Читать книгу A Kiss Away From Scandal - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 12

Chapter Four

As she waited for Mr Drake’s return the next morning, Hope paused to admire the candlesticks which had been polished and displayed on the dining-room sideboard. They belonged in the manor, not in London. But this would have to do until she could arrange for them to be transported.

‘So, you actually found something.’ Charity stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. ‘When I heard of your plans to go treasure hunting, I assumed Mr Leggett was wasting his money.’

‘On the contrary,’ Hope said, running an idle finger along the length of the pewter. ‘Mr Drake is very diligent. I have the utmost confidence in him.’

‘Grandmother said you did not like him,’ Charity said.

‘I do not claim to,’ Hope answered. ‘But I do like these candlesticks. It is nice to see them back in the family.’

‘And it was very nice of Mr Leggett to find such a handsome man to retrieve them,’ Charity said with a sly smile.

‘I had not noticed,’ Hope lied.

‘Then you are either blind or deliberately obtuse,’ Charity said.

‘Hmm,’ said Hope, turning to the window to watch for the arrival of his coach.

‘Of course, he is little better than a servant,’ Charity added.

‘It is unworthy of you to say such a thing,’ Hope said. ‘Our own father was a servant to the Lord and Mother was the daughter of Comstock’s man of business. If Papa did not have a problem...’ She turned back to continue the lecture and saw Charity grinning at her agitation. ‘You were baiting me.’

Charity shrugged. ‘I just wanted to see if you remembered our origins. Mr Drake thinks you terribly proud.’

‘When did you speak to Mr Drake?’ More importantly, why had they been discussing her? And had he really formed such a poor opinion of her in only two meetings?

‘I might have run into him as he left yesterday morning,’ Charity answered.

‘You mean you were lurking in the hall, waiting to catch a glimpse of him,’ Hope replied. ‘You are too young for him, if that is your line of thinking.’ Her little sister had shown no real interest in men thus far, which made her sudden curiosity about Mr Drake all the more alarming.

‘I am nineteen,’ Charity replied. ‘Some would say I am just the right age for marriage and at nearly twenty-one you are dangerously near to becoming a spinster.’

‘You are still not right for Mr Drake,’ Hope said, exasperated. Then she added, ‘We do not even know if he is married.’

‘Do you wish for me to ask him?’

‘Certainly not.’ Sometimes, it was convenient to have such a nosy sister, who would satisfy her curiosity without Hope having to admit she had ever wondered. ‘It is not our concern whether or not he has a wife.’ She sounded as disapproving as she was able, knowing that Charity could rarely resist the forbidden. Then she added, ‘He is a total stranger to us.’

‘As is the new Earl of Comstock,’ her sister reminded her.

‘There is no comparison between the two. We know nothing about Mr Drake, his finances or his family. If he is single, we do not even know if he wishes to marry. But the Earl will have no choice in the matter. He must produce an heir and might welcome a helpmate already familiar with the holdings he has inherited. In turn, he will offer security,’ Hope reminded her, ticking off the logical reasons she’d used to convince herself of the plan.

‘So, you will sacrifice yourself to maintain the status quo.’

‘It is hardly a sacrifice to marry a peer,’ she said, even though it sometimes felt like it.

‘It is always a burden to alter your life for the good of another,’ Charity said. ‘If you are doing so for my sake, it is not necessary.’

‘If you don’t mean to help yourself, then I must. You will not find a husband hiding in someone else’s library.’

‘I will be fine, with or without a husband,’ Charity said. ‘We might be fine together, if you will let go of the foolish idea that it is necessary to marry to be safe.’

‘You do not understand...’ Hope said.

‘I understand more than you know. I simply do not care.’

‘That is quite clear from your appearance,’ Hope snapped. ‘We are in London, not Berkshire. You might be required to receive visitors while I am gone. Please return to your room and do not come down again until you are wearing a new gown and a hair ribbon.’

Charity glanced in the mirror above the fireplace and then away again, unbothered by her sister’s hectoring. ‘The man I marry will have to love my imperfections, for I have no intention of changing my dress or my manner just to please him.’

‘Then you do not know as much as you think,’ Hope said. ‘It is up to us to make ourselves desirable. It is not in the nature of men to compromise.’

‘If a woman has enough money, they will do it quick enough,’ Charity said with a nod.

‘Since we are currently without funds that is not a consideration.’ Not for the first time, Hope wondered if there wasn’t a strain of madness running through the family. Sometimes she felt more like a keeper than a sister.

‘Perhaps I shall sell some of Grandmother’s jewellery,’ Charity said. ‘There are more than enough diamonds in her parure to spare one or two stones.’

‘No!’ Hope balled her hands into fists, trying to keep from tearing at her own hair. ‘There will be no more pilfering from the entail. If that is the wonderful plan you keep hinting at, it is even more foolish than mine.’

‘So you admit that your plan is foolish,’ Charity announced, taking nothing else from the conversation.

‘No!’

‘Miss Strickland. Miss Charity.’ Mr Drake had arrived unannounced, yet again, and was standing in the doorway, witnessing the whole embarrassing scene.

Hope pushed past her sister and grabbed him by the arm, trying to turn him towards the door. ‘We need to be going. Now, Mr Drake.’

‘Of course, Miss Strickland.’ He pulled free of her grasp and stepped ahead of her to open doors and ready the carriage.

The bustle of the next few moments, putting on coat and bonnet, allowed her time to recover from her mortification. It was bad enough that he had caught her arguing with her sister and even worse that she’d laid hands on his person and tried to drag him from the room. If he had arrived a few minutes earlier, he’d have heard a discourse on his appearance, talents and marriageability.

Or had he heard? She had no idea how long he had been standing there, watching them fight. She stared across the carriage at him, searching his face for any trace of awareness.

As usual, his perfect face was effortlessly composed. There was no sign of clenching in that finely planed jawline. No indication that his lips, which were both firm and full, had a smile hiding in the corners. And though his eyes were alert, like a hawk scanning the distance for prey, there was no indication that the mind behind them was ruminating on a scrap of overheard conversation.

As her sister had said, he really was uncommonly handsome. It was not as if Hope hadn’t noticed the fact yesterday. But now that she had a reason to study his face, it was rather like staring too long into the sun. Her cheeks felt hot and the image of him seemed to be embedded in her thoughts.

It was probably what came of staring. Ladies did not stare, even at people they wanted to look at. It was not Hope’s habit to do so. Perhaps it would be better to drop her eyes and peer at him through her lashes.

But that sounded rather like flirting. She did not mean to do that, either. It was good that she was veiled, so that he did not witness her, blushing over nothing and unsure where to rest her eyes. It did no good to look lower, at the immaculate shirt front visible beneath his coat, or at his strong hands, resting casually in his lap as if waiting for the moment when they would steady her departure from the carriage.

It was growing stuffy under the veil. That was likely why she could not seem to catch her breath. Though she could not think of a rule against it, holding one’s breath until it came out in sighs was probably as rude as staring. But now that her breathing had fallen from its normal rhythm, she could not seem to find it again. The first was too shallow, the next so deep that it sucked the veil into her mouth, which ended in a sputtering cough and the need to rip her bonnet away and gasp for fresh air.

Mr Drake glanced in her direction, surprised. It was clear he had not been thinking of her at all until she had called such mortifying attention to herself.

She cleared her throat and patted her chest lightly as if trying to clear her lungs. ‘A bit of lint. From the veil, I think.’

He nodded in sympathy. ‘You needn’t wear it in the carriage, if it makes you uncomfortable. The shades are down and there will be more than enough time to put it in place when we arrive at a shop.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, still not sure if she wished to give up her disguise just yet.

‘And, in case you have been wondering, your sister exaggerates. I did not find you overly proud on our first two meetings. Your behaviour towards me was well within the social norms.’

She had been right to worry. He had heard everything. Now, she was absolutely sure she was blushing at him. ‘I apologise for the behaviour you witnessed as you arrived, Mr Drake. And for seizing your arm and forcing you from the house, as well. And for Charity’s lies,’ she added, for that was what they had been.

‘It is I who owe you the apology,’ he reminded her. ‘While I did not intend to eavesdrop, that was the result of not announcing myself sooner.’ He offered a shrug and another smile. ‘And though I do not know from experience, I am given to understand that it is the job of younger siblings to be as aggravating as possible.’

‘You have none of your own, then?’ It was not her place to ask, although he had opened the subject himself, so perhaps it was not too very rude.

He shook his head. ‘No brothers or sisters at all. And so that Charity does not need to quiz me tomorrow, you can assure her that I am not married, as yet, but fully intend to do so, should I find the right woman.’

‘You heard everything, then.’

He nodded.

‘You must think us all quite horrid,’ she said. ‘My grandmother was a lax guardian, at best. Since she could not be bothered to teach her, it has been left to me to be a good example to my younger sister and to instruct her in ladylike behaviour. But I have had little success.’

‘Perhaps if you refrained from throwing candlesticks at her,’ he said.

‘It only happened the one time,’ she assured him, trying not to think of all the childhood stories Charity might tell him that would sound even worse. He might never have known of them had she been able to keep her mouth shut on the previous day. ‘We were rambunctious children when we arrived at the manor. At first, we did not understand the value of the items we played with. When we were old enough, Faith and I were sent away to school for a time.’

‘And Charity?’ he asked.

She sighed. ‘She said that, if we were not going to Eton, or some other place that would prepare us for university, it was not worth leaving the house. Her manners are abominable, of course. But she is too antisocial to bother with throwing candlesticks. And she is prodigiously smart.’

‘That is a comfort, I suppose,’ he said.

‘But it pains me that she did not go to Miss Pennyworth’s Academy to learn deportment. It improved my character immeasurably.’

He smiled and touched his arm, wincing in pain. ‘As I can tell from the way we took our leave of the town house.’

She readied another horrified apology. ‘That was most unlike me.’

‘It was nothing,’ he said in a soft voice that immediately put her at her ease. ‘Since you take your manners so seriously, it is unfair of me to tease you over them.’

She would have been better off to remain silent. Now, he thought her both overly proud and humourless. But either of those was better than being as nosy as her sister had been. ‘On the contrary, I do not fault you for any response you might give to the conversation you heard or my behaviour towards you. What you witnessed should never have taken place. As I told Charity, it is not our business to wonder about your personal life.’

‘I took it as a compliment,’ he replied, still smiling. ‘A total lack of interest can be rather dehumanising.’

She remembered the look he had given her in parting on the previous day, as if he had expected something more from her than an awkward goodbye. Had she been the one to treat him as less than a man? It was not as if she hadn’t been curious about him. It was just that ladies were not supposed to express it openly. But if he was willing to make light of the situation, then so should she. She gave him a friendly nod, hoping that it did not look as forced and awkward as it felt. ‘If it makes you feel better, I will ask you at least one impertinent question a day until we have completed out task.’

‘I will look forward to it, Miss Strickland,’ he said, nodding back. Then he touched his hat brim to remind her to replace her bonnet and veil. ‘As I mentioned before we parted yesterday, today we will be searching for the blue painting. I have several dealers in mind, specialising in fine art. I am sure your grandmother must have visited one of them.’

The paintings in the first gallery they visited would have been more at home in a museum than gracing the walls of Comstock Manor. The owner was obviously familiar with Mr Drake, plying him with offers of tea or sherry while Hope perused artwork. She allowed herself a few moments of guilty pleasure, wishing that she had the nerve to lie and claim even the smallest of the landscapes, for any of them were likely to be prettier than the painting they were truly seeking. Then she turned back to her companion and gave a silent shake of her head.

He rose and thanked the gallery owner, then led her back to the carriage.

The next place was similar. Mr Drake was still treated with familiarity, but there were no offers of refreshment. Though the art was not quite as impressive, it was still of a higher quality than Hope had seen at home. Again, she shook her head. And, again, they moved on.

With each successive shop they moved further from Bond Street until they stopped at a shop nearly as dreary as the one that had contained the candlesticks. The ragged collection of paintings stacked along the walls no longer hid Old Masters. A few were no better than girls’ school watercolours. But the shopkeeper followed close behind them, assuring them that the frames were worth ten bob at least.

Mr Drake shook his head. ‘The frames are not important. We are seeking an oil painting. Something with blue in it, I think, to match the paper on the drawing-room walls.’

The proprietors of the earlier shops would have been horrified at the idea of matching art to the wall colour. But it must not have been an unusual request here, for the dealer announced that he kept the paintings sorted by colour. Then he led them to a dark and crowded corner of the shop where heavy gilt frames were stacked in precarious piles.

Mr Drake glanced at her expectantly. ‘Did your grandmother say anything about the size of the painting?’

She shook her head. ‘I doubt it was a miniature. But it could not have been very large, or I’d have noticed a blank spot on the wall.’

‘We shall start in the middle, then.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they will be easier to lift,’ he said, heaving a pile of paintings down from a high shelf with a grunt. They slid to the floor, raising a cloud of dust.

Hope tipped them forward, one by one, to look at the canvases. As she did so, he turned towards another shelf, pulling down more paintings, just as heavy and just as dirty.

The collected art was random, the only common denominator being colour. There were landscapes by moonlight, seascapes, a still life of berries, studies of birds, and portraits of blue-clad men and women in velvets, satins and...

She stared at the painting in front of her for only a moment, before averting her eyes in shock. Then she glanced back to be sure of its subject before calling to Mr Drake.

‘I have found the painting.’

‘Excellent. Let me summon the proprietor.’