Читать книгу Regency Affairs Part 2: Books 7-12 Of 12 - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 56

By the time Alec got back upstairs, Rosalie was sitting by the window, with a drab shawl over her gown and her hair pinned up, and—

‘What exactly are you doing, Mrs Rowland?’

She stiffened. ‘Mending some shirts. Mary came up after you’d gone and I asked her if there was anything I could do.’

‘Mary had no business giving you servants’ work!’

Her blue eyes flashed. ‘Captain Stewart, I’m aware that I’ve been taking up a room, and your time and your servants’ time. That you’ve been feeding both myself and Katy for days now—’

‘And neither of you eats enough to keep a bird alive,’ he retorted, glancing at her slender frame, which was a big mistake, because he remembered with a jolt just how it had felt, spanning that tiny waist with his hands, feeling the feminine swell of her hips, the sweet warmth of those lips …

Damnation. He clamped down hard on the sudden surge of desire.

He went on, in a voice he strove to make less abrasive, ‘I take it you’re feeling considerably better. Would you care to come out for a while with me?’

‘Out …?’

‘Yes. To look at some paintings. They’re at a private house, to the west of the city. It will take us perhaps half an hour to get there.’

She hesitated. ‘You think I’ll be safe?’

‘I don’t think the coward who sent that note would dare to do anything in broad daylight, not while you’re with me.’

She nodded tightly. ‘But Katy …’

‘Your daughter has already been in Mary’s care for days, with my men watching the house—and her—constantly. I thought you might like a change of scene, since earlier you told me you feared you would go mad, trapped in here.’

Rosalie bit her lip. And then she’d let him kiss her. What a fool he must think her. For all her protests and defiance, she’d surrendered to him yet again, so very easily! No wonder he didn’t question her role as a whore at the Temple of Beauty—she played the part so well. Heat unfurled in her insides just at the thought of his lips once more caressing hers.

It was time, finally, to confront him, but not here. Not in this place where he was master. ‘An outing to look at some paintings?’ she said pleasantly. ‘That sounds—delightful, Captain Stewart!’

He gave her twenty minutes to get ready, then came to lead her downstairs. ‘Why not go and see your daughter first?’ he suggested. ‘She’s out in the garden. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to leave.’

He’d pointed to an open door and she blinked to find herself in the bright sunlight. The garden was larger than she’d thought, a walled quarter of an acre or so of trees and tangled shrubs that ran quite wild. The sound of children’s laughter drew her around the corner to a flagged terrace, where Mary sat sewing in the sun and watching over the children.

Mary beamed a welcome. ‘It’s so good that you’re up and about, my dear! You’ll see for yourself how happy your little girl is with my granddaughters—there’s Jenny, she’s three, and Amy with the pink dress, she’s four …’

Indeed, Katy seemed engrossed in the game she was playing with two merry girls. And nearby at another table were two old soldiers, playing cards idly; but Rosalie remembered what Alec had said—that his men were watching the house and Katy constantly. Again, a pang of warning clamped her ribs.

Who to trust? Who to believe?

‘I need to thank you,’ said Rosalie quietly, ‘for taking such good care of her while I’ve been ill.’

‘Bless you, she’s no trouble at all.’

Just then Katy saw her and ran up to her; Rosalie hugged her tightly. ‘I’m going out for just a little while, Katy, sweetheart!’

Katy gave her a kiss, then ran off to her game again. She was happy here, as Mary said. Had settled as quickly as she’d settled into Helen’s house, with Rosalie.

She realised Alec had come out and was watching. ‘She makes friends easily,’ he commented.

Rosalie nodded. ‘She’s always been adaptable.’

‘How old was she when her father died?’

The question made her catch her breath, sharply. ‘She was—only a baby.’ She stumbled over the words. ‘Really, she never knew him.’

Was there doubt in his dark eyes? If so, he let it go. ‘I’ve just got to attend to the horses. I’ll see you in the entrance hall.’

She went back to the house, her apprehension rising again. But then a great big golden dog with woebegone eyes ambled up to her and seemed to be leading her into the kitchen, where a tray of freshly baked biscuits sat on a high shelf.

He was wagging his tail so eagerly that Rosalie just had to reach for two of them, which he wolfed down as if he hadn’t eaten for days. As she petted and fussed him, she didn’t notice that Garrett had come in.

‘Like dogs, do yer, ma’am?’

His voice made her jump out of her skin. ‘Oh! Not always, to be honest. But this one—he’s gorgeous! What’s his name?’

‘Ajax. He’s a good lad, Ajax is.’ Garrett was actually looking at her with something approaching friendliness. ‘Been giving him some of my wife’s biscuits, have you? That’s good, she’d have my hide if she caught me doing it, but ‘cos it’s you, it’s all right, see?’

Rosalie struggled with the logic of all this, but Garrett was already pointing to the door. ‘The Captain says he’s ready for you outside now, ma’am.’

Indeed, Alec had obtained a curricle from somewhere, harnessed to two passable greys, and Garrett rode at the back like a rich man’s tiger, so private conversation was impossible.

But—she enjoyed it. She enjoyed sitting at Alec’s side, wrapped up against the fresh spring breeze, looking round at London’s crowds, at the shops and other carriages. She enjoyed Alec’s steady presence beside her, his skilful hands so sure on the reins. The admiring glances he got from passing women, their looks of envy at her …

Pretending. That was what she was doing. Just pretending, she reminded herself. And she found talking to him easier than she’d thought, for she had a neutral topic of conversation: that garden. ‘Such a beautiful place,’ she said warmly. ‘Or at least it must have been, once!’

He nodded. ‘I’m afraid my priority is in keeping the actual house in one piece. But you’re right, it was once beautiful. Don’t tell me—you know something about gardens also, Mrs Rowland?’

She hesitated. ‘We had a garden with the cottage in Oxfordshire. My—my mother loved it.’

Her voice faded away. Her mother had planted it with such care, to remind her of the man she’d loved. It bloomed with the English flowers: roses, hollyhocks, heart’s-ease. When Linette had gone, their mother used to sit out there day after day, hoping that her lost daughter might return ….

‘Mrs Rowland, are you all right?’

Rosalie quickly dabbed her handkerchief to her eyes, pretending that a little dust had blown in them. ‘Yes. Yes, thank you—perfectly.’

Impossible that he could have guessed at her grief—and yet it was as though he did, because Alec went on to distract her, as he drove the curricle expertly through London’s streets, with descriptions of the wonderful gardens—many of them sadly ruined by war—that he’d seen in Spain and Portugal. Then he became silent, concentrating on the busy traffic, and she felt her spine tingle in renewed warning. You have to ask him about Linette.

But then what? If he was guilty, what did she expect him to do? What did she want him to do? She wanted him to say he was sorry, perhaps. But most of all—she wanted to be wrong.

When he told her they’d arrived, she was bewildered. She’d taken little notice of their surroundings for the last ten minutes or so, being too absorbed in her own thoughts. Now, she was speechless.

They’d stopped in a street where huge mansions with white-stuccoed façades gazed benevolently down on a square filled with trees and well-tended shrubs. Liveried carriages with be-wigged footmen put Alec’s equipage to shame. This was Mayfair, she realised with a jolt of alarm. About as different from Two Crows Castle as a palace from a pauper’s hovel. Yet Garrett was marching up to the big front door and lifting the glittering brass doorknocker as if he knew the place! Rosalie turned white-faced to Alec. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘No, indeed.’ Alec was watching her, with a strange expression on his face. ‘We’re here to look at some paintings, Mrs Rowland—remember?’

‘Why, Master Alec!’ cried Jarvis, brushing aside the footman who’d opened the door.

Alec returned the greeting. ‘Just a quick visit, Jarvis. Is everything all right? Has my brother been?’

Jarvis frowned and lowered his voice. ‘He has, sir. He came for more paintings. And he said it was all on your father’s orders, Master Alec!’

‘Did he, now?’ Alec’s voice was lethally soft.

‘Most of them are back. But take a look round, do. And I see you have a companion.’ Rosalie had followed Alec up the steps and stood frozen in the doorway.

‘An acquaintance of mine, Jarvis,’ said Alec. ‘Perhaps you could find us something to eat, in an hour or so?’

‘If you’re hungry, Master Alec, there’s plenty of food, all delivered by Berry Brothers an hour ago. A feast laid ready, in fact.’

‘Food? But the house is closed up, surely!’

‘Indeed, sir. And your father’s cook has gone with him to Carrfields.’ The old steward’s face had darkened and he lowered his voice. ‘But you’ll guess, I think, who ordered it—all in your father’s name. Some kind of party’s planned here tonight. And were we, the staff, informed in advance? No!’ He shook his head. ‘If you ask me, it would be justice indeed, if you and the young lady were to partake of just a little of it! And there’s clothes, sir—’ he pursed his lips ‘—clothes we were told to dispose of, because they’re no longer the fashion.’

Alec nodded thoughtfully. Then he turned to Rosalie, who was still staring around, stunned. ‘Come inside,’ he said and she followed mutely as he led the way to the main hall, from which a vast double staircase rose in gilded splendour.

‘This,’ he said, ‘at least gives you the chance to look around and see what a change of fortune has been mine.’

‘Change of—?’

‘All in good time. But first—I want you to tell me about some paintings.’

He saw her draw her hand across her forehead. ‘Indeed, I promised to do so. But I don’t understand …’

‘It’s quite simple. I’d like the benefit of your expertise. Take a look round here, for instance. My particular favourite was always that Poussin, by the stairs—’

‘I noticed that one straight away,’ she broke in, ‘because it’s not a Poussin!’

Well. Ro Rowland was continuing to surprise him. ‘Pray continue,’ Alec said softly.

‘It’s a good likeness,’ she persisted, swiftly walking over to it, ‘any art lover would know that. But of course the brushwork, let alone the balance of opaque and transparent colours, is not typical of Poussin in the least.’

He blinked. ‘But of course.’

‘As for that pair of portraits by Le Brun—’ she swung round and pointed to another wall ‘—the varnish on them is quite wrong. It’s too new.’ She walked across to peer more closely; he tried not to notice the way her slender hips swayed as she moved. ‘And the signature is,’ she went on, swinging round and almost catching his too-appreciative stare, ‘a forgery!’

That concentrated his wandering mind. Those were his mother’s, damn it. ‘You’re quite certain?’

‘I am indeed! But if you’re doubting my knowledge, Captain Stewart …!’

‘Not at all,’ he breathed. ‘Not at all, Mrs Rowland.’ He bowed his head. ‘I am—grateful.’

Grateful, and stunned. By her knowledge, by her damned allure—and by Stephen’s damned treachery. He led her onwards.

Rosalie was bemused by this house. By the wonderful treasures within it where he was so clearly at home. But, oh, what game was he playing with her this time?

Her mind struggled for answers. Perhaps he was an impoverished cousin, who’d been occasionally allowed to stay. For goodness’ sake, he certainly knew the vast place backwards! And he knew the paintings, too, which made up a fabulous collection. Indeed, in every salon, every chamber to which he so coolly led her, wonderful works of art adorned the walls.

But she was growing more and more concerned about them, because she considered that at least one in ten were careful forgeries. She pointed them out to him without emotion, and Alec nodded and wrote down the details in a notebook he carried.

But Rosalie failed to see what business it was of his.

In inner bewilderment, she followed him through all the ground-floor rooms, then up to other grand chambers. ‘You need not worry about us being interrupted,’ he said as she hesitated outside one fine room. ‘The owner is away, in the country.’

Well. If that was supposed to make her more comfortable about this intrusion into another’s home, it had the opposite effect. But Alec, un-fazed, led her onwards, this time to the bedrooms and dressing rooms, where the paintings were smaller, daintier. One by one she examined each work of art and reported her conclusion.

‘This is the final room,’ said Alec gravely, flinging open the door to a beautiful dressing chamber and adjoining bedroom. ‘And by the way, I’m extremely grateful to you.’

She nodded tightly. ‘As long as you or I don’t end up in gaol.’

‘Not us,’ he said. ‘Believe me, not us. What about those?’

She turned to examine one last set of exquisite French figure drawings in black-and-red chalk. ‘These are not counterfeit, I’m sure. They’re by Watteau. They must be very valuable.’

‘Good,’ he breathed. ‘He always loved those pictures.’

‘He?’

But Alec was already putting his notebook in his pocket. ‘And that’s the last of them, thank God. Rosalie, would you like some new clothes?’

Again he saw apprehension glitter in her eyes. ‘Not at all. I already have those you gave me, at Two Crows Castle!’

She was pointing to the plain gown she wore, but Alec’s lip curled in an ironic smile. ‘All women always need more clothes, surely. Come and take a look in here.’ He led her through to another large dressing room, and she caught her breath at the gowns, pelisses and walking dresses that were simply scattered on couches at either end of the room like jewels from a treasure trove.

‘Help yourself,’ he drawled.

She whipped round. ‘I cannot possibly!’

‘Let me assure you—they will not be missed. I’m grateful to you for examining the paintings. You can take whatever you want as your reward.’ His eyes impassively assessed her figure in a way that made her skin tingle. ‘Put one of these gowns on now, why not? They should all fit you.’

She was still utterly bewildered. She wanted to ask so many questions, but he was already turning to go. ‘I’ll see you downstairs when you’ve made your choice,’ he said. ‘Then we may as well eat. The dining room is just off the main hall. Ring the bell for a maid if you need anything.’

And he’d gone. She sat down rather suddenly on the edge of the bed. Who did these wonderful clothes belong to? Who did this mansion belong to? What was Alec Stewart doing to her brain, her existence?

He was her enemy. She’d only gone with him that dreadful night after the poetry reading because she’d had no choice; only stayed with him because she’d been so ill. He had to be her enemy. But why, then, did he offer to protect her against the writer of that abominable note?

I don’t know. I don’t know.

He thought her a whore and the knowledge seared her. He thought she’d be delighted with this treasure trove of clothes. Sick at heart, she lifted the extravagant garments one by one, until she found a modest muslin gown in midnight blue, with three-quarter-length sleeves and a fichu to cover her bosom. Then she tidied her hair, using the silver-backed brush that lay on the mirrored dressing table, and dragged it back into a ribbon.

There! Most women of the ton would require the assistance of two maids to adorn themselves, but not her. And if he hoped she might betray her vanity, or her—her availability by her choice of clothes—he’d be disappointed.

She rang the bell for a servant—she had no hope of finding her way round this palatial house by herself—and the maid, arriving, curtsied with a smile. ‘You ready to go downstairs, ma’am? Master Alec said to show you the way!’

Master Alec. Another servant who knew the renegade Captain rather well. Rosalie seized a filmy cashmere shawl to drape across her arms and followed the maid downstairs, nervous again. The afternoon dusk was gathering, but wax candles had been lit throughout the house. Expense was clearly of no account here. The maid opened a door off the main hall. ‘There you are, ma’am.’

Rosalie blinked in fresh amazement. This was the dining room—a room Alec hadn’t yet shown her—and on a vast linen-draped table were laid out smoked hams, cold joints of beef, pies and whole cheeses, surrounded by a glittering array of porcelain and silverware. This table was set for twenty people. Bottles of wine adorned the sideboard. ‘We may as well eat,’ Alec had casually said—but this was a feast!

She suddenly became aware of Alec as he entered the room behind her. ‘What’s this?’ she breathed, turning to face him. ‘Is the owner giving a party tonight?’

‘It certainly looks like it. Doesn’t it? And I see you found yourself something to wear.’

His dark eyes were fastened on her, in a way that somehow made her lungs ache with the need for air. The colour flared in her cheeks. ‘I chose the simplest gown I could find!’

‘Indeed. And it suits you.’

Rather too well, thought Alec, damn it all. Indeed, his pulse rate had started hammering away the minute he saw her standing there, looking so lost and so alone. She’d picked a garment that was downright plain, perhaps hoping to deter him, perhaps not.

For the clinging fabric hugged her sweet curves like blue gossamer, moving whenever she moved, clinging to her gently swelling bosom and hips, her slim thighs … As for her hair, again she had confounded him. As far as Alec was aware women spent hours over their hair, crimping it, styling it. But hers was done so artlessly—pulled up into a ribbon, yet with those few trailing locks that looked delicious enough to run through in his fingers. Devil take it, did she truly not realise how beautiful she looked? And didn’t she realise—he noted it and gritted his teeth—how the fichu of her gown, too loose for her slender form, hung away from her bosom whenever she moved, so that if he gazed down at her he could see …

Don’t go there. She is cleverer than you think. Alec dragged his eyes away and wished the rest of his body could be as effectively controlled.

Rosalie, too, was in turmoil, because Alec looked different. Stunningly different. He’d changed into formal attire—a black tailcoat that fitted his broad shoulders to perfection, cream skintight kerseymere breeches that clung rather too well to his strong thighs, and highly-polished Hessian boots. Sudden heat surged through her insides. Although his jaw was starting to look darkly unshaven and his thick black hair was rumpled and ungroomed, he looked quite heartbreakingly handsome.

A ripple of warning, of danger, was squeezing at her chest.

She gazed round, rather wildly looking for something to fill her thoughts other than him. ‘Alec,’ she said, ‘this is not right. These clothes. The food. We are stealing.’

Alec regarded her with speculative dark eyes. ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘The food was an oversight; we have every right to help ourselves. And my clothes are my own.’

‘Your—’

‘Indeed. After all, this is the house I grew up in.’

Her heart had juddered completely to a halt.

‘I was trying to tell you earlier,’ he went on. ‘But you didn’t believe me, did you?’

‘I thought, perhaps …’

‘You thought, perhaps, that I was some impoverished relative, kept hidden below stairs when the ton came to call?’

She flushed. Alec could tell those were her exact suspicions.

And yet in all other ways this woman was again confounding all his expectations. Damn it all, most females would exclaim avidly over this wonderful house and any hint of a connection to such wealth. Would cry out in delight over the clothes and dress themselves, if offered the chance, in the most showy, the most expensive. Especially a woman who’d worked at the Temple of Beauty.

Instead, she’d chosen the simplest gown there was, which showed off her slender yet gorgeous figure to absolute perfection. She was either utterly naïve or she was playing him at his own game very cleverly.

This whole visit was intended to test her—yet it was he who was being wrong-footed at every turn.

Sighing inwardly at the mystery that was Rosalie Rowland, he drew out a chair for her. ‘Yes, I grew up here,’ he said softly. ‘My father—who is away at present—is a peer of the realm—an earl, no less. And as for me—I, Mrs Rowland, am his younger son.’