Читать книгу The Wallflowers To Wives Collection - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 25

Chapter Sixteen

The invitations arrived simultaneously, delivered to her room by no one less than her mother, who handed them over with an enquiring smile. ‘Two notes, for you personally, Claire.’ Her mother stepped inside her room. Claire couldn’t remember the last time her mother had been there. Usually, they met in the rooms downstairs for meals, for receiving, or in the carriage as they made calls or shopped.

Claire scanned the notes, both still sealed. Her heart beat a little faster at the sight of one of them. Jonathon. The second one from him today. Would it be more bad news? He’d not come to his lesson and the weather had ruined the chance to go to the French market even if he had intended to go. Last night had raised more questions than answers as to what lay between them. She could tell herself all she wanted that last night was for fantasy only, that nothing could come of it. But that didn’t stop her from wishing otherwise. The other was a woman’s hand, but she didn’t recognise it. An awkward silence full of expectation began to grow when she made no move to open the notes. Perhaps her mother would take the silence as a hint she wished to open her notes in privacy and leave?

The hint conspired against her. Instead of leaving, her mother entrenched, a most unusual strategy for a woman who traditionally favoured a laissez-faire approach to life. Her mother was a calm woman, not easily flustered or bothered by the goings on of the world. ‘Is that one from Mr Lashley?’ Her mother took a seat on the edge of her bed, clearly signalling she was not going to be dismissed until the missives were read.

Claire did not want to open that note particularly, not when there was a good chance it was either a request to sneak away to one of their French locations or to apologise for any untoward behaviour or worse! Dear lord, she hoped Jonathon wouldn’t be so brash as to put any reference to last night or the bookshop into a note that would compromise him. If her mother knew he’d been here, and what they had done, there would be no explaining it. Claire thought quickly, her mind racing through her options. If she opened the note, her mother would want to see it. Given the events of the last two days, it was unlikely the note contained innocuous information. Giving her mother the note was out of the question, but she could give her the truth, although she would rather give her mother neither. The less her mother knew about Jonathon the better. Her mother had been the most disappointed when things had soured with Sheriden.

Claire slid the unopened note under a jar on her vanity, establishing that she was saving the exact details for a private moment. ‘Yes, I believe it is.’ She offered the truth as casually as possible.

‘French lessons seem to be going well,’ her mother said vaguely.

‘Yes.’ Claire decided to keep her answers short and terse.

‘Your Season seems to be going decidedly better than usual now that you’ve taken an interest in it.’ Her mother smiled. ‘I told you it just needed a little management on your end. Mr Lashley has been dancing with you quite a lot. I don’t suppose dancing is part of the French lessons?’

‘Yes, Jonathon seems to have made a habit of it, although I’ve assured him it’s not necessary.’ In her attempt to treat the remark lightly, she made her mistake.

Her mother pounced. ‘Jonathon, is it? Have you two become as close as all that? First names, is, well...’ She fluttered a hand.

‘It’s nothing, Mother.’ Claire leaned back against her vanity, her hands gripping the edge against the blatant lie. He’d kissed her in the Rosedale garden. She’d kissed him in a French bookshop. She could still feel his hands on her, the strength of his body as he’d come up behind her, his mouth at her ear whispering decadent words. ‘Claire, I don’t want to read.’ He’d put his hand on her breast. He’d climbed a trellis for her at midnight, she’d had her hand on his manly core in the very bed her mother now sat on. What they’d done, what they’d become wasn’t exactly nothing even if what existed between them lay undefined.

Her mother was not satisfied. ‘Are the flowers downstairs that arrive like clockwork nothing either?’

‘He is appreciative. He wants this position in Vienna badly.’ She hoped that was a lie, too. She wanted to believe last night was more than a show of appreciation.

‘Flowers, dancing, he even called at Lady Morrison’s to enquire as to your whereabouts.’ Her mother built her case, her soft, doe eyes growing shrewd. Lady Morrison’s would have been the day he’d come to Evie’s and waited for a half-hour downstairs, but Claire kept that to herself—voicing it wouldn’t help her argument. Her mother wasn’t done. ‘It seems like a lot of unnecessary trouble for French lessons, no matter how badly he wants the post.’ Her mother paused. ‘He’s not the only one going to a lot of trouble these days. I see other things, too, Claire. I see you, looking beautiful in altered gowns. I see you taking an interest in your appearance and in society. You haven’t complained at all this Season about going out. Usually by now I have to pry you out of the house. And I see why. If a handsome man like Mr Lashley was waiting to dance with me, I’d not want to stay home either.’

‘We enjoy one another’s company,’ Claire prevaricated. ‘I wouldn’t make too much of it.’

‘And slipping off to destinations unknown in the middle of the afternoon without a chaperon?’ There was a quiet steel in her mother’s voice now as she dropped the most damning piece of evidence. The irony was that the adventure had been for learning purposes, it had simply turned in to something more. Her mother rose and paced to the window overlooking the garden. ‘Do you think I’m an idiot, Claire?’

‘No, of course not.’ She did, however, think her mother wouldn’t pay enough attention to notice. Apparently, her mother had noticed quite a lot, not only this year but the other years as well. Claire had misjudged her there. They had been polite but distant family members since the debacle with Sheriden.

Her mother let the lace panel drop over the window and turned to face her. ‘Your father and I have let you be these last two years, after Sheriden. We did not understand, at the time, how much you didn’t want to marry. If you want a quiet life of books and solitude, you shall have it. We won’t force you to marry for the sake of marrying, but if that has changed, we should be informed, Claire.’

Claire was silent, absorbing the words. It was the most personal conversation her mother had had with her since the refusal. ‘Claire?’ her mother prompted. ‘I am asking you point blank—is Jonathon Lashley courting you under the pretence of French lessons?’

‘I don’t know,’ Claire replied softly, lifting her gaze to meet her mother’s. She could see her mother’s frustration in the knit of her brow. Her mother thought she was being purposely evasive. But this was the sad truth. She had so little experience with courtship games between men and women. ‘Sometimes I think perhaps he is.’ Last night had certainly seemed like it. It was the first time she’d ever said the words out loud. ‘But always, there are the lessons between us, a reminder that without them, he wouldn’t be with me.’ Would he?

Her mother resumed her seat on the edge of the bed. ‘Do you wish he was? Do you want him?’

She had to be careful here. Did she want him? It made him sound like an object to be purchased, a sweet to enjoy. ‘I hardly know him.’ Now she was truly evading.

Her mother brushed the objection away. ‘We know his family. Viscount Oakdale is eminently respectable and we know his prospects, which are very good. He has money, his family has money and he’ll likely go abroad as a diplomat. Ultimately, Lashley will inherit the title, although not soon. His father married young and will live another twenty years. Lashley won’t see the title until he’s fifty if he’s lucky.’ Her genteel mother surprised her with a rather practical dissection of Jonathon’s prospects. When put that way, it was no wonder Jonathon was so eager for the Vienna post. He wasn’t about to while away his life waiting to inherit well into middle age. He wanted to do something useful.

But the bigger surprise were her mother’s next words. ‘We are people of some consequence, Claire. We may be quiet and keep a retiring profile by choice, but your father has connections. If you want Lashley, we can get him for you.’

‘No!’ Claire’s response was vehement and instant. ‘I don’t want him that way, trussed up and delivered like a Christmas goose.’ It would make her no better than Cecilia, who had picked Jonathon out and begged her father for him. ‘Should anything evolve between us, I want it to be natural. I want him to choose me on my own merits, not my father’s persuasion.’

Her mother’s eyes pointedly went to the note peeking out from under the jar. ‘He wants to meet with you again, secretly.’ She smiled. ‘You see, I don’t need you to open the envelope. I was young once, too. I remember quite well what young men in love are like.’ Her smile faded. ‘Go to him then, you will anyway, so I might as well know about it. But do not let him trifle with you. If you are caught, there will be no more talk of choosing. He’ll be yours then, personal merits being amenable or not.’ She stood and crossed the short distance to her and placed a kiss on her brow. ‘Be careful, Claire.’

Claire sat at her vanity, reaching for the two notes, her mind reeling and full. Her mother knew. Had known. Her mother was endorsing a secret rendezvous. She was starting to understand where she got a thirst for adventure from. It existed in her mother, too, buried deep down, just like her, coming out in surprising ways that weren’t always obvious.

She opened Jonathon’s note first, staring at the bold, straight script. He wanted to meet at an eating house in Soho for dinner, tonight. He wanted to see her again. For now that was enough. Never mind that the venue was a chance to practise French and on the surface had nothing to do with last night. She would see him again and that would be a start. The rest would sort itself out.

Claire glanced at her clock. It was just now five. She had plenty of time. Her mother might endorse it, but her mother would still expect her to be discreet. She’d have to put on a show of going to Evie’s or May’s and make her way from there. Alone. Jonathon had written he was sorry he couldn’t come and escort her since a meeting would delay him. It was probably best her mother didn’t know that part or she might rethink her endorsement.

Claire reached for the second note and opened it, her eyes dropping to the signature at the bottom. Lord and Lady Belvoir. She frowned and began to read. The message was simple enough. It was invitation more than it was a note. She was invited to a musical evening featuring Italian soprano Signora Katerina Pariso.

It was an exclusive invitation to an exclusive event. She didn’t miss the fact that this invitation was for her, not for Lord and Lady Stanhope. That alone made it seem odd. Odder still was that she was invited at all. She had no doubt Cecilia was behind this in some way, although she wasn’t sure what inviting her proved. If she hadn’t been so certain Cecilia had spilled the champagne on purpose, she’d think it was an effort at apology. But Claire knew better.

She put the invitation down and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She wasn’t egotistical enough to believe this overture signalled she’d arrived, that she’d made such an impression this Season that she was now welcome in these lofty echelons, that Cecilia wanted to recruit her friendship. If that was what the invitation was supposed to lead her to believe, then it failed miserably. But something was afoot.

She’d never know if she didn’t go. There was no other option but to go. On the surface, there was no reason to refuse. This was a coveted event. Only the crème of the ton went. To refuse would be insulting. To refuse would afford her no answers and to refuse would make her appear cowardly. All she could do was show up, hold her head high and hope for the best. The event was a week away and it seemed a long way off compared to meeting Jonathon in two hours. She had just enough time to change, call for the carriage and get to May’s.

For the evening, Claire chose a dress of powder-blue muslin trimmed in tiny cream lace. Evie had added a matching cream fichu to tuck into the lowered neckline. The gown was plain, but one of Claire’s favourites for its touch of femininity and it was perfect for this dinner out. An eating house wasn’t a silk-and-satin venue. Any evening gown she owned would look out of place. An eating house was attended by merchants, craftsmen, and clerks, not by a viscount’s heir. She chose a matching shawl of soft pastel colours and walking boots and was off, excitement streaking through her at the prospect of another adventure.

She’d never been anywhere by herself before, if one didn’t count walking to Evie’s and even then her maid was usually with her. She took the carriage as far as Evie’s, then sent it back for her parents’ use that night. She took a hired hack from there and then got out to walk the remaining streets to the eating house, the address safely tucked into her reticule if she needed it.

The first few streets were thrilling. She was surrounded by the sights and smells of the working class high and low mingling with the diverse population of emigrants in this part of London as the day ended, everyone getting off their shifts. The streets were full of people hurrying home to their dinners, people finishing their daily errands and all around her, there was the sound of different languages. Soho was known for its international flavour and it was evident here. She could pick out the French, the Italian, and a little German. How vibrant this was from the staid paces of Mayfair with its mansions and stolid English.

But as she neared the eating house, it became apparent she was being followed. A group of lads—young men really, they were all at least twenty—had picked up behind her and now they were whistling and calling out lewd invitations. She ignored them, keeping her eyes forward, her step quick but not too quick. She was conscious of not showing any fear, nothing that would inspire them to escalate their efforts.

Her strategy worked well until one of them grabbed her arm and yanked her to a halt in sight of the eating house. She could see it just across the next street.

‘She thinks she’s too high and mighty to pass the time with us, gents.’ The leader had greasy black hair and cold eyes. When she fought to free her arm, his grip tightened painfully and he backed her to the rough brick wall of a building. ‘She’s got a little fire in her, too, for all that she gives herself airs. Thinks she’s a lady.’ Claire felt his eyes move down her body and her skin crawled while her mind raced. Bravado would make him dangerous. He might not have intended any real harm with his catcalls and whistles, but he’d do real harm to save face if it came to proving himself in front of his boys.

‘I don’t know, Jonesy, she might be a real lady at that.’ Another one, a beefy, heavy-set young man spat on the pavement. ‘That dress is good quality. My sister would like a dress like that. Think she might give it to us and walk home in her shift?’ Claire struggled, trying to get a few good kicks in, but he was too fast for her, too strong.

‘I’d rather have a kiss and a little feel, wouldn’t you, boys?’ The leader holding her to the wall leered, laughing at her struggling efforts. ‘A kiss for each of us, laddies, and a bit of touching. It’s not every day we poor boys get to cop a lady’s breasts. Then we’ll be done with our business here. Sound fair?’

‘I think your business is done now.’ Low dangerous tones parted the gang, the men falling away as Jonathon stepped towards the leader, his eyes two blue avenging flames, the flash of a knife blade catching the twilight in his hand. There were five of them to his one, but he was unbothered by the odds.

‘Let her go, or taste my steel.’ His voice was calm, controlled, as if he dealt with street thugs daily. ‘She is not for the likes of you.’

The men backed away until it was just he and the leader. This was the part Claire feared, the part where the leader would put his pride ahead of practicality. He was unarmed. He should walk away, but that would entail a loss of face. His gang would tease him about it.. Claire felt his grip on her arm loosen and she breathed easier, stepping quickly towards Jonathon. He moved in front of her, shielding her from the gang. There would be no kissing, no touching.

But the leader wasn’t ready to admit defeat. He held his hands out to his sides. ‘There’s no contest, you with your weapon, and me with nothing to defend myself. No chit is worth getting cut over. But she’s a pretty one, she’s worth a little something and you’ve stolen our fun, guv’nor. I think you owe us a little sport in exchange. Fight me for her, fists only. First one down loses. You lose, I get to kiss her. You win, the two of you can go on with your evening. Either way, you get to go on with your night, only if you lose you might always wonder whose kiss she prefers.’ He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Who knows, maybe the lady likes a bit of rough.’

Jonathon sheathed his knife and began to remove his coat. ‘Hold this for me, Claire.’ It took a moment for her to realise what he meant to do.

‘No, there will be no blood shed over me,’ she protested.

One kiss was certainly better than kissing all five and who knew what else. ‘I’ll give him a kiss. It’s just a kiss.’

‘The hell you will, Claire,’ Jonathon growled, his eyes on Greasy Hair. ‘Now, stay back out of the way and let me deal with this cur.’ He took out the gold links from his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves while one of the men drew a chalk circle around the two combatants.

‘First one down loses. There is no stepping out of the fight circle. Stepping out results in a forfeit.’ The beefy one who coveted her dress called out the rules. ‘No weapons, only fists. Blood doesn’t count as down. As long as two men are standing, the fight goes on.’

The circle looked impossibly small to Claire. How could Jonathon possibly win? He wasn’t a street fighter. She was starting to see what a disadvantage he was at; it was their rules, their street. She thought that for all of five seconds until the beefy man called out ‘Go!’ and Jonathon swung hard for the man’s jaw with a lightning-quick punch and kept striking, first with his left, then with his right, and once more before Greasy Hair landed a punch to his gut that sent Jonathon staggering backwards, dangerously close to the chalk line.

‘Watch out! Jonathon, get him!’ The words flew out of her mouth as she got caught up in the fight, adrenaline sweeping her away as Jonathon regained his balance and swung out, his fists fast and lethal. He caught Greasy Hair in the nose. Blood spurted and Jonathon didn’t stop. He came at Greasy Hair again. His shirt and waistcoat stretched across his shoulders, his body exerting its determination to end it. There was something glorious and primal about watching his body, all fluid, violent grace and athleticism as he pummelled Greasy Hair—there was no other way to describe it. It was definitely a pummelling.

Jonathon took a final swing and Greasy Hair went down. The fight was over. Jonathon didn’t wait for a declaration of victory. He shot a hard look at the gang of men, issuing a silent invitation for any and all to try him. Then he strode to her side, wrapped his arm about her and led her away.

He didn’t stop until they stepped inside the eating house. Even safe inside, his face still wore a fighter’s grim expression. His hands gripped her arms as he studied her, looking for any sign of hurt. ‘Claire, are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ she managed. ‘He was just rough, that’s all.’ If she said anything else, she was quite certain Jonathon would stalk out of the eating house and finish the bounder.

Jonathon pushed a hand through his dark hair, his uncooperative lock falling forward as he blew out a breath. ‘I am so sorry. This was all my fault. I never should have let you come alone. I don’t know what I was thinking. Can you forgive me?’

‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she assured him, holding his gaze with her own to convince him of her sincerity. But her shock over all that had happened would not be held at bay much longer. It was running riot in her mind. Any moment, it would tear loose. She stared at him hard, trying to digest the transformation. Her princely gentleman, her divine waltzer, had transformed right before her eyes into a street fighter, a man of blatant power and strength and physical prowess. Why was it so hard to believe? Hadn’t she had an inkling of this last night when he’d stormed her room?

‘Sweet heavens, Jonathon, you broke his nose for me.’ She was starting to tremble. She’d never been that close, that intimate, with violence before. But he had. That much was clear.

‘He had his hands on you. I would break more than his nose for that alone.’ He growled, his voice a rasp, his face close to hers in the cramped quarters of the eating house’s tiny hall. ‘You, Claire, are worth fighting for.’ His voice cracked with a groan. ‘God, Claire, I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.’

‘I wanted that, too,’ she confessed fiercely, just before his mouth descended on hers, rough and ravaging, the power of the moment overwhelming them both.