Читать книгу Society's Most Scandalous Rake - Isabelle Goddard - Страница 8

She gave a sudden choke, shaken by an irrational panic, and would have collapsed but for a supportive hand at her elbow.

‘Miss de Silva? How nice to see you here,’ Joshua Marchmain was saying smoothly. ‘I hope you found the music to your taste.’

‘Yes, indeed, thank you,’ she stuttered.

He was holding his arm out to her and she took it. Nervously she glanced at the woman who stood at her left side. Charlotte Severn’s eyes were narrowed, but there was no mistaking the daggers she was sending forth.

‘The concert was delightful, was it not? And such a privilege to hear Signora Bonelli. I believe she is judged one of the finest sopranos of our day.’ His voice was unruffled, but even while he spoke he was skilfully extricating the apricot silk from the entanglements of chair and table.

By now the duchess had regained her composure and, in a gesture of seeming warmth, clasped hold of Domino’s other arm.

‘But must you go already?’ she addressed the girl directly, excluding Joshua from the conversation. ‘I am delighted that you enjoyed our small concert, but do stay for the rest of the evening’s entertainments.’

Her head still whirling, Domino was caught between the two and had no idea how to cope with the dreadful situation. It was one scenario that the etiquette books failed to mention.

Joshua locked glances with the duchess. His voice was imperturbable as ever, but there was an edging of steel that Domino had never heard before.

‘It does not seem, Your Grace, that card playing holds much attraction for Miss de Silva, so I will engage to reunite her with her cousin.’

Leaving their hostess stranded with outstretched hand, he propelled Domino firmly towards the door and whisked her through it. Once on the other side he cut a swathe through the milling crowd to arrive unerringly at Carmela’s side. Her cousin wore a worried expression, which rapidly turned to exasperation once she saw Domino safe and well. She nodded curtly to Joshua and grabbed Domino by the arm. Social politeness was brushed aside and, without waiting to bid their hosts goodbye, Carmela made for the bamboo staircase. The carriage had been ordered and was already waiting outside.

Catching her breath at the head of the stairs, Domino had only time to glance briefly over her shoulder. Joshua Marchmain had not spoken a word as they’d threaded their way through the crowded room, but now she saw him in conversation with the duchess, their heads close and talking animatedly together. Her heart lurched as she took in the intimacy of the little tableau. But why did the image cause her such distress? All the while Carmela was bundling her down the stairs and into the coach, she struggled to find an answer. Why on earth should Joshua’s relationship with the duchess matter? She knew them to be lovers—naturally they would have much to say to each other. He would be keen to explain his absence from the concert and to excuse his intervention with Domino, even keener no doubt to make an assignation with his mistress for later that evening. It all made perfect sense, but it only served to intensify her misery.

Unknown to Domino, her departure left the two locked in a furious exchange.

‘What exactly were you thinking of?’ Cold anger permeated Joshua’s voice.

‘I don’t pretend to understand you.’

‘I think you understand me perfectly. Miss de Silva is still a minor and yet you were encouraging her to break the law by gambling.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ The duchess fairly spat the words. ‘I merely suggested to her that she might like to join a select gathering and play a few rounds of loo.’

‘A select gathering—is that what you call it?’ He snorted derisively.

‘I take it that you finally decided to put in an appearance this evening for reasons other than to be unpleasant.’

‘It’s as well I did. It was clear that the girl did not want to stay and just as clear that you were intent on forcing her.’

‘What rubbish. How could I ever force her to do anything she did not wish? If you had not interrupted us in that nonsensical manner, she would be happily playing cards this very moment.’

‘Playing cards, I am sure, but happily I don’t believe.’

‘I say again, how could I make her play cards if she did not wish it?’ The duchess’s expression was scornful.

‘I imagine a few judicious glasses of champagne might help to do the trick, together with pressure from her hostess which she would find difficult to resist.’

‘You talk as though she were an innocent. It won’t have been the first time that she has supped champagne, I’m sure, and from what I hear she has been more than happy in the past to engage in games of chance—even, dare I say, to accrue considerable debts.’

‘How can that be?’

For an instant Joshua appeared less composed and the duchess watched him with a gloating expression. ‘Why don’t you ask her? The two of you seem remarkably thick with each other. And why are you so late? The concert is long finished.’

‘I am devastated to have missed it,’ he said with barely concealed irony, ‘and naturally I apologise. I was visiting—an artist friend—and was unexpectedly detained.’

‘That must have been important,’ came the brittle rejoinder, and she walked away to mingle with her guests in the inner sanctum. Leo Moncaster was waiting for her.

‘I can see why you wanted to handle the matter yourself.’ His smile was sardonic.

‘I was wrong. She was far more stubborn than I gave her credit for. But I think I would have succeeded in the end if Marchmain had not turned up at that moment and spoiled the game.’

‘And you still feel that she is of no interest to him?’

She did not answer him directly, but said slowly and deliberately, ‘I need to get rid of her.’

There was a slight pause before Moncaster said in a heartening voice, ‘Don’t be too discouraged, Charlotte. It would have been difficult to coax her to stay once she saw my face. There must be more subtle ways to catch our little bird.’

‘You have some ideas?’

‘I have some ideas. Shall we now work together?’

Charlotte Severn’s nod was almost imperceptible but Lord Moncaster retired that night a contented man.

Domino slept fitfully and woke unrefreshed to a new day. The events at Steine House still crowded her mind, filling it with jangled impressions only half-understood, but all of them contributing to her despondency. How was she to make sense of such a dreadful evening? The concert had evoked stifled yawns, but at least it had been innocuous. It was the Duchess of Severn herself who had seemed far from innocent. She had appeared to be so friendly, so keen to make Domino’s acquaintance that she should have felt flattered. Despite her dubious reputation, Charlotte Severn was enormously influential and her notice of a mere ambassador’s daughter would for most be a cause of pleasure and gratitude. But Domino had felt neither pleased nor grateful. Instead she had felt manipulated, even coerced. She had not wanted to abandon Carmela, but the Duchess had been insistent. She had not wanted to enter the inner room, yet had found herself propelled through its doors unable to protest. And once there her fears had multiplied. Seeing Leo Moncaster had been the final straw. His malevolent face still lowered in her dreams. Three years ago he had been her undoing and here he was once more, ready to do her harm if he possibly could.

Rescue had come, but at what cost? Just when she’d decided that on no account must she have further dealings with Joshua Marchmain, he had made her beholden. How shameful to be dependent on a rake for rescue! He had said not a word as he’d walked her towards her cousin and sanctuary, but he must have thought her a silly and naïve girl, out of her depth and drowning. It was evident that he had been angry with the duchess—at one point Domino had felt literally pulled between the two of them—and she might have found comfort in that, but for the last glimpse she’d had of the pair.

They had stood as though closeted, their heads so close that his cheek was almost grazing the woman’s hair. Any animosity had vanished. They had been talking easily together and she had a sinking feeling that she had been the main subject of their conversation. Her face burned; they would decide that she was a foolish young girl who had become hysterical when invited to partake in a game of chance. Then a worse thought struck, making her face burn even brighter. What if she really had been that foolish, foolish enough to imagine the whole thing and misinterpret the duchess’s conduct? This high-born lady had gone out of her way to be friendly and her seeming coercion might simply be a desire to encourage a reluctant young guest to enjoy herself. The duchess would not know her unfortunate history with Lord Moncaster; she would be ignorant of the dread he evoked. And how had Domino responded to Charlotte’s overtures? Blind, inexplicable panic and a dreadful lapse of good manners. She and Carmela had left the party without a word of thanks or indeed a word of farewell. It was appalling.

She told herself that she must not dwell on such harrowing thoughts, but dwell on them she did. The evening’s events continued to revolve in her mind until they began to assume hideous proportions. She wished that her mother was by her side to guide her. She knew that she could have told Mama everything—well, nearly everything, she amended inwardly. Her feelings towards Joshua would have remained under wraps. She did not even understand them herself. How could she feel this strong attraction to him when Richard had been the only man she had ever loved?

Remember him, remember him, she told herself fiercely. Richard, the new Lord Veryan, and she a whirling figure in pale blue, dancing with him at Almack’s for the very first time. How wonderful that had been. She hugged the memory, warmed by its still-powerful glow, chasing Joshua and her confusion away. But then another image emerged: Richard dancing that very same night with Christabel, the woman he contended he despised, the woman who had so cruelly jilted him, but the woman he still loved. Domino had known even then, deep in her innermost self, that his feelings for the flame-haired beauty had not died and that he was deceiving himself in thinking he was free of her power. But how resolute she herself had been in refusing to see the truth of the situation, wishing, hoping that he would turn his head and see the girl who was so often by his side through those long summer months, the girl who idolised him. But all he saw was a scrubby schoolgirl, without guile or wisdom, too spontaneous for her own good. Was that what Joshua saw? Was this another situation in which she was blind to the truth?

For much of the day she stayed cloistered in her room, venturing downstairs only at mealtimes, though in truth she had little appetite. At the table Carmela made no mention of yesterday’s tribulations and Domino could only assume that her cousin had vowed herself to silence. Señor de Silva seemed to have taken the same vow. He had arrived from London in the early hours of the morning and Domino had expected to find him eager to hear details of their visit to Steine House. But not one question did he ask. Perhaps Carmela had alerted him to the wretchedness of the evening. Domino had committed a serious impropriety in disappearing for some considerable time without a chaperon, but neither her father nor her cousin appeared to blame her.

Indeed, they both treated her with unaccustomed gentleness and, during the days that followed, were careful never to comment on her fondness for her room and her refusal to venture out for even a short walk.

It was Alfredo who finally broke the impasse on a morning that sparkled with light.

‘The weather is so fine, querida,’ he said heartily, embracing her in one of his bear hugs. ‘Why don’t we walk on the Downs, perhaps even take a picnic?’

Carmela nodded silent approval and he continued persuasively, ‘The breeze will keep us cool and we should easily find sufficient shade to enjoy our meal.’

She said nothing, but her expression was downcast. Her father, though, was not to be defeated. ‘Just you and I,’ he coaxed.

She did not wish to disappoint him, but shrank at the idea of walking on the Downs, or indeed anywhere in the vicinity. What she wanted most was to hide away—from the duchess, from Moncaster and particularly from Joshua Marchmain. Every time she stepped outside the door, she risked meeting with one or other of them. Brighton was not a large town.

‘If that is too far for you, we could take a short walk through the Lanes.’ Alfredo would not be dissuaded, and she saw how concerned he was. ‘It’s not good, Domino, to be confined in these four walls for too long.’

She knew he was right. Eventually she would have to emerge from her refuge and face whatever or whoever came her way. She was compounding her folly at Steine House with even greater folly. And showing a drastic lack of spirit too, she castigated herself. She needed to regain her usual vitality and show the world that she was ashamed of nothing. She could do that, must do that. If she met Charlotte Severn, she would smile and curtsy and leave it to the other woman to set the tone. If she met Lord Moncaster, her father would be there to defend her. And if she met Joshua—but she would not, she was sure. She had been shut away in Marine Parade for nearly a week and had heard nothing of him. He had his own tight little circle and would not have noticed her absence from the social scene.

‘I need to change my books at the library, Papa,’ she offered, ‘and if you are agreeable we could walk there.’

The library she patronised, one of the many that were dotted across Brighton, was in the west of the town and would furnish a satisfying stroll. On the way, there was the distraction of any number of tempting shop windows filled with exquisite silks and laces, almost certainly smuggled from France. She chose her dress with care, searching for as plain a gown as possible, and ended by donning a simple but stylish jaconet muslin. Once out of the house, she kept her eyes lowered beneath the deep brim of her straw bonnet, but she need not have worried, for the ton were out of town that day it seemed, enjoying themselves elsewhere. They walked through near-deserted streets while her father told her of his trip to London and the worrying news from Spain.

‘A change of government usually means a change of everything else,’ he confided to her. ‘I am no longer certain of my position. It could be that I am recalled to Madrid very soon and perhaps reassigned elsewhere. I am sorry, if that happens, querida. Your holiday by the sea will come to an abrupt end.’

She squeezed his arm reassuringly, but felt a tremor of foreboding. Leaving Brighton would mean separation from her father when they had so recently been reunited. It would mean an inevitable return to Spain and the future that awaited her. The life she had agreed upon just a few weeks ago seemed increasingly dreary. Nothing had changed and yet everything seemed different. She was still pondering this paradox when they arrived at the fashionable new subscription library, which fronted the western end of the promenade.

Usually its coffee rooms and lounges were filled with residents and fashionable visitors but, as with the rest of the town today, it was nearly empty. A few ladies were browsing the bookshelves and a small card game was in play at one end of the smallest saloon. Another gentleman was busy sifting through music sheets, evidently keen to find something new for the musical evening he was planning.

‘All at the Race Ground,’ he explained succinctly when Alfredo mentioned the scarcity of people. ‘The Regent’s Cup today, y’ know. Big prize money.’

‘I wish we had known …’ her father turned to Domino ‘… you would have enjoyed the meeting. That’s what comes of staying too close to home.’

She could only feel gratitude that her father had not heard the news. At the race course she would have been sure to see everyone that she most wished to avoid.

Thirty minutes of browsing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves secured a neat pile of small volumes and they made ready to leave. They were almost out of the door when her father spied a tattered poster taped insecurely to the wall.

‘Look, Domino, Henry Angelo has set up a new fencing academy here in Brighton. I was tempted in London to try a lesson or two with him.’

She could not help but smile. Her father’s physique in middle age was hardly conducive to fencing.

‘Why do you smile, little one? You think I couldn’t do it?’

‘No, Papa, I am sure you could, but wouldn’t you prefer to watch rather than participate?’

‘Perhaps you are right, though in my youth I was a match for anyone.’

‘Yes?’

‘I actually beat the legendary Don Roderiguez.’

She looked questioningly.

‘You wouldn’t know of him. It was well before you were born, but he was worshipped in Madrid for his skill. I took him on as a wager and nobody expected me to win, but I did.’

‘And Don Roderiguez?’

‘I have to admit that he was probably not quite himself. I managed to fight him after a particularly boisterous party.’

They both laughed and she said wistfully, ‘Gentlemen are so lucky; they have many channels for their energy. All we have is embroidery or the pianoforte.’

‘I don’t notice either of those featuring heavily in your life, my dear.’

‘Exactly, Papa, that is just what I mean. Fencing would be far more enjoyable.’

And it would get rid of some of my restlessness, she thought, even perhaps beat the blue-devils that have been plaguing me. Yes, men were lucky. A woman had simply to sit, to watch and to wait.

Unbeknown to her, Alfredo had taken note of his daughter’s interest and promptly committed to memory the address of the new fencing school. He would arrange a small treat for her. Lately she had seemed unusually dejected. He knew the evening at Steine House had not gone to plan, but he was in the dark about his daughter’s true state of mind. Anything that would distract her could only be good.

So it was that Henry Angelo had an early morning visitor the next day. The request was unusual and certainly unconventional, but he had a business to establish and an ambassador was too important a personage to offend in these early days. His school had already attracted the attention of those members of the ton spending the summer in Brighton, but Señor de Silva could prove useful in bringing new clients from the diplomatic circles in which he moved.

Summoned to an early breakfast, Domino found her father already at the table, seething with barely suppressed excitement.

‘What have you been doing, Papa?’ she asked guardedly. ‘You look like a naughty schoolboy.’

‘This morning I have important papers to clear, but this afternoon, Domino, we are to play truant together!’

‘And Carmela?’ Her cousin had not yet put in an appearance.

‘Carmela and playing truant are not compatible, I think.’ Señor de Silva smiled happily. ‘This is just for you and me.’

‘Not a picnic on the Downs?’ she asked in some alarm. Despite her resolve to be brave, she still feared places where she risked meeting the world and his wife.

‘No, no picnic. The wind today is far too strong even for the English to eat outdoors.’

Through the windows she saw the grey surf breaking harshly on the sea wall and spilling through the iron railings that defended the promenade. A few hardy souls, determined to complete their daily constitutional, were making their slow progress along the seafront. They were bent nearly double as they headed into the fierce wind, clutching wildly at flying garments.

‘Then indoors somewhere?’

‘Indeed. But you must probe no further. It is to be a great surprise!’

She had hoped to spend the day curled on the sofa reading some of the library’s offerings, but it was evident that Alfredo had made special plans and she was sufficiently intrigued to hurry upstairs after a modest nuncheon and change her dress. Choosing suitable raiment proved difficult, for she had no idea where she was going. Eventually she settled on a primrose sarsenet flounced with French trimmings: modest enough for an informal outing, yet not too plain. She quickly threaded a matching primrose ribbon through a tangle of black curls and joined her father in the hall.

‘We will go by carriage,’ he announced as Marston battled to hold the front door ajar. ‘The weather is far too rough to walk.’

Soon they were bowling past fishermen painting boats that had been pulled high on to the beach, past their women tending the nets and then past Mahomed’s much-patronised Vapour Baths, until they reached the end of East Cliff. The imposing mansions that lined the road gradually became far less in number as they travelled eastwards, but just before they reached open countryside the carriage pulled up at a small establishment tucked between two much larger white-washed dwellings. An arched wooden door painted in luminescent green beckoned a greeting and, even before they had taken a step out of the vehicle, a sprightly, dark-haired man bounded out to greet them.