Читать книгу Historical Romance June 2017 Books 1 - 4 - Энни Берроуз, Annie Burrows - Страница 15

Chapter Five

Edmund pushed his way through the cluster of people gathered by the railings of Durant House and gave his name to the burly footman stationed there.

He’d known tonight’s event would rouse interest in certain circles, but had not anticipated it creating quite such a stir. He had underestimated the amount of people who had nothing better to do than gossip, obviously. Though Lord and Lady Havelock, the owners of Durant House, had certainly done plenty to create it. Lady Havelock had been a complete unknown before their marriage, which had taken place just before Christmas, while most of the ton had been spending the Season on their country estates. And, according to the very few people who’d been on terms to visit since the couple had taken up residence, she had performed an almost miraculous transformation upon one of the gloomiest town houses known to the haut ton.

What was more, before this mysterious woman could take up her place in society, her lord had proved equally efficient in his own endeavours at siring an heir. Her appearances in public therefore were few and far between and invitations to Durant House were scarcer than hen’s teeth. Which meant that everyone who hadn’t seen inside wanted to know how the young Lady Havelock had managed to effect the sort of improvement upon her new home—that those who had been privileged to see it were raving about—without bankrupting her husband in the process.

‘You are expected, Lord Ashenden,’ said the footman, before stepping aside to allow him to pass.

A smile tugged at Edmund’s lips as he mounted the steps to the front door which swung open as if by magic. Georgiana’s stepmother must have been cock-a-hoop when she received her invitation to this ‘informal gathering of friends and family’, especially once she’d seen how many others were not being admitted to the select gathering. After tonight, the three Wickford ladies would be invited to all sorts of events hosted by ladies whose determination to discover the latest gossip about the interior of Durant House knew no bounds. They would not even be deterred by their humble origins, if anyone ever bothered delving into their antecedents.

Edmund handed his hat and coat to the footman who’d opened the door to him, and made his way across the wainscoted hall to the staircase that swept up the left wall, via a series of half-landings, to the gallery spanning the next storey. The hall was massive. And could have been imposing, but somehow felt welcoming, in spite of Lord Havelock’s forebears scowling down at him from their heavily gilded frames.

That was possibly because he didn’t care about the opinion of long-dead nobles. To be frank, he didn’t give much for the opinion of living ones either. The only person whose thoughts interested him in the slightest, at this moment, was Georgiana.

She was bound to be angry with him after the way they’d parted. Though at least this time he knew why she was angry with him and had a perfectly sound explanation to offer. At least, he intended to explain why he hadn’t called upon her before she’d left Bartlesham. He was tolerably certain she would understand his need to think things through. And that she’d forgive his earlier offence once he demonstrated his willingness to be her friend once more, if not her husband.

What he was not going to do, however, was offer any explanation as to why he hadn’t called upon her now that he was in Town as well.

A flush crept up his neck as he mounted the stairs, brought on by the recollection of the impetuous way he’d stormed out of Six Chimneys before he’d gathered all the information he needed. And then the difficulty he’d had attempting to track her down. By the time he had done so, it was far too late to simply pay her a morning call, since she was bound to have known exactly how long he’d been in residence at Ashenden House. Various newspapers regularly reported his movements, for reasons that remained a mystery to him. It would have looked as though he’d been too busy, or too indifferent to call before.

Besides, he’d reasoned, they wouldn’t have been able to converse privately anyway. He could just imagine the scene in her drawing room, with her shooting dagger glances at him, while he would have been unable to explain anything to his satisfaction. Not with her stepmother in earshot. For he was certain the woman could not have known about their meeting by the trout stream. If she’d been brought into Georgiana’s life to teach her how to behave, then one of the first things she would have taught her was the impropriety of meeting single gentlemen without a chaperon.

Once he’d come to that conclusion, he had then briefly wondered how Georgiana had managed to engineer the meeting at all. But only briefly. For she had been wearing a riding habit and there had been no sign of a horse. Somewhere close by there must have been a groom who had somehow been persuaded to let her out of his sight for a few minutes.

He shook his head. The stepmother must be completely hen-witted if she thought she could trust Georgiana out of her sight with only a groom to guard her. Didn’t she know what a wild, free spirit dwelled in that shapely body?

Which reflection made his heart speed up considerably.

Or perhaps it was simply that he’d just climbed several flights of stairs and would soon be walking into the reception room in which Georgiana must surely be by this time of the evening. He’d deliberately arrived late, telling Lord Havelock that he would ‘pop in’ on his way back from another engagement. ‘It would be best to commence my association in London with Miss Wickford by meeting as if by chance,’ he had explained, ‘at some event where we have mutual friends.’

‘If that’s the way you want to play it,’ Lord Havelock had said, raising his brows and grinning, blast him.

Edmund’s lips tightened. He’d provided Lord Havelock and his friends with a great deal of amusement when they’d discovered what he was about. But he hadn’t had much choice. Time had been ticking away and he’d been getting nowhere. Since Edmund hadn’t found a trace of Georgiana in the best circles, it made sense to assume her stepmother was making use of whatever connections she did have. Which, upon reflection, were bound to be from a less exalted sphere, into which he did not have the entrée.

Fortunately, there were a few members of his club who did have those connections and, more importantly, upon whose discretion he could depend. Both Lord Chepstow and Lord Havelock had married women from the gentry, and Mr Morgan—though immensely wealthy—had even more humble origins. Besides which, the four of them had put their heads together once before, when Lord Havelock had confessed his need to find a bride in a hurry.

Edmund had advised him to draw up a list of requirements, to help him focus his thoughts, and the other two had added both their own suggestions and practical help in locating Havelock’s perfect bride. Yet not a word of that night’s work had ever been revealed by any of them. Which said something about their integrity. Many men, having taken part in such an exercise, would have later made a joke of it.

And so Edmund had felt fairly confident about approaching them and sharing something of his dilemma.

‘One good turn deserves another,’ Havelock had said, as soon as he had broached the fact that he was in need of assistance. ‘In what way can I help you?’

‘I am attempting to locate a...certain young lady of my acquaintance, who has come to London. But discreetly.’

‘I can be discreet,’ Havelock had said, affronted.

Edmund had sighed. He had forgotten just how swiftly Havelock’s temper could be roused. And by the most innocuous of remarks.

‘I am sure you can be,’ he had said in a placating manner. ‘Now, to the nub of the matter. This young lady does not move in the circles we generally inhabit. Her stepmother is...’ He’d paused, briefly. He was loathe to speak ill of any lady, even though his opinion of Mrs Wickford had been getting worse by the day. But he had very nearly blurted out a most unflattering description of her character. ‘According to rumour, her father was a grocer in some nondescript town,’ he’d said, determined to stick to the facts of the matter, and only the facts. ‘Her first husband a mere tailor.’

‘The daughter ain’t trying to hide from you, is she?’ Havelock had leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

‘Nothing of the sort! This...grocer’s daughter happened to marry the widowed master of the hunt, from Bartlesham, the village where I spent my boyhood, since my principal seat is located nearby. Now that he’s died, they have had to vacate their home, since it was entailed. She has brought her...daughters to London hoping to find wealthy husbands for them both. I simply wish to...to help them, if I can. And to do that, I need to know where they are living and with whom they are mixing.’

‘They sloped off without telling you their direction?’ Havelock was still frowning.

Edmund had felt his cheeks heat. ‘I meant to call on them before they left Bartlesham. I was...distracted by...other matters and left it too late. By the time I went to enquire after them, they’d already left. And I feel it would be remiss of me not to do something for them, behind the scenes, in a...disinterested sort of way, since they are in the way of being neighbours.’

‘Sounds like a hum to me,’ Havelock had persisted. ‘Why don’t you just tell us the truth?’

‘You are interested in this girl from your village, aren’t you?’ Unlike Havelock, Morgan appeared pleased that Edmund had inadvertently made it sound as though he was in hot pursuit of some innocent country miss. But then everyone knew he had a sister to marry off this Season, a sister he wished to keep away from anyone with a title, for some reason known only to himself.

Edmund had, he believed, shut his eyes at that point and swallowed convulsively at the choices he was going to have to take—either to let them go on believing they were abetting him in the pursuit of unwilling prey, or to confess that Georgiana’s proposal had rattled him so badly he hadn’t been able to think clearly for several days. Eventually, he’d come up with an answer that spared him the necessity of doing neither.

‘I am not...interested in her,’ he’d said, a little testily. ‘She is totally unsuitable. Apart from her background, she is a complete hoyden, besides being horse-mad and...fickle.’

‘Is she intelligent, though?’ Havelock had asked with a grin. ‘I seem to recall that was the only factor you insisted I should include on my own list of wifely qualities. So that you wouldn’t have to...what was it...forfeit your bachelor freedoms only to sire a brood of idiots?’

Morgan had slapped the tabletop at this point and laughed. ‘That was exactly what he said. I remember now! Which is why so many people seem to think you might be about to make a match of it with Lady Susan Pettifer.’

‘Lady Susan? Good God, no! She has a tongue like a—’ He’d only just managed to pull himself up before saying something he would have regretted. ‘That is,’ he temporised, ‘I have no intention of marrying anyone. For some considerable time. I simply wish to ensure that Georgie has the chance to meet the kind of gentleman she might like to marry.’

‘Georgie? You call her by her given name?’

‘What does she look like?’

The pair of them had been grinning like schoolboys at his discomfiture. But at least he could tell they were both considering helping him. So, instead of getting up and stalking out, he’d swallowed his pride and given them some pertinent details.

‘Her name is Georgiana Wickford,’ he’d therefore told them. ‘She is tall, and...robust, with black hair and brown eyes. Her stepmother is Mrs Wickford and her stepsister is Susan Mead, though she’s normally known as Sukey.’

‘No—what, Sukey and Georgiana?’ Havelock had sat up straight. ‘Mary came back from visiting her cousins the other day saying she’d met some girls just up from the country by those very names. I wonder if it could be them...’

It had sounded too good to be true. And yet, after further investigation, Havelock had confirmed that Mrs Wickford had rented a house just off Bloomsbury Square and that her daughter and stepdaughter had already become friends with his wife’s cousins who lived nearby.

‘Doesn’t sound as though they need any help from you finding husbands, though,’ he’d said. ‘They’ve been presented at court.’

‘Already?’ He wondered how Mrs Wickford had managed it. He wondered what it had cost. And why Georgiana had made it sound as though she was about to live in penury for the rest of her life.

‘Tell you what,’ Havelock had said. ‘Why don’t I ask Mary if she’ll send them invitations to a little card party and supper she’s planning?’

‘You would really do that?’

‘Yes. For I cannot wait to see the woman who’s got you so hot under the collar.’

‘She does not have me hot under the collar, as you put it,’ he’d retorted.

‘Ashe, you went pink when we were discussing her. You very nearly raised your voice. That’s as near to getting hot under the collar as I’ve ever seen you.’ Havelock had laughed, slapping him on the back.

He certainly felt a little hot under the collar now. Because, in a minute or two, he was going to see her. Would probably have to stick to a topic of conversation suitable for a polite drawing room, when what he really wanted to do was discuss the conclusions he’d reached since their last meeting. And all the questions that had arisen since, about her finances, her ambitions, her motives, her prospects...

He paused in the open doorway of a large reception room, scanning its occupants for a sight of her face. And couldn’t help recalling that face as he’d last seen it, streaked with tears. Because he’d made her cry. Which was something else he needed to explain. That he hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t realised that a few words designed to cut her down to size would have cut her down completely. Had never dreamed anything he’d said could have had any effect upon her at all, come to that.

But it was Lord Havelock he saw first. He was hovering over the back of a sofa upon which his wife was sitting, deep in conversation with Lady Chepstow. Chepstow himself was sitting on the floor, for goodness sake, gazing up at the woman he’d snatched from her employers during a Christmas house party and subsequently married, with a fatuous expression on his face.

‘Would you care for some wine, sir?’ Yet another smartly dressed footman stepped forward, a tray of glasses held in his hand. Edmund took just one. And congratulated himself on his self-control.

‘You will find a cold collation laid out upon the pianoforte, my lord,’ said the footman, waving to a second room, visible through a set of double doors which stood open.

‘The pianoforte,’ he repeated, eyeing the instrument over which a cloth had been draped ‘Of course.’

‘Her ladyship is quite determined that there is to be no dancing tonight,’ said the footman, with just a trace of a smile tugging at his lips. ‘Though you will find card tables, should you prefer to play, rather than merely converse with the other guests.’

Edmund would never prefer wasting his time in a trivial game when he could be conversing with someone of interest. However, it was not the footman’s fault that he was serving refreshments at the kind of gathering where gentlemen sat on the floor gazing up at their wives and pianos were put into service as tea tables.

So he nodded his acceptance of the boundaries set for the evening’s ‘entertainment’ and stepped fully into the room.

And then he saw her. And something that felt rather like cold rage started burning in his gut. Because she looked...he swallowed. If it had been any other woman, he would have said she looked stunning. Luscious. Her hair was different. She’d had it cut and styled so that wisps curled round her face. But it was her gown that really stunned him. What little there was of it.

Not only did it plunge low at the front, but the tiny little scraps of material masquerading as sleeves did not even cover her shoulders. It made the whole top half of her gown look as though, at any moment, it might slip from her altogether, revealing the figure to which it was clinging so precariously.

To every man in the room.

For a few moments he stood completely still, grappling with the urge to whip off his jacket, march across the room, and fling it round her shoulders. How could she...flaunt herself in that...tawdry excuse for a gown? After saying she couldn’t bear the thought of men...pawing her, that the only kind of marriage she could tolerate would be a platonic one, she was standing there with everything on display, practically begging every man in the room to...lean in and grab a handful.

He downed his drink in one go and slammed the empty glass down on the nearest horizontal surface. Hang offering her his coat to cover herself up. He was going to give her a piece of his mind.