I'm duke and I'll do as I please.'"

  The duke's eyes fell closed and he wheezed. Chart was thinking of slipping away when his uncle opened his eyes again and whispered, "Daughter... Minta's dead now. Died with that Rathbone on the way to Boston, Philadelphia. Somewhere. Daughter."

  He lapsed into silence again, staring into shadows and perhaps seeing them all when younger -- himself; his younger brother -- Chart's father -- who had always resented not being the heir to the dukedom; and the much younger, strong-willed Araminta.

  Strong willed. She'd have to be to elope with Jeremy Rathbone, supporter of the French and American Revolutions, author of the infamous pamphlets In Praise of Revolution and The Great Call for Equality on English Soil.

  Lord, thought Chart with a grin, he'd have liked to have seen his father's face when he heard he was brother-in-law to Rebel Rathbone.

  "Always liked Minta," rasped the duke. "Should have done something about the gel." His breath wheezed in and out a few times. "Look her up, m'boy. Lives in Oakham. Look her up. See she's right and tight. Minta's gel... Always liked Minta..." With that he drifted to sleep again and this time it lasted.

  Chart had been glad to escape and had thought little of the duke's ramblings. But when he rose the next morning it was to the news that his uncle was dead and those had been his last words. The request had assumed the nature of a sacred, deathbed mission, to be set about at the first opportunity. One that was now costing him a fine January day with the hounds.

  At least this street was reassuring. The terraced houses were solidly prosperous, with fresh paint and shining brass speaking clearly of comfortable circumstances. Chart came to a stop before Newington House, three stories of warm brick. The windows gleamed, the paintwork was pristine and the brass knob and knocker shone in the sun.

  Nothing amiss here. His mission was as good as completed.

  He ran lightly up the steps, rapped on the door with the silver head of his riding crop, and set up a whistle as he waited.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged maid who was the picture of responsible servanthood. Just the ticket, thought Chart, seeing yet more evidence of comfortable respectability. He handed over his card with his most charming smile.

  "Charteris Ashby to see Miss Juno Rathbone if she's available." At the very dubious look on the woman's face he added, "You might add that we are by way of being related. Cousins, in fact."

  At this he was admitted and led somewhat grudgingly to a small reception room. "I will enquire, sir," the maid said and left.

  Chart looked around and was confirmed in his expectations. The furnishings were all high quality but without a touch of fashionable frivolity. After all, his cousin Juno was the offspring of Aunt Araminta and her radical revolutionary husband. After their death the girl had been raised by Rathbone's sister, Clarabel, an ardent follower of Mary Wollstonecraft, author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

  Juno, he mused.

  Junoesque.

  Juno Rathbone was doubtless a strapping young lady with a strong will and very blue stockings.

  "Mr. Ashby?" It was a soft, melodious voice.

  Chart turned to face the door and saw a petite lady, almost a girl, with delicate features and ash-blond hair.

  "Juno?" he blurted out in amazement and then got a grip on himself and bowed. "Do I have the pleasure of meeting my cousin, Juno?"

  "If you are indeed my cousin, sir," she said with a slight curtsy and very distant coolness. "As Mama's family cast her off we have never taken heed of her family tree."

  She took a seat and waved him towards another. Chart sat, revising his opinions. This was no stern revolutionary. She was young. She was fragile. She could almost be called pretty, but she was a
ppallingly dressed in some grey thing and it looked as if someone had hacked her hair around her shoulders with a blunt knife.

  "Will you take tea, sir?" she asked. At his assent she rang a small bell and gave the order to the hovering maid. She then sat in silence, small pale hands in her lap and waited for him to make the next move.

  Shy, thought Chart indulgently, relaxing and crossing one leg over the other. Poor little thing. I wonder where militant Clarabel is. "I'm the eldest son of your mother's brother," he explained kindly. "Not the duke. The younger brother, William."

  "Oh," she said with supreme disinterest. "Well, I don't suppose you have reason to lie about such a thing." She looked at him in a disconcertingly direct way and added, "I do not intend to be impolite, Mr. Ashby, but is there a purpose to your visit? We have done very well without contact with your family for a good many years."

  Chart blinked. It occurred to him that little Miss Rathbone seemed no more aware of him than she would be of the visiting vicar. He was not a man used to being ignored by young ladies.

  He leant forward and smiled more warmly. "But these family quarrels shouldn't be allowed to go on from generation to generation, Cousin Juno. In fact, I am here as a result of the deathbed wish of my uncle, the duke." He let his voice drop to an intimate tone. "He asked me to make sure that you were comfortably situated."

  A touch of color did invade her cheeks -- and very becoming it was too -- but instead of looking down in confusion, Juno Rathbone's only reaction was to move back slightly. Her gaze never wavered from his. "Then your mission is over, Mr. Ashby. I am perfectly comfortable."

  At that moment the tea tray was carried in and she turned her attention to it.

  Juno was grateful for the distraction. Perfectly comfortable. What a bouncer. Her heart rate was quite alarmingly fast and she was aware of the man across the low table as if he were a shining beacon on a dark night.

  Cousin Charteris. She'd never given thought to the younger members of her mama's family. From the little Minta had said her brothers Arthur and William were typical examples of the male aristocracy -- arrogant, repressive and dictatorial.

  Juno slipped a surreptitious glance at the very large, amazingly handsome man who had invaded her quiet world. Arrogant would doubtless fit. And, she told herself firmly, handsome is as handsome does.

  She passed him the tea, pleased to see her hand was steady. "Am I to gather the duke is dead then?" she asked.

  "Well, the duke is dead, long live the duke and all that. My cousin the Marquis of Chelmly is now the duke. Uncle Arthur is no more."

  "And this is a recent event?"

  "Three days ago."

  "You have my condolences, sir," Juno said, struggling to maintain a calm demeanor. What she wanted above all was for him to leave, to take away the disturbance he brought. It was essential, however, that he leave satisfied that all was well. She had no intention of brooking interference in her life by male relatives who were strangers to her.

  "So," he said as he put down his cup. "Will I have the opportunity to meet your aunt?"

  Juno looked up, startled. She had thought that at the root of this visit. She sought for an evasion but found none. "Aunt Clarabel died last spring, Mr. Ashby."

  "Did she? Then I offer you my condolences in turn. Who lives with you now?"

  "I have an excellent staff."

  He sat up straighter. "Come now. You're what? Seventeen? You can't possibly live all alone here."

  Juno found her hands tight on one another and relaxed them. "I have three maids and a housekeeper and I am eighteen, Mr. Ashby."

  "We'd be off to a better start if you'd call me Cousin Chart. It simply won't do, you know." He suddenly rose to his feet. "I don't know how matters came to be left like this."

  Juno too rose, wishing not for the first time in her life that she had eight or nine more inches. "It will do perfectly," she retorted with all the dignity she could command. "Matters were left this way intentionally. My Uncle Augustus is my guardian and he has no qualms about my situation."

  "Well, I do."

  "Let it be perfectly clear, Mr. Ashby, that my life is no concern of yours!"

  "Of course it is. You're my cousin. What will people say?"

  "If by people you mean Society, the ton, I don't care that!" Juno punctuated this with a resounding snap of the fingers -- a skill of which she was very proud.

  Color touched his cheeks. "As one of your male relatives I can't just snap my fingers, my girl. We'll have to decide what's best to do-"

  "No you will not!" Juno stated and when he paid no attention she picked up a Minton plate and smashed it against the edge of the table. At last she saw him look fully at her.

  "What in…?"

  "You will not," she continued forcefully, "because, one, I deny your right to rule over me simply because you are male and I am female. And, two, because, thank God, I am no blood relative of yours, sir!"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Juno became suddenly aware of the anger in him. Her heart instinctively began to race and the temptation to hide was frighteningly strong. Her conviction in equality was unshaken but she had never had to shout it at a large and hostile man before. His outrage, she told herself, was proof of the pudding.

  She swallowed and kept her chin up. "You have been misinformed, Mr. Ashby. Your aunt was my mother in the true sense of the word, but she did not bear me. My father was a widower and I was six month old at the time of the marriage." She stalked over to the open door and stood beside it. "I'm sure I should thank you for your concern but I cannot bring myself to do so. Good day."

  He picked up his curly-brimmed beaver, his leather gloves and his crop and walked towards her. He loomed over her for a moment -- -- far too large, far too male. His frown seemed not of anger but of puzzlement. Juno could feel a tremble in her legs. She had no idea what he might do.

  In the end all he said was, "Good day, Miss Rathbone." And then he left.

  Juno stood for some time after his departure because she seemed unable to mobilize her body in any meaningful way. She was still upset from the brief battle, but that wasn't the main problem. Something much more strange was tilting the world and making it spin. When he had stood before her it was as if waves of something, something warm and wicked, had washed over her and turned her giddy.

  Charteris Ashby was the first man she had ever encountered who made comprehensible Mary Wollstonecraft's warnings against attractive men.

  Juno moved at last and went to her library to take down her well-worn copy of The Vindication of the Rights of Woman. She easily found the place.

  `Men of wit and fancy are often rakes; and fancy is the food of love. Such men will inspire passion. Half the sex in its present infantine state would pine for a Lovelace, a man so witty, so graceful and so valiant...'

  With a sigh Juno knew she was in danger of pining. She skipped a few lines.

  `Women want a lover and protector; and behold him kneeling before them -- bravery prostrate to beauty!' She had always had trouble with that particular passage and had always read it with a guilty trace of longing. Now she understood her feelings to the inch. The mere thought of Chart Ashby kneeling before her made her dizzy.

  She thrust the book back firmly into its place on the shelf. Thank heavens she'd sent the man to the rightabouts and would see him no more.

  * * *

  Chart Ashby made his way back to the inn where he'd stabled his horse, swinging his cane and reviewing the extraordinary encounter. Who'd ever heard the like? Still, she had spirit, for all she was a tiny thing. Juno! It reminded him of a hound he'd named Hercules only to have the beast turn out to be a runt.

  Not that Juno Rathbone was a runt. Ariel would suit her. There was an ethereal quality to her -- until she started smashing china, snapping her fingers and spouting all that nonsense. He laughed out loud. She certainly appeared able to take care of herself. Since she was content with her lot and no relative of his he was a free man.
r />   That evening, when Chart had to endure Terance Cornwallis's rapturous retelling of the day's chase he consoled himself with the thought that it was a foretaste of many wonderful runs to come. Eventually Corny, having consumed what appeared to be a whole hind of beef and downed two bottles of claret, thought to ask, "Did you settle the cousin, then?"

  Unsettled, more likely, thought Chart with a grin. "Well enough," he replied. "She's not in need and it turns out she's not even my cousin. She's my aunt's step-daughter."

  "That's all right then." Corny raised his glass. "To foxes and fine weather!"

  Chart heartily echoed the toast and drained his glass.

  Two nights later, Corny looked across the table soberly -- in the sober manner of a man who's drunk large amounts of claret, port and brandy -- and said, "Something up, Chart?"

  "What do you mean?" asked Chart, who had also consumed a great deal of wine.

  "Have to say this, old friend. Style's a bit wonky. Haven't seen you up with the leaders. Damn it, you almost came off at that ditch today and my grandmother could jump it." After a moment's consideration he added, "Without a horse."

  "Godolphin was startled," Chart protested. After a moment he admitted, "I keep thinking about Miss Rathbone."

  Corny blinked. "But you said. Not your cousin. Happy enough there with her aunt and her books."

  "That's the thing, Corny. No aunt."

  "No aunt?"

  "Died last year."

  Terance raised his glass. "To the aunt!"

  Chart frowned. "Don't think you're supposed to toast the deceased, old boy."

  "No...? Probably right. But what's the problem? Someone else instead of aunt. All settled."

  "No one else instead of aunt."

  "All alone?"

  "'Three maids and a housekeeper'," Chart quoted, remembering delicate features, flushed cheeks and eyes sparkling with anger.