Fenella Miller by A Dissembler Page A

bonnet was secure. Emily waited until her parents had completed their greetings before leading her forward.
    ‘Lady Hawksmith, I would like to introduce to my new sister, Miss Marianne Devenish, she is to make a home with us in future.’ Marianne curtsied and Lady Hawksmith nodded frostily. ‘Lord Hawksmith, may I introduce Miss Devenish to you?’
    Emily smiled and Marianne curtsied uncomfortably aware Arabella’s father was staring at her again.
    ‘Good heavens, Miss Devenish, do you know you are the image of a young lady I used to know many years ago.’ He frowned as he tried to recollect the name. ‘I have it—Amelia Stanton—that was it. I forget who she married but I am certain it was not a Devenish.’ He smiled. ‘It will come back to me. I have no doubt your family is linked somehow to Miss Stanton’s, because the resemblance is too close for there not to be a connection.’
    The crowd roared as the ponies came into sight and Marianne was able to slip backwards through the spectators unnoticed. She had to escape, to get away, before he revealed her as Martha Frasier. Lord Hawksmith could remember at any minute to whom her mother had been married.
    Where could she go? Frantically she looked round for refuge and caught sight of the church tower behind The Lion inn and recalled her guardian had said that he walked to the service on Sunday. Yes! She would go to Bentley Hall; it could not be more than a short distance from The Lion.
    She heard the cheers as the winning pony galloped past the finishing line just as she hurried into the bustling forecourt. She guessed there would be a wicket gate somewhere for her to use which would lead her into the church yard. She was obliged to hide as a group of young officers staggered from the building brimming ale pots in their hands. She had no wish to be accosted as, without a maid or male companion, she might be mistaken for something she was not. Gentlemen in their cups could behave in a way they might bitterly regret when sober.
    She hovered behind a convenient diligence praying the problem would walk itself away. To her relief the officers, laughing and shouting, set off in the direction of the starting line. The main race came next. Charles and Cousin Theo would be competing, but she had no desire to watch. All she wanted was to hide away from Lord Hawksmith. She wished John had not gone to London, he would know what to do. If Sir James turned up, her new family would reject her out of hand. No daughter of theirs would have such a vile acquaintance.
    Her passage was clear so she continued towards the rear of the inn hoping her conjecture was correct and there would be a way through. In the distance she heard the loud shouting of the race goers as the main event began, but in her agitation it meant nothing to her.
    She rounded the large building avoiding ostlers and grooms who, not unnaturally, viewed the intrusion of a lovely, fashionably attired, and unchaperoned young lady, as a bonus.
    ‘Excuse me, but are you lost, miss?’ An ostler, bent with age, asked.
    ‘I sincerely hope not. I am expecting to find a way through to the church. I pray there is one?’
    ‘Yes, if you come with me, miss, I’ll show you.’ Grateful for his escort she followed him and there, in the far corner, was the wicket gate she sought.
    ‘Thank you. I shall be able to continue safely from here on my own.’ She fumbled in her reticule finally drawing out a silver sixpence with which to recompense him. On light feet she ran to the gate and slipped out from the noise into the peaceful churchyard.
    The imposing roof of Bentley Hall could be seen from where she was. All she had to do was follow the grassy path between the tombstones until she found the exit that would lead in to the grounds of the Hall.
    The sounds of the race were becoming fainter but a sudden escalation of shouting, followed by what might have been women screaming, made her pause. Had there been an accident? Should she