Читать книгу Miss Marianne's Disgrace - Georgie Lee - Страница 10

Chapter Two

‘You entered the dining room where the gentlemen were?’ Lady Ellington’s cousin, Rosemary, Dowager Baroness of St Onge, gasped, clutching the long strand of pearls draped around her thin neck. ‘By yourself?’

Marianne gritted her teeth as she poured Lady Ellington’s tea. ‘It was a matter of some urgency.’

‘But, my dear, you’ll be the talk of the countryside for being so bold.’

Marianne tipped a teaspoon of sugar in the cup. ‘I’m already the talk of the countryside, whether I storm in on the men at their port or spend all my days practising the pianoforte.’

‘But to interrupt gentlemen in the dining room.’ Lady St Onge pushed herself to her feet. ‘It just isn’t how young ladies behave.’

‘Now, now, Cousin Rosemary.’ With a look of sympathy and a small measure of amusement, Lady Ellington took the tea from Marianne. The rings on every finger sparkled in the afternoon sunlight as she leaned back against her chaise. ‘I’m sure everyone understands Marianne was acting on my behalf and not because she wanted to create a scandal.’

‘You give them too much credit, Ella. I can almost hear the country ladies’ tongues wagging from here.’ Lady St Onge shuffled out of Lady Ellington’s dressing room, a long string of muttered concerns trailing behind her.

Marianne frowned. ‘Why can’t she stay at your London town house while the roof of her dower house is being repaired? Why must she be here?’

‘Patience, Marianne,’ Lady Ellington urged, propping her injured arm up on the pillows beside her. After a restless night, Lady Ellington had regained her spirits, but not her usual vigour. ‘You more than anyone know what it is to need a safe haven from the small troubles of life.’

‘If only they were small.’ She splashed tea into her cup and a hail of drops splattered over the edge and on to the saucer. Her undeserved reputation kept good men away while attracting scoundrels and gossip. Sir Warren had been proof of it last night. Despite his defending her against Lady Cartwright, he’d bolted from her the moment his services were no longer needed. Typical gentleman.

‘Your problems aren’t so very large they can’t be overcome,’ Lady Ellington insisted, ever the optimist.

Marianne peered out the window at the tall trees swaying over the front lawn. Welton Place, Lady Ellington’s dowager house on the grounds of Falconbridge Manor, had proven a refuge for Marianne. However, the sturdy brick walls and Lady Ellington’s solid reputation couldn’t keep all the scandals and troubles from touching her. ‘Lady St Onge is right, the gossips will talk. Even with your influence, they refuse to believe that I am nothing like Madame de Badeau.’

‘They are stubborn in their views of you, which is surprising since Lady Preston has all but fallen on top of half the eligible gentlemen in the countryside and no one is cutting her. I think her old husband must not mind since it saves him the bother.’

Marianne laughed, nearly choking on her tea.

‘Now there’s a smile.’ Lady Ellington offered her a napkin.

Marianne dabbed at the moisture on her chin.

‘You’re so pretty when you smile. You should do it more often.’

Marianne tossed the linen down beside the china. ‘If I had more to smile about, I would.’

‘Nonsense. You’re too young to hold such a dim view of life.’ She raised one ring-clad hand to stop Marianne from protesting. ‘Yes, I know you’ve seen a greater share of trouble than most young ladies. But it does you no good to be morose. You’ll only end up like poor Rosemary.’

‘Now, that’s unfair.’

‘True, but we can’t have you languishing here and becoming a spinster, not with your enviable figure and your money. We’ll go to London next Season and find you someone.’

‘No. I won’t go back there.’ She could manage the scrutiny of a few country families, but not the derision of all society. Besides, whatever hopes Lady Ellington harboured about Marianne’s wealth and looks landing her a good husband, she didn’t share them. Marianne brushed at the lace over her breasts, wishing she didn’t possess so much figure, but it was what it was. As for the money, leaving her well settled had been the one and only thing the vile Madame de Badeau had ever done for her. Marianne shuddered to think how the woman must have earned it. ‘The only gentleman attracted to me is the broke Lord Bolton. Hardly a suitable pool of suitors.’

‘Then we’ll increase it. After all you can’t spend your entire life composing pianoforte pieces.’

What else is there for me to do?

The other young ladies in the country were planning amusements for the autumn while the experiences of their last Season in London were still fresh. Those not dreaming of winter balls and house parties were at home with the husbands they’d landed in the spring, or tending to their new babies. There was little for Marianne to look forward to, or to keep the days from passing, one dreary, empty one after another.

She dipped her teaspoon into her tea and listlessly swirled the dark brown water. She should be thankful for the tedium. She didn’t want to flirt with temptation and discover she really was no better than the gossips believed.

‘Speaking of things to do.’ Lady Ellington took up a letter from the table beside her, eyeing Marianne with a whiff of mischief. ‘Mrs Stevens sent a note asking after me. Tomorrow, we’ll pay her a call and thank her and her son for their help.’

Marianne paused over her teacup, the steam rising to sweep her nose. ‘So soon?’

‘I’m not sick enough to lie about all week and I want to see how the repairs to Priorton Abbey are coming. Be a dear and bring me my writing box. I’ll send a note to Mrs Stevens right away.’

With some reluctance, Marianne set down her cup and made for the writing desk. There was no good excuse she could contrive for why they shouldn’t go. After all, they did owe them thanks for their help. She liked Mrs Stevens. She couldn’t say the same about Sir Warren. Despite his assistance, in the end, his response to her had been no different from anyone else’s outside the Falconbridge family. His all but running from her still grated. Who was he to cast judgement? He was no hereditary baronet, only a writer with the Prince Regent for an admirer.

Then again, who was she? The only relation of London’s most notorious lady scoundrel.

She paused over the lacquer writing box, the Falconbridge family crest gold and red against a three-pointed shield. The loneliness which had haunted Marianne since childhood filled her again. It was the same aching pain she used to experience each Christmas at the Protestant School in France when all the other girls had received packages from their families while she’d received nothing. Madame de Badeau had never sent Marianne so much as a letter during all the time she’d spent at the school. The only thing she’d done was arrive on Marianne’s tenth birthday and take her from the only family she’d ever known and carry her off to England before the Peace of Amiens had failed. On her way to London, Madame de Badeau had dumped her with the Smith family, all but forgetting about her for another six years until she’d thought it time for Marianne to marry. Then she’d dragged her to London to try and pawn her off on any dissolute lord who took an interest in her, no matter how old. Only Marianne’s stubbornness had kept her from the altar.

A proud, wicked smile curled Marianne’s lips. Madame de Badeau’s face had practically turned purple when Marianne had tossed Lord Bolton’s roses back at him when he’d knelt to propose. It had been worth the beating to defy the nasty woman.

Marianne’s smile faded and with it her determined spirit. In the end, Madame de Badeau had got her revenge and ruined Marianne’s life.

She grasped the cold metal handles on either side of the box. It didn’t matter. There was nothing she could do except bear it as she had all the other disappointments and insults the woman had heaped on her. She started to heave the box from the table when the door swung open, stopping her.

‘Lady Ellington, how are you?’ Cecelia, Marchioness of Falconbridge, moved as fast as a lady so heavy with her second child could to hug Lady Ellington. Her husband, the Marquess of Falconbridge, followed behind. Lord Falconbridge was tall with a square jaw and straight nose, his blue eyes made more stunning by his dark hair. ‘I was so worried when I heard about your accident.’

‘You needn’t fuss over a little scratch, not in your condition,’ Lady Ellington chided. ‘Randall, how could you let her scurry about the country when she should be at home resting?’

‘I couldn’t stop her.’ Lord Falconbridge dropped a kiss on his aunt’s cheek. ‘Besides the two miles from Falconbridge Manor to Welton Place is hardly scurrying about the country.’

‘It’s the furthest I’ve been from the house in ages.’ The Marchioness rubbed her round belly then shifted in the chair to turn her tender smile on Marianne. Her brown hair was rich in its arrangement of curls and her hazel eyes flecked with green glowed with her good mood. ‘Thank you so much for looking after Lady Ellington. It means so much to us to have you here with her.’

With Lord Falconbridge’s help, Lady Falconbridge struggled to her feet, then embraced Marianne. Marianne accepted the hug, her arms stiff at her sides. She should return the gesture like Theresa, her friend and Lady Falconbridge’s cousin, always did, but she remained frozen. The Marchioness had always been kind to her, even before she’d risen from an unknown colonial widow to become Lady Falconbridge. It was the motherly tenderness in the touch Marianne found more unsettling than comforting. She wasn’t used to it.

At last Lady Falconbridge released her and Marianne’s tight arms loosened at her sides. Unruffled by Marianne’s stiff greeting, the Marchioness stroked Marianne’s cheek, offering a sympathetic smile before returning to the chair beside Lady Ellington.

Despite her discomfort, Marianne appreciated the gesture. The Smiths had been kind, but she’d never really been one of their family, as she’d discovered when the scandal of Madame de Badeau had broken. Afterwards, despite the years Marianne had spent with them, they’d been too afraid of her tainting their own daughters to welcome her back.

Marianne swallowed hard. Of all the past rejections, theirs had hurt the most.

‘Oh, Cecelia, how you carry on.’ Lady Ellington batted a glittery, dismissive hand at the Marchioness. ‘You’d think I was some sort of invalid.’

‘We know you’re not, but we’re grateful to Miss Domville all the same.’ Lord Falconbridge nodded to Marianne as he stood behind his wife, his hands on her shoulders. Four years ago, Marianne had discovered Madame de Badeau’s letter detailing her revenge for Lord Falconbridge’s rejection of her by seeing Lady Falconbridge assaulted by Lord Strathmore. Marianne had given him the letter from Madame de Badeau outlining her plans and with it the chance he needed to save Lady Falconbridge. The revealing of Madame de Badeau’s plot had led to her ultimate disgrace and gained for Marianne the Falconbridge family’s appreciation and undying dedication.

Marianne shifted on her feet. Lord Falconbridge’s gratitude made her as uncomfortable as the hug. A notorious rake she’d once thought as hard as Madame de Badeau, love had changed Lord Falconbridge. What might it do for her? She wasn’t likely to find out. No man worth his salt was going to push past the rumours and gossip to ever get to know her.

‘Marianne, guess what? Theresa is expecting again. Some time in the spring,’ Lady Falconbridge announced.

‘How marvellous.’ Despite Theresa being one of Marianne’s only friends, the good news stung. It illustrated once again the love and happiness Marianne would never enjoy. ‘I’ll write to her at once with my congratulations.’

She fled the room before the envy and heartache found its way to the surface. She made for the sitting room downstairs near the back of the house, eager to reach the pianoforte and the smooth black-and-white keys. Once inside the room, the view of Lady Ellington’s prized rose garden through the far window didn’t calm her as it usually did. She withdrew a red-brocade composition book from the piano bench. The spine creaked when she opened it. She flipped through the pages and the notes bounced up and down on the staffs, punctuated every few lines by a smudge of ink or her fingerprint. It was her music. It had comforted her during the long, lonely hours at Madame de Badeau’s, and afterwards, before her life had settled into the even cadence of Lady Ellington’s dower house.

Selecting her most recent composition, she propped the book up on the music stand and lifted the cover over the keys. Wiggling her fingers, she rested them on the ivory until it warmed. Then she pressed down and began the first chords, wincing at each wrong note until she settled into the sweet and mournful piece. Through the adagio, she concentrated on the shift of the foot pedal and the strength with which she struck each key and how long she held it until sweeping on to the next. The black notes tripped along in her mind, memorised from hours of practice.

Finally, the piece reached its slow, wailing end and she raised her hands. The last notes vibrated along the wires until they faded away. Blinking through wet lashes, her cheeks and neck cold with moisture, she studied her hands. They were smooth and limber now, but some day they’d be wrinkled and stiff and here she’d be, with any luck, living under the protection of the Falconbridge family, the scandals as forgotten as she.

She wiped the tears from beneath her chin and turned the page to one of her slightly less sombre compositions. Crying wouldn’t do any good. If Lady Ellington didn’t think it was hopeless, then perhaps it wasn’t. If nothing else, there was always Lord Bolton.

* * *

‘There’s a fortune to be made here, Warren, can’t you see it?’ Rupert Hirst, Warren’s brother-in-law, paced back and forth across the rug in front of Warren’s desk. A little wrinkle rose up in the patterned carpet where his heel dug in to make the turn.

Warren frowned. If Rupert paced long enough, he’d wear a hole in the thing and then it would be another repair for Warren to pay for. The workers were behind enough already, despite the rush to finish before the good weather ended, and the costs were increasing by the day. If Warren didn’t write this book and get it to William Berkshire, his publisher, and collect the remainder of his advance, there’d still be holes in the roof come the first snow.

Lancelot, Warren’s red Irish setter who chased sleep more than he did birds, watched from where he lay on the hearthrug, not bothering to rise.

‘I can see the potential. I can also see myself losing a great deal of money if your optimism proves unfounded.’ Which wouldn’t be the first time. Despite his brother-in-law’s best efforts, Rupert hadn’t made a go of his last venture and it had faltered. Even his love for Leticia had proved destructive in the end.

Warren twirled his pen in his fingers. It wasn’t fair to blame Rupert. He’d loved Warren’s sister. If only Mother Nature had been so enamoured. The cruel witch had turned her back on Leticia and her poor little babe, failing to answer even Warren’s entreaties for help as he’d struggled to save them both.

‘I’m committing most of my small inheritance to hiring the best captains and ships to import the tobacco, and securing the crops of numerous farmers, so it can’t fail. I won’t let it,’ Rupert protested, frustration and desperation giving his voice an unappealing lilt. ‘I need your backing, not just financially, but your name. It will attract others and once they’ve invested or become buyers, the risk to you will be minimal.’

‘But not non-existent.’ Warren gathered up a small stack of books from the corner of the desk and carried them to the dark wood bookshelves lining the lower floor of the study. He examined the spines in the bright daylight filling the room from the row of leaded glass windows behind his desk. At least the sun saved him the expense of lighting candles. ‘The repairs to Priorton are proving expensive. I can’t afford to risk money on a business venture.’

Warren climbed the curving staircase to the balcony and opened a glass case and deposited a thick medieval text inside. If he could write the next damned book he might be able to take a chance. The manuscript was already months overdue. Mr Berkshire was a friend and a patient man, willing to wait for the next great sensation from Sir Warren Stevens, but he wouldn’t wait for ever. Neither would Warren’s readers. They’d move on to another emerging novelist if he didn’t produce something soon.

‘If my plan to import the new tobacco succeeds, you’ll have plenty of money,’ Rupert persisted.

‘And if it doesn’t, it will ruin my financial standing and my reputation.’ Warren looked over the polished wood banister at Rupert. His company was tolerable enough and his vices non-existent, but there was nothing special about him. He still couldn’t understand what Leticia had seen in him. ‘I have no wish to go from celebrated author to hated hawker of bad investments.’

‘But I need your support. I think it’s the least you can do, considering.’ The words came out low with the edge of a growl. Even Lancelot raised his head at the sound.

‘Careful, Rupert.’ Warren gripped the banister, setting hard on his arms as he leaned forward, staring the man down. ‘She was as much my sister as she was your wife.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything or to sound desperate, but some days I feel so lost without her.’ He hung his head, raking one hand through his thinning dark hair, the simple gold wedding band glowing on his finger. ‘If she were here, I’d have her support and it would make it easier to deal with the setbacks and disappointments.’

Warren eased his grip on the banister at the anguish in Rupert’s words. Warren had lost his greatest supporter, too, when Leticia had died. She’d edited and read all of his manuscripts, telling him where they were best and what could be improved, and she’d believed in them, and him, even when he hadn’t. Not even Mr Berkshire had matched her enthusiasm for his work and now she was gone.

He slid his hand over the banister, then took the spiral staircase step by slow step. He could almost hear Leticia begging him to help Rupert. She’d begged Warren to invest in Rupert’s first business after they were engaged so he could make enough to allow them to marry. Warren had been as wary of that venture as he was this one, but Leticia had stood in front of his desk, like Rupert did now, pleading with him to change his mind, to help Rupert and to make her happy.

He approached his brother-in-law, the differences in their height making Warren look down on the slender man. Whatever Rupert’s shortcomings, Warren had taken him on when he’d given his consent for the marriage. If Rupert did manage to make a go of things, Warren could make a great deal. He’d need it, especially if he failed to deliver this next book or it didn’t sell as well as the previous one. Without Leticia here to edit it, it might not. Since her death, his stories had all but deserted him.

‘All right, tell me how much you need and I’ll discuss it with my man of affairs. I can’t give you everything you’re asking for, but perhaps I can do something.’ The key was not to risk too much.

Rupert snatched up Warren’s hand and shook it. ‘Thank you, Warren, you don’t know how much this means to me.’

He did. Mr Berkshire had taken a chance on Warren’s first manuscript ten years ago, paving the way to Priorton and Warren’s title. He hoped Rupert enjoyed the same success. If not, it would be the last time Warren helped him.

‘Warren?’ His mother appeared at the door, a letter in her hand. Lancelot roused himself and trotted to her, his jingling collar joining the faint echo of hammers and saws trickling down from the upper floors. ‘Lady Ellington and Miss Domville are coming to tea tomorrow. I’d like you to join us.’

Miss Domville.

Warren undid his loose cravat and twisted the ends back into an uncooperative knot. To say he was startled when he’d turned to find her in the dining room last night was putting it mildly. He couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d marched in claiming he’d fathered a child. Since then, to his ire, he’d thought more about her than the heroine of his latest manuscript. Her sharp cheeks highlighted by the fair hair pulled into tight ringlets at the back of her head, the blush of youth across the sweep of her skin and the azure eyes watching him with suspicion, had proved fascinating. She’d dressed modestly, with a higher bodice than even a vicar’s daughter, but the raw appeal of her curving body had been jarring—just like her request for his help.

Shame made his cravat tighter and he pulled loose the knot again. Not even the other gentlemen’s disapproving and less polite scrutiny had been enough to shake her determination, but his near refusal had. When he’d hesitated, it had sent a whisper of fear through her clear blue eyes before her determination had overcome it. She’d been like the most stalwart of captains, unwilling to let anything stop her from achieving her goal, not even a ridiculous sense of propriety. If only all people possessed the same judgement and resilience. The Admiralty certainly didn’t, heaping pay and praise on physicians who did nothing but hide from illness onshore while the underpaid surgeons choked below deck treating the wounded men.

Warren gave up on the cravat and allowed the loose linen to dangle around his neck. He shouldn’t have been so quick to leave Miss Domville last night. She’d caught his struggle with the past and despite her own concerns she’d reached out to him. Instead of thanking her for her sympathy, one people rarely offered him, he’d shoved her away. Despite his misstep, it was probably for the best given his inability to stop thinking about her. He didn’t have the time or money for anything as expensive as a wife and family, even if the woman possessed means. He wasn’t about to make his fortune by marrying it. He’d earn it as he always had, and as a man should, through his own industry.

‘Warren, you can’t be rude to Lady Ellington.’ His mother shook her head at him, her lace cap fluttering over her dark hair which was more grey than chestnut now. ‘Her nephew is a marquess who could do a great a deal for you and your career.’

‘I have the Prince for a patron. I hardly need a lowly peer,’ he teased with a grin she matched with a slightly more serious one as she patted Lancelot on the head. ‘I have too much work to do. I’ll rely on you to speak glowingly of me and cultivate her support.’

‘So you won’t come for Lady Ellington, I understand. But I thought for sure you’d want to see Miss Domville.’ His mother was far more tenacious than Rupert, who’d watched the conversation with interest, but her company much more pleasurable

‘Not if you want to maintain your good reputation,’ Rupert snorted now.

‘She’s a very charming young lady,’ Warren’s mother corrected, silencing Rupert’s chortles.

He didn’t respond and Warren didn’t press for the story behind his snide remark. Gossip didn’t interest him and he hated encouraging the spread of it by asking for whatever tale Rupert had heard.

‘Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have chapters to write.’ He opened his arms and caught his mother by the shoulders and gently guided her to the hallway. He waved Rupert over and Rupert jogged forward to join them like a summoned spaniel.

‘Perhaps you could discuss my business venture with Lady Ellington,’ Rupert near panted. ‘If she or the Marquess could be convinced to invest—’

‘One thing at a time, Rupert.’ He clapped him on the back, unwilling to solicit the county on his behalf, not when he could devote the same time and energy to selling his next book. Assuming he could write it.

‘Come, Rupert, I’ll show you the new plasterwork in the sitting room before you return to London.’ His mother took Rupert’s arm and led him into the hallway as Warren slid the study door closed.

He sagged against the heavy oak. Lancelot’s eyebrows shifted as he watched his master.

Chapters. Warren had barely written a page today, much a less a whole chapter. It wasn’t for lack of trying. His desk and the floor around it were littered with discarded papers full of useless words for pointless stories of boring characters that went nowhere and would make him no money.

Warren dropped into his chair and stared at the silent and cold collection of books and medieval manuscripts surrounding him. In the midst of it all, he felt as lonely and isolated as he had aboard ship when no one had understood his struggles or his dreams for a different future, except Leticia. And then he’d killed her.

He snatched up his pen and held it over the paper, determined, as then, to forge on. He wouldn’t allow his doubts or guilt to hinder him, not with so much depending on his continued success and the money it would make him. The half-filled page taunted him from the blotter, along with the incessant banging of hammers from somewhere overhead. Pressing the nib to the paper, he wrote one word, then another, determined to push through. He had no choice, there was no one else who could do it or save him.