Читать книгу To Love A Wicked Scoundrel - Anabelle Bryant - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Park Lane, Grosvenor Square

Mayfair, London

‘Brooks!’

Constantine Highborough, Earl of Colehill, pulled a pillow forward to shield his eyes as his valet opened the heavy drapes and drenched the otherwise dark room in instant daylight. His menacing complaint resounded throughout the silent townhouse grandly situated near the eastern corner of Grosvenor Square. Attempting a shred of tolerance, he squinted across the room to ascertain Brooks, his valet, stood within his bedchamber. There was an incident some time ago when a misguided widow entered through the servant’s door and found her way into his rooms. While the outcome of that happenstance proved pleasurable, as a general rule Constantine despised surprises. He was a man of little patience, accustomed to getting whatever he desired whenever he desired it, whether in reference to his own interests, the plethora of women who pursued him, or the sycophantic adoration of London’s chosen society.

Upon seeing his valet, he barked a ready order. ‘Close the drapes! I just climbed abed a few hours ago.’

Brooks walked to the grate, stirred the fire, and returned to the window, his attention held by some distant point Constantine could not fathom.

‘Forgive me, milord. It is nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. I had no idea you just stumbled in. I recall two weeks past when you discovered Lady Wilmington waiting in your carriage. I did not see you for several nights thereafter. Good of you to send the messenger, though.’

Constantine groaned. It would appear his valet was in rare form this morning. His final sentence was clipped and spoken rather pithily, and worse, the man persisted.

‘No one can blame me for jumping to conclusions. At times it is a difficulty to keep a schedule of your frequent trips to the vineyards, never mind on occasion when your carriage or your attentions are waylaid by a pretty face.’

‘Brooks, please.’ His words, nothing more than a muffled grumble, accomplished little. His valet had yet to draw the drapes and Con’s irritation continued to build.

‘And too, there is your terrible habit of burning the candle at both ends. You move about society until the wee hours of the morning and then closet upstairs in your studio painting until well into the day. It is no wonder you are tired. But when the entire city hangs on your every word, styles after your mode of dress, and overlooks the impropriety of females loitering in front of your house in hopes of catching your eye, I can readily understand your exhaustion. You are human, are you not?’

Disgusted with Brooks’ condemning diatribe, Con threw back the sheets and strode to the windows, heedless of the fact he wore very little clothing. He yanked the draperies closed. ‘Believe me, I am human and, as such, experience many human emotions, including anger and annoyance. Keep the drapes closed, cease complaining about my reputation, and aspire to adhere more closely to my schedule as it is the central reason I have you in my employ.’ He strode to the bed and climbed back under the blankets.

Undaunted, Brooks continued his chastisement. ‘Now you have done it. If any of the flirtatious females out in the square glanced up to these windows in that instant, they would have been scandalised by your unclothed form.’

‘I rather doubt it.’ He pulled to a sitting position in bed, and tucked the sheets and counterpane around him, resolved no sleep would occur. ‘The women who hide in my carriage, skulk by the window or throw themselves fortuitously in my path would be far from scandalised by my naked body. It is, in fact, their main objective.’

He did not add how apathetic he’d become to the tedious antics of these same females. Their constant attention complicated his life and while he thoroughly enjoyed the female body in all its beauty, he cared little for the jaded manner in which these same women approached him. Over the past several years Brooks had become accustomed to turning them away and deflecting their pursuits, so Con had no idea what caused the valet’s surly mood this morning. He reached for the coffee steaming on his bedside table, another courtesy of Brooks’ attention, and viewed his valet who peered out the window, where something held his keen interest captive.

Nearly of the same age, their friendship was stronger than the alliance of their eight-year association as employer and servant. While it remained highly uncommon for a peer to employ a valet born almost in the same year, Con prided himself on doing little that could be labeled ordinary.

Brooks opened the drapes wider and turned in Con’s direction. ‘I am watching the Bilmont townhouse across the square. It appears it has finally been rented. Three carriages and quite a bit of luggage arrived earlier, along with an efficient staff and extra outriders. I could not help but observe the scurrying servants unloading excessive amounts of baggage. I surmise it is a large family by the sight of all the trunks. Still, I suppose the place has fallen into hideous condition in the two years since old Duke Bilmont went bankrupt.’

‘And that is what holds your attention? A bunch of luggage and servants? You, my friend, are a busybody.’ Con wiped his palm over his face and exhaled his opinion, almost missing his valet’s disgruntled snort. A half smile quirked his lips.

When he had fished Brooks out of the Thames where cutthroats meant to end his life, and offered him employment as his personal valet, he had asked for loyalty and discretion in return. Brooks had proved both qualities too many times to tally. Their friendship evolved with seamless ease and Con came to realise the man possessed a sly sense of humour and clever perspective on life. Despite the difference in their levels of birth, he considered Brooks one of his very best friends.

He finished his coffee, setting the cup down on the bedside table.

‘I was upstairs painting until a few hours ago.’ His tone expressed exhaustion more than anything else. ‘I completely lost track of time, but it is good of you to wake me. I have business to attend to this afternoon and my correspondence has lingered too long. By the by, I need fresh canvases. See to the purchase.’

Aside from Brooks, few people knew of his passion for painting, and he chose to keep it that way. His affinity for artwork was a private pleasure in a life filled with reluctant celebrity. His studio served as a much-needed sanctuary: the room locked with Brooks in possession of the single extra key. The valet delivered food and drink as well as replacing linens or delivering supplies.

By no instigating of his own, society had adopted him as their chosen darling. Often in the gossip pages and sought after for all social events, Con was labeled the most eligible bachelor in London. He paid little attention to it all unless it interfered in his otherwise enjoyable lifestyle, as in the case of Lady Wilmington. His elaborate barouche with its distinguishing red wheels had made him an easy mark for her schemed escapade that past evening. He smiled at the pleasant remembrance.

‘You need more rest. I should never have entered without knocking.’

Wise to Brooks’ anxious departure, Con sought to redirect him before the servant escaped from the room with the same speed as he had entered.

‘I need a hired hack this evening. I cannot take the chance of using my own carriage to transport my work. As before, arrange for the vehicle’s arrival in the middle of the night and we will load my paintings. They are better off at Highborough House where there is ample wall space.’ His eyes swept from one framed painting to the other hanging within his bedchamber; the two pieces of art were among his favourites. Then he snapped his eyes to Brooks before he continued. ‘Besides, when I grow bored of the season I will likely retire to Highborough House and visit the vineyards. I can sort through my artwork then.’

‘As you wish, milord. Shall I arrange for three in the morning?’

‘Yes, three will be fine. Did you visit the costermongers? Did you purchase what I need?’

Resigned to the fact sleep would be sacrificed, Con stood to dress and turned to Brooks in wait of his answer.

‘I will obtain your canvases and order your supplies but I am sorry to tell you the costermonger sold no poppies. Daisies, primroses, elder, there were plenty, but I enquired throughout the market and no one had a single bloom.’

Constantine grunted in response. Fully clothed in a comfortable cambric shirt and loose trousers, he was quick to forego the need of cravat and waistcoat. He waved off Brooks as he approached with the linen cloth in hand.

Having his valet purchase his supplies and obtain botanicals was indispensible. Were he to send another servant or venture to the flower mart himself, unending speculation would begin as to why he needed quantities of linseed oil, or to which special lady the bouquets were being presented. Most of what he did was lionized by the ton. In this manner any strange habits were linked to the one servant he trusted never to compromise his privacy; even though that very same servant proved a meddling gossip in every case.

Accustomed to his master’s frequent requests for flowers to incorporate into his paintings, Brooks suggested an immediate solution. ‘If you merely need to look at them, there are poppies growing in the centre of Grosvenor Square.’ He walked to the window, parted the curtain, and glanced to the left. ‘Towards the far corner, across from the Bilmont townhouse.’

Con turned towards his valet and offered one of his most convincing smiles. The kind that caused ladies to request he undo their corset strings. ‘Do me a favour and go fetch a few.’

Brooks released a short laugh. ‘That smile won’t work with me. I will do no such thing. Regardless of the fact I remain curious as to the activity near the corner, I will not tread on the manicured lawns of London’s finest square and callously pick flowers from the viewing garden. What type of riff-raff do you believe me to be?’ Not allowing an answer, he excused himself to run errands and slipped from the room.

Constantine walked to the window and looked below. It was early in the afternoon for the general parade of strollers who frequented the square, yet three ladies twirled parasols at the corner right outside his front steps. It would be of no use to leave without catching someone’s attention, but then he noticed Brooks as he strode to the front of the house after having exited through the servant’s backdoor. A half-baked and inordinately bird-witted idea formed within his mind. Without another minute spent on reason, he dashed to the back stairs.

With a beaver cap pulled low on his brow and his loose fitting shirt and beige trousers, he appeared more the delivery person than the impeccably dressed earl expected to emerge from the front door of the townhouse. He exited through the servant’s door and cut long strides across the street into the parterre gardens with its many walkways and paths. Preoccupied with reaching the poppy garden without being recognised, he startled when something collided with his legs, and belatedly pushed his cap past his forehead to ascertain what occurred.

A child stood before him; a lovely little thing actually. He noticed she clutched a stick, the hoop having bumped into his legs and veered off into a nearby garden, one containing a vast bed of pert coquelicot poppies.

Without pause he retrieved the young lady’s wooden toy and plucked a few poppies while he leaned into the flowerbed. ‘Here you are. It is my pleasure to be of service.’ He handed the child the hoop and one flower. She smiled sweetly at his favour.

‘Thank you, sir. I shall give this poppy to Isabelle.’ The child turned and looked over her shoulder to a nearby bench where a dowdy looking woman sat, her nose buried in a thick book.

‘I believe your governess will be very pleased.’ His mission accomplished, he offered her a quick nod.

‘That is not my governess. That is my sister. Stepsister actually, but we do not regard the first four letters. Isabelle is not fond of four-letter words. She says most are utterly distasteful.’

Taken off-guard by the youngling’s forthright appeal, Con stalled, the little miss was quite a charmer. ‘Is that so?’ His eyes skimmed over the woman seated on the bench, taking in the long loose gown and pale green pelisse. Her hair remained hidden under a conservative straw bonnet and the shadow of its long brim obscured her face. She appeared unremarkable, and his attention returned to the child who continued to converse with him even though his mind wandered.

Her expectant expression prompted him to reply. ‘I do understand about four letter words.’ That was a flat out lie. Some of his favourite words were comprised of four letters. Still, he managed a suitable answer. ‘Okra. I despise that one.’

The child gazed at him with beseeching eyes, seemingly reluctant to release him from their conversation. For such a young female, she certainly knew how to flutter her eyelashes.

‘It has been my pleasure, milady, but I do need to leave. If you will excuse me?’ He extended his hand to bid farewell, but she did not take it. Instead she pointed to the ivory engraved button on his cuff before she ran her dainty fingertip over the raised horse head in reverence.

‘That is a very fine button, milord. I collect buttons and I do not have one in such sharp detail.’ She touched it again as if afraid she imagined its existence and Con couldn’t help but smile at her unrehearsed charm.

‘Then you shall have it.’ He spared not a moment to consider Brooks’ anger at finding his shirt in need of repair and snapped the button from its threads to hand to the child. He watched as she secured it in her apron pocket and picked up the ash wood hoop from where it had dropped when she had accepted the flower.

‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ In a scuttle of muslin and eyelet, she turned and ran further into the park towards the woman on the bench.

Constantine wasted no time making his way across the street, not wishing to engage the reserved looking sister and receive another scolding that afternoon.