Читать книгу Fallen Angel - Sophia James - Страница 8

Nicholas Pencarrow, Duke of Westbourne, Knight of the Realm and owner of half a dozen of England’s finest estates, leaned back in his leather chair, feet up on his desk, reading with bemused interest a letter from his lawyer.

‘After much searching we can find out very little about Brenna Stanhope. There is certainly no mention of the girl until she was sixteen, making a name for herself on the piano in select gatherings organised by a Sir Michael De Lancey, her uncle. Miss Stanhope appeared briefly in society five years ago as a débutante in one season only in London. Further enquiries have turned up the name of the Beaumont Street Orphanage. It seems Sir Michael and his niece run the establishment together, Miss Stanhope teaching at the school…’

Nicholas frowned. An orphanage? The idea intrigued him as did everything else he had discovered about the elusive Miss Stanhope. Flicking through the remainder of the letter, Nicholas determined it to contain brief mention of Michael De Lancey’s reduced family circumstances and little else. ‘Damn it,’ he cursed under his breath. Why was she so secretive? His mind ran back to the woman he had seen in the woods, hair the colour of ebony, eyes of violet and a body rounded and feminine. ‘Brenna Stanhope…’ he whispered her name softly into the empty corners of the room, remembering the timbre of her voice, the dimples in her cheeks and the feeling of her warm breath against his bare chest.

And when he had touched her…

A noise from outside pulled him from his thoughts and he rose even as the door opened to admit Lady Letitia Carruthers, all blond ringlets and flashing blue eyes, her fashionable pink redingote day dress shaped to a waist so thin his hands could easily span it. ‘Nicholas darling,’ she said breathlessly, throwing herself headlong into his arms before perching on a nearby couch and artfully arranging her skirts around her. ‘I am exhausted, and this ball you are going to throw will be the culmination of hours of hard work. Even Christopher in his heyday did not contemplate such opulence.’

Smiling at the reference to her long-dead husband, Nicholas poured two generous brandies, one of which he placed in her outstretched hand. ‘Your taste is always exquisite, Letty, and I appreciate the time and effort you have invested in the occasion.’ Crossing to his desk, he extracted a black velvet jewellery box, and laid it before her. ‘This is for you by way of gratitude.’

Letty squealed, throwing open the lid with a hurried delight. ‘Rubies, Nicholas,’ she whispered, ‘and such beautiful ones.’ With infinite care she drew the chain of gold and red from its soft bed and, unbuttoning her bodice, presented her back to him. ‘Will you fasten them?’

Nodding, he moved behind her, assailed instantly by the expensive perfume that enveloped her in a cloud wherever she went, his hands competent at her back while she waited for him to finish.

‘Nicholas, you do know I love you, don’t you?’

He turned, caught by the seriousness in her voice, swallowing at her admission and feeling guilty, as he did each time she had said it, for he knew, in truth, that he could not say back what it was she longed to hear from him. A tight smile played around his mouth as he perceived her disappointment. Why did women always want what he could never give them? Why could he not relish the commitment to relationships other men made without recourse to a safer distance? He knew the answer even as he voiced the question.

Johanna. His mother.

His father had married for love and look where that had got him. Widowed at twenty-six with two young boys and a heart as broken as he was, Gerald had finally drunk himself into the oblivion he functioned best in.

At eight Nicholas had tried his hardest to comfort both his father and five-year-old brother Charles, but without Johanna the family centre was gone, dissolved into a strange mix of long silences and unfathomable anger, the remnants of a family who had loved too much and lost everything because of it. And when, thirteen years later, Gerald’s liver had finally succumbed to the abuse of a decade and he had died, predicting that his sons would follow the same path as he had, Nicholas had vowed that this prophesy would never come to pass and had spent his life either in the arms of experienced widows or hardened show girls, neither pushing for the state of matrimony that he was determined to escape.

Bending down, Nicholas collected some papers lying in a bundle at the top of his desk. Aye, to him survival marched hand in hand with distance, mere affection containing no real power to hurt. And if sometimes he recognised the flaws in his reasonings, he was also quick to remember the lonely years of his childhood. Never again would he let himself be so vulnerable.

Breaking the awkward silence of the moment with the merely mundane, he turned back to her and said, ‘I’ll see you out then.’ His words came harshly across Letitia’s admission and he was pleased when she followed his directive without argument and walked before him, the clutter of servants in the corridor precluding any other more personal talk.

The party after the opera was crowded with people thronging out into the open halls, and it seemed every second one was calling to Nicholas on an urgent and important purpose, invitations offered and congratulations given for some new and successful business venture of his.

They all knew of his Midas touch, the way he made thousands from every concept he believed in and the way his holdings multiplied each year: land, horses, ships and women.

Nicholas Pencarrow, Duke of Westbourne, never went anywhere without every female eye in every room fastened upon him, young and old, and all with the same thought in their minds—how they longed to be the one to tame the lion who stalked in their midst, with copper hair and tawny eyes, the most handsome man in court and the richest to boot.

Tonight, dressed entirely in black, he seemed to prowl the confines of the small room in an unspoken need to be free, though as he stood, glass in hand, a name mentioned behind Nicholas made him turn.

‘Michael De Lancey.’ A woman was introducing an older man to a couple directly to his left and the name on Brenna Stanhope’s file leapt to mind. Her uncle? His eyes raked across this man and Nicholas smiled as he heard the accent, cultured and quiet like his niece’s. With care he beckoned a footman stationed across the room, the servant hurrying through the crowd at the summons and waiting as the Duke pulled out a card from his jacket pocket.

‘Please inform Sir Michael De Lancey that I would like to meet with him when he finds himself free,’ he said politely, returning to his own conversation as the man hurried off.

It was only a few minutes later when he felt the small man’s presence at his shoulder. Nicholas held out his hand to the other’s uncertainly offered bow, taking Sir Michael’s hand firmly in his own and saying with feeling, ‘I am very pleased to meet you, sir. Your niece, Brenna Stanhope, has no doubt told you of her part in my lucky escape near Worsley!’

Michael De Lancey started, a frown deep in his eyes as he shook his head. ‘No, your Grace, she has told me nothing.’

The admission floored Nicholas. ‘You have not seen her in the past three weeks?’ he asked in amazement.

‘Oh, indeed, yes, Brenna lives with me.’

‘And yet she has mentioned nothing?’

‘No, I am afraid not!’ Grey eyes came up to his own, honest eyes with all the look of a gentleman, and Nicholas, surmising this man not to be lying, changed tack instantly.

‘Would you permit me to call on your niece, Sir Michael?’

‘No!’

One word and so unexpected Nicholas could hardly credit the answer. Did he not know to whom he was speaking? Did he not understand the social etiquette due to such a title as his own? He sized up the situation and tried again.

‘You won’t let me call on your niece?’ The query was phrased more in incredulity than anger.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘And you have my card?’

‘I do, your Grace.’

Perplexed, Nicholas ran a hand through his hair. ‘Is she married already?’ he said suddenly.

‘No, your Grace.’

‘Betrothed?’

‘No, your Grace.’

‘Then you would agree that she’s free to make up her own mind about whether or not to see me?’

Sir Michael shifted uncomfortably, giving the impression of a man who was backing himself into a quickly approaching corner. ‘Yes.’

‘Then please give her this.’ Taking out another card, Nicholas wrote on it in haste. ‘I would very much like a reply.’

Nodding, Michael De Lancey clutched the paper in his fist and Nicholas watched him call for his coat and hat and take his leave.

Brenna rose the next morning early, dressing in one of her customary dark-blue velvet gowns, then hurried downstairs to the breakfast room, coming to a halt as she saw her uncle already seated and looking very perturbed.

‘Good morning,’ she said, favouring him with a smile as she took the seat opposite and poured herself some tea.

He cleared his throat. ‘Brenna, I need to talk to you.’

‘Mmm, what about?’ She glanced up as he took a card from the table in front of him, and placed it before her.

‘That!’ he stammered as she raised the gilt-edged card to her eyes.

NICHOLAS PENCARROW

DUKE OF WESTBOURNE

‘Who is he?’ she returned quietly, a premonition of disaster seeming to emanate from the words themselves.

‘Read the back.’ With dread she flipped it over, her heart beating faster as she placed the context of the message: Would you permit me to say thank you in person for your help at Worsley?

Unsure eyes surveyed her uncle. ‘I didn’t tell you. I thought it might make you worried.’

‘But you’ll tell me now?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes,’ she answered, giving him a blow-by-blow description of the whole episode.

Her uncle was silent when she finished, phrasing his next question only after much thought. ‘Did you talk with him at Airelies?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see him properly, Brenna?’ The words came hesitantly.

‘No. Why?’

‘I think he could be persistent, you see, as well as both powerful and stubborn. The whole of London treads carefully in his wake and it seems he owns almost half of it.’

‘The wrong man to rescue, you mean?’ Brenna quipped. ‘I should have left him to an untimely end, especially now if he’s going to harass me.’

Michael De Lancey grimaced. ‘I do have a feeling about this man. I think you should at least meet him. Be as dour and miserable as you want. It is the mystery that is making him interested. I know his type. It is only the thrill of the chase that he craves and there are plenty of women in London who will attest to that truth, or so I’m told.’

The words made sense, though already Brenna’s heart beat painfully at the thought as his gold-green eyes and dark copper hair came fully to mind. With a rising irritation she stood and pulled at the plait that hung across her shoulder. She knew better than to allow herself such feelings.

‘I thought I’d finished with all this, Michael. That season in London was by far enough. I’m twenty-four now, a happy spinster and a woman in my own right and I don’t want the Duke of Westbourne to come and call on me.’

Michael frowned. ‘Well then, let’s get it over with. I’ll have Kenneth take over your reply this morning and with any luck we can have him out of our lives by this evening.’ He stood then, searching in a drawer on one side of the room for paper and pen. ‘Here, write to him and say you could see him at three o’clock. I’ll come home at three-thirty and remind you of an appointment we have at four. That way we can have the whole thing finished within under an hour.’

Reluctantly, Brenna took the page and wrote a very brief and very formal invitation to Nicholas Pencarrow, hating herself for having to do it while mentally calculating all the things she’d need to put off till the morrow now that she had him to deal with today.

A reply had come from Pencarrow House by noon: Nicholas Pencarrow would be pleased to call on her at three o’clock p.m.

At half past two Brenna made her way upstairs to prepare her hair in the most unappealing style she could arrange, buttoning her velvet dress up to the collar and placing upon it the shapeless blue oversmock, which she often wore at the orphanage. At five to three she was sitting stiffly in the wing chair near the fire in the small dining room, hands primly in her lap, when she heard his carriage pull to a halt outside. She resisted the urge to go to the window. He’d seen her at the curtains once before and she had no wish for him to think her remotely inquisitive about him. Instead she stood facing the door and waited until it was opened by Polly, the serving maid.

‘The Duke of Westbourne, Miss Brenna,’ the young girl announced breathlessly, shepherding him in before going out again and closing the door.

Brenna’s widening eyes came up to his, all the handsomeness of each reckless libertine who’d ever pursued her across countless nightmares rolled into one. At Worsley with blood on his face and a split upper lip he had still seemed well favoured. Today, dressed in tapered trousers, a double-breasted jacket and silk hat and gloves in hand, he emanated pure masculine grace and style—and something else a lot more unsettling.

He registered her fright and the dress all at once. Today she seemed different and his glance was drawn to her fingers, which turned a handkerchief nervously this way and that.

‘Miss Stanhope,’ he began quietly as cold violet eyes stole up to his, a flinty hardness in their depths, which he could not comprehend.

She fears me, a warning voice came from deep inside. ‘I am Nicholas Pencarrow and I thank you for receiving me.’

‘You did not have to come,’ she spoke now for the first time, her velvety voice exactly as he had remembered it.

‘But I wanted to,’ he replied. ‘May I sit down for just a moment?’

Nodding, she indicated a chair furthest from where she sat. She seemed older today, her hair bound up into unbecoming braids at each ear and drooping down across her neck. He couldn’t recollect ever seeing anybody’s hair put up quite like that and wondered why she should have fashioned it in such a way, knowing he was to call. The truth hit him suddenly even as he pondered it. She wanted him to see her like this: the clothes, the hair, the lack of a welcome, they were all mixed somehow in a puzzle he could not even vaguely begin to comprehend.

Nicholas shifted in his seat and began softly. ‘I wanted to thank you personally for your help last month outside of Worsley.’ Wary eyes flickered briefly to his and then away. ‘If you had not come when you did, I am sure I would not be here today.’ A frown crossed her face as though she struggled for a fleeing social politeness.

She does not want me here. She wishes she had left me in the woods. Nicholas’s mind rebelled at the thought as he continued slowly, ‘The man you shot was taken to the doctor and his leg was lost. I’m afraid he knew who you were. The Worsley constable said your name without thinking. I hope that will not be a problem.’

Palpable fear flickered momentarily in Brenna’s eyes. ‘Yet he’s in prison?’

He nodded. ‘And I’ll make sure he stays there a long time.’

‘What happened to the other one?’

‘He is dead.’

‘Oh.’ Silence stalked the room, a heavy silence, uncomfortable and unbroken, and as she sat there he knew she would not speak.

‘Do you go out often?’ His voice was soft as he tried to lighten the subject and piece together some of the parts of her life of which, as yet, he knew so little.

‘No,’ she answered quietly, a slight frown forming on her brow.

‘Then would you not accept an invitation to my ball next month?’

‘No.’ The reply came definite and flat, a ‘thank you’ added afterwards almost in an unconscious notice of manners.

‘Is there anything you would like to accompany me to in London? The opera? The ballet? The symphony?’ Brenna’s head came up at the mention of the last and for the first time he saw interest, though she shook her head even as he thought it.

‘You like music?’

‘Yes.’

‘You play the piano well.’

It was said not as a question but as a statement, and she looked up, puzzled. ‘How could you know that?’ she asked unsurely, and suddenly it hit her. He had been finding out about her. A giddy spiralling slam of terror crossed her face as she stood.

‘Your thanks are acknowledged, your Grace, but I shall now say goodbye. Polly will see you out.’ Her words left room for no others as she rang the bell and turned towards the window and Nicholas’s perusal of the back of her was abruptly cut off as the young servant bustled in. Amusement creased his eyes at the dismissal. This girl had no notion of the respect normally accorded to him by polite society.

And he liked it.

Gathering his hat and coat, he made towards the door, stopping as he reached it. ‘I shall leave my card on the table here, Brenna. If, by chance, you should change your mind and have a want to see the symphony, I would be most willing to escort you.’

She stiffened at the liberty he took in using her Christian name and turned as she determined him gone, catching her reflection in the mirror above the mantel as she did so. White faced and drawn, even her eyes seemed bruised and guarded.

Is this what I have become? she wondered, as her fingers unlaced the ugly plaits and she pulled her thick hair free. Tears stung her eyes and for a second she longed to call him back and be seen even momentarily in the way she would have liked him to remember her by, but common sense stopped her. If people knew even a tiny part of her secret, the patronage of her orphanage would flounder and the protection of the children would be at risk. With determination she tucked her hair behind her ears and faced the mirror.

‘Forget the Duke of Westbourne,’ she told herself sternly and was disturbed by the dash of anger that threaded her eyes.