The Viscount and the Orphan

By Rosemary Morris

This classic historical romance erupts in 1703 England.

Gabriel, Viscount Cavanagh is bankrupt, his fortune wasted on mistresses, extravagance, and gambling. Orphaned, emotionally neglected, deprived of his inheritance and his own person by his grandfather, Adam Maynard, his only option to avoid disaster is acceptance of an arranged marriage proposed by Adam, a ruthless merchant prince.

Adam summons his sixteen-year-old ward, wealthy Dorinda Davenport, from boarding school to be Gabriel’s bride. An orphan, she yearns for love. Well-educated, but naïve, she clings to her fantasy of a happy-ever-after marriage to a gentleman as handsome, and charming as her favourite fictional hero. Gabriel is the romantic hero of her dreams, but bitter disillusionment follows the wedding.

A connoisseur of beautiful women, Gabriel conceals his distaste when he meets dumpy, sallow-skinned, socially inept Dorinda. Nevertheless, he soon appreciates her innocence, intelligence, and kind heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Sep 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228623175

Rosemary Morris

Rosemary Morris was born in Sidcup Kent. As a child, her head was ‘always in a book.’ While working in a travel agency, Rosemary met her Hindu husband. He encouraged her to continue her education at Westminster College. In 1961 Rosemary and her husband, now a barrister, moved to his birthplace, Kenya, where she lived from 1961 until 1982. After an attempted coup d’état, she and four of her five children lived in an ashram in France.Back in England, Rosemary wrote historical fiction and joined the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Historical Novel Society, Watford Writers and many online groups. To research, Rosemary reads non-fiction, visits museums and other places of historical interest. Her bookshelves are so crammed with historical non-fiction, that if she buys a new book she has to consider getting rid of one. Apart from writing, Rosemary enjoys time with her family, classical Indian literature, reading, vegetarian cooking, growing organic fruit, herbs and vegetables and creative crafts.

Book preview

The Viscount and the Orphan

Rosemary Morris

If music be the food of love, play on.

Twelfth Night. Act 1 Scene 1

William Shakespeare

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9780228623175

Kindle 9780228623182

PDF 9780228623199

Print ISBNs

Amazon Print 9780228623205

LSI Print 9780228623212

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Copyright 2022 by Rosemary Morris

Cover art by Christine’s Creations

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

Dedication

To Monica, my dear daughter-in-law

Chapter One

London.

February 1703

Dorinda Davenport obeyed Mistress Tutchin’s summons. Apprehensive, she could not think of a reason for the strict headmistress of the boarding school for gentlewomen to punish her. A few minutes later, fear turned to delight at the unexpected news. Her guardian, appointed by her late parents, had decided her education was complete. She shut the door of the small room behind her.

What did Mistress Tutchin say? her loyal friends Charlotte and Sophie demanded simultaneously.

If she chastised me for yet another misdeed, I would not be surprised, but what could you have done to deserve punishment? Sophie asked. With a riot of fair hair, a perfect complexion, and soulful eyes that shifted from silver grey to morning mist to darkened clouds, at first sight, strangers compared her to an angel.

Charlotte fingered one of her red-gold curls and waited for an answer.

She told me I shall leave school and return to my guardian today.

Charlotte’s eyes widened. Why?

He decided my schooldays are over. I shall miss you and hope we will meet again.

And we shall miss you, Sophie said.

Will you write to us? Charlotte asked.

Yes. Dorinda blinked.

A bell rang. Their cheeks moist, after her friends embraced her, they proceeded to their French lesson, glancing back repeatedly until they entered the classroom.

Within an hour, wondering what the future held, Dorinda sat in her strict guardian’s town coach, eyes shut, her head against the squab. The final scene and words from her favourite novel smuggled into the dormitory by Sophie repeated themselves in her head.

‘Noble Lord Tancred knelt before Lady Amanda, who sat on a bench in her fathers secluded garden.

His hair fair as barley glistened in the sunlight, and his eyes, the colour of a clear midsummer blue sky, shone adoringly as he clasped her small, white hand. My true love, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?

Her face suffused with blushes Amanda nodded.

My dear heart, I shall treasure you for as long as we live. His face ablaze with love, Tancred pressed a kiss onto her hand.’

Dorinda sighed, her breasts straining uncomfortably against her drab grey bodice. One day, she would marry a gentleman as tall, handsome, and charming as fictional Lord Tancred, and they would live happily ever after. Lost in fantasy, dressed fashionably, she imagined herself as her husband’s beloved dear heart. She frowned. Most gentlewomen married when they were twenty or twenty-one. Dorinda doubted her guardian, Adam Maynard, a merchant prince, would consent to her marriage for at least another four years, a long time to wait for her own home.

Dorinda sighed again. Novels did not explain what transpired between husband and wife after the wedding. She wanted to know how a woman became with child. Charlotte and Sophie were equally curious but could not find out when they returned to their family every year at Easter, during summer, and Christmas. Sophie told them that when she had put a few tentative questions to her mother she had replied: ‘You will find out when you are married.’

Chapter Two

In his mistress’s elegant closet next to her bedchamber, Gabriel, Lord Kaye, Viscount Cavanagh looked thoughtfully at Olivia, Lady Ingram, across the breakfast table. Her piquant face, perfect complexion, ebony hair, and pink brocade mantua gown, looped back to reveal a cream satin petticoat, pleased him as much as she satisfied him in bed. Swounds, he wished she had not become too possessive.

She smiled across the rim of her coffee dish and looked expectantly at him. Shall I have the pleasure of receiving you this evening?

Gabriel pressed his lips into a firm line. There was never an easy way to terminate a liaison. Neither this evening nor any other. He always tackled his fences without faltering.

Her forehead creased. The glow in her eyes faded. B…but my future is with you.

Confound it. Before he bedded the charming, thirty-one-year-old widow, he warned her not to anticipate more than a mutually agreeable affair. He should have foreseen she did not believe his assurance that he did not have marriage in mind. Since you first admitted me to your bedchamber, you knew the time would come for us to part.

Olivia’s hands trembled as she put down the coffee dish. Why? She reached across the table and gripped the wide cuff of his burgundy-coloured broadcloth coat. Cavanagh, we are well matched and would be happy as-

I beg you not to say anything you will regret. Before we enjoyed bed sport, I told you I would not enter the parson’s trap with you.

She released his cuff and pressed her hand over her heart. Why not?

One reason is because it would be an injustice to deny a fortunate gentleman the opportunity to court you with marriage in mind.

Her eyes glistened. And the other? she asked in a small voice.

My lady, you force me to be frank. Gabriel winced, remembering the tearful scene his previous mistress inflicted on him when he announced the end of their relationship. He hoped Olivia would not force him to endure another one. I am not the first lover you have entertained since Ingram’s death. Dressed as befitted his title but not his means, Gabriel stood. If I marry, my bride will be innocent and virtuous. I suggest we part with dignity on amicable terms. He bowed. Adieu.

She stared at him. Tears spilled down her cheeks. He turned and left the closet before she could speak.

Light-footed as a satiated tiger, Gabriel padded down the broad stairs. He crossed the parquet floor in the entrance hall. A footman helped him into his black greatcoat lined with blood-red silk. His three-cornered black beaver hat tucked under his arm he stepped outside.

Gabriel’s hand tightened until his signet ring, inherited from his father, dug into his finger. A former gambler because capricious Lady Luck had not favoured him his pockets were still to let. Gabriel chose his destination carefully. Protected from the cold February air by his warm clothes, he walked briskly toward Burton’s, the coffee house he patronised on Henrietta Street. His conscience clear, he spared a moment or two to consider Olivia’s future. If she wished to remarry, she might not find it as easy to secure a husband as he would to replace her.

He ignored a street harlot’s murmured invitation and strode past her weaving his way between pedestrians. Gabriel inclined his head toward Lady Rutherford and her young daughter. Too wily to arouse hopes of marriage in the bosoms of parents who brought their daughters to London to find a suitable husband, he walked fast to prevent the lady detaining him. He twisted his mouth into a ghost of a smile. Only the most callous parents would consign their daughter to a man of his ilk—one who had squandered most of his patrimony. Neglected Cavanagh Castle and his large, dilapidated London House on the Strand, and a few other run-down properties, were all that remained of it.

Eighteen-years-old when he inherited his fortune, he left Cambridge University. Drunk with freedom from his grandfather, a merchant prince, for seven years he gambled at cards, on the throw of the dice, at horse races, and wild, fashionable bets such as which raindrop would first reach the bottom of the window. He drank the finest wine and alcohol without restraint and enjoyed a liaison with an experienced married lady before he sought her replacement.

Gabriel laughed harshly as he remembered his follies and three challenges from outraged husbands, who he had cuckolded. Refusal to accept them would have branded him a coward. An expert with the rapier, he regretted inflicting serious wounds on two adversaries and the death of the third. On the brink of bankruptcy, he had vowed to reform.

He reached Burton’s. Unlike most coffee houses its proprietor did not allow customers to gamble or light their pipes. Smoke did not wreathe the fine glass lantern suspended from the ceiling. He put a penny for his coffee on the counter in front of the bar where plump Mrs Burton presided and exchanged a brief pleasantry with her.

Seated on a bench, Gabriel enjoyed the fire's welcome warmth while waiting for a boy to serve coffee. A gentleman of leisure, for a mere penny, he could stay here for as long as he wished, reading, listening to, and participating in conversations with other customers, and reading newspapers provided by Burton. With the intention of whiling away his time until noon, as he did on most days, he would leave at four o’clock to dine. Afterward, he might return and pass the time until he went to the theatre, to a ball, or mingle elsewhere in society.

A boy put a dish of steaming coffee on the table in front of him. Gabriel sipped as he read The Daily Courant, the first and only daily paper published a few days after Queen Anne’s accession to the throne almost a year ago in March.

My lord, someone said.

Gabriel ignored the voice and finished reading the small newspaper printed on one side of the sheet. He picked up the London Post published three times a week.

My lord, the voice repeated closer to his ear.

Yes.

A hand holding a sealed message reached between Gabriel and the gentleman next to him.

From Mister Maynard, milord.

Gabriel shifted to the end of the bench, turned around and looked at his grandfathers footman garbed in silver-laced, slate-coloured livery embroidered with a silver emblem of a ship in full sail.

Thank you, William, you may go.

Gabriel broke the red wax seal. He read the terse message. His grandsire ordered him to attend him at twelve o’ clock. His first instinct was to ignore the summons, his second to obey it. He scowled and crushed the summons.

Bad news? asked the stranger seated opposite him.

I could say so, Gabriel replied, tight-lipped. I said you may leave, William.

Begging your pardon, milord, Mister Maynard’s coach is waiting for you.

If he did not obey his grandfather would bombard him with orders. Gabriel followed William outside.

During his time in the coffee shop the cold had intensified. The wind drove chilly drizzle onto his face. He swiped the moisture away with the back of his gloved hand. Harnessed to the coach, six sedate, long-tailed Flemish horses waited patiently. William opened the door and lowered the step. Gabriel entered and sat down.

He placed no dependence on his grandfather relieving him of his own impoverished state and settling his bills, but it might be worthwhile finding out why the old man sent for him. He hoped he would not have to endure another long, tedious lecture. If he declared that he intended to take an interest in government and sit in the House of Lords, it would soften Grandfathers temper.

He peered out of the glass window. Between familiar warehouses he glimpsed River Thames crowded with ships, barges, and small boats ferrying passengers across it, up or downstream. He arrived at Puddle Dock where Grandfathers ships moored when they returned from foreign countries with valuable cargoes. Above loomed two warehouses belonging to the merchant prince. Behind them stood a three-storey house built of plain grey stone with a slate roof. High red brick walls enclosed the building, stables, coach house, and garden.

Gabriel adjusted his fringed neckcloth that suddenly felt too tight. He twitched the lace-edged shirt ruffles at his wrists into place. The coach passed through a pair of tall iron gates topped with spikes and halted outside the house. He would welcome a measure of brandy to prepare him for the ordeal when he faced the old tyrant. He considered returning to Burton’s to find congenial company. Not a coward he dismissed the thought.

The front door opened in response to William’s application of the brass doorknocker shaped like a ship. Gabriel got out of the coach, strode to the house, and up the shallow stone front steps toward the butler, who bowed.

My lord, the elderly man greeted him.

Finch, I hope I find you in good health.

I am. Thank you for asking, milord.

Gabriel entered the spacious entrance, hall. My grandsire?" He stared down at the marble floor.

"Mister Maynard awaits you in his closet Finch replied.

A footman relieved Gabriel of his greatcoat and hat.

Thank you. Gabriel glanced at the stairs wide enough to accommodate three or four people abreast. The plain exterior of the house gave no clue to the merchant prince’s wealth proclaimed by the beautifully carved balustrades, wainscotting, painted ceilings, and glass in all the windows.

Gabriel breathed deeply as he followed Finch upstairs to the study. The butler knocked. He opened the door without waiting for a response. The Viscount Cavanagh, he announced.

He may enter. You may leave, Finch.

Gabriel walked into the study. He stood in the centre of the parquet floor facing his grandfather seated beneath the window on a chair with a high back. He would appreciate a word of welcome. No longer an easily intimidated schoolboy aware of misdoings, he did not fidget while his grandsire scrutinised him.

To judge by your fine clothes, Cavanagh, no one would think that you barely have a feather to fly with. He pointed at a chair. Sit down. I have a proposition which will enable you to line your nest.

If he accepted it, what would his grandfather demand in return? Gabriel sat at right angles to his grandsire’s chair. Instead of looking at the sixty-eight-year-old man’s lined face, he studied exquisite oriental pottery displayed on top of and inside white-painted beechwood cabinets with glass doors. The proceeds from selling some of those bowls and vases imported by the East India Company would settle his debts.

During a protracted silence Gabriel guessed the old man waited for him to ask how he could line his nest.

Adam Maynard pressed the tips of his fingers on each hand together. Cavanagh, you are disgraceful. I am ashamed of you. Gambling has cost you a fortune. If you had not stopped playing for high stakes and losing more often than you won, you would have forfeited another when I removed your name from my will. Do you think I prospered for you to squander the results of my hard work?

Gabriel studied a pair of exquisite vases.

Grandfather glared at him. Answer me!

I don’t think that is why you amassed a fortune. Gabriel’s nostrils flared. He wanted to tell the old man to go to the devil instead of threatening him.

I am ashamed. Three outraged husbands accused you of having criminal conversations with their wives. May God forgive you for wounding two and killing the third in duels.

I did not want to accept the challenges. Gabriel hoped his puritanical grandsire had nothing else with which to upbraid him.

Adam Maynard squared his shoulders. My father, a courageous, honourable Puritan, who supported Cromwell, would have disowned me if I had been steeped in vice like you.

Honourable? A man who approved of the first Charles’ execution and would have willingly signed his death warrant?

The only solution is for you to agree to marry an heiress I have chosen to be your bride.

Gabriel pressed his hand to his throat as though a parson tightened a noose around it. Wealth forced many doors open. Did his grandsire have a hold on a prim, Puritan maiden’s parents which forced them to consent to the match?

Are you shocked? I was fourteen when my gallant father, who served under Fairfax, was rewarded with Oakwood, the magnificent estate sequestered from a Royalist. Although I inherited it and a fortune when my father died, I was dissatisfied becauseI wanted my daughter to have a title. I arranged her marriage to your father, whose family, as you know, fought for the king, and were impoverished during the war.

The memory of his gentle, sweet-natured mother, who taught him to read, drove Gabriel to speak. You sold her to my father to further your ambition.

You are mistaken. Your parents wanted to marry. I approved of your father, so I bestowed a large dowry on my dear daughter and gave her an allowance to be certain she lacked nothing. He cleared his throat. I was delighted when you, the future Viscount Cavanagh, was born. He sighed. "After your parents died, I ensured you received an education suited to your rank. Mayhap you would not have become a wastrel if I had kept you with me instead of sending you to school and university and been less severe during your vacations.

I survived the restoration of the throne to the second Charles, his brother James’ brief reign, his niece, Mary, and her husband William of Orange’s rule. Now, I am well-placed in Charles’ other niece, Queen Anne’s reign. I depend on you to accept the prudent marriage and reform. He picked up the handbell and rang it to summon a footman. It is time for you to meet your prospective bride.

Chapter Three

William entered the study. You may go, and don’t forget to shut the door behind you, Gabriel commanded.

Adam Maynard cracked his knuckles. Cavanagh, you forget I am master in this house.

I don’t, but you are no longer my master. Until I know who your candidate for my viscountess is and the terms of the marriage contract, I refuse to meet her, Gabriel stated.

Perhaps you would prefer to flee the country to escape your creditors.

His self-assured grandsire’s harsh, flint-grey eyes gazed at him.

Gabriel’s teeth clamped together as he choked on his indignation. Instead of insisting on marriage to an heiress, Grandfather could settle his debts, give him an allowance, and the wherewithal to repair his long-neglected castle put the estate in order, refurbish his house in London, and his other properties.

I daresay you want to curse me. I commend your restraint, Adam Maynard drawled.

Determined to maintain his self-control, Gabriel did not allow the old man to goad hm into incautious speech.

Your bride will be my orphaned ward, Dorinda Davenport. Her father was a merchant whose wealth matched my own. He named me as her guardian in his will. When he and her mother died, I accepted responsibility for the girl, who received an excellent education at Mistress Tutchin’s school for gentlewomen.

Gentlewomen? Is she connected to a noble family?

Adam Maynard shook his head. I suspect the exorbitant fees I paid exceeded those charged to those not in trade.

When did Mistress Davenport leave school?

Today.

Gabriel’s fists tightened. Grandsire had surprised him. He looked up at the man accustomed to manipulating others. How old is your ward?

Sixteen.

Gabriel grappled with the thought of a young wife nine years young than him. Though he no longer overindulged in wine and spirits, he needed a strong drink. He stood, crossed the floor, and poured a glass of brandy.

I excuse you for not asking my permission to serve yourself, Adam Maynard said. You may serve me with port.

With an unsteady hand Gabriel gave a full glass to his implacable grandfather.

You expect me to wed a fledgling who has not spread her wings?

Yes, for her protection, to pay your debts and provide you with a large income.

As though he were about to pass a test, the old man scrutinised him. I am duty-bound to take care of Dorinda by my promise to her parents. If she does not have a wedding ring on her finger before I die, she might be kidnapped and forced into marriage.

Gabriel’s breath caught in his throat. His grandsire looked healthy, but who knew what might happen at his age. Are you ill?

Adam Maynard chuckled. I presume you pray for my imminent death for fear you will not be my heir.

Gabriel looked at the ice-cold expression in his grandsire’s eyes. You insult me, sir. I daresay you will live beyond the three score years and ten allotted to you in the Bible.

Cavanagh, you restore my belief that mayhap you are not completely beyond redemption. Marry the child to please me, protect her and gain a fortune.

Gabriel glowered. Has Mistress Davenport agreed to accept my proposal?

No, it is for you to persuade her. Her attorney and mine have drawn up the marriage contract in which her portion and settlements are stated. Sign it, then meet Dorinda, who is waiting in the small withdrawing room with my sister to be introduced to you. Your great-aunt has explained to Dorinda that it is her duty to marry a man I choose, but she has not named you.

Confound it. I shall not sign until I know what the terms are.

Don’t look so horrified, Cavanagh, Adam Maynard said drily. As you had the wit to assume, there are conditions in the contract, but they are reasonable.

Gabriel pitied young Mistress Davenport, trapped like an insect in his grandsire’s web. It would be hypocritical to deny the heiress’s fortune would be welcome. What are the provisions?

Dorinda has scant knowledge of the world beyond Mistress Tutchin’s school. For two years the marriage will not be consummated. You shall have sufficient to restore your properties and receive an allowance. Your wife will live at Oakwood, where a lady will train her to take her place as your viscountess. Adam Maynard studied him from head to foot. "Instead of being a useless fop, you shall sit in the