Читать книгу The Devil Earl - Deborah Simmons, Deborah Simmons - Страница 12

Mrs. Bates clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Well, there is no mistaking me this time, Miss Prudence Lancaster. You simply must have a chaperone.”

Prudence sighed. “I am afraid you are right, Mrs. Bates,” she admitted. “I have written my cousin Hugh, and he is most adamant upon the subject.”

Mrs. Bates made one of her odd noises, which managed to sound critical even though she soon voiced her agreement. “I should hope so! It appears that there is at least one Lancaster with some sense.” With that, she settled herself more firmly in her seat, which meant, Prudence noted dismally, that she was preparing herself for a lengthy visit.

As if confirming Prudence’s worst fears, Mrs. Bates took a deep breath and gave her a superior look. “There are all manner of people who prey upon country visitors, and not all of them are easily discerned. If you truly hope to find a proper husband for Phoebe in London, then you simply must appear to be above reproach. Otherwise, you shall surely draw the wrong kind of fellow—shabby genteel, fast, or worse! And I am sure you cannot trust to the gel herself to judge,” she added with a snort.

Prudence opened her mouth to come to her sister’s defense, but then snapped it closed again, being well aware of Phoebe’s blessings—and her flaws. Phoebe had the lion’s share of the family’s beauty, while Prudence possessed the majority of the intelligence. Luckily, their natures seemed well suited to the arrangement, and, having had many years in which to become accustomed to it, they were both contented.

However, Prudence knew well that because she was the oldest, the flightier Phoebe was her responsibility. She could not afford to make any mistakes, especially after her sister had behaved so unwisely with Mr. Penhurst. Despite her own contempt for convention, Prudence was not about to let Phoebe ruin herself by walking out unchaperoned—or worse—in town. And, as much as she loved her sister, Prudence suspected that Phoebe was capable of getting herself in much deeper trouble, if she was allowed free rein.

“Of course, I cannot say much for your judgment, either,” Mrs. Bates commented, scowling at Prudence. “Living alone, when I have warned you against it. And entertaining gentlemen! When I think of that poor Mr. Penhurst coming here, not to mention the Devil Earl himself!”

It was Prudence’s turn to frown. Although she had said nothing of Ravenscar’s visit to the cottage, she had not been able to prevent Mary and Cook and a distraught Phoebe from spreading the news, and Mrs. Bates had made much of it too many times for Prudence to listen again.

“He is not the Devil Earl,” she said simply. “The Devil Earl died nearly two hundred years ago.”

“Humph! Died? Murdered in that ghastly abbey by his very own wife, in payment for his sins!” Mrs. Bates retorted. She shot a disapproving glance out the window toward Wolfinger. Its dark stone gleamed malevolently, as if to spite her. “And now his descendant follows in his footsteps. Bad blood runs true, my girl, make no mistake!”

Prudence put down her cup and placed her hands in her lap, tamping down an unruly urge to toss the cantankerous matron from the cottage. “I hardly see the connection, Mrs. Bates,” she said firmly. “The Devil Earl locked his wife in the tower room for years because she was mad, or so the story goes.”

“Humph! As if he did not drive her to it! Wickedness, excess and madness,” she proclaimed in a ringing voice. “That is the legacy of the Ravenscar earldom.”

“Nonsense,” Prudence replied calmly. “Mr. Penhurst has run off, as young boys do, and will show himself when he is over his sulks. Then everyone will regret maligning Lord Ravenscar.”

Mrs. Bates gasped, obviously outraged by her hostess’s dissent. “Prudence Lancaster! How can you say such a thing? Why, even your own sister knows the boy was murdered!”

“Phoebe’s judgment has been clouded,” Prudence said, without elaborating.

Mrs. Bates pursed her lips in annoyance. “And what of your Lord Ravenscar’s black past, Prudence? Surely, you cannot sit here and defend a man who gained his title under such circumstances? Or have you not heard that this murder was not the first he has committed?”

Since Mrs. Bates had breathlessly related this rumor during an earlier visit, Prudence did not deign to reply, but she did not need to do so. The matron had worked herself into a fine temper, and showed no signs of stopping long enough for Prudence to fit in a word of her own.

“The man killed his own uncle, ran him through to gain the earldom, and now he has done his brother in, too! Mark my words, Prudence, he is a wicked one who will come to a bad end, for all that he casts about London now, as if he has done nothing wrong. He will not be so high-and-mighty for long, with his nose in the air! I have heard that he is finally being shut out of his high circles, as well he should be, the devil.”

Mrs. Bates paused to catch her breath, but Prudence could not have uttered a sound, even if she had wanted to speak. She had stopped breathing when the matron mentioned that Ravenscar was in London.

Her guest forgotten, Prudence gazed up at Wolfinger. Its windows were like sightless black eyes staring back at her silently. While she watched, the sun gleamed off a pane of old glass, and it seemed as if the building itself winked at her in imagined accord. The very air in the neat little cottage seemed to gather and swirl around her like the abbey’s perpetual fog, and she tingled with anticipation while she dared to let herself think the unthinkable—that she might possibly see him again.

Her spectacles slid down her nose, and Prudence moved them back into place with a trembling hand. Really, she was being too silly, she told herself firmly. As Mrs. Bates said, the earl undoubtedly moved in the uppermost social environs, where she would have no chance of meeting him.

“But, there now, I have upset you,” Mrs. Bates said in a mollified tone. “Let us forget that horrid man and be about your business. We must find you a chaperone, young lady!”

Prudence picked up her cup and took a sip of her tea in an effort to steady herself. London was a very big place, with so many people that one individual would be as difficult to find as a needle in a haystack! And yet, there were many public places where two persons might run into one another, she thought, a bit giddily. The gardens at Vauxhall, the various parks, Ackermann’s Repository…the names of famous sites she had only heard about leapt to Prudence’s mind swiftly. Surely, there was a possibility, albeit a small one.

“Of course, I could come with you myself.” Mrs. Bates’s casual comment made Prudence nearly choke, and she put a hand to her throat as she struggled to swallow. “But I have no liking for town—such a nasty, dirty place—nor do I for those who have a tendency to think too well of themselves by half! However, as I have said before, there are respectable ladies who can be employed for just such occasions.”

She smiled slyly, and Prudence forced away thoughts of Ravenscar to give all her attention to her guest. She had often suspected that Mrs. Bates’s sole ambition was to control everyone else, and when the woman looked contented, it surely boded ill for someone, on this occasion most probably herself and Phoebe.

“Once I was apprised of your plans, I took the liberty of writing a very dear friend of mine, who can be counted upon for the very best judgment. And she has sent me a prompt reply,” the matron said. Digging in her massive reticule, she soon brandished a piece of paper and handed it, triumphantly, to Prudence.

“Mrs. Broadgirdle, in Gardener Street,” she said, huffing proudly from her exertions. “There, now, Prudence, you have your chaperone, and a very fine one, I am assured. And just think, you will be doing the woman a service by hiring her!”

Although Prudence had misgivings about letting Mrs. Bates direct anything in her life, she nodded reluctantly. After all, the girls were in need of an older woman to stay with them, and their cousin Hugh, being an established bachelor, did not know anyone who could fill the position.

“Very well,” she said firmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Bates.” Rising from her seat at long last, the older woman fairly beamed with her success—or her mastery, Prudence mused. Ushering her to the door, Prudence assured her that they would, indeed, make arrangements with the chaperone at once.

When the door finally closed behind the meddlesome woman, Prudence pushed her spectacles back up upon her nose and glanced again at the direction in her hand. With the instincts of a pinch-penny, she wondered just how much the cost of Mrs. Broadgirdle would add to their expenses—and whether the lady would be worth the price.

Prudence eyed her new employee with decided misgivings. Had she not known otherwise, Prudence would have suspected that Mrs. Bates had personally chosen their would-be chaperone with the sisters’ discomfiture in mind. In total defiance of her surname, Mrs. Broadgirdle was a tall, bony woman, thin as a rail, who looked upon them with a superior air that Prudence found most disconcerting in a paid companion.

Having traveled by public coach, the girls had been tired and rumpled by the time they arrived at the London inn where Mrs. Broadgirdle was to meet them. Though they longed for nothing more than to reach their cousin’s residence before nightfall, they were first forced to endure the woman’s critical scrutiny.

And, from the looks of her, they definitely came up wanting. Although Mrs. Broadgirdle’s gaunt face, with its sharp features, little resembled Mrs. Bates’s plump visage, Prudence nonetheless recognized that the two matrons were kindred spirits. Mrs. Broadgirdle would, no doubt, attempt to make their stay as miserable as possible.

Right now, she was emitting a strange hissing sound, presumably to convey her disapproval, as she eyed her new charges. “Your clothes, of course, proclaim your country origins,” she said bluntly. Prudence ignored the insult, having never evinced the slightest interest in matters of wardrobe, but she saw that the pointed words had their desired effect upon Phoebe, who looked down at her wrinkled muslin in dismay.

“New clothes must be the order of the day,” Mrs. Broadgirdle said. Then she sent a sharp glance toward Prudence. “Unless you cannot afford them.”

Prudence smiled. “We are not without funds, and if different gowns are called for, then we shall certainly have some made up for us.”

Although Mrs. Broadgirdle only nodded sullenly, Prudence could have sworn she heard Mrs. Bates’s “Humph” echoing in her tired brain. This would not do at all.

“Perhaps it would be best to make myself clear at the outset,” Prudence told the woman. “If your wish is to make us unhappy, then, by all means, you may try, but I should warn you that you may find yourself without employment.”

Mrs. Broadgirdle’s startled black eyes flew to hers, reassessing her boldly, and, finding that Prudence would not be intimidated, she frowned sulkily. Prudence hid her answering smile. Although she had often been taken to task for her plain speaking, she found it the easiest and speediest way to resolve such problems. And, as Grandmama had often told her, it was always better to begin as you meant to go on.

The girls took a hackney cab to their cousin’s apartments, to Mrs. Broadgirdle’s horror, though why someone who had to hire herself out for a living should have such haughty airs, Prudence could not imagine.

“I have no knowledge of the country, but in town, all is appearance,” Mrs. Broadgirdle explained in strained accents. “If anyone should see you riding in such a… conveyance, they will mark you as inferior, not only to the elite, but to the gentry! And all hopes of securing successful marriages will be lost,” she added, eyeing Prudence with especial scorn.

Prudence laughed. “You need not concern yourself with me, madame, for I am well past the marrying age. It is Phoebe who will attract all the admirers.”

Mrs. Broadgirdle nodded curtly, apparently mollified now that the monumental task of finding a husband for Prudence no longer weighed upon her shoulders. Although she thought herself well past caring about such nonsense, Prudence was surprised to feel a dull pain at being considered so unappealing. But then Phoebe began to chatter about the sights, and her own brief blue devils disappeared in the glow of her sister’s delight.

Although the chaperone proclaimed Hugh Lancaster’s residence to be hardly fashionable, Prudence found nothing lacking in the small town house. The neighborhood was neat and quiet, the accommodations were quite spacious, to her mind, and the manservant who directed them to the drawing room was suitably polite.

Upon entering, Prudence looked around curiously. The furniture was sparse but handsome, the setting tasteful. Even Mrs. Broadgirdle could find no fault with the interior, though Prudence’s writer’s imagination deemed the place rather dull. There were none of the paintings and ornaments that crowded their own little cottage, making it homey and welcoming. However, bachelor establishments might well strive for another atmosphere entirely, Prudence realized, so she withheld her judgment.

“My dear cousins! What a pleasure to meet you!” Prudence turned to see Hugh Lancaster, and relief washed through her. Although they had corresponded sporadically since Grandmama’s death, Prudence had not been quite sure what to expect, and a part of her had dreaded that Hugh might be a copy of Mrs. Broadgirdle, wizened and bitter.

He was not. Hugh was much younger than she had imagined, not too many years older than herself, she guessed, with a hearty voice that welcomed them nicely. He had the Lancaster look about him, with blond hair nearly as bright as Phoebe’s, but beginning to recede from his forehead. His blue eyes were a different shade from Phoebe’s, yet, really, he looked more her sister’s sibling than she did—in a masculine way, of course.

“Prudence!” he said, moving unerringly toward her. “I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed your letters. When one has so few family, those left to him become doubly precious.”

Smiling, Prudence murmured her thanks and introduced her cousin to Phoebe and Mrs. Broadgirdle. He seemed well pleased with the sharp-faced woman, and again evinced his concern that they have adequate supervision in town.

“I am afraid I am not at all proud of much of what goes on here in London,” he said, with a saddened expression. “And I would protect you as best I can from those unsavory elements”

Phoebe looked at him with wide-eyed wonder, while Mrs. Broadgirdle nodded sagely. Good heavens, could it be that the woman actually liked someone? Prudence wondered why she did not feel heartened to find that that someone was Cousin Hugh.

“Yes, even in Cornwall, we have heard of some of the dreadful conditions among the poor,” Prudence commented.

Hugh, who had been studying Phoebe contentedly, turned to eye her sister in surprise. “The poor? Why, yes, I suppose so, but I am speaking of those who should be showing a sterling character to the world, and fall far short of their responsibilities.” Clasping his hands behind him, Hugh leaned back upon his heels. “It is a sad state of affairs when our country’s very leader appears to be lacking any moral restraints.”

From there he launched into a long and stultifying speech detailing the prince regent’s failings and the general decay of society, which made Prudence wonder if he had perhaps missed his calling as a member of the clergy. Although she was, of course, in general agreement with his opinions, she could not help but think that, throughout its long history, England had been blessed with very few upright monarchs. She suspected that the position itself tested one’s qualities far more than she could ever imagine.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Broadgirdle settle back approvingly, while Phoebe looked totally baffled by the lengthy address. As for herself, she would much rather have heard about London and the places they were to see. She was also tired and hungry, but how could she politely convey those feelings to their host, when they had only just arrived?

With a sigh, Prudence settled back in her chair and tried to construct some scenes for her novel in her mind. However, Hugh’s voice kept intruding on her thoughts, and she could not help but wonder if she would regret spending her windfall upon this trip.

Sebastian stepped into Hatchards, number 187, Picadilly, and drew deeply on the scent of books—a most pleasant aroma, to his mind. He had always enjoyed reading, but lately, it seemed to be the only thing that relieved the increasing sense of ennui that plagued him.

London bored him. His usual haunts he found even more stifling than before, but he had been forced to come to town to talk to a Bow Street Runner to look for James, and to settle the boy’s debts. Or most of them. Sebastian had used all his ready cash and then some, selling his art collection to produce more. He was stretched as far as he could go, and still a couple of James’s obligations hung over his head.

His steward had advised him to sell one of the properties, either Wolfinger or his own small estate in Yorkshire, but Sebastian was loath to relinquish either one. During his last visit, the abbey had interested him more than anything had in a number of years, and, truth be told, he had no desire to be the one Ravenscar in a long line of spendthrifts to lose the ancestral seat.

Neither did he want to dispose of his land in Yorkshire. It was the only home he had ever known, although the idea of clinging to the place like some cloying sentimentalist irked him. Damn! He just ought to put the old farm on the market, and yet, where would he put James when the whelp finally returned? If he returned. Sebastian felt a muscle in his jaw leap as he contemplated the mess his brother had made. Personally, he would gladly kill the scapegrace, if everyone did not already think he had done so.

Yes, the rumor had followed him to London, and, ultimately, had forced him to stay, for he had no intention of skulking away to the country when those who were spending the winter in town were talking about him. Such running and hiding would only ensure his social demise, and he would not stand still for it.

Sebastian had learned long ago that the only way to deal with gossip was to face it down, and he did, meeting cool stares with colder ones, and daring people to cut him. He was an old hand at it, and yet…he was getting tired, deathly tired, of it.

So he remained, ignoring the slights and sharpening his own black reputation until it glittered like a deadly blade. He found himself actually looking forward to returning to Yorkshire, where at least he might gain a reprieve from the endless parade of hypocrites who condemned him in hushed tones before adjourning to the newest brothel to bid on a twelve-year-old virgin.

And just when he thought he might repair to the country, he was faced with yet another irritant: the publication of The Book.

Sebastian’s eyes swept the room, searching for it, hoping that he would not find it, but there it was, its prominent placing proclaiming its popularity. He felt an atypical flash of annoyance that longed to find an outlet, but what could he do? Topple the heinous volumes? Buy them all? Any reaction from him would only confirm what everyone suspected—that The Book was about him.

Heading in the opposite direction, Sebastian casually walked through the store, his eyes flicking to the shelves, but his thoughts lingered on The Book. Had it been only a month ago that he began to hear new gossip about a gothic novel in which he, supposedly, figured as the villain? As usual, he had disregarded the talk, until it grew to outrageous proportions and someone finally offered him a copy to read for himself.

Sebastian had to admit there were similarities. The dark character whose exploits were chronicled carried a form of his own name and was described much like himself. Count Bastian also possessed a mysterious seaside stronghold that more than a little resembled Wolfinger Abbey, but there the parallels ended. The evil count’s main activity appeared to be luring helpless females to his impenetrable fortress, where he seduced and abandoned them, or worse, and the bodies of his victims filled up the family graveyard until the brave heroine exposed him.

Of course, anyone who knew Sebastian was aware that he spent his time in Yorkshire or London, never venturing to Cornwall or any other seaside domain. And although his lurid past was well-known, he had always confined his sexual activities to women of a certain persuasion, certainly not the sort of sweet innocents depicted in the novel. And most obvious to him was the fact that no one could really line his property with corpses and go unnoticed. The Book was fiction, pure and simple.

The ton, however, held a differing opinion. He had always been called a murderer, and this grandiloquent prose, following so rapidly upon the disappearance of his brother, titillated society all the more. The possibility that there might be a grain of truth in it made The Book a must-read on the order of Lady Caroline Lamb’s thinly disguised portrait of Byron.

Bastian of Bloodmoor was an unqualified success.

As he made his circuit of the room, his gaze searching the shelves for a possible purchase, Sebastian saw Lord Neville enter, and his annoyance reached a new level. That gossipmonger would, no doubt, try to engage him in a verbal battle for which Sebastian had no enthusiasm.

He felt suddenly tired, his brief interest in the shop replaced by his customary boredom. Only the flagrant display of The Book, which he was rapidly approaching, kept him from exiting immediately, for he did not care to have Sir Neville accuse him of avoiding the accursed volumes. With characteristic aplomb, he moved directly in front of the table where they were neatly piled.

Sebastian actually picked up a copy, wondering idly about the identity of the author of Bastian of Bloodmoor. Although several names had been bandied about, no one had taken credit for the work as yet. With a cold calculation that would not have surprised those who knew him, Sebastian decided he would like to get his hands on the man. Whether the fellow had knowingly painted him so ruthlessly or not, Sebastian would not mind closing his fingers around the bastard’s neck in a pleasurable parody of the plot.

Standing there absently stroking the binding, Sebastian remained lost in thought until a woman came to join him. He glanced toward her, jolted unexpectedly by the glint of spectacles perched upon her slender nose.

Damn! He drew in a deep breath, irritated by his reaction to the sight of a woman wearing glasses. Surely he was not pining away for that spinster in Cornwall? Sebastian’s annoyance reached a level that would have alarmed his acquaintances, while he tried to ignore the woman’s intrusion upon his senses. Unfortunately, she was not so easily dismissed. As he watched in amazement, she took hold of the book in his hands, as if to wrest it from him.

“Shall I sign it for you?” she asked.