Читать книгу Rescued From Ruin - Georgie Lee - Страница 10

Chapter Two

‘Good evening, my lord,’ Mr Joshua, the wiry young valet, greeted as Randall entered his bedroom. ‘You’re in early tonight.’

‘So it seems.’ Randall stood still while Mr Joshua removed his coat, the skin along the back of his neck tightening as a chill deeper than the cool night air crossed him. He moved closer to the marble fireplace, the warmth of it doing little to ease the lingering tightness from his encounter with Cecelia.

She was back, the wealth and confidence of her experiences in Virginia circling her like her perfume, making her more beautiful then when she’d stood before him as a young girl with the weight of sorrow on her shoulders.

It seemed marriage had benefited her.

He grabbed the poker from the stand and banged it against the coals, trying to ignite the heat smouldering in their centres. A splash of sparks jumped in the grate, followed by a few large flames.

He didn’t doubt she’d benefited from the marriage. She’d practically rushed at the colonial after Aunt Ella made the introduction, fleeing from Randall and England as fast as the ship could carry her.

She’d escaped her troubles, and left Randall behind to be tortured by his.

He returned the poker to the stand, his anger dying down like the flames.

After everything that had passed between them, when he’d been foolish enough tonight to show weakness, she hadn’t belittled him. Instead she’d displayed an understanding he hadn’t experienced since coming to London. Considering the way they’d parted, it was much more than he deserved.

The squeak of hinges broke the quiet and the bedroom door opened.

‘Hello, Reverend.’ Randall dropped to one knee and held out his arms.

The black hunting dog ran to him, his long tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. Randall rubbed Reverend’s back and the dog’s head stretched up to reveal the wide band of white fur under his neck. ‘And where have you been?’

‘Probably in the kitchen hunting for scraps again,’ Mr Joshua answered for the dog while he brushed out Randall’s coat.

‘I’ll hear about it from cook tomorrow.’ Randall scratched behind the dog’s ears, the familiar action soothing away the old regrets and torments.

‘A message arrived while you were gone.’ Mr Joshua held out a rose-scented note, a cheeky smile on his young face. ‘It seems Lady Weatherly is eager to renew last Season’s acquaintance.’

Randall’s calm disappeared. He stood and took the note, skimming the contents, the sentiments as trite as the perfume clinging to the envelope.

‘Good dalliance, that one. Obliging old husband with more interest in the actresses of Drury Lane than his wife,’ Mr Joshua observed with his usual candour. No one else in London was as honest with Randall as the valet. Randall had encouraged it from the beginning when he’d taken the labourer’s son into his service and saved his family from ruin. ‘Lord Weatherly isn’t likely to object to your lordship’s continued acquaintance with his wife.’

‘Yes, but I’ve had enough of Lady Weatherly.’ Randall tossed the paper in the grate. ‘If she calls again, tell her I’m engaged.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Randall leaned against the mantel, watching the letter curl and blacken. He dropped one hand to his side and Reverend slid his head beneath it. Randall rubbed the dog behind his ears, despising Lady Weatherly and all those of her ilk. They never flattered him without an eye to what they could gain. Yet he tolerated them, enjoyed what they eagerly gave because they demanded nothing more of him than the esteem of being his lover.

The image of Cecelia danced before him, her lively voice ringing in his ears. She’d entered Lady Weatherly’s salon, a butterfly amid too many moths, standing alone in her beauty while the rest flapped around the candles. She didn’t need light, it was in her eyes, her smile, the melody of her voice, just as it was ten years ago. Her responses to his amorous suggestions were playful and daring, but tinged with an innocence women like Madame de Badeau and Lady Weatherly had abandoned long ago. He grieved to think what London might do to her. What had it done to him? Nothing he hadn’t wholeheartedly embraced from his first day in town. Nothing his father hadn’t feared he’d do.

You’re as bad as your uncle, his father’s deep voice bellowed through the quiet, and the faint scar on his back from where his father’s belt used to strike him began to itch.

Randall closed his eyes, seeing again his father waiting for him in the vicarage sitting room, the darkness of the window behind him broken by small drops of rain flickering with the firelight.

You think your Uncle Edmund has all the answers, but he hasn’t, his father sneered from his chair. All his wine and women, they’re only to fill the emptiness of his life. You can’t see it now, but some day you will, when your own life is as hollow as his.

At least he accepts me, Randall spat, his uncle’s port giving him courage, anger giving him words. Reverend stood next to him, the puppy’s tense body pressed against his leg.

I’m hard on you for your own good. He slammed his fist against the chair, then gripped the arm as a raspy cough racked his body. He stood, his skin ashen, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a few ragged breaths as he steadied himself.

Randall braced himself for the usual onslaught of insults, but when his father opened his eyes they were soft with a concern Randall had only experienced a handful of times, yet every day craved. I want you to be more of a man than Edmund. I want to know your mother’s death to bring you into this world was worth it.

His father’s eyes drifted to the portrait of Randall’s mother hanging across the room, the concern replaced by the constant sadness Randall loathed, the one which always pulled his father away. Randall tightened his hands at his side, wanting to rip the portrait from the wall and fling it in the fire. Why? No matter what I do, it’s never enough for you.

And what do you do? Drink with your uncle without a thought for me. His father’s face hardened with disgust. You’re selfish, that’s what you are, only ever thinking of yourself and your future riches instead of being here and tending to the vicarage like a proper son.

Randall dropped his hand on Reverend’s head, anger seething inside him. He’d obeyed his father for years, taken every insult heaped on him and more, thinking one day the old man would look at him with the same affection he saved for the portrait, but he hadn’t, and tonight Randall realised he never would. I’m not staying here any longer. Uncle Edmund has invited me to live at the manor. I’m going there and I’m not coming back.

You think because you’ll be a Marquess some day, you’re too good for a simple vicarage. Well, you’re not. His father snatched the poker from the fireplace and Randall took a step back. You think I don’t know how you and my brother laugh at me, how you mocked me when you named that wretched dog he gave you.

He levelled the poker at Reverend and a low growl rolled through the gangly puppy.

Well, no more, his father spat. You killed the one person I loved most in this world, then turned my brother and sister against me. You have no idea how it feels to lose so much, but you will when I take away something you love. He focused on Reverend and raised the poker over his head.

No! Randall rushed at his father, catching the poker just as his father brought it down, the hard metal slamming into his palm and sending a bolt of pain through his shoulder. He tried to wrench the iron from his father’s hand, but the old man held on tight, fighting with a strength fuelled by hate. Reverend’s sharp barks pierced the room as Randall shoved his father against the wall, his other arm across his chest, pinning him like a wild animal until his father’s fingers finally opened and the poker clattered to the floor.

I hate you. You killed her, he hissed before the deep lines of his face softened, his jaw sagged open and his body slumped forward on to Randall’s chest.

Randall struggled to hold his father’s limp weight as he lowered him to the floor, then knelt next to him, panic replacing his anger as he patted his face, trying to rouse him. Father? Father?

A faint gurgle filled his father’s throat before his eyes focused on Randall’s. Reverend whimpered behind him, as if he, too, sensed what was coming.

Father, forgive me, Randall pleaded.

You aren’t worthy— he slurred before his head dropped forward and he slumped to the side.

The room went quiet, punctuated by the crackling of the fire and Reverend’s panting.

Randall rose, stumbling backwards before gripping a table to steady himself. Reverend came to sit beside him and he dropped his hand on the dog’s soft head. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I didn’t mean to— kill him.

A gust of wind blew a fury of raindrops against the window, startling Randall. He couldn’t stay here. He had to get help, to tell Aunt Ella and Uncle Edmund.

The poker lay on the floor next to the wrinkled edge of the rug. With a trembling hand, he picked it up and returned it to the holder. With the toe of one boot, he straightened the rug, careful not to look at the dark figure near the white wall. Then he turned and left, Reverend trotting beside him out into the icy rain.

* * *

Randall opened his eyes and knelt down next to Reverend, rubbing the dog’s back, struggling to calm the guilt tearing through him. He’d walked through the freezing rain back to the manor, then stood dripping and shivering as he’d told Aunt Ella he’d come home to find his father collapsed. The doctor had said it was his father’s heart that had killed him. Randall had never told anyone the truth, except Cecelia.

His hands stopped rubbing Reverend and the dog licked his fingers, eager for more. Randall noticed with a twinge of sadness the grey fur around Reverend’s black muzzle. ‘I wonder if you’d remember her.’

‘Did you say something, my lord?’ Mr Joshua asked.

‘No, nothing.’

The small clock on the side table chimed a quarter past twelve.

‘Will you be going out again tonight, my lord?’

‘Perhaps.’ Randall stood, shaking off the memories, but the old emotions hovered around him, faint and fading like the waking end of a dream: vulnerability, uncertainty, innocence, regret. In the end, he’d driven Cecelia away, too horrified by what he’d done to keep close the one person who knew his secret. His father had never forgiven him. Would Cecelia have forgiven him back then? He’d never had the courage to ask her.

‘Keeping such hours, society will think you’ve gone respectable,’ Mr Joshua joked, ‘then every matron with a marriageable daughter will be here at the door. I’ll have so many cards stacked up we won’t need kindling all winter.’

Randall frowned, hearing the truth in his jest. No, he wasn’t going to spend the night wallowing in the past like his father used to do. Those days were far behind him, just like his relationship with Cecelia. At the end of that summer, they’d both made their choices. He refused to regret his.

‘I’m going to my club.’ He patted Reverend, then flicked his hand at the bed. ‘Up you go.’

The dog jumped up on the wide bed, turning around before settling into the thick coverlet, watching as Mr Joshua helped Randall on with his coat.

Randall straightened the cravat in the mirror, then headed for the door. ‘Don’t expect me back until morning.’

* * *

Cecelia sat in the turned-wood chair next to the small fireplace in her bedroom, staring at the dark fireback. Still dressed in her evening clothes, she shivered, having forgotten how cold London could be even in the spring, but she didn’t burn any coal. She couldn’t afford it.

She closed her eyes and thought of the warm Virginia nights heavy with moisture, the memory of the cicadas’ songs briefly drowning out the clop of carriage horses on the street outside.

The sound drew her back to Lady Weatherly’s and the sight of Randall approaching from across the salon. He’d moved like the steady current of the James River, every step threatening to shatter her calm like a tidal surge driven inland by a hurricane. She’d known he’d be there tonight. Madame de Badeau had mentioned it yesterday, leaving Cecelia to imagine scenario after scenario of how they might meet. Not once did she picture his blue eyes tempting her with the same desire she used to catch in the shadowed hallways of Falconbridge Manor. Back then every kiss was stolen, each moment of pleasure fumbling and uncertain.

There was nothing uncertain about Randall tonight, only a strength emphasised by his broad shoulders and the height he’d gained since she’d last seen him. Her body hummed with the memory of him standing so close, his musky cologne and hot breath tempting her more than his innuendoes and illicit suggestions. Yet she’d caught something else hovering in the tension beneath his heated look—a frail connection she wanted to touch and hold.

She opened her eyes and smacked her hand hard against the chair’s arm, the sting bringing her back to her senses. There’d never been a connection between them, only the daydreams of a girl too naive to realise a future Marquess would never lower himself to save her. He hadn’t then and, with all his wealth and privilege, he certainly wouldn’t now, no matter how many tempting suggestions he threw her way. No, he would be among the first to laugh and sneer if the truth of her situation was ever revealed, and if she could help it, it never would be.

She slid off the chair and knelt before the small trunk sitting at the end of the narrow bed, her mother’s trunk, the only piece of furniture she’d brought back to London. The hinges squeaked as she pushed opened the lid, the metal having suffered the ill effects of sea air on the voyage from Virginia. Inside sat a bolt of fabric, a jumble of tarnished silver, a small box of jewellery and a stack of books. It was the sum of her old possessions and the few items of value she’d managed to secrete from Belle View after Paul had taken control. They sat in the trunk like a skeleton in its coffin, reminding her of everything she’d ever lost. For a brief moment, she wished the whole lot had fallen overboard, but she needed them and the money they could bring.

She pushed aside the silver, the metal clanking as she lifted out one large book on hunting from beneath a stack of smaller ones. It had been Daniel’s favourite and the only one she’d taken for sentimental reasons. She opened it and, with a gloved finger, traced a beautiful watercolour of a duck in flight, remembering how Daniel used to sit in his study, his brown hair flecked with grey falling over his forehead as he examined each picture.

Guilt edged her grief. In the end, this book would probably have to be sold, too.

She snapped it shut and laid it in the trunk next to the velvet case that had once held the gold bracelet she wore. It had been a gift from her father, given to her the Christmas before his ship had sunk off the coast of Calais, taking with it his life and the merchandise he’d needed to revive his business. Moving aside the silk, she caught sight of the small walnut box in the corner. She reached for it, then pulled back, unable to open it and look at the wispy curl, the precious reminder of her sweet baby boy.

Squeezing her eyes tight against the sudden rush of tears, she fought back the sob rising in her throat and burning her chest with grief. Her hands tightened on the edges of the trunk, the weave of her silk gloves digging into her fingertips. Loss, always loss. Her father, her mother, her infant son, Daniel... Would it never end?

She pounded one fist against the open trunk lid, then sat back on her heels, drawing in breath after breath, her body shaking with the effort to stop the tears.

Why did she have to suffer when people like Randall found peace? Why?

A knock made her straighten and she rubbed her wet face with her hands as the bedroom door opened.

Theresa appeared, a wrapper pulled tight around her nightdress. ‘I heard a noise. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ She looked away, trying to hide her tears, but Theresa saw them.

‘You aren’t missing Daniel, are you?’ The girl knelt next to her and threw her arms around Cecelia.

‘No, I’m angry with him.’ Cecelia pulled herself to her feet, not wanting anyone’s pity or comfort tonight, not even Theresa’s. ‘When he recovered from the fever eight years ago, I asked him, begged him to write his will, to provide for me, not leave me at the mercy of Paul, but he wouldn’t. All his superstitions about making a will inviting death, his always putting it off until next month, next year until it was too late. Now, we’re lost.’

‘We aren’t lost yet.’

‘Aren’t we?’ She slammed the lid down on the trunk. ‘You saw everyone tonight, treating us like nothing more than colonial curiosities. How they’ll laugh when the money runs out, scorn us the way Paul did when he evicted us from Belle View and refused to pay my widow’s portion. Not one of them will care if we starve.’

Theresa fingered the wrapper sash. ‘I think one person will care.’

‘You mean Lord Strathmore?’ Cecelia pulled off the damp gloves and tossed them on the dressing table. ‘It seems I can attract nothing but men like him and General LaFette.’

‘I didn’t mean Lord Strathmore. I meant Lord Falconbridge.’

Cecelia gaped at Theresa. The memory of Randall standing so close, his mouth tight as he spoke of the difficulties of life flashed before her. Then anger shattered the image. She shouldn’t have bothered to comfort him. He wouldn’t have done the same for her. ‘I assure you, he’ll be the first to laugh at us.’

‘I don’t believe it. I saw the way he watched you tonight. Miss Domville did, too. She said he’s never looked at a woman the way he looked at you.’

‘I hardly think Miss Domville is an expert on Lord Falconbridge.’ Cecelia crossed her arms, more against the flutter in her chest than the ridiculous turn of the conversation. ‘And be careful what you tell her. We can’t have anyone knowing our situation, especially not Madame de Badeau.’

For all the Frenchwoman’s friendliness, Cecelia wondered if the lady’s offer to introduce Cecelia and Theresa to society had an ulterior motive, though what, she couldn’t imagine.

‘I don’t like her and I don’t like Lord Strathmore.’ Theresa wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s worse than General LaFette. Always staring at your breasts.’

‘Yet he’s the man we may have to rely on to save us.’ She paced the room, the weight of their lot dragging on her like the train of her dress over the threadbare rug. She stopped at the window, moving aside the curtain to watch the dark street below. ‘Maybe I should have accepted General LaFette’s offer. At least then we could have stayed in Virginia.’

‘I’d starve before I’d let you sell yourself to a man like him,’ Theresa proclaimed.

Cecelia whirled on her cousin. ‘Why? Didn’t I sell myself once before to keep out of the gutter?’

‘But you loved Daniel, didn’t you?’ Theresa looked stricken, just as she had the morning Cecelia and Daniel had met the newly orphaned girl at the Yorktown docks, her parents, Cecelia’s second cousins, having perished on the crossing.

Cecelia wanted to lie and soothe her cousin’s fears, allow her to hold on to this one steady thing after almost two years of so much change, but she couldn’t. She’d always been honest with the girl who was like a daughter to her and she couldn’t deceive her now.

‘Not at first,’ she admitted, ashamed of the motives which drove her to accept the stammering proposal of a widower twenty years older than her with a grown son and all his lands half a world away. ‘The love came later.’

Yet for all her tying herself to a stranger to keep from starving, here she was again, no better now than she’d been the summer before she’d married. Even Randall had reappeared to taunt her and remind her of all her failings.

She dropped down on the lumpy cushion in the window seat, anger giving way to the despair she’d felt so many times since last spring when General LaFette had begun spreading his vicious rumours. The old French General had asked her to be his mistress. When she’d refused, he’d ruined her with his lies. How easily the other plantation families had believed him, but she’d made the mistake of never really getting to know them. Belle View was too far from all the others to make visiting convenient, and though Daniel was sociable, too many times he’d preferred the quiet of home to parties and Williamsburg society.

‘Now I understand why Mother gave up after Father died.’ She sighed, staring down at the dark cobblestone street. ‘I had to deal with the creditors then, too, handing them the silver and whatever else I could find just so we could live. I used to hide it from her, though I don’t know why. She never noticed. I don’t even think she cared.’

‘She must have.’ Theresa joined her on the thin cushion, taking one of her cold hands in her warm one.

‘Which is why she sent me to Lady Ellington’s?’

‘Perhaps she didn’t want you to see her suffer.’

‘No. I think all my pestering her to deal with the creditors bothered her more than the consumption. The peace must have been a relief when she sent me away.’ Cecelia could only imagine how welcome the silence of death must have been.

Theresa squeezed her hand. ‘Please don’t give up. I don’t know what I’d do if you lost hope.’

Cecelia wrapped her arms around her cousin, trying to soothe away all her fears and concerns the way she wished her mother had done for her, the way her father used to do.

‘No, I won’t, I promise.’ She couldn’t give up. She had to persevere just as Daniel had taught her to do when his final illness had begun and she’d had to run Belle View, to pick up and carry on the way her father used to after every blow to his business. ‘You’re right, all isn’t lost yet. We’ll find a way.’

We have no choice.

* * *

Randall sat back, his cards face down under his palm on the table. Across from him, Lord Westbrook hunched over his cards, his signet ring turning on his shaking hand. A footman placed a glass of wine on the table in front of the young man and he picked it up, the liquid sloshing in the glass as he raised it to his lips.

Randall reached across the table and grasped the man’s arm. ‘No. You will do this sober.’

Lord Westbrook swallowed hard, eyeing the wine before lowering it to the table. Randall sat back, flicking the edges of the cards, ignoring the murmuring crowd circling them and betting on the outcome. In the centre of the table sat a hastily scribbled note resting on a pile of coins. Lord Westbrook’s hands shook as he fingered his cards and Randall almost took pity on him. If this game were not the focus of the entire room, he might have spared the youth this beating. Now, he had no choice but to let the game play to its obvious conclusion.

‘Show your cards,’ Randall demanded.

Lord Westbrook looked up, panic draining the colour from his face. With trembling fingers he laid out the cards one by one, leaving them in an uneven row. It was a good hand, but not good enough.

Randall turned over his cards, spreading them out in an even row, and a loud cheer went up from the crowd.

Lord Westbrook put his elbows on the table and grasped the side of his head, pulling at his blond hair. Randall stood and, ignoring the coins, picked up the piece of paper. Lord Westbrook’s face snapped up, his eyes meeting Randall’s, and for a brief second Randall saw his own face, the one which used to stare back at him from every mirror during his first year in London.

‘I’ve always wanted a house in Surrey,’ Randall tossed off with a disdain he didn’t feel, then slid the note in his pocket. ‘Come to my house next week to discuss the terms.’

Turning on his heel, he left the room, shaking off the many hands reaching out to congratulate him.