Free The Danbury Scandals by Mary Nichols Page A

and there had only
been time to push the twelve-year-old Adam into a cupboard and exhort him not
to come out until it was safe, before they were dragged away and the house
ransacked. His secure, contented life had ended in that cupboard and he would
bear the inner scars of it to his death. He had not dared to come out for hours
and by then all the servants but old Henri Garonne had fled. The old man had
urged him to leave the area. ‘They will be back for you,’ he said. ‘They won’t
leave any aristo alive, you can be sure.’
    But Adam could
not tear himself away from home and those he loved, and he had been beside the
rough guillotine when Louis Saint-Pierre was brought out to his death. He had
run and flung himself into his father’s arms, trying to hold him back,
wrestling with the guards, crying, ‘No! No! No!’ until Papa had made him stand back.
    ‘Go to
England,’ he had whispered. ‘Find Mr Rudge. Tell him what has happened.’
    ‘And Maman ?’
    ‘I don’t know.
They separated us. Pray God they were merciful.’ Then he had been dragged up
the steps by his bloodthirsty captors and his head had been severed from his
body.
    The memory of
that terrible scene could never be erased by anything that happened afterwards,
however appalling or however pleasant. Twelve years old and alone in the world,
he had set off for Paris, a city teeming with beggars and orphans, as he soon
discovered. Wary and untamed as a wild animal, he had learned to live on his
wits, to trust no one. He had never allowed his emotions to get the better of
him since then - not until now - and no woman had held his affection. Why
should Maryanne Paynter be the exception? Was she worth being called a coward
for?
    He could never
have accepted Mark’s challenge to a duel; he was prepared to wager the young
man had never heard a shot fired in anger and had never faced a rapier that
wasn’t cork-tipped. If he had agreed to fight and killed him, the truth would
have come out and he would have been vilified the length and breadth of the
country and, what was worse, he would never have been able to live with himself
afterwards. And not even the sparkling blue eyes and soft lips of the only girl
who had ever made his heart beat faster could alter that. He should never have
come to England, never started to pry, never gone to Beckford or Castle Cedars;
it solved nothing. He smiled suddenly. Then he would never have met Maryanne
and that he could not regret, even if it did increase his dilemma. But the
curricle race would have to be his Parthian shot, so he had better win it.

Chapter Four
     
    His lordship,
clad in a full-length burgundy satin dressing-gown and with his dark hair
brushed but not dressed, was sitting alone eating his breakfast when Maryanne
went down next morning. She had always risen betimes and could not lie abed as
Caroline did, not even after a late night. And, besides, she had not slept
well; it was a relief when morning came and she could get up, though she knew
she would have to face his lordship’s displeasure. Mark had told him what had
happened before they left the ball; he was too angry to keep silent on the subject
and, in all fairness, his lordship had a right to know.
    She hesitated
in the doorway before taking a deep breath and moving forward to make her
curtsy. ‘My lord...’
    ‘Good morning,
Maryanne. Come and have breakfast with me. I want to talk to you.’
    She sat down
next to him but made no effort to help herself from the many dishes set out on
a side table. ‘My lord, I am sorry if I have disappointed you...’
    He smiled.
‘Mark flew into the boughs over nothing, is that what you were about to say?’
    ‘It was all so silly.
If Mark had not come along, I...’ She hesitated, remembering that kiss and how
she had lost herself in the pleasure of it. ‘I could have dealt with him.’
    ‘Who was he?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘A stranger?
Maryanne, you astound me.’
    ‘He wasn’t
exactly a