Читать книгу Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 7

Chapter Two

I think I’ve found the house you wanted, my lord. Only Daventry I could find. It’s on Christmas Steps.

Yes?

Only thing, my lord—there’s a young woman living there from what I could find out…a Mrs Daventry …

Good Lord! Julian stood at the top of Christmas Steps and wondered if he was insane even thinking of descending the alley. Modbury had thought so, and Julian could see his point. The alley was positively medieval, and so steep someone had actually built steps. According to Modbury it led down to the old quay, and at least once had housed the sort of establishments sailors on shore leave frequented—brothels and taverns.

You can’t visit, my lord!

The hell he couldn’t. Gripping his umbrella, Julian started down the slippery steps. There were two possibilities. Either Daventry kept a whore down here—it was not unknown for a woman to use her protector’s name—or he was already married. On the whole, Julian thought a conveniently distant wife more likely; a mistress was only convenient if she were close enough to bed regularly. Either, however, would settle Lissy’s idealistic infatuation, if a description of the alley wasn’t enough.

It was dark in the alley and a dank chill closed in, with a reek of cabbage, fish and sour humanity on the breeze rattling the shop signs. The old, timbered houses with their cantilevered upper storeys loomed over the street, holding light and fresh air at bay. A couple of seedy-looking taverns were the only hard evidence of the street’s former reputation. There were few people about, but suspicious eyes followed him from doorways and windows. He consulted the address Modbury had given him—there, on the opposite side, just before the next set of steps between a fishmonger and an apothecary, was the house he sought.

A one-eyed, moth-eaten cat sheltering in the lee of the building flattened its ears and hissed, slinking away as he approached the open door.

A voice was raised.

‘Now be sensible, missy. I got Mr Daventry’s letter and it says, right here, “the house and all its contents”! See? All its contents. Not “all its contents if no one else happens to want them”. So—’

‘Well, I assume you’re not planning to put me on the auction block along with my clothes and hairbrush as part of the contents!’ came another voice. A prim, schoolmistressy voice a man would think twice about annoying.

The voice went on. ‘And if you can make that distinction, then you should be capable of exempting the rest of my personal property.’ Irony gave way to anger. ‘And since Mr Daventry is my brother and not my husband, he owns neither them nor me!’

Blast! Probably not wife, then. Mistress remained a possibility…

The angry woman continued, ‘When you return next week, you may have the house and all its contents because I shall have removed myself and my possessions to lodgings!’

Through the open door Julian could now see a large, beefy- looking man, in the old-fashioned knee breeches and frieze coat of a respectable tradesman. He had his back half-turned, but there was no mistaking the rising annoyance in the set of his jaw.

‘Now see here, missy!’ he growled, all attempt at reason abandoned. ‘’Twas unfortunate I misunderstood how things were, but there’s no call to take that tone! I’ll be calling in the sheriff and bailiffs if you remove more than your clothes and hairbrush. Everything, the letter says, and I’ve made a list, I have!’ He brandished a piece of paper, presumably in his unseen opponent’s face. ‘If aught’s missing, I’ll have the law on you!’

It was none of his business, Julian told himself. Common sense dictated that he remain out of any legal brangle between Daventry and his sister. Only this wasn’t Daventry…and exactly what situation had the man misunderstood?

The woman spoke again. ‘You may leave, Goodall. I suggest you clarify your instructions with my brother. In the meantime my solicitor will call upon you.’

Goodall, far from being abashed, took a step forward, presumably towards the woman.

‘Are you threatening me, missy?’ His voice had turned thoroughly unpleasant.

‘Leave!’ Sister or not, the undercurrent of fear in her tone flung Julian into action. Three swift strides took him over the threshold.

‘Goodall!’ he rapped out.

The man swung around. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘The lady told you to leave,’ said Julian coldly. ‘As an acquaintance of Daventry, I suggest you do so before I speak with the magistrates on his behalf about entering this lady’s home and harassing her. Out.’

He strode past Goodall with scarcely a glance at the woman. All he could see was that she was of medium height, bespectacled and clad in dull brown. His attention was on the aggrieved Mr Goodall, and he deliberately interposed himself between them.

Goodall flushed. ‘Now, see here—’

‘Out.’ He delved in his pocket and pulled out his cardcase. ‘As for who I am…’ He took out a card and handed it to Goodall ‘…I’m Braybrook.’

He gestured to the door and Goodall, his face now as pale as it had been red, swallowed.

‘I’m sure…that is…I didn’t mean—’

‘Out!’

Goodall went.

Julian closed the door and turned to receive the heartfelt gratitude of his damsel in distress—

‘I have no idea who you may be, but you will oblige me by also leaving.’

Frost glittered at him from behind unbecoming spectacles. And there was something odd about her direct gaze, something faintly disconcerting—as though she had the ability to see straight through. Right now he wouldn’t have wagered a penny on her liking what she saw.

As for what he saw—the woman was a quiz. Her hair colour remained a mystery under an all-enveloping and extremely ugly cap. As did whatever figure she might possess beneath a gown remarkable only for its sheer shapelessness and being the drabbest brown he’d ever seen.

Any lingering hope of her being Daventry’s doxy faded. No self-respecting doxy would wear the gown, let alone the spectacles.

And she faced him with her chin up, her jaw set, and her mouth a flat, determined line.

‘No gratitude, ma’am?’ he drawled.

Those queerly penetrating eyes narrowed. ‘I’m reserving it until I know who you are, and why you entered my home without my leave,’ was the icy rejoinder.

‘Well, you won’t discover either of those things if you kick me out into the street,’ he pointed out with what he freely acknowledged to be unforgivable logic.

It seemed she concurred. One small fist clenched and the pale cheeks flushed. Otherwise her control held.

‘Very well. Who are you?’

He supposed she could not be blamed for being suspicious. He took out his card case and extracted another card, holding it towards her.

There was a moment’s hesitation before she moved, and then it was warily, watchful eyes on his face as she took the card. At once she stepped beyond his reach behind a settle before examining the card.

He watched, fascinated. There was something about her, about her face—what was it? Apart from that she looked cold.

She was glaring at him again.

‘So, Lord Braybrook—assuming you are Lord Braybrook and not some scoundrel—’

‘I’m obliged to point out that the two are not mutually exclusive,’ he said.

She positively bristled. ‘That I can well believe!’ Then, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! One of my eyes is blue and the other brown! And now perhaps you will stop staring at me!’

One was blue, the other… So they were. He could see it now; behind the spectacles one eye was a soft, misty blue and the other hazel brown.

‘And, no, I am not a witch,’ she informed him.

He smiled. ‘I assumed you weren’t, since Goodall left in human form rather than as a toad.’

For a split second there was a flare in her eyes that might have been laughter. A lift at the corner of the mouth, which was, he suddenly saw, surprisingly lush. Soft pink lips that for a moment looked as though they might know how to smile.

The impression vanished like a snowflake on water.

‘Frivolity,’ she said, as one who identifies a beetle, all the softness of her mouth flattened in disapproval.

‘Ah, you recognised it,’ he said with a bow.

This time her eyes widened, but she controlled herself instantly.

Intrigue deepened. What would it take to crack her self- control?

‘Do all your rescuers receive this charming response?’ he asked. ‘It’s true, you know; I am acquainted with Harry. As for my motives; I was coming to call on you and overheard Goodall. I interfered out of disinterested chivalry, Mrs Daventry.’

‘Miss Daventry,’ she corrected him.

He watched her closely. ‘Oh? I understood a Mrs Daventry lived here?’

Her expression blanked. ‘Not now. My mother died some months ago.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quietly. ‘My condolences.’

‘Thank you, my lord. Will you not be seated?’

She gestured to a battered wingchair by the empty fireplace. The leather upholstery bore evidence of several cats having loved it rather too well. The only other seat was the uncomfortable- looking wooden settle opposite with a damp cloak hung over it. He took the settle and, at a faint startled sound from her, glanced over his shoulder to catch the surprise on her face.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘You can’t have thought I’d take the chair!’

Her mouth primmed. ‘I’ve noticed gentlemen prefer a comfortable chair, yes.’

His opinion of Harry Daventry slid several notches. ‘Then they weren’t gentlemen, were they?’

Her mouth thinned further. ‘And you are?’

He laughed. ‘Usually. I’ll warn you if I feel the urge to behave too badly.’

‘Very obliging of you. May I offer you tea?’

Prim. Proper. As calm as though she entertained the vicar.

Tea, though. He didn’t like tea at the best of times. And imagining the quality of tea he was likely to receive here sent shivers down his spine. His spine’s concerns aside, however, good manners dictated acceptance. And Miss Daventry looked as though a hot drink would do her good.

‘Thank you, ma’am. That would be very pleasant.’

She nodded. ‘Then please excuse me. My servant is out.’ With a graceful curtsy, she left through a door at the back of the parlour.

Julian took a deep breath and looked around the cramped room. This was what he had come for, after all: to judge Daventry’s condition for himself. And if Lissy could see this, the circumstances to which she would be reduced if she married Daventry, it might give her pause for thought.

It was spotless, though, he noticed. Absolutely spotless. As though dust dared not settle in a room tended by Miss Daventry. Everything gleamed with care. Wood waxed and polished. Not a cobweb in sight. Against one wall was a bureau bookcase, crammed with books. Julian frowned. It was old now, but it spoke of one-time wealth.

Interesting. Other things caught his eye. An old-fashioned drop-sided dining table against the wall held a lamp. Brass candlesticks that once had been silver gilt. A battered wine table, piled with more books beside the wingchair. Every sign that the Daventries had once been well to do, commanding the elegancies of life and, in sinking to this address, had clung to a few treasured reminders. Perhaps the crash of the ’90s had brought them down. He could even sympathise with their plight. His own father had steered clear of those shoals, but had not been so canny in recent years… Lord, it was cold in here!

His mouth hardened. Harry Daventry would not restore his family’s fortunes at the cost of Lissy’s happiness. No doubt Daventry’s sister would be quartered in his household… His eye fell on the books tottering on the wine table—sermons, probably, and other improving works. He picked up the top volumes and his brows rose. Sir Walter Scott—Ivanhoe. He looked at the next couple of books, poetry. So Miss Prim had a taste for the romantical, did she? He picked up the final volumes—Miss Austen’s Northanger Abbey. Serena had enjoyed that…

He set the books down, frowning. Contradictions lay hidden beneath the layers of brown sobriety and the cap. Strolling back to the settle and sitting down, he wondered what colour her hair might be. Not so much as a strand peeked from that monstrous cap. Mousy? It would suit the spectacles and that prim mouth with its iron clad composure. Although it wasn’t quite iron-clad, was it? What would it take to breach it utterly?

She would return soon. Miss Respectability, laden with a teatray needing to be put somewhere… Below the window was a small tea table.

With a sigh, he rose, shifted the table, placing it between the wingchair and the settle. Good manners, he told himself. A gentleman did these things. It had nothing to do with Miss Daventry herself or wishing to show her that not all men were inconsiderate oafs who took the only comfortable chair, leaving their sister the wooden settle. Definitely nothing to do with her. It was simply the right thing to do.

He looked at the empty grate. It was cold, after all.

It was the work of a moment to lay a fire, find the tinderbox and have a small blaze going.

He had barely sat down again when the door opened and Miss Daventry came in bearing a small tray.

Shock sprang into those disquieting eyes as she saw the fire. ‘Oh, but—’

Julian rose and took the tray from her, setting it down on the table before turning back to her.

She hadn’t moved. She was staring at the little table as though wondering how it had arrived there. Then she looked at the fire. All the tension in her face, all the taut lines, dissolved, leaving her, he saw with a queer jolt, looking tired, yet as though something far more burdensome than the tray had been lifted from her.

Almost immediately she recovered, saying in her primmest tones, ‘How kind of you, my lord. Please do be seated.’

She bent over the tray and poured a cup. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘A little milk, please.’

She handed him his cup, poured her own, and sat down, her back ramrod straight.

Julian took a wary sip, and acknowledged surprise. The tea, if one liked the stuff, was perfectly acceptable. And the teacups, although old and chipped in places, had once been the height of elegance and cost a small fortune. Yet apart from mentioning Alcaston as his godfather, Harry Daventry made no play with grand connections or past glory.

‘Perhaps, my lord, you might explain how you know my brother.’

Miss Daventry’s cool voice drew him out of his thoughts. Did she know about Lissy? If so, then it probably had her blessing. She was no fool. The advantages of such a match to her were obvious. She might make a decent match herself from the connection.

‘Your brother has become acquainted with my sister.’

Miss Daventry’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Her face blanched. ‘Your sister—?’ The teacup reversed its direction and was replaced in its saucer with a faint rattle. ‘Would your sister be Miss Trentham?’

‘Yes. My half-sister.’

Spear straight she sat, her mouth firm and a look of mulish obstinacy about her chin. The air of dignity intensified, despite the pallor of her cheeks.

Hell! No doubt she would defend her brother’s marital ambitions to the hilt. Why wouldn’t she? Such a connection would be a lifeline for her.

His mouth set hard.

He had to protect Lissy. Nothing else mattered. Even if he had to batter Miss Daventry’s pride into the dust.

‘How very unfortunate,’ she said, her voice calm. ‘I trust you are doing all in your power to discourage this?’

Unfortunate? From her perspective? He had every reason to disapprove of Mr Daventry, but what possible objection could she have to Lissy?

With freezing hauteur, he said, ‘I am at a loss to know how my sister merits your censure, Miss Daventry.’

‘Never having met her, I do not disapprove of Miss Trentham,’ said Miss Daventry. ‘Merely of—’ She broke off, staring. Faint colour stained the pale cheeks. ‘I think I understand the purpose of your visit, my lord. A warning to Harry? “Stay away from my sister, and I’ll stay away from yours.” Is that it?’

Outrage jolted through him. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Thank God she hadn’t divined his original suspicions!

She faced him undaunted. ‘If that is not the case, I beg your pardon. I can think of no other reason for your visit.’

Could something of his reputation have reached Miss Daventry via her brother’s letters?

‘No doubt, Miss Daventry. However, I am a gentleman. Whatever you may have heard to the contrary.’

‘Your reputation is of no interest to me, my lord,’ she informed him, picking up her cup and sipping her tea.

‘And what leads you to believe that I have a reputation, Miss Daventry?’ His reputation, after all, was not the sort one discussed with respectable females.

She gave him a considering look over her tea cup before answering.

‘Everyone has a reputation, my lord. All that remains in doubt…’ she sipped, ‘…is the nature of that reputation. Naturally, since you are a gentleman, yours is not the sort of reputation in which I interest myself.’

‘Yet you referred to it, ma’am.’

The brows lifted. ‘I, my lord? Hardly. You alluded to the possibility that someone might have mentioned you in unflattering terms. Thus suggesting that, deserved or not, you have a reputation.’

Julian nearly choked on his tea. Did she dot every ‘i’ with a needle? Serena, he realised, would have been cheering the chit on.

She changed the subject. ‘We were speaking of your sister, my lord,’ she said. ‘As I said, I do not disapprove of Miss Trentham. How should I? I have not the honour of her acquaintance. But I do disapprove of my brother’s interest in her.’

‘A fine distinction, Miss Daventry,’ he said. ‘Would you care to voice your objections?’

If possible, she sat up even straighter. Her chin lifted.

‘There is a looking glass over the chimneypiece, my lord. Examine yourself in it. Bring to mind your home. Your estates. Recall your rank. Then look about you. Tell me what you see.’

He didn’t answer. Her cold, blunt assessment rivalled his own. The obvious, brutal response was that everything about her and this room spoke of impoverished gentility. But faced with her quiet dignity, he simply couldn’t say it. Which was foolish beyond permission since the words had been on his lips.

After a moment she spoke again. ‘Your silence is answer enough. Harry and Miss Trentham are from different spheres. You cannot wish your sister to make such a step. I assume that is what you are come to tell me, and also that you have refused to permit Harry to see your sister again.’

‘Not quite, Miss Daventry,’ he said.

He’d intended exactly that, but Serena had talked him out of it.

She stared and he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. That had rattled her.

‘You can’t approve such a match!’ The disbelief in her eyes echoed in her voice.

‘Naturally not,’ said Julian. ‘But my sister has a stubborn streak and in four years when she gains her majority, I will not be able to prevent the match. Your objections tally with my own. Your connection to the Duke of Alcaston notwithstanding—’

‘My what?’

‘Your brother’s godfather, Alcaston,’ said Julian, eyeing her spectacularly white face. ‘Are you quite well, Miss Daventry?’

‘Yes…yes, perfectly.’ Some colour returned to her cheeks. ‘He told you that, did he? It makes no difference, surely?’

‘None,’ said Julian. ‘Your brother is still ineligible as a match for my sister, even with the income his Grace has settled on him.’

She nodded. ‘So. You have forbidden Harry the house, and—’

‘No. I have not.’ Serena had pointed out that the fastest way to encourage clandestine meetings was to ban legitimate ones. He could see the logic, but…

‘No? What sort of brother are you, then?’

That caught Julian on the raw. ‘A good one, I hope!’ he snapped. ‘Yes, of course I could forbid them to meet! And where would I be when Lissy hoaxed herself into the role of Juliet and the young fools eloped?’ Serena again.

‘Lissy?’

‘Alicia,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I did not mean to tell you how to order your sister’s life—’

‘Ouch,’ he said drily. ‘I hope that I do not order my sister’s life, as you put it.’

She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, that was—’

‘If you don’t stop apologising, I shall start to think you are buttering me up.’

‘Nothing, my lord, could be further from my intentions!’

‘No. I thought as much,’ he murmured.

That silenced her. If one discounted the draconian glare, which fairly scorched the air between them.

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. He wished—oh, how he wished!—Serena could hear this exchange. He tripped on the thought—Serena would like this prim, outspoken woman. A woman who was about to be kicked out of her home…and Lissy needed a sharp dose of reality to convince her that life with Harry Daventry would not be love’s young dream at all, but a nightmare. Yes. This might work. Two birds with one shot. He almost patted himself on the back. And then remembered that not only had Miss Daventry not accepted, but that he hadn’t made the offer.

‘Miss Daventry,’ he began, ‘I gather you intend to seek lodgings when this house is sold.’

‘Until I can secure either a position as a companion or a teaching post.’

Better and better. ‘In that case, I wonder if the offer of a position might be acceptable—’

‘No! It most certainly would not!’ she flared.

He stared at her scarlet face. ‘I may live on Christmas Steps,’ she continued furiously, ‘but that does not mean—!’ She broke off, biting her lip.

And he realised that—whether or not his reputation had preceded him—an unspecified offer from a gentleman might well be viewed with suspicion by a respectable female living on Christmas Steps.

‘My stepmother requires a companion,’ he said. And waited.

He was disappointed. Apart from her blush deepening, Miss Daventry maintained her composure, or, rather, regained it.

‘Oh. I see,’ she said. ‘I cannot think, my lord, that you really want me as a companion for your stepmother.’

No explanation. No apology. She moved straight on from the potential quagmire of embarrassment. He had to applaud.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Only consider the consequences!’ she said. ‘If I were living in your house, Harry would use that to—’

‘Precisely,’ he said softly. ‘You would be an unexceptionable reason for your brother to call. Most illuminating for Alicia.’

Her eyes flew to his. ‘You mean—’

‘Meeting you, knowing you must earn your living—’

‘Would give your sister food for thought,’ she finished.

‘Yes.’ She had caught the point in a flash. He added feelingly, ‘It would also relieve me of the stigma of being thought a mercenary, callous brute by my sister, because offering you the position would signify my approval of you and, by extension, your brother.’ But it would force Alicia to view Daventry in a different light—a young man who could not provide for his sister.

Another silence. She was thinking about it. He had seen enough of her to know that otherwise she would have rejected the suggestion out of hand. Miss Daventry had a mind of her own and reserved the right to use it.

‘I doubt that I would be a suitable companion for Lady Braybrook,’ she said.

If the lady in question were anyone but Serena, he would have agreed wholeheartedly. As it was…

‘You would amuse her,’ he said. ‘Meekness bores her, and I think we can leave that out of your list of virtues.’ An understatement if ever there was one.

Amused at her blush, he went on. ‘An accident some years ago left her unable to walk. I want someone intelligent to keep her company. I was considering older females, but I think she would like you. You mentioned teaching—do you have any teaching experience?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have another sister still in the school room and a six-year-old brother. At present they have no governess, so you could help there.’

Miss Daventry looked sceptical. ‘That will hardly answer once the summer is over and they require more lessons. I cannot be in two places at once.’

He shrugged, dismissing the objection. ‘Once another governess is hired, you can be available on her days off, or if she is indisposed,’ he said. ‘Naturally, were you prepared to take on this dual—or should I say triple?—role, I would pay you accordingly. Shall we say, one hundred pounds per annum?’

While he did not precisely expect Miss Daventry to leap at his generous offer like a cock at a blackberry, she would no doubt be somewhat flustered. Most governesses or companions were lucky to receive a quarter of that.

The soft, rosy lips parted slightly and he felt a jolt of what he sincerely hoped was mere gratification….

‘You cannot possibly pay such a ridiculous sum to a companion who relieves the governess,’ she informed him.

The devil he couldn’t! He bit that back, opting for icy civility. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am?’

‘It is ridiculous,’ she repeated, her mouth re-primmed.

It was, was it? Just how much more did the harpy want?

‘Moreover,’ she went on, ‘it would be grossly unfair to the other governess, who might well be older and far more experienced, were I to be paid such an astronomical sum!’

His jaw dropped. ‘You’re complaining that I’m offering too much?’

She frowned. ‘What did you think I meant?’

He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Miss Daventry, permit me to inform you that most people would not concern themselves in the least if I offered too much. My offer stands.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Fifty,’ she said.

His mouth twitched. Good God! He was actually arguing— haggling like a merchant outside the Corn Exchange—with a potential governess, trying to persuade her to accept a higher figure!

‘Miss Daventry, your scruples are admirable, but your value to me lies far beyond the companionship you will offer my stepmother, or whatever knowledge you may impart to my younger siblings.’

‘But I might fail,’ she pointed out.

‘One hundred per annum,’ he insisted, battling the urge to laugh at this dowdy, honest woman with her disturbingly pink, prim mouth and earnest mismatched eyes. ‘If it helps, no one besides ourselves will know how much you are paid. Certainly not the other governess.’

‘No. It doesn’t,’ she said at once. ‘It is still unfair, whether the other governess knows, or not. I would know.’

He gritted his teeth. Damn the wench. Could she not strangle her scruples and accept his generosity? ‘Miss Daventry, upon occasion I play cards. I bet. Shall we say twenty-five pounds per annum as a companion? A further twenty-five as a governess. I’ll gamble the other fifty against you being able to dissuade my sister from marrying your brother.’

Her eyes narrowed again behind those frumpish spectacles. ‘Very well, on one condition…’

He might have known it. ‘Which is?’

‘If I am still in Lady Braybrook’s employ when your sister marries, the extra fifty pounds ceases. And should she marry my brother, I repay you—’

‘Not bloody likely!’ he said. And couldn’t believe he’d said it. What was he about? He never swore before females, but something about this one tipped him on to his beam ends. As for Miss Daventry—the ladylike façade was in ruins, her mouth parted in shock.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Sheet ice encased her voice. As for her eyes…that was it—the eyes were tipping him off balance. And she was angry, furiously angry. Beneath that calm exterior was someone quite different.

‘Er, certainly not,’ he corrected himself. ‘Otherwise, Miss Daventry, it would not be gambling. Would it?’

Under his fascinated gaze the fiery creature was visibly subdued and closed away. Prim Miss Daventry stood in her place. ‘I disapprove of gambling,’ she informed him. ‘You can hardly expect—’

‘Damn it all!’ he exploded. ‘What I expect seems to be going by the board! I expect you to accept my generous offer. I expect you to be ready to accompany me when I return to Hereford-shire in three days. I expect—’

‘Three days?’ Fire licked through the cracked façade. ‘I cannot possibly pack up this house in three days! Nor—’

‘My man of business will handle it,’ said Julian, pouncing on her implicit acceptance of his offer.

‘Nor could I possibly accompany you to Hereford!’

‘Why the d—why not?’ he corrected himself. ‘How will you take up your position if you do not?’

‘Oh, don’t be so literal!’ she said. ‘I meant I cannot travel alone with you. We should have to spend a night on the road.’

It was his turn to feel outraged. ‘Dammit, girl! Believe me, I’ve no designs on your virtue!’

‘It wouldn’t matter a scrap if you did or not,’ she said frankly. ‘My reputation would be ruined either way! I am twenty-four, Lord Braybrook. I cannot travel with you alone.’

‘You expect me to engage a chaperon for you?’

He couldn’t quite believe it. Five minutes ago he had offered this impossible woman respectable employment and they had been arguing ever since. Somewhere he had lost control of the transaction.

‘Of course not,’ she said impatiently. ‘I shall travel on the stage, and—’

‘The deuce you will!’

‘Lord Braybrook, I have frequently travelled on the stage—’

‘Well you shouldn’t have!’ he growled, adding, ‘And you won’t this time.’ Which was so illogical as to defy comprehension. Companions and governesses always travelled on the stage.

‘Yes, I will,’ she said.

Julian gritted his teeth in barely concealed frustration. ‘Miss Daventry,’ he ground out, ‘I begin to see why you consider yourself unsuited to the position of companion!’ The inescapable fact that she was perfectly right about the situation didn’t help in the least. Nor the defiant chin that said she knew she was right, and that she knew that he knew… He halted that train of thought at once.

‘Ma’am, I cannot agree to a lady under my prot—’ one look at her outraged countenance and he corrected himself before the façade exploded in flames ‘—for whom I am responsible, travelling on the common stage. Or the Mail,’ he added, before she could suggest it. ‘You will travel with me!’

‘Not unchaperoned!’ she shot back.

‘Very well!’ he snapped. ‘Will it be acceptable if a maid shares your room at the inn we put up at, or must I inveigle a Dowager Duchess into service? I’ve no designs on your virtue, but even if I had, seducing the governess in my travelling coach is not one of my favoured pastimes!’

Miss Daventry flushed. ‘There is no need to be horrid about it. I am not at all concerned about you. Merely how gossip might construe it. I have no wish to find myself the object of vulgar curiosity and censure! A servant at night will be perfectly adequate. Naturally I will pay for my own accommodation and—’

‘You will do no such thing,’ he stated with deadly calm. ‘As of this moment, Miss Daventry, I consider you to be in my employ. Any expenses incurred on your journey will be borne by me. Are we clear?’

For a moment the prim mouth took on a mulish set, but she dropped a slight curtsy. ‘Yes, my lord.’

Discretion, ever the better part of valour, suggested it was time to beat a hasty retreat. Before he strangled her, or worse, swore at her again. Having solved several problems in one stroke, he was in no way minded to have his plans upset by Miss Prim and Proper deciding she could not enter the employ of a gentleman so dissolute as to swear in front of a lady, let alone allude to the possibility of seducing her in a travelling coach.

‘I will bid you a good day then, ma’am.’ He set down his cup and rose. ‘I have business tomorrow and Wednesday. We will depart on Thursday. My carriage will take you up at seven a. m.’ He bowed. ‘If you do not object to starting early.’

She had risen too.

‘I will be at the top of the steps outside the Chapel of the Three Kings. Will a trunk and valise be too much?’

He raised his brows. ‘You will pack whatever you require. If it does not fit, a carrier will bring it.’

He held out his hand. A polite gesture to seal their bargain. Nothing more. For a moment she hesitated and then placed her own hand in his. Awareness shot through him. Her hand fitted his as though they completed each other. Startled, he met her gaze. Behind the spectacles her mismatched eyes widened, as though the same awareness had taken her. For a shocking instant their gazes linked as tangibly as their hands. Then her lashes swept down, veiling her eyes, closing him out.

He released her hand and stepped back. ‘Good day, ma’am. My man of business will call.’

‘Good day, my lord,’ she responded quietly.

Having seen Lord Braybrook out, Christiana Daventry closed the door behind him with trembling fingers and leaned against it.

Had she run mad? What was she about to accept his offer of employment? What if he wasn’t Lord Braybrook at all? And what was it about him that had broken her usual self-control? Not since she was sixteen had Christy lost command of herself like that. It hadn’t done any good then, either. Not that she cared. She could manage without being beholden to anyone.

She fished Lord Braybrook’s card out of her pocket, frowning. Anyone could have an elegant card embossed. Except, how could anyone but Lord Braybrook know of Harry’s interest in Miss Trentham?

Miss Trentham, who, according to the perfunctory description in Harry’s last letter, had blue eyes and black hair—Christy muttered a distinctly unladylike word—just like Lord Braybrook’s. Indeed, if they were anything like her brother’s blue eyes and raven hair, then Miss Trentham would be nothing short of a beauty. She had never realised eyes could actually be that blue, outside the covers of a romance from the Minerva Press. Or that penetrating, as though they looked right into you and saw all the secrets you kept hidden… Oh, yes. He was Lord Braybrook right enough. And she had accepted a post as companion to his stepmother and a sort of fill-in governess. It must be a most peculiar household, she reflected. Most ladies of rank would hire their own companions and the governess.

She snorted. It was all of a piece with his arrogant lordship. Marching into her home as though he owned it. Taking up far too much of her parlour with his shoulders…why on earth was she thinking about his shoulders? It hadn’t been his shoulders that had forced Goodall to back down, it had been that stupid card with his name and rank on it. Lord Braybrook. A title and Goodall had been bowing and scraping his way out backwards. Where was she? Oh, yes. His arrogant lordship, telling her what to do, taking the beastly uncomfortable settle instead of the wingchair, taking the tray and moving the tea table for her— lighting a fire she could not afford, although if she was leaving on Thursday there was enough fuel to last.

At least she was warm now. It had been a kindness on his part. Of course some men were considerate, but she must not linger over it as though he had done it for her.

Drat him! Cutting up her peace, arranging her life to suit his own convenience, dismissing her concerns about propriety in the most cavalier way, and—

Well, he did come around in the end…

Only because he had to, or you wouldn’t have accepted the position!

Which begged the question: why—despite his desire to have her give Miss Trentham’s thoughts a more proper direction— did he still persist in thinking her a proper companion for his stepmother and younger siblings?

She had flown at him like a hellcat, been as rude as she knew how and argued with him when he showed a wholly honourable concern for her comfort and welfare on the journey to Hereford.

Why hadn’t he simply retracted his offer of employment and walked out?

And why was she even bothered about it? Why not do as he suggested and accept his money without argument? In a ladylike way, of course.

The seething, rebellious part of her mind informed her that she was going to have trouble accepting any of his lordship’s dictatorial pronouncements without a great deal of argument. Ladylike or otherwise.

In the meantime, due to his lordship’s rearrangement of her life, she had not enough time for everything. Certainly there was no time for pondering the odd feeling that she had just made the most momentous decision of her life. Or had it made for her. As for the ridiculous notion that Lord Braybrook was somehow dangerous—nonsense! Oh, she had no doubt that to some women he might be dangerous, but she had heard the scorn in his voice.

Believe me, I’ve no designs on your virtue.

That stung a little, but when all was said and done, she was a dowd. Perhaps a little more so than was necessary, but that was all to the good if it deflected the attention of men such as Lord Braybrook.

There had been that look, though, the feeling that he truly saw her, Christy, not merely Miss Daventry… She shut off the thought. Only a fool needed a lesson twice. The last thing she wanted was for him to notice her at all. Men seemed to have difficulty in comprehending when no was short for no, I don’t want to go to bed with you rather than no, you aren’t offering enough.

Crossly she pushed away from the door. She would not be sorry to leave this house. Once it had been happy enough, when Mama had been alive. But now it was filled with memories of nursing her dying mother. One must go on. And apparently, come Thursday, that was precisely what she would be doing.

As for Harry—was he mad? How could he imagine himself a suitable match for the Honourable Miss Trentham? A viscount’s sister, no less! The least investigation… She knew the answer of course: his Grace, the Duke of Alcaston. The Duke’s patronage had given Harry ideas dizzyingly far above his station.

Why could Lord Braybrook not behave like any normal man, forbid the match and see that the importunate suitor was denied the house? She had that answer as well; he thought it might drive his sister into revolt, and if his sister was as used to getting her own way as he was, then he had a point.

Unless… There was one way in which she might ensure Lord Braybrook could take that action without his sister uttering a word of protest. A single letter to his lordship would suffice. She looked at the bureau bookcase, hesitating.

Writing that letter would work, but at the cost of an appalling betrayal. Telling tales under a self-righteous cloak. And it was important for Harry to acknowledge the reality of his situation. Somehow she had to persuade him that his course of action was wrong. She needed to see him. Harry would ignore her letters to him. She must see him, try to persuade him of the wrongness of his intention to ensnare Miss Trentham or any other woman without telling her family the truth.

It might even ruin Harry if the truth were generally known. She wasn’t sure, but she could not take that risk. As a last resort she might have to tell the truth, but it would drive a wedge between them and she had no other family. None that she cared to acknowledge.

And there was another consideration—the money Lord Braybrook offered. She did have some money. Enough to manage if she were very careful, and prices didn’t rise. But there was little left over to hoard against illness or chilly old age. With this position, she could add to her meagre nest egg. Even if it were for a year or less, she would earn far more than she could in any other position, and she would save her keep as well.

She could pack up her books and take them with her. Braybrook had said his man of business would help; very well, she would ask him to sell the furniture bequeathed to her by Mama. It might not fetch very much, but every penny helped, and she was damned if she’d leave it for Goodall to sell on Harry’s behalf!

Accepting Lord Braybrook’s offer was the sensible thing to do. As long as she remembered her place. Separate. Apart. If only she could succeed in teaching Harry that lesson.

There was no real choice. She must go into Herefordshire and make Harry see the truth—that a greater gulf than mere money lay between the Daventrys and the Trenthams. If she failed, then, in the last resort, she must tell Lord Braybrook the truth herself.

Despite the fire warming the room, she shivered, imagining his disdain, the brilliant eyes turned icy. She stiffened her spine. It didn’t matter. There was no question of her being upset by his contempt.

That sort of thing only hurt if one committed the folly of allowing someone too close. A warning voice suggested that in breaching her reserve and triggering her temper, Lord Braybrook had already stepped too close. She must ensure he never did so again.