Читать книгу My Lady Angel - Joanna Maitland - Страница 8

A ngel’s breath had caught in her throat. For a second, the two simply stared at each other. Neither seemed able to utter a word.

Then, with a tiny shrug, the apparition straightened and came towards her. An odd smile fluttered for a moment at the corner of his mouth as he made his bow, an old-fashioned courtly gesture, with an elaborate sweep of his arm. ‘My lady, you do me too much honour.’

That bow belonged to a bygone age, Angel thought. How strange. This man might claim to be a Rosevale, but he could not be English. He—

Just then, he straightened and smiled at her. It was such a dazzling smile that, for a moment, she could neither think nor speak.

He took another step towards her.

Angel forced her tumbling thoughts into the beginnings of order. She must take charge of this encounter. She was the head of the Rosevale family, was she not?

She nodded politely towards her visitor and stepped further into the room. Behind her, the door closed with a tiny click. Willett was no doubt standing on the other side, ready to defend her against the foreign intruder. Willett had a profound distrust of all things foreign.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Angel said evenly. ‘To what do we owe the honour of your visit?’ She looked steadily at him, her head tilted slightly to one side as she assessed him more fully. Yes, there might be a slight family resemblance…but almost all the Rosevales were fair, like Angel herself, whereas this man had chestnut hair and dark eyes. And the features of a Greek god.

‘My lady, I seek the Marquis Penrose.’ He pronounced the title in the French fashion, but that barely registered with Angel.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden thundering of her pulse at the visitor’s question. He did not know! She took a deep breath. ‘The Marquis of Penrose died more than a year ago, sir,’ she said. ‘Since my father left no male heirs, the title died with him. There is no longer a Marquis of Penrose.’

For a moment there was a shocked silence. Angel saw that her visitor’s widening eyes were dark blue rather than brown, as she had first thought. Perhaps he was a Rosevale after all?

‘Your pardon, my lady. I do not understand,’ he said at last, shaking his head.

Angel motioned him to one of the wing chairs. He waited courteously until she had seated herself before following her lead. He moved with a degree of elegance that would draw every female eye.

‘If you will have the goodness to explain your errand, sir, I am sure I shall be able to provide you with the information you seek. Tell me, why did you wish to see my father?’ She tried to smile encouragingly at him.

‘I am Julien Pierre Rosevale, my lady. I arrived from France just a few days ago. The crossing was—’ he closed his eyes for a second, and swallowed ‘—painful.’

Angel’s mind was racing—a Frenchman called Rosevale?—but she forced herself to nod in sympathy. Only the most urgent business would persuade any sane person to brave the Channel in the depths of winter.

‘I came to seek help from the Marquis since he is…was my father’s brother. It was not possible to travel before, because— Well, no matter. I think…you and I are cousins, I think?’ It seemed that he was more than a little bewildered.

‘You are Julian Rosevale’s son? But—’ Angel smoothed her silken skirts in an attempt to hide her consternation. ‘Forgive me, monsieur, but I had understood that my uncle and all his family perished on the guillotine. How is it that you alone escaped?’

‘Not I alone, my lady. I have a younger sister. Her name is Julie. Both of us escaped the terrible fate that took my father and mother, and all my mother’s family. My father’s servants saved us both and brought us up. They swore we were their own children.’

‘Your father’s servants?’

‘Gaston, and his wife, Hannah,’ he said, nodding. ‘Gaston came from the d’Eury family estate at the time of my parents’ marriage. But Hannah is English. She made us both speak English always when we were alone. Never outside the house, of course. We were always afraid that one of the spies might hear us. There were spies everywhere.’

That explained his remarkable command of English, Angel concluded. His use of the language was almost faultless. Only the occasional tiny slip betrayed his origins.

And the longer he talked, the less obvious it seemed to become.

Aunt Charlotte’s tightly clasped fingers were almost as white as her face, but her back was ramrod-straight and her features were set.

‘Aunt, you will allow me to present our visitor,’ Angel said simply, drawing him into the room. ‘He is lately arrived from France, in spite of the winter storms. He says his name is Julien Rosevale, son of your brother, Julian.’ It was an odd way of performing an introduction, to be sure, but she was not about to accept this man’s word as to his identity. Aunt Charlotte would be in a much better position to judge the truth of his claim. ‘Sir,’ Angel continued smoothly, ‘this is my late father’s sister, Lady Charlotte Clare.’

Aunt Charlotte had risen from her place, acknowledging the visitor’s extravagant bow with only a slight nod. She did not extend her hand. Instead, she stared intently at him. ‘You do not have the look of the Rosevales, monsieur,’ she said at last.

‘No, my lady. I take after my mother’s family. The d’Eury family all have…had dark hair.’

Aunt Charlotte nodded thoughtfully and motioned the visitor to approach. ‘You are much of a height with Julian, certainly. As to the rest…’ She turned to Angel who had remained near the door, watching. ‘My dear, would you be so good as to go to my chamber for me? In the drawer beside my bed you will find a carved ivory box.’ She began to fumble inside the high neckline of her gown.

Angel hesitated. There were servants enough to run such errands, surely?

‘Forgive me, my child, but I cannot entrust my box to a servant.’ She finally succeeded in extracting a fine gold chain from under her gown and detached two keys from it. ‘You will need the key,’ she said, handing the larger one to Angel.

‘Very well, Aunt.’ Angel felt oddly reluctant to leave the old lady with the strange new arrival. There could be no danger, of course, with so many servants about, and yet…

‘Thank you, Angelina,’ said Lady Charlotte, with decided emphasis, nodding in the direction of the door. It seemed she had no qualms about being alone with the Frenchman.

Angel turned to leave. Her new-found cousin was before her, however, opening the door with a flourish. Where on earth had he learned such manners? They did not sit at all well with a child of the Revolution.

She ran lightly up the stairs to her aunt’s bedchamber, wondering what could possibly be in this mysterious carved box. She was sure she had never set eyes on any such thing. It must have been kept well hidden.

The table alongside Aunt Charlotte’s bed was nothing out of the ordinary. The brass key slid into the lock in the single drawer and turned easily. This drawer must have been opened many and many a time.

The drawer contained a bundle of letters tied with a black ribbon, a pressed posy encased in a protective sleeve of finest muslin, and a beautiful carved box.

The box was locked.

Lifting it out, Angel was struck by the warmth of the ivory in her hand. The box was very old. It was worn, particularly around the small brass lock, where it was only just possible to make out the tiny sprays of carved flowers. What could it contain? It seemed to weigh nothing at all.

She carefully closed and locked the drawer, casting a last glance at its contents. Such a pile of letters. And the posy looked fragile enough to shatter at a breath. Who had given it to Aunt Charlotte? Her late husband? Or was there perhaps a secret lover in the old lady’s past? It was most intriguing.

She hurried back down to the drawing room, carrying the precious box. Willett was standing guard outside, just as before. He had been listening, of course, but he would never admit to it, not to her. If she wanted to know what had been discussed in her absence, she would have to ask her aunt.

The Frenchman jumped to his feet the moment the door opened. He had been sitting close by Lady Charlotte on the sofa. Angel fancied he had even been holding the old lady’s hand. He was certainly quick to seize an opportunity. Angel had not been gone from the room above ten minutes.

‘Thank you, my love,’ said Lady Charlotte, reaching up to take the box. ‘This is just what we need.’ She busied herself with the tiny key, talking all the while. ‘I am sure that Pierre is just what he says, but I shall produce the proof in a trice.’

‘Pierre…?’ Angel looked enquiringly towards the Frenchman.

‘My family have always called me Pierre,’ he said quickly. ‘Since my father was Julian, and my sister is Julie, it seemed easier for everyone.’ He smiled at her, as if he knew she would understand. And she found that she did.

‘Here we are!’ said Lady Charlotte.

The box was open. Its deeply cushioned interior contained two miniatures—of a man and a woman, both dressed in the elaborate style of the French court of decades before.

Lady Charlotte offered the man’s portrait to Angel. ‘This is Julian Rosevale, my dear. Your uncle…and Pierre’s father.’

So that explained the locked drawer! Aunt Charlotte must have found a way of keeping in touch with Julian, in spite of the family feud.

The portrait showed a Rosevale, no doubt of it, in spite of the powdered wig. He looked like a younger version of Angel’s dead father. She felt a sudden sadness at the thought of her uncle’s terrible end, and the fact that she had been told almost nothing about him until now. That cursed Rosevale temper!

‘And this—’ Lady Charlotte handed over the second portrait ‘—this is Amalie d’Eury, Julian’s wife. And Pierre’s mother. The likeness is very strong, I think.’

Angel studied the beautiful miniature. It was impossible to tell the colour of the lady’s hair, since it was heavily powdered, but her brows were dark and her eyes were blue. She had the same fine features as Pierre, and the same determined chin. If the portrait was a true likeness, there could be no doubt that Pierre and Amalie d’Eury were related in some way.

And if Pierre was Julian’s legitimate son, he was the rightful Marquis of Penrose, and the Earl of Penrose besides.

Poor Frederick, indeed!

Lady Charlotte was plying Pierre with questions. ‘Tell me of your sister. Julie, you said? Heavens, I never learned that Julian had even one child, far less two. How old is she now?’

Pierre was gazing fondly at the miniature. For a second, he stared into the distance. Then he blinked, and said, ‘Julie is twenty-four, madame, less than a year younger than I. She is—’ he turned to look searchingly at Angel ‘—she has a great look of your niece. Julie’s hair is perhaps not quite so silvery fair… But apart from that, they might almost be twins.’

‘She would not come with you? We would have been delighted to welcome her into the family, would we not, Angel?’

Pierre looked startled. ‘Angel? Surely—?’

‘My name, sir, is Angelina. It became something of a family joke to call me “Angel” when I was small, since I was definitely nothing of the kind. And later, it amused my father to use it still. You were speaking of your sister, however. Pray continue.’ She refused to let herself be beguiled. As head of the family, it was her duty to judge his claim with a cool head. She must not let him change the subject. She needed a great deal more evidence before she would accept his story. He seemed to have charmed Aunt Charlotte in a trice—somehow—but he would soon learn that Angel was made of sterner stuff.

‘The truth is, madame, that we have very little money. There was only enough for a single passage, and it was obviously out of the question for Julie to travel alone. I have promised to send for her, as soon as I am able.’

Angel thought he had begun to look a trifle uncomfortable. Poor man. It must be very difficult to admit to living in such poverty. ‘You will understand, sir,’ she said quickly, before her aunt had time to expose them further to a possible impostor, ‘that I must ask you for proofs of your claims. Forgive me, but you must see that a physical likeness to my uncle’s wife is not sufficient. Your relationship to the d’Eury family could be…er…other than the one you have described.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the beginnings of a flush on her aunt’s neck. Lady Charlotte was outraged, of course, at even the subtlest suggestion that Pierre might have been born on the wrong side of the blanket.

‘That is a trifle difficult at present,’ he said brusquely, looking her directly in the eye. ‘However, I am sure I shall be able to explain matters satisfactorily when I meet your father’s heir. Where is he to be—?’

‘I am my father’s heir,’ said Angel flatly. ‘I am the Baroness Rosevale, and head of the family.’

‘But you are a woman.’ The words came out in a rush, and were followed by a look of acute embarrassment.

‘Just so. No doubt things are managed differently in your country, monsieur, but in England a title as old as my father’s may descend in the female line, in the absence of sons. You were about to explain…?’

He frowned and swallowed hard. ‘Julie and I were born at the time of the Revolution, as you will know, my lady. Everything was in turmoil then. I do have the record of my parents’ marriage, but, for the rest…’ he shrugged eloquently ‘…I have nothing but my word, and the testimony of Gaston and Hannah. Just before he was taken, my father insisted we flee as far as possible from Paris to escape the guillotine. Julie and I…we were mere babes. We remember nothing of those times. It might be possible to find written proof if I went back to Paris to search, but I would not know where to begin. And I have no money to buy information.’

Angel chose to ignore that, for the moment. ‘May I see the record of your parents’ marriage?’

‘It is at home. With Julie. We could not risk—’

‘Yes, I quite see that you would not wish to bring it all the way to England. Tell me, where is your home?’

‘We live in a small fishing village, between Marseilles and Toulon. It is called Cassis.’

‘And Julie is there?’

‘Yes, of course. With Gaston and Hannah. We could afford only one passage, as I told you, and even then by the slowest and cheapest route. We thought that, if I could reach the Marquis, he would help us…for his brother’s sake.’

‘Of course we will help you,’ Lady Charlotte said, reaching out to touch Pierre’s hand in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection. ‘Angel—’

‘We will be happy to help you to search for the proof you need, monsieur. But I must say I am a little surprised that you expected to receive help from my father. You must know, surely, that my father and his brother had had no contact since Uncle Julian left England? Forgiveness was not in my father’s nature. Nor in Uncle Julian’s either, according to my aunt.’

‘I am aware of that. But I could not believe that any man would allow his dead brother’s children to starve. Julie is an innocent. She is the niece of an English marquis and the granddaughter of a French count, yet she is almost destitute and living like a mere peasant. Do you tell me, my lady, that your family would have spurned her?’

‘No, but—’

‘Of course we would not!’ Lady Charlotte seemed determined to take Pierre’s side. ‘We will help you both. And the servants who shielded you. You will understand, of course, that it is necessary to have the proof of your birth in order to establish your claim to the titles. Cousin Frederick will demand nothing less before he will relinquish his hold on the earldom. But have no fear, we shall send to Paris to search for the documents, and we shall—’

‘I think I should discuss matters with my lawyer before we make any definite plans, Aunt Charlotte,’ said Angel, interrupting quickly. ‘If Mr Rosevale will tell us where he can be reached…?’

‘Mr Rosevale, indeed! Why, Pierre is the Marquis of Penrose and should be addressed by that title. He—’

‘I think it might be wise, Aunt, to make no such claim at this stage. Forgive me, sir, but if you are the rightful Marquis, then you are also the Earl of Penrose. That title passed to my cousin Frederick after my father’s death. I fancy it might be unwise to broadcast your claim until you have something more than a family likeness to substantiate it.’ She watched him carefully, trying to judge the effect of her words. He now seemed totally open and unembarrassed. She could not detect the slightest sign of duplicity in his face.

Pierre smiled warmly at them both. Oh, he was a handsome man, no doubt of that. He had charming manners, too. When he smiled in just that way, with such warmth in his deep blue eyes, Angel found herself wanting to believe that he was exactly what he said. It would be so easy to take his part. And if she came to know him better, they might perhaps become friends, even— No! Angel pulled herself up short. She must not allow her judgement to be swayed by his looks and his charm. As head of the family, she must do her duty by this man, as calmly as—

‘May we not invite Pierre to stay here at the Abbey, my dear? It must be very difficult for him, all alone in a strange country…’

Heavens, what would Aunt Charlotte say next? Such impropriety was quite unlike her. It seemed that even an old lady’s head could be turned by a handsome face and old-fashioned courtesies. Pierre was certainly dangerous.

Pierre took Lady Charlotte’s hand and bowed over it, almost touching it with his lips. ‘You are most kind, my lady, but I could not accept. I am lodging in London. With Hannah’s brother. I could not impose upon you both while my situation is…unresolved. It would be most improper.’

Lady Charlotte sighed deeply, but said nothing more. For a second, she looked a trifle chastened.

‘I thank you for your understanding, sir,’ Angel said with sincerity. ‘If you will furnish me with your direction, I shall ensure that you are kept informed of any developments. I cannot promise you that you will have news quickly, however, no matter how many envoys I send to Paris.’

‘But you will send them, Angel?’ Aunt Charlotte was beaming now. ‘That is splendid. Just think what a blow it will be for Frederick. He will be reduced to plain Mr Rosevale all over again. I declare, we shall soon have Great-uncle Augustus turning in his grave.’

‘Max?’

He groaned a little, not opening his eyes.

‘Max, it is morning. You said you had to leave early.’ Louisa laid a gentle hand on his dark stubbled cheek. ‘And you are much in need of a shave,’ she whispered, trying to hide the smile in her voice.

His eyes remained stubbornly closed. He did not move an inch.

She lay back on her soft pillows, luxuriating in the warmth of the bed and the closeness of the man at her side. She knew better than to continue when he so clearly did not wish to be roused. He would—

In less than the space of a heartbeat, he had pulled her into his arms! ‘What I am in need of, my dear one, is much more urgent than a shave.’

‘Indeed, sir? And what, pray, is that? You—’

She was not permitted to say another word. His mouth came down on hers for a long and increasingly passionate kiss that made her forget the advancing hour and the winter chills outside. He was on fire already, and he knew exactly how to light an answering flame in her.

Louisa groaned in her turn.

He stilled immediately. ‘What is it? Did I hurt you?’

She groaned again, deliberately. ‘You are an idiot, Max.’ She ran her free hand down his back and began to trail her fingers over the soft skin of his buttocks. ‘After all these years, you really should have learned a little more about me, you know.’

‘Impossible,’ he said. Her hand moved again, raking the nails across his flesh. He gasped and rolled on to his back, taking her with him and trapping that roving hand. ‘It is impossible to understand any woman, my sweet. No man should even begin to try. But then again—’ he put his hands around her waist and settled her astride him ‘—there are certain things that can usually provoke a reaction.’ He reached up to cup her breast, weighing it in his hand and then delicately skimming the rough skin of his thumb over her nipple.

Louisa closed her eyes, trying not to moan at the pleasure of it. In some things, he understood her only too well.

‘Mmm, yes. That is most certainly a reaction.’

With her eyes closed, Louisa could no longer tell precisely what he was doing to her. All her skin seemed to be burning, as if he was stroking every inch of her body at the same time. That was impossible, and yet…

‘And now, my sweet,’ he said softly, in a voice so thick with desire that it reached into her very heart, ‘you may do with me what you will.’

‘For a man who cannot understand women, you manage remarkably well, I think.’

Max paused in the act of arranging his cravat and turned to gaze down at her. In the aftermath of their lovemaking, she looked particularly beautiful, her skin still slightly flushed, her dark hair pooled on the rumpled pillows. He was tempted to rip off his clothes and return to her.

‘No, Max.’ She shook her head and sat up, pulling the covers up to her chin. She could read him much too well. ‘You know you must go. But I may expect you to come back tonight?’

‘No,’ he snapped.

‘Max—?’

‘Forgive me, Louisa, that was uncalled for. I am not angry at you. I have…other things on my mind. I have to go out of town today. On…family business. I do not expect it to be pleasant.’

She did not ask for any further explanation. She never pried. She was truly a woman in a thousand and he was lucky to have found her. He smiled affectionately at her and returned to the matter of his cravat.

He heard her give a long, deep sigh. What on earth—?

‘Max, there is something I must say to you, my dear. I ask you to hear me out.’

He turned back to her. He had never heard her use quite that tone of voice before. And she was suddenly very pale, almost as white as the sheet she held against her neck.

‘I know you will not say this, so I must. Max, my dear… When you marry—and I know it must be soon—you must give me up. You are a man of honour. You should not betray your wife with a woman like me.’ She was twisting the sheet in her fingers as she spoke.

He felt an enormous surge of fury as the full import of her words dawned on him. His Louisa was worth a dozen simpering Society wives! She gave him friendship, and laughter, and the shared delight of their joining. Now, for perhaps the first time in their long relationship, she was giving him advice—to leave her.

‘My wife, whoever she may be, will know better than to interfere in what I choose to do. If she marries me to gain a title—and what other reason could there be?—she would be well advised to learn to content herself with that, and to concentrate on giving me the heir I need. She will do as I bid her, Louisa, and that includes turning a blind eye to my relationship with you.’ He managed to stop the rush of angry words. She was staring down at the coverlet now. ‘Unless you wish to be rid of me?’

‘Oh, Max, you know very well that I do not. But I understand you better than you think. Perhaps better than you understand yourself. The marriage you have described is a stony-hearted business alliance. If you go that route, you will end up hating your wife, and hating yourself, too. You need to marry where there is love…or affection, at least.’

He shook his head wonderingly. In the course of their long liaison, she had never presumed. On his rare visits to England, on leave from the Peninsula, she had always been warm and welcoming. She had treated him as if he were her only lover, though he had known full well that he was not. Without a protector, she would have starved.

And when he had returned for good and was able to afford—just—to set her up for himself alone, she had not changed. She took his money, but she was generous of herself. She was a diamond. He would never give her up.

‘Marriage is a matter of business, Louisa. You know that as well as I do. You are right that I shall have to take a wife. And since my earldom is threadbare, she must be richly dowered. I do not doubt I shall find a rich father who is willing to sell me his daughter in exchange for a title. Believe me, I plan to drive a hard bargain in return for assuming the shackles. I must have control of her fortune; and she must be biddable. I do not insist on any great degree of beauty, though it would not go amiss if—’

He stopped short. Louisa was gazing up at him with an expression of profound distaste on her lovely face.

‘Confound it, I sound like a coxcomb, do I not? Whoever she is, I shall treat her well, I promise you. There have been quite enough downtrodden women in my family—’ a vivid picture of poor Mary Rosevale came immediately to mind ‘—and I have no intention of forcing another into that sorry state. She will have money, and influence, and, God willing, children at her skirts.’

‘But she will not have your love.’

He laughed harshly. ‘Come, Louisa, do you really think me capable of that? Is any man of my station? I never saw a love match, neither in my own family nor in all my time in the army. The poets have much to answer for. Love, if it exists at all, comes between a man and his mistress.’ He lifted her hand from the ruined sheet and raised it to his lips. Her eyes widened in surprise at such an unusual display of affection.

A sharp knock interrupted them. The door did not open, however. Louisa’s servants were too well trained to intrude.

‘What is it?’ called Louisa.

‘His lordship’s carriage is at the door, ma’am.’

Max settled Louisa’s hand gently on the coverlet and looked towards the door. ‘Tell Ramsey to walk the horses. I will be down presently.’

‘Aye, m’lord.’

‘I must go, my dear. I will…think on what you have said.’

‘You will consider it for the space of a second or two, you mean, and then discard it.’

He shook his head, smiling wryly.

‘What is more, you have had no breakfast.’

Trust Louisa to know exactly when to change an unwelcome subject. She was a companion that any man would envy. ‘I shall take something when we stop to bait the horses.’ He bent to put a hand on her cheek and drop a tiny kiss on her lips. ‘And, in any case,’ he went on, straightening and turning for the door, ‘what need have I of food? I am already very well satisfied this morning.’

She was blushing deliciously. It was a good memory to take with him on this unwelcome journey.

‘Goodbye, my dear. I shall return as soon as I may.’

He ran lightly down the stairs to the tiny hallway where the servant was waiting with his heavy driving coat and his hat and gloves. At this time of year, he could not complete the journey in the day. There was too little daylight and the roads were always bad. Curse the woman! With her background, she could not help but be a thorn in his flesh, but why did she have to choose the middle of winter to inflict her scheming ways on him? He shook his head impatiently. He had no alternative. It would be a long, cold journey but he must confront her now, while he had the advantage of surprise.

The servant opened the door. Outside, the streets were white with frost. The horses’ breath rose in great clouds in the half-hearted winter light.

By the time he reached Rosevale Abbey—if he ever did reach it in such weather—he would have devised some very choice words for his unknown cousin. Very choice indeed.