Читать книгу Fallen Angel - Sophia James - Страница 9

Nicholas entered the orphanage in Beaumont Street just after eleven o’clock. He’d had his secretary make an appointment for him to view the place in the guise of becoming a financial patron using a secondary title of his, the Earl of Deuxberry. He hoped Brenna Stanhope would forgive him the deception if she saw him, knowing otherwise he may not even get a foot in the door.

The corridor was crammed full of children’s paintings, and the sound of a piano and voices could be heard coming from a room towards the back of the house. As he entered he was met almost immediately by a tiny grey-haired woman, who thrust out her hand in introduction.

‘I’m Mrs Betsy Plummer, the Matron here,’ she said kindly, ‘and I presume you are Lord Deuxberry.’ She inclined her head as if unsure of the protocol involved when addressing the titled peerage, looking up as a question came nervously to her lips. ‘We understand you may be interested in lending your patronage to Beaumont Street? Lord knows we could do with some.’ She reddened at the realisation of her blasphemy.

Amusement filled the Duke’s eyes and then query as music sifted through the thick walls. ‘The music is lovely.’

‘Yes. That’s Miss Stanhope on the piano. She’s the lady who opened the place, you see.’

‘May I be allowed to watch the lesson?’

‘Well…not normally,’ she faltered, frowning heavily. ‘But perhaps there is a way around it. If you’re very quiet, we could observe from the upstairs balcony. That shouldn’t disturb them at all.’

Following the woman up a narrow staircase, he entered a room filled with sunlight, a balcony overhanging the hall beneath them.

‘This is far enough. Miss Stanhope is very particular about her privacy.’

Nicholas looked down in the direction of her gesture, and the sight of Brenna, hair down and playing to the children, assailed him with all the force of a salvo fired at close range.

She was beautiful and completely changed from the deliberately dour woman who had greeted him two days ago in her London drawing room. Today, curly dark hair fell in a glorious curtain to her waist and her violet eyes sparkled with playfulness as she rose from the piano and formed the children into a circle, taking a hanky from the sleeve of her navy blue gown and wiping the nose of a carrot-topped toddler who clung to her skirt.

‘Oh, my goodness, Tim, I hope it is not you next with the sickness. Laura is quite enough for now.’ The boy smiled as she ruffled his hair and joined up all their hands. ‘Let’s sing “Ring a Ring a Rosie”, shall we? I’ll start you off.’ Breaking into the circle, she began to chant the words of the ditty, falling down at the end just as all the children did.

‘Excellent. Only this time let’s not fall on me.’ A laughing voice came from the very bottom of the pile and, reassembling them, she went to begin again. Nicholas felt a hand pulling him back and reluctantly drew his eyes away from the sight before him.

‘I’ll take you to the office now. Perhaps I could show you some of our hopes for the place and for the children.’

The door shut behind them as the music faded, though Nicholas stood still for a second, breathing in deeply to try to mitigate the effect Miss Brenna Stanhope seemed destined to wreak upon him. God, she was so lovely and so different from any other woman he had ever come across. Working for a living, and here? His eyes flickered to the mouldy ceilings and rusty pipes, as the reports of Sir Michael De Lancey’s financial problems came into mind. Where was the music and dancing and laughter with her peers that a beautiful woman like her should have. She was only twenty-four and hardly the matron her lifestyle espoused her to be. Dark violet eyes and dimples and a face that should be etched upon the surface of some ecclesiastical ceiling came so forcibly to mind that he had to shake his head in an attempt to regain a lost semblance of reality. With an effort he made himself follow Mrs Plummer into an office.

‘Does Miss Stanhope come here often?’ Nicholas asked, trying to appear indifferent to the answer.

‘Yes, indeed. She teaches three days a week and spends most evenings here. Her uncle has funded much of it, you see, but has fallen on harder times, so now we have to put out our feelers, so to speak.’ She looked slightly nervous again. ‘We try to keep our costs down to the minimum but, as you can appreciate, the whole task is a bit daunting given the age of this building and the needs of this community…’ Mrs Plummer was finding her tongue with growing gusto and it was almost ten minutes later when Nicholas was able to interrupt.

‘What I have seen has impressed me greatly. If you would like to put your figures together and send them to my secretary, I’m sure we could be of assistance.’

Mentioning a large sum of money, he leaned across the table and wrote down a name and address.

‘It has been most interesting, Mrs Plummer.’ He could hear that the music in the background had stopped and suddenly he had no desire to have Brenna Stanhope discover him here. Not now. Not yet. ‘And I am sure we shall be seeing each other again.’ Opening the door, he strode down the hallway to the outside sunshine and was pleased to see his man ready and waiting with the horses.

Betsy Plummer watched as he entered his coach and then she hurried back inside as soon as the conveyance had turned the corner.

‘Brenna, Kate,’ she called loudly, her voice shrill with unquestioned elation. ‘We got it, he’s promised us so much.’ Two faces came into sight, whooping with laughter and relief. ‘And you should see him, girls,’ Betsy added slowly. ‘He’s the most handsome man I think I’ve ever seen.’

Warning bells rang in Brenna’s ears. ‘What did you say his name was again, Betsy?’ she asked slowly, fearing the answer.

‘The Earl of Deuxberry,’ crooned the other, and Brenna expelled her indrawn breath with relief.

The months aged into November and the summer weather seemed all but gone. Brenna settled again into her comfortable, untroubled existence now that Nicholas Pencarrow seemed happy to leave her alone, though at nights sometimes, when the business of the day had receded, she allowed herself to daydream about him. Quietly at first and then with more ardour, the Duke of Westbourne’s gold-green eyes and lopsided smile invaded her fantasies, leaving her with a feeling of guilty pleasure in the morning and a firming resolution to put him from her memory.

At Beaumont Street things had become more agreeable, for under the patronage of Lord Deuxberry much of the old leaking plumbing had been fixed and the dormitories had been lined to make them warmer as they awaited the onslaught of winter. His chits came with a regularity no one dared to question and all hoped would continue, for, apart from the first visit, they had never dealt with him again directly, but rather with his chief secretary, a dour-faced but competent man called Winslop.

Today Mr Winslop had come to call with invitations in hand, one each for Brenna, Betsy and Kate, asking them to a supper Lord Deuxberry was hosting at his home in Kensington. Brenna felt uneasy as the man spelled out what would be expected of them.

‘His Lordship has made it very clear he would like the three of you to come. I think he may be ill pleased were this not to be the case as he has gone to some trouble to assemble an audience whose patronage would be forthcoming should you promote your orphanage well. It will not be too formal. If the weather is kind it may even spill out into the conservatory and, if not, all three drawing rooms will be in commission.’

Kate and Betsy looked at each other as they imagined the magnificence of the house. Brenna stared straight ahead and knew exactly what it would be like. Her one year out in the season had been so indelibly impressed on her mind, how could she not remember? The staff would stand at attention whilst cynical well-dressed men and women would condescendingly dissect their mission, their clothes, their manners and their looks, piece by piece until there was little left. And the worst of it was that she was caught, she would have to go, for to displease this patron could affect the welfare of the children who, after all, had no hand in the realm of these politics.

Mr Winslop handed each of them an invitation, their names printed boldly in black and he spoke quickly as he stood to depart.

‘The sixth is the date set, as you can see. I could arrange for his Lordship’s carriage to be sent if you should wish it so.’

Brenna shook her head, breaking in across his instructions. ‘No, my uncle will lend us his conveyance.’ The others nodded at her suggestion, anxious to be able to leave when they wanted rather than to be marooned in such illustrious company and dependent only on the whim of Lord Deuxberry.

Mr Winslop demurred and closed his book, handing over yet another chit to Betsy. ‘Very well, then. We will see you all next week.’

Five days later Brenna, Betsy and Kate found themselves pulling into the drive of a house far bigger than any of them could have imagined.

‘He must be one of the richest men in England,’ Brenna said as she observed the huge mansion and all the women looked at each other with undisguised apprehension. ‘No wonder he can afford to help us.’

‘Lord Deuxberry…’ The name ran upon her lips as she strove for any recollection of such an aristocrat when she was doing the season and failing in her quest. It was strange that she did not know of him, given his obvious wealth, for such opulence rarely went hand in hand with anonymity.

The carriage stopped outside the front portico, two footmen walking down huge marble steps to help them alight and accompany them to the butler, who stood stiffly at the main doorway.

Nicholas came out a moment later and his breath froze in his throat as he watched Brenna, dressed in simple blue, hair bound simply and face alight, her beauty reflected somehow in the moonbeams that danced across the glass dome above her, isolating her in the silver of an ethereal lightness.

‘Ladies,’ he said gently, striding forward on long legs, his gaze fastened firmly on Brenna Stanhope, ‘welcome to my home.’

Brenna whirled towards the voice, her glance snapping to his face. The Duke of Westbourne! For a second she thought to turn and leave—indeed, took the first step—before reason stopped her, and in that second she knew that this trap had been set most wisely, with patience and stealth. Her heart beat loudly in her ears as she forced her body into a stillness she was far from feeling, fists clenched white at her side as his hand came forward. She did not dare to let him touch her for fear of feeling again the sharp knowledge of his skin and was pleased when he let his fingers fall. The gentleness in his eyes flummoxed her, though, given her obvious insult, as did his next words.

‘I watched you from the balcony as you were on the piano playing “Ring a Roses”,’ he explained softly, his smile touching his eyes.

‘Indeed, Lord Deuxberry,’ she stressed the title and raised her chin, licking her lips in an unconscious message of fear.

‘I sometimes use the name, which is also mine by right, for it lets me function more anonymously.’

He looked straight at her and, liking his directness, she smiled.

Her face changed from hard to soft in a second, large dimples gracing both cheeks and liquid eyes dancing with lightness. God, she was so beautiful, how could her season here ever have gone poorly?

‘Could I take you through to meet our guests?’ he asked quietly. ‘I have tried to assemble a group who are the least wolfish that I know and also the most generous.’ Kate and Betsy nodded at his words.

Brenna frowned. Lord, please let there be none amongst them that she might once have known.

The drawing room was full of guests though the gaslights burned low, almost as candles, evoking a sense of warm friendliness conducive to their cause, and she felt heartened by the half-light. Missing Nicholas’s sign to his secretary to take the others, she found herself escorted by the Duke, and, as he introduced her to the guests with an unaffected charm, she noticed the deference he was accorded by all with whom he chatted. He made it easy for her to speak of the orphanage, bridging the way with his own admission of patronage. In his company, buffered as she was from any more personal queries, she felt herself relax, all the dreads and fears of discovery pushed away.

As she asked for their coats at the end of the night, she could not credit just where the time had gone.

‘Would you permit me to show you my home before you go?’ Nicholas asked the group as they stood at the front door. Kate and Betsy jumped at the chance, Brenna looked more tentative. ‘Just the music room, then?’ he compromised and led the three across into the other side of the house to a large glassed conservatory filled with palms and flowers, a fish pond along one end of the windows and a huge grand piano down towards the other. The women gasped in astonishment at the size and beauty of the place, so unexpected and inviting. Betsy and Kate moved to the pond and Brenna to the piano, where her fingers tinkled lightly across ivory keys checking its tone. Nick watched her and stood quietly as she played a simple arpeggio.

‘Would you like to play?’

His voice was husky and her eyes expressed her confusion. ‘No, thank you. It’s very beautiful, but now we have to go.’ The words came stilted and formal across her tongue and she sensed his disappointment. ‘My Lord…’ she began, but he held up a hand to stop her.

‘Nicholas, please.’

‘My Lord,’ she continued more firmly, ‘I have no doubt you have patronised our orphanage purely out of a misdirected belief that you owe me something. I helped you at Worsley simply because you were in trouble and now I want to know that you are helping the children of our orphanage simply because they are in trouble. Tonight was an invitation that, had I known the truth of your identity, I would have refused, and in the future I would like you to know that this cannot happen again. You have paid your debt with more than interest, your chits come regularly and with a generosity that staggers us all. But I am not part of the bargain, my Lord. You could never pay enough for me.’

He stood watching her, stepping back slightly, wondering why life held her so rigid and noticing the way her lips turned up at each end, even when she did not smile. She was both beautiful and clever—he had not expected that. He observed her carefully and began slowly, mindful of the other two who looked about to join them. ‘May I ask but one small favour, Miss Stanhope?’

Uncertain violet eyes regarded him.

‘If I was able to get a private ballet performance of the Christmas version of La Sylphide at Her Majesty’s Theatre, would you and the children do me the honour of being the audience?’

Brenna gasped at the invitation. ‘You could do that?’ she asked, amazed that he should think such a feat even possible, her mind running to the reviews she had heard of the pageant made famous by Marie Taglioni herself.

‘Money can buy dreams,’ he said quietly, watching the smile die in her eyes and perplexed by her answer.

‘That is debatable, my Lord,’ she whispered distantly, ‘for more often it kills them.’

Charles Pencarrow bounded into the southern drawing room of Pencarrow House the next afternoon and Nicholas stood to greet his younger brother with delight.

‘Charlie,’ he said, shaking the proffered hand with warmth. ‘When did you arrive up from Hertfordshire and why did you not let me know you were coming? Grandmama is not with you, is she?’ He looked around behind his brother for any sign of his grandmother, Elizabeth, Dowager Duchess of Westbourne, his eyes coming back to Charles for his answer.

‘Grandmama is not here, and I was only coming for the day except the meeting in London went on for longer than I had hoped, so I deemed it safer to wait here and go home in the morning.’

Nick nodded and crossed to the cabinet behind him. ‘You want to join me in a drink? Whisky?’

‘Brandy, I think. I’d already started on one at the club before I heard the news.’

‘News?’ Nicholas asked, a puzzled frown across his face. ‘What news?’

‘The news that a girl dressed like a nun turned down an invitation to the symphony from the highly acclaimed, but perhaps overrated, Duke of Westbourne.’

‘Ahh, that news!’ Nick laughed. ‘The gossips, I fear. Well, they’re half right. She did turn me down, but she doesn’t look like a nun.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Brenna Stanhope, the same girl who rescued me in the woods on the London Road.’

‘But you said she wouldn’t see you?’ Charles queried.

‘She wouldn’t. I had to trick her into coming here. I’ve become the patron of an orphanage she runs in the East End, and she only accepted an invitation—and with great wariness, I might add—from that patron, Lord Deuxberry.’

Charles laughed in disbelief. ‘She doesn’t like you?’ He beamed. ‘You must be losing your touch, Nick.’

Nicholas frowned and lowered his voice to almost a whisper so that Charles had to strain to hear. ‘When Father met Johanna he knew in one moment that he loved her. “Once and forever”, those were his words…’ Raising his glass, he finished his drink, all layers of urbanity overshadowed by a savage anger. ‘And he said it would be the same for us.’

‘My God,’ Charles retorted, all humour fleeing, ‘you can’t be telling me…’

‘I’m not telling you anything.’ His eyes darkened perceptibly. ‘And don’t worry, it’s a passing fancy that’s all. In a month she’ll mean as little to me as every other women I’ve known.’ He stalked over to the window and threw open the sash, enjoying the air that rolled into the room. Brenna Stanhope made him restless and uncertain, for she made him imagine possibilities he thought he’d long since dismissed.

‘The men at the club called her clever.’

Hearing the question in Charlie’s voice, Nicholas refilled his glass and tried to explain with a stoic patience.

‘Brenna Stanhope has a mind that would cut most men’s logic to ribbons; if I had to describe her personality in one word, it would be “formidable”. Last night she told me that she was not a part of any bargain and that I could never pay enough for her. That was just before she ordered me to leave her alone.’

Charles began to laugh in earnest. ‘What does she look like?’

‘She has dimples.’

‘Alan Wrightson claims she is beautiful.’

‘Then the man, for all his faults, cannot be accused of having bad taste in women.’

‘He claims she has violet-coloured eyes.’

‘Those too.’ His brother’s whoop of delight made Nicholas’s heart sink.

‘When do I get to meet her?’

‘You don’t and I’ll see you at dinner.’ Draining his glass, Nicholas put it down on the table and walked out of the room.

In his own study he shut the door and leaned back against the cushioned header of his favourite chair. For twelve years he had been the quarry of countless feminine wiles and pushy doyennes all eager to marry him off and tie him down. For twelve years the gossips had run his name with this woman or that one until finally they had framed him callous and hardened. The ‘Heartless Duke of Westbourne’ was how he had heard his name bandied as the cream of each year’s débutantes were paraded before him and failed to rouse even the slightest interest. He ran his fingers across his temple and closed his eyes. Letitia Carruthers. Deborah Hutton. Alison Smythe-Finch. His consorts of the moment were all well bred, all well experienced. And all easily left. His father’s legacy personified. What stamp, then, did Brenna Stanhope make on him and why? He shifted in his chair and finished his drink.

Beautiful, clever, mysterious and with eyes the colour of Scottish heather after the rain. He shook his head at his sudden predilection for the way of poetry and smiled wryly before bending his head to the figures in a thick ledger on his desk.