Читать книгу Courting Miss Vallois - Gail Whitiker, Gail Whitiker - Страница 7

‘So, who do you think she was?’ Montague Oberon enquired between bites of underdone potato and overcooked beef.

Robert Silverton didn’t look up from his plate of steak-and-kidney pie, hoping his apparent preoccupation with his meal would discourage Oberon from continuing to talk about her. ‘Why would you not think she was his sister?’

‘Because you heard what he said about it being important she look her best tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps she is meeting with a prospective employer. Or a long-lost relation.’

‘Or her new protector. You know what they say about French women.’

‘I know what you say about French women,” Robert said, reaching for the salt cellar. “But I fear they are not all whores, strumpets or ballet dancers.’

‘Pity.’ Oberon took a piece of bread, his brow furrowing. ‘I suppose she could have been his mistress. There seemed to be a deal of affection between them, and God knows, I’ve never looked at my sister that way.’

‘Why would you? You’ve told me countless times that you despise Elaine.’

‘Of course. You would too if she were your sister. But I’ve never seen you look at Jane that way and the two of you are very close.’

‘You’re imagining things.’ Finishing his meal, Robert picked up his glass. ‘There were marked similarities in their appearance. The slenderness of the nose, the firm line of the jaw, the shape of the eyes.’ The seductive curve of the lady’s mouth. Oh, yes, he’d noticed that. And he’d stared at it far too many times during their brief conversation … ‘I have no doubt they were related. But I could ask the gentleman on your behalf and leave you to the consequences.’

The viscount’s son nearly choked. ‘And find myself on the other end of a Frenchie’s blade? No, thank you. I haven’t your skill with the foil.’

‘You could if you showed more inclination to learn.’

‘I’ve little inclination to do anything that involves hard work or strenuous exercise,’ Oberon said, pausing to flick a remnant of charred crust from the bread. ‘Still, I’d give a year’s allowance to have her in my bed for one night.’

‘It seems to me your money would be better spent on the pursuit of a respectable bride,’ Robert said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Was that not a requirement of your continuing to receive the exceedingly generous allowance your father doles out to you twice a year?’

‘Damned if it wasn’t,” Oberon muttered. ‘The old codger knows me too well. I cannot afford to live without the allowance, so I am forced to legshackle myself to some simpering heiress or some horse-faced widow long past her prime in order to assure its continuation.’

Robert smiled, aware that even under the most dire of circumstances, Oberon would never settle for anything less than a diamond of the first water. ‘I’m sure such desperate measures will not be called for. No doubt you’ll find at least one young lady amongst this year’s crop of blushing débutantes to tempt you.’

‘Tempt us, don’t you mean?’

‘No. I’ve had my brush with marriage, thank you,’ Robert said. ‘My only goal is to settle my sister in marriage and I intend to devote all of my energies to that.’

Oberon frowned. ‘You may have a difficult task there, Silver. Jane’s a delightful girl, but there is her affliction to consider.’

‘I wouldn’t call a misshapen foot an affliction, and I certainly don’t consider it an impediment to her making a good marriage.’

‘Of course not. You’re her brother and honour bound to defend her. But what man would not wish his wife to be the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance?’

Robert raised his glass and studied his companion over the rim. The remark came as no surprise. It was exactly what he expected from a man who valued physical perfection above all and saw anything less as flawed. ‘Jane is an acknowledged beauty.’

‘But she limps, Silver. She cannot walk without the use of a cane and is hard pressed even to ride as well as other young ladies her age.’

‘But she rides nevertheless.’

‘Only when in the country where no one can see her. Be reasonable, old man. Jane’s chances of making a good match in London are about as remote as ours of finding a man of wit and intelligence amongst the rabble out there,’ Oberon said bluntly. ‘Perhaps if you left her in the country, introduced her to the local clergyman—’

‘Jane’s chances of making a good match in London are no better or worse than any one else’s,’ Robert said mildly. ‘Love enables one to overlook what others see as faults.’

‘Blinds one to them, you mean. It sets up ridiculous expectations and does nothing more than pave the way for marital strife. I don’t expect the woman I marry to love me, any more than I expect to love her.’

‘Then what do you expect?’

‘Loyalty, obedience and good breeding skills. I expect her to sit at my table and entertain my guests, manage my households to make sure the servants don’t rob us blind and provide me with an heir at the earliest opportunity so I can go off and indulge my other interests.’

‘Those being?’

‘To find myself in bed with a different woman every night.’

Robert snorted. ‘If that’s all you require, you may as well marry your housekeeper and spend your nights at a brothel.’

‘And pay for the pleasure of bedding a woman? I’d rather eat bad oysters for breakfast,’ Oberon said. ‘I could give you the names of a dozen young ladies happy to warm my bed for nothing more than the pleasure they receive in return.’

‘Then why not marry one of them?’ ‘Because I want a flower of rare perfection. A woman as virginal as Hestia, as amusing as Thalia, as—’ ‘As exquisite as Aphrodite?’ ‘That would be my first choice, though if she is not, I shall simply snuff the candles and do the deed as quickly as possible.’ Oberon shrugged. ‘London is full of tempting young chits only too happy to do what a man likes. Take that stunning young woman we just met. I’d wager even you wouldn’t mind a tumble with her, despite your stated aversion to all things French.’

‘That has nothing to do with it,’ Robert said, aware that it wasn’t entirely true, but wishing he’d never told Oberon of his antipathy. ‘As a result of what happened between Lady Mary Kelsey and myself, I have no intention of involving myself with any woman, whether she be well born or otherwise.’

‘Ah, yes, the broken engagement. Pity about that,’ Oberon reflected. ‘Unlike you, Lady Mary is not keeping quiet about her feelings. Last week she called you a heartless bastard for breaking things off without a word of explanation.’

‘Trust me, it is better I do not vouchsafe the reasons,’ Robert murmured.

‘Be that as it may, she is threatening to sue you for breach of promise and society has taken her side. You have been cast out, my friend. Abandoned. Thrown to the murderous hordes. Which means you may as well find yourself a nice little mistress to keep you warm at night—in fact, what say you to a little wager? Whoever establishes the most beautiful woman in London as his mistress before the end of the Season shall be declared the winner.’

‘I’d say that apart from it being a totally iniquitous undertaking, it makes absolutely no sense. Have you any idea how many beautiful women there are in London?’

‘Ah, but I said the most beautiful.’

‘By whose standards? Jane is considered a beauty, yet you are offended by her handicap and label her unattractive as a result.’

The viscount’s son had the decency to blush. ‘I did not say she offended me—’

‘Not in so many words, but we both know that is what you meant.’

‘Then we shall let a panel of our peers make the decision. And the stakes of the wager will show that he who loses must give the other that which he desires most. I’m willing to put up my stallion,’ Oberon said, stabbing the last piece of beef with his fork. ‘I recall you once saying that were I to offer you a chance to buy him, you’d take it without second thought. Now you can have him for free.’

Robert sighed. ‘Let it go, Oberon. You know this is a complete waste of time.’

‘On the contrary, it could be very interesting. We just have to come up with something of equal value for you to put forward.’ Oberon tapped his finger against his chin. ‘I have it! Your sapphire ring. I’ve always been partial to it and that is what I claim as my prize.’

Robert stared. ‘You think I would risk a priceless family heirloom on something as feeble as this?’

‘Why not? A wager must always have a prize and a consequence or it is not worth the trouble. So what do you say? Are you in?’

There were times, Robert reflected, when it was impossible to find the words that would adequately describe how he felt about some of the things Oberon did. Just as it was equally hard to imagine that one day, the man sitting opposite him would wear a viscount’s coronet and own a veritable fortune in property and wealth. Robert picked up his glass and shook his head. ‘No.’

‘But why not? It is a harmless enough wager.’

‘Not if the terms of the wager become known to the ladies involved.’

‘Faith, Silver, when did you acquire such pretty manners? I remember a time when you would have wagered a month’s allowance on something as inconsequential as in which direction a flock of pigeons took off.’

‘That was before my father shot himself over gambling debts he couldn’t afford to repay,’ Robert said quietly. ‘I swore then I wouldn’t follow in his footsteps. And I won’t have Jane ending up the same way as our poor mother.’

‘But she wouldn’t, old man. Unlike your father, you never lose!’

‘A man’s luck can change. Fortune is a fickle mistress.’

‘For others, perhaps, but not you. Your prowess at the tables is legendary.’

‘Count me out,’ Robert said. ‘I want nothing to do with it.’

Oberon sat back, rapping his fingers on the table and looking thoroughly peeved. ‘Really, Silver, if I didn’t like you so well, I’d pass you over for Welton. Unfortunately even he’s begun to bore me of late. Twice now he’s stood me up for lunch, and the last time I called round, he wouldn’t even see me.’

Robert frowned. That didn’t sound like Lawrence. When they had all been at Oxford together, it was most often Lawrence Welton to whom Oberon had gravitated. Likely because the affable Lawrence was the only one who had not been openly critical of Oberon’s debauched lifestyle. ‘Are you sure he’s well?’

‘Well enough to attend a social engagement the same afternoon he stood me up,’ Oberon said. ‘No, I’ve washed my hands of him. He used to be such good fun. Now he’s become as staid and as boring … as you.’

Robert was unmoved by the criticism. So what if Oberon thought him boring? He knew what was important and it certainly wasn’t deceiving innocent young women for the sake of someone else’s pleasure or gain. ‘Play the game if you must, but I’ll have nothing to do with it. However, I will offer a toast. To your future wife,’ Robert said, raising his glass. ‘May she be as beautiful as Aphrodite, as gentle as Hestia—’

‘And as lusty as an Irish farmer’s daughter,’ Oberon said. ‘A toast to the dear lady’s health … wherever she may be!’

* * *

It was late the following afternoon when Sophie finally stepped down from the carriage into the quiet of the respectable English street, and as far as she was concerned it wasn’t a moment too soon. Her serviceable brown jacket and skirt were hopelessly creased, her halfboots were covered in dust, and there was a stain on the palm of her left glove from having touched something black and oily. Added to that, the unsettling events of the previous evening had made it impossible to sleep, leaving her feeling overly tired and decidedly on edge. If it weren’t for Antoine, she would have climbed back into the carriage and turned the horses in the direction of home.

A long row of tall, white houses stretched before her, each with four stone steps leading to a shiny black door. From the centre of each door, a brass lion roared a warning to those who came near, and to either side and above, rows of windows glinted in the last rays of sunlight. A square ran the length of the street, bordered by trees newly covered in green, and in front of each house, black wrought-iron posts stood waiting to receive horses and carriages.

It was a far cry from the crowded Rue de Piêtre and the three small rooms she and Antoine called home.

‘Buy some sweet violets, miss?’ asked a young girl passing by with a tray. She was petite and dark haired, and the sweet smell rising from the flowers brought back bittersweet memories of home. Mama had always loved violets …

‘Non, merci, ’ Sophie murmured, forgetting the girl wouldn’t be able to speak French. Forgetting they weren’t in France. They were in England, and suddenly it all seemed like a huge mistake. What in the world had made her think this was the right thing to do? Too much time had passed. They should never have come—’

Upon my word, Sophie, is it really you?’

And then it was too late. The past caught up with the present and the moment of reckoning was at hand. Sophie looked up to see the door standing open and a swarm of black-coated servants emerge, like bees flying out of a hive. A couple stood on the top step, and while the beautiful woman in the exquisite silk gown was not known to her, the man … oh, yes, she knew the man. There might be lines around his mouth that hadn’t been there before, and traces of grey peppering the dark, wavy hair, but his eyes were still the clear bright blue of a summer sky and his smile was still as warm as an August day in Provence. She would have recognised him anywhere. ‘Lord Longworth,’ Sophie said, breathing an audible sigh of relief. ‘It has been … a long time.’

‘A very long time.’ Nicholas Grey started down the stairs. ‘So long I scarcely recognise the beautiful young woman you’ve become. And I’m not sure exactly what to say except … welcome to England, dear Sophie. And may I say how very, very happy I am to see you again.’

It was almost like coming home. Sophie stepped into his embrace, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. ‘No happier than I, for you look much better than when last we parted.’

‘I dare say it would have been difficult to look worse. But even the deepest of cuts and bruises heal and I am pleased to say I had exceptionally good care.’ Nicholas glanced at the young man standing quietly on the street behind her, and slowly extended his hand. ‘Antoine. I was afraid you would not remember who I was. Or choose not to come if you did.’

‘Under the circumstances, you would be a hard man to forget,’ Antoine said, his greeting more reserved than his sister’s, but his tone cordial as he shook the viscount’s hand. ‘I take it your memory is fully restored?’

‘It is, though it was several months after the accident before I could claim a complete recovery.’

‘I have learned that injuries like yours often induce temporary memory loss.’

‘So it would seem.’ Nicholas smiled. ‘I understand you are apprenticed to a surgeon in Paris.’

Sophie glanced at him in surprise. ‘To Monsieur Larocque, yes, but … how could you know that?’

‘I suspect there is very little Lord Longworth doesn’t know about us,’ Antoine said. ‘No doubt he has had us thoroughly investigated.’

‘Antoine!’

‘No, it’s all right, Sophie,’ Nicholas said quietly. ‘I regret that such duplicity was necessary, but it would serve no purpose to lie and I will not insult your intelligence by doing so. Yes, I hired someone to find you and they did what was necessary in order to uncover your whereabouts. But the investigation was discreet and nothing of its undertaking made public. So unless you told anyone of your reasons for coming to England, I can assure you that no one here knows.’

It was a moment before Antoine said, ‘I told the gentleman to whom I am apprenticed that I was coming to visit an old friend, and that time was of the essence given the precarious state of his health. However.’ he looked at Nicholas and began to smile ‘.you appear uncommon well for a man on his deathbed, my lord.’

In full understanding of the situation, Nicholas chuckled. ‘I’m glad I was able to hang on until your arrival.’ He reached up to scratch his ear. ‘Am I in imminent danger of expiring?’

‘Not imminent, but the prognosis isn’t good.’ ‘In that case, I suggest we go inside before I take a turn for the worst.’

‘Thank heavens,’ Lady Longworth said. ‘I thought the entire visit was to be conducted on our doorstep.’

Making a sound of disgust, Nicholas said, ‘Forgive my abominable manners. Sophie, Antoine, my beautiful wife, Lavinia, who, I can assure you, has been as anxious about your arrival as I.’

‘Of course I’ve been anxious. But you must both be weary after your long journey,’ Lavinia said. ‘Why don’t we retire to the drawing room? I’ve asked Banyon to set out refreshments.’ She extended a slender white hand to Antoine. ‘Vous ne viendrez pas avec moi, monsieur?’

The young man’s eyebrows rose. ‘Your accent is perfect, madame. Avez-vous été née en France?’

‘No, I was born in England, but my first husband was French and we lived in Paris for several years after we married. It will be delightful to have someone to speak the language with again.’

‘I am surprised you do not speak it with Lord Longworth,’ Sophie said. ‘I remember his French being very good.’

‘Alas, that was over three years ago,’ Nicholas said. ‘And given that I seldom use the language any more, I am beginning to forget many words and phrases.’

‘Understandable. Even my own French is not as good as it once was.’ Lavinia turned to Antoine, a hint of mischief lurking in the depths of those lovely eyes. ‘I look to you for help in that regard, monsieur.’

‘Ce serait mon plaisir,’ Antoine replied, and though he did not smile, Sophie thought she detected a slight thawing of his reserve. Good. If the beautiful Lady Longworth had the ability to make her brother less suspicious of the situation, so much the better. She watched them walk into the house, quietly chatting in French, and found herself alone on the steps with Nicholas.

‘Tu es … très belle, mademoiselle,’ he complimented her. ‘And I am sorry my accent is so poor compared to my wife’s.’

‘Your accent is fine,’ Sophie said, wondering why Nicholas still seemed so ill at ease with her. He was a great man—a viscount in the British aristocracy. He had a beautiful wife, a lovely home and was clearly a man of means.

And yet, perhaps it was only to be expected. The last time they had seen each other, she had been a naïve girl of sixteen living on a farm in the French countryside and he an Englishman fighting for his life. She had struggled to make him understand what was happening to him and had done her best to keep him alive by feeding him soup smuggled from the kitchen, and by wrapping his wounds in bandages made from her own petticoats. For that, he had called her his angel of mercy and had gripped her hand when the fever had raged and the terror of his own anonymity had settled in his eyes.

Perhaps that was the problem, Sophie reflected. He was no longer a man on the brink of death and she was no longer the child he remembered. Maybe now that she was here and so little like the person he’d left behind, he was regretting his invitation, wishing he’d left things as they were. So much had changed in both their lives.

‘Lord Longworth—’

‘No,’ he interrupted gently. ‘Let there be no formality between us, Sophie. You are the young lady who saved my life and to whom I will always be indebted. I would ask that now, and in the future, you call me Nicholas.’

She looked up at him and tilted her head to one side. ‘Is such familiarity permitted in England?’

‘I see no reason why not. You are a good friend, and good friends always address one another by their Christian names.’

‘D’accord, then Nicholas it shall be. As long as I am Sophie to you.’

‘You will always be that, even though I now know your full name to be Sophia Chantal Vallois.’

Sophie raised one eyebrow. ‘You have done your homework.’

To her amusement, he actually looked embarrassed. ‘I fear so.’ Then, his expression changed, becoming serious. ‘Our first meeting seems … a very long time ago now, Sophie. Almost as though it were another lifetime. And there are still parts of those three weeks I don’t remember. But I sincerely hope I did nothing to hurt you, or say anything to which you might have taken offence. A man in pain often lashes out at those around him, and I would hate to think I had scarred the child I left behind with a callous remark or a thoughtless word.’

So, that was the reason for his reserve, Sophie reflected. It had nothing to do with the people they were now, but rather with the impression he had made all those years ago. ‘You did nothing wrong, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘Even in the depths of pain, you could not have been more vaillant. And if some of your memories of that time are dim, it is probably not a bad thing. It allows you more room for the good memories. For the ones that are worth remembering.’

‘I’d like to think so.’ He looked at her and a smile trembled over his lips. ‘What about you, Sophie? Have you happy memories of the last three years?’

Sophie knew that he wanted her to say yes. She could see in his eyes, the hope that her life had not been an ongoing series of struggles and hardships, and perhaps one day she would tell him the truth. But not today. ‘I have many happy memories, but I’m quite sure this is going to be one of the happiest.’