Читать книгу My Lady Angel - Joanna Maitland - Страница 6

‘I f I must take another husband, I suppose I could always marry Cousin Frederick.’

Lady Charlotte stared at her niece with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. She looked as if she had suddenly been confronted by a very bad smell. ‘If I thought for one moment that you might do such a wicked thing, Angelina… Why, even you would deserve to be locked in the round tower till you came to your senses.’

Her niece rose swiftly from her spoon-back chair by the fireplace and came to sit on the sofa beside her aunt, taking the old lady’s wrinkled hands in her own smooth white ones and stroking them reassuringly. ‘Dearest Aunt, there is no need to threaten me with the tower. It is enough to hear you call me “Angelina” to know that I have offended you. I was only bamming you, I promise. You know I am in no hurry to marry again.’ She managed to suppress the involuntary shudder that accompanied the word. ‘I would certainly never marry another man called “Frederick”,’ she went on, assuming a teasing tone.

‘Hmph,’ snorted the old lady. ‘You should not jest about Cousin Frederick and his family, Angel. They’re a bad lot, every last one of ’em. And I’m sure they would all be delighted to see you dead and buried.’

‘Aunt! You must not speak so. Truly, you must not. Especially of a man we have never met.’

‘Don’t need to meet him,’ Lady Charlotte said roundly. ‘Knowing your Great-uncle Augustus was quite enough for me, even if he was family. Never known a man so full of greed and envy. Couldn’t ever accept the fact that his son remained plain Mr Rosevale while your father inherited all three titles.’ Lady Charlotte had no qualms about speaking ill of the dead.

Angel tried another tack. ‘Well, Cousin Frederick should be happy at last. After all, he is Lord Penrose now.’ She smiled conspiratorially.

‘Minx! If I didn’t know you so well, I might have believed you meant that. What good is the earldom to Cousin Frederick when all the money and almost all the land goes with the barony? And to a mere slip of a girl at that?’ She returned Angel’s wicked smile with interest.

Angel dropped her gaze, trying to look like a demure young miss. She failed, as usual. ‘He does have a seat in the House of Lords, Aunt Charlotte. Perhaps that will be some consolation to him.’

‘I doubt it. The only law he would wish to enact would be to prohibit inheritance in the female line. Besides, he probably cannot afford to take his seat. It would not do for the Earl of Penrose to be threadbare.’

Angel tried not to smile at the picture her aunt’s words had conjured up. Cousin Frederick, now the Earl of Penrose, had inherited a small impoverished estate in Cornwall, a seat in the Lords—and nothing else. As long as Angel and her aunt were alive, Frederick would have only an empty title.

But if Angel died without an heir, he stood to inherit everything.

‘I think it is time we mended the feud, Aunt. After all, Frederick is head of the family now. We cannot refuse to receive him.’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ said the old lady. ‘There are two families now. You hold the barony. As Lady Rosevale, you are head of the Rosevale family. Frederick may out-rank you, being an Earl, but his is still the cadet branch. Let him head his own family. There is no need for us to receive him. No need at all. I, for one, shall never speak to him. It is impossible.’

Angel shook her head at her aunt’s stubbornness. The Rosevale family was notorious for its short tempers and prolonged feuds, but neither her father nor her aunt had ever been prepared to explain the origins of this one. ‘Aunt,’ she said, ‘I must ask you to tell me why Papa quarrelled with Great-uncle Augustus.’

‘No, dear.’ Aunt Charlotte looked decidedly mulish, but then, seeing Angel’s set expression, she added, ‘It was a very long time ago. It is best forgotten.’

Angel sat up even straighter. ‘As head of the family,’ she said, with emphasis, ‘I need to be fully aware of such things. You must agree with that. You yourself said that—’

‘No, I—’ Aunt Charlotte was shaking her head.

‘I insist, Aunt.’ Angel looked meaningfully at her. The old lady was stubborn, but she also believed implicitly in the role of the head of the family. It was only a matter of waiting.

‘Oh, very well. But it is not an edifying tale.’ Aunt Charlotte took a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket and touched it to her lips. ‘Your papa… Er…your papa was not yet twenty when he inherited. I was already of age, of course, but your grandfather had appointed his younger brother, your Great-uncle Augustus, to be your papa’s guardian and trustee. Uncle Augustus was very proud, very conscious of his rank. And grasping when it came to money.’

Angel’s face must have shown some reaction to her aunt’s outspoken description of the late Augustus Rosevale, for Lady Charlotte nodded bleakly and squeezed her niece’s hand.

‘You insisted on knowing, Angel, and so I must give you the truth with no bark on it. Augustus Rosevale was a miser…and a fortune-hunter to boot. Since he could not have the titles for himself, he did everything in his power to persuade your papa to marry his own daughter, Mary.

‘Your papa would have none of it. And I encouraged him in his resistance, I freely admit. Uncle Augustus was a tyrant…and Mary was a plain little mouse, with neither spirit nor brains to recommend her. A marriage between them would have been a disaster from the first.’

‘But I thought Papa’s first marriage was a love match?’

Aunt Charlotte smiled fondly. ‘Yes, indeed. Your papa had already met and fallen in love with Lady Jane Ellesmore. He paid no heed at all to Uncle Augustus’s attempts to separate them or to advance the claims of his own daughter. The day your papa came of age, he proposed to Lady Jane. They were married within a month.’

‘But she died.’

‘Yes, she died. Although they did have twelve happy years together. In spite of Uncle Augustus.’

Angel looked at her aunt enquiringly.

‘Your father’s first marriage was not blessed with children, Angel. And Uncle Augustus took every possible opportunity of reminding your papa of the fact, never caring how much it might hurt him. It was even worse for poor Jane. It made her feel that she had failed as a wife.’

Angel turned her head away, biting her lip.

Aunt Charlotte was concentrating on her tale. ‘She said to me once, not long before she died, that it might have been better if your father had married his cousin after all.’

Angel managed a nod. ‘How terribly sad,’ she said quietly.

Aunt Charlotte sighed. There was a faraway look in her eyes for a moment, but it was soon replaced by a martial glint. ‘Poor Jane was barely cold in her grave when Augustus was back, trying yet again to persuade your father to wed Mary. Well! You will not be surprised to learn that your father sent him to the right about. Said Mary was too old to bear him an heir, even if he’d been able to stomach the sight of her, which he could not.’

Angel gasped.

‘No, it was not well done of him, I agree. It was not Mary’s fault, after all. But, you must understand, he had just buried his wife. And he had loved her dearly. Indeed, he was so distraught that, at one stage, I thought he…’ She paused, swallowing hard. ‘However, he did recover enough to decide that he must marry again, to ensure the succession, for it was clearly unwise to rely on Julian.’

‘Julian? But…but surely he died when he was just a boy?’

‘Is that what your papa told you?’

Angel nodded. Papa had spoken only once of his younger brother and it had seemed to give him pain. Angel had never felt able to press him for more information. And, apart from a single portrait of Julian as a child, there was no trace of him here at the Abbey.

‘I can understand why he would have told you that but I…I fear it was not true, my love. Julian died, but… Oh, dear, this is very difficult.’

Angel waited.

Aunt Charlotte sighed. ‘Julian was years younger than either of us, and so wild that we despaired of him. He did not see why he should pay any heed to your papa. They quarrelled all the time, I’m afraid. Your papa wanted Julian to marry in order to ensure the succession, but Julian refused to give up his wicked bachelor ways. Drinking and gambling, and—Julian said your papa was perfectly capable of getting an heir for himself. All he had to do was to find himself a better breeder than the one he had buried. You can imagine how your papa reacted to that! Yet another family rift, of course. Julian took himself off to France and never came back. I…I heard that he did marry there, but he and his wife, and all her family, were killed in the Terror. She was the daughter of the Comte d’Eury, you see, and—’

Lady Charlotte rose and walked to the window. Angel could tell, from the set of her shoulders, that she was trying to master a sudden surge of emotion.

‘No matter how wild he was,’ Aunt Charlotte said in a low, passionate voice, ‘he did not deserve to die like that. No one did.’

Angel sat silent, wondering, waiting for her aunt to recover her composure. She had clearly loved Julian, in spite of his faults. Perhaps Papa had loved him too? Had he banished all the reminders of Julian from Rosevale Abbey because the memory was too painful? It certainly seemed to be so for Aunt Charlotte. Angel forced herself to resist the temptation to go to the old lady and put a comforting arm around her. Aunt Charlotte would have upbraided her severely for doing such a thing. A lady should never lose control of her emotions in public. Never. And if, by some mischance, she did, it was the height of bad manners for anyone present to notice.

‘And Great-uncle Augustus?’ prompted Angel, when Aunt Charlotte had turned back to face her once more.

‘He and your father never spoke again. The breach was too deep to mend. Why, your father did not even go to the funeral when Augustus’s son died. He didn’t go to Augustus’s funeral either.’

‘Oh,’ said Angel, considering. ‘But I thought Cousin Frederick was Great-uncle Augustus’s son.’

‘No. Grandson.’

‘Oh,’ said Angel again. ‘So…he is not an old man, then?’

‘No, of course not. You knew that, surely? You said he might do as a husband for you. You were not planning—’

‘Dear Aunt, I was only teasing you, I promise. I know nothing of Cousin Frederick. I supposed that he was…oh…fifty at least, and rather stout. With a large red nose,’ she added, hoping her aunt would forget her momentary megrims.

‘You, Angel, are most definitely in need of a spell in the tower,’ said Aunt Charlotte bluntly, reverting to her normal self once more. ‘I don’t know why I— I’d do better to take myself off and leave you to your own devices.’

‘But then you’d miss all the fun.’

Lady Charlotte raised both eyebrows.

‘Since we are out of mourning at last, dear Aunt,’ continued Angel, assuming a determined expression, ‘it is time that we looked about us a little. I should so like to travel on the Continent, now that Boney is safely disposed of. In a month or two, perhaps, once the weather is better. But I fancy we should open up the London house first, do not you?’

‘I—’

‘And if we should happen to encounter the new Earl of Penrose, we will receive him with politeness, however stout his middle or florid his complexion.’

‘Angel, we cannot—’

‘As head of the family,’ Angel said, with emphasis, ‘I wish the breach to be healed. We must make the attempt. Both of us, Aunt.’

Lady Charlotte shook her head a little, but the look on Angel’s face must have made an impact, for the old lady did not try to argue any further. ‘Very well. If I must, I will receive him. Shouldn’t think he’ll be stout, though. His father and his grandfather were both as thin as rails. It suited their penny-pinching characters, I always thought.’

‘Thin and florid, then.’

Lady Charlotte looked sideways at her niece. ‘Well,’ she said airily, ‘you might be surprised on that front. Frederick is unlikely to be florid. Not yet. After all…’ she paused, narrowing her eyes ‘…he’s not that many years older than you are.’

‘But, surely—?’ Angel stopped in mid-sentence. The door had opened to admit old Willett, the family butler. His quiet entrance had been drowned by Angel’s exclamation of surprise.

‘There is a gentleman arrived, m’lady,’ Willett said in his soft voice. He was making no attempt to conceal his disapproval of their visitor. ‘He…he says he is related to your ladyship’s family, but—’

Angel laughed. ‘There, you see, Aunt. What did I tell you? It is Cousin Frederick, come to heal the breach himself.’

Willett coughed apologetically. ‘The…er…gentleman gives his name as Rosevale. Julian Rosevale.’

Angel put her hand to her throat.

And in that same moment, Lady Charlotte, who never allowed herself to show the slightest emotion in company, sank softly to the floor in a dead faint.

Hatless and head bowed, the Earl of Penrose remained on one knee by the graveside for several minutes more. He refused to acknowledge the rapidly waning winter light, or the steady rain that was soaking into his caped coat.

Ross Graham, standing awkwardly on the other side of the plain grey slab, seemed to be about to speak, but then thought better of it. He bowed his head once more, waiting.

At last, Penrose raised his head and stood up. His thick dark hair had been slicked down by the rain. He rubbed the back of his neck to wipe away the droplets that were now threatening to run down inside his shirt. Then, with a tiny shrug, he brushed the dirt from his pantaloons and resumed his beaver hat. ‘Come, Ross,’ he said, a little gruffly, ‘let’s get ourselves back to the inn. You look as if you are freezing.’

Ross smiled half-heartedly, but fell into step beside his friend. Their boots sank into the muddy grass. ‘Every time I’ve come here, the weather has been foul.’ His soft Scottish accent was unmistakable in almost every word he spoke. ‘Do you think she’s testing us?’

Penrose laughed in his throat. ‘No, not she. Aunt Mary was kindness itself. You know that just as well as I do. She’d not ask us to put ourselves to the least inconvenience on her behalf.’ He looked back at the tiny posy of snowdrops he had found to lay on Mary Rosevale’s grave. She had always loved snowdrops. The rain was making them look bedraggled already, yet they seemed to glow against the drab stone. As much of a ray of sunshine as Aunt Mary had ever had in her grey existence.

‘Penrose, I—’

‘Do you have to call me that, Ross?’ The Earl sounded more weary than angry.

‘No. But it is your name.’

Penrose shook his head. ‘Yes, I suppose… But I have plenty of others, too, as you know very well. If you must be so pompous, you could try Frederick, for example, or Maximilian, or even—heaven help me—Augustus!’

Ross laughed and clapped the Earl on his soggy shoulder. ‘I think not. The last time I called you Augustus, as I remember, you threatened to knock me down.’

‘Yes. You deserved it, too.’ Ross was his oldest friend and one of the few who ever dared to tease him when he was in a fit of the sullens. They had grown up together. Aunt Mary had been like a mother to them, and the bonds remained strong, both to each other, and to her memory. ‘You might be safer to stick with “Max”.’

Ross merely nodded and continued to stride towards the carriage where the Earl’s groom waited, hopping impatiently from one foot to the other.

‘You’re soaked to the skin, Cap’n,’ he said bluntly.

‘We’ve been through much worse, Sergeant,’ replied Penrose, reverting to their army ways without a moment’s thought. He and Sergeant Ramsey had shared many a flea-ridden billet in the Peninsula, in searing heat and in bitter cold. ‘A little wet won’t hurt me.’

‘No, sir, but—’

‘Might I suggest that you two continue your discussion once we are back under cover?’ said Ross with a lift of his eyebrow. ‘I, for one, am looking forward to a bowl of steaming hot punch. I am sure that his lordship feels the same.’

Ramsey looked nonplussed for a moment at the implied rebuke, but he was soon bustling his gentlemen into their seats. ‘We’ll have you back at the inn in a pig’s whisper, m’lord,’ he said, grinning as he pronounced the unfamiliar title. ‘You, too, sir.’

Penrose leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. It always affected him, the sight of Aunt Mary’s grave. He should have come home earlier, helped her more… Her life had been so hard, at the beck and call first of her own father, and then of his. Neither of them had treated her as more than an unpaid servant. His own father, miser that he was, had insisted that Mary bring up his son so that he could be spared the inconvenience of finding another wife. For marriage, his father had said, was a plaguey expensive business. A new wife was always bent on finding ways of emptying a man’s purse, whereas a spinster sister was easily controlled. Poor Mary. She had had so little of life’s luxuries. And she had never had a home of her own, or children. Those joys had been denied her, by her own family, and by the heartless old man who had held the Penrose titles.

The new Earl of Penrose shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the thought of his hated predecessor. A pity there had been no chance to avenge Mary’s wrongs. There was only a sister and a daughter left. He could not make war on women.

Old man Penrose had made war on Mary, had he not?

But Mary had had some consolation. She had been loved, and dearly so, by Penrose and by Ross Graham, the orphan she had taken in and defended against all the world, including her own family. Meek as a lamb where her own interests were concerned, she had become like a tigress when her boys were under attack. She had saved them, many and many a time. But, when it had come to saving her, Max and Ross had come too late.

‘A penny for ’em.’

Max looked up. Rather against his will, he found himself returning Ross’s smile. There was something about those glinting blue eyes… Ross’s sunny nature seemed to admit neither defeat nor despair. And his optimism was infectious on a dank February day by a graveyard.

‘What you need, my friend,’ said Ross, his smile broadening into a grin, ‘apart from the punch, of course, is a battle to fight. Can’t be brooding on your own troubles if the enemy is marching over the ridge.’

Max laughed, but there was precious little humour in it. ‘No chance of that, Ross. Boney’s finished now.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of Boney, as it happens, though I, for one, won’t write him off till he’s dead. Elba is too near France for my liking.’

The Earl shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

‘No, I was thinking about you, Max. You need to get your teeth into something. Something worthwhile. Why don’t you do something in the House? You were talking about the plight of the old soldiers begging in the streets. Why not take up their cause?’

‘Because I can’t afford to take my seat, if you must know. With no money, I’m a pretty sorry excuse for an earl.’ He realised he was sounding increasingly testy. It was yet another lamentable Rosevale trait. He must make more effort to curb it.

‘Forgive me, but I don’t understand. You were comfortable enough before.’

‘I still am—for an anonymous captain in a marching regiment. But an earl… That’s entirely different, Ross. An earl has houses, estates, retainers, obligations… I have the title and the obligations, but nowhere near enough blunt to meet them. That’s just one more charge to lay at old man Penrose’s door. He and that daughter of his have tied me hand and foot.’

‘You speak almost as if he were still alive. What on earth is the matter with you? Old Penrose is dead more than a twelvemonth. You are the Earl of Penrose now.’

‘Aye, but his daughter lives on to laugh in my face. The haughty—and wealthy—Baroness Rosevale carries on where her father left off. Both venting their spite on our family.’

‘You—’

‘Confound it, Ross. You know as well as I do how they treated Aunt Mary. Old Penrose was a black-hearted devil. I’d wager his daughter is the same.’

‘Word is, she’s barren.’

‘What?’

‘Married for years, but no children. Surely you knew that? So it’s just a matter of time. One day the barony, and all that goes with it, will come to you. You’ll be able to take your seat in the Lords then.’

Max shook his head. ‘I doubt that very much, Ross. You’ve forgotten that her ladyship is several years younger than I am. Probably disgustingly healthy, to boot. No, I’m afraid that if I’m eventually to inherit, it will have to be through my children.’

‘Er…doesn’t that require you to have a wife, first?’

‘You know perfectly well that it does,’ his lordship said sharply, pressing his lips together into a tight, angry line.

‘Mmm.’ Ross paused. ‘You know,’ he said musingly, totally ignoring his friend’s dark frown, ‘you could always think about marrying the Baroness yourself. That way, you would get control of your inheritance all the sooner.’

Penrose merely shook his head wearily. He had his temper well in hand now. ‘I had always thought you were out of your mind, Ross. Now, I’m sure of it. Must be the fiery red hair. Clearly all that heat addles the brain.’

‘No more! No more!’ Lady Charlotte pushed away the smelling salts that Angel had been waving under her nose. ‘I am perfectly recovered, I assure you.’

Looking at her aunt’s ashen features, Angel knew better. The old lady was still far from well, but argument would achieve nothing. Besides, there was still their astonishing visitor to consider.

‘Shall I tell the gentleman that your ladyship is not at home? I—’

‘No, Willett,’ said Angel, glancing up from where she knelt by her aunt’s chair, ‘that will not do. Not if he is part of the family. Ask him to wait in the library. Tell him I shall join him there presently. Lady Charlotte will remain here until she is recovered.’

‘As your ladyship wishes.’

The door had barely closed behind him when Lady Charlotte said urgently, ‘He is an impostor. He must be. If Julian were still alive, he would have contacted us long ago. It’s been more than twenty years. Why would he wait until now?’

Angel rose to her feet, still holding her aunt’s slightly clammy hand. ‘Because…because now he can claim the titles,’ she said slowly.

Lady Charlotte started, and then nodded reluctantly. ‘That would be true, of course. My brother was…is…was no fool. Though he would be nearly as poor as Frederick, since neither of them has any claim on the Barony. Oh, Julian…’ She shook her head, frowning slightly, but suddenly her expression cleared. ‘If it is Julian, just think how Frederick’s nose will be put out of joint. He’ll be mad as fire to be plain Mr Frederick Rosevale all over again. Why, it is famous!’

Angel released her aunt’s hand and moved towards the door. ‘Poor Frederick,’ she said under her breath. She closed it quietly behind her and started down the staircase to the library.

Poor Frederick, indeed. His earldom might not be worth much, but it did confer a certain standing in Society. To have it whisked out of his fingers, barely months after he had grasped it, would be humiliating in the extreme. Had he done anything to deserve this kind of treatment? Aunt Charlotte seemed to think so. But Aunt Charlotte’s views were not unbiased, judging by today’s outburst of venom. On occasion, she could be remarkably difficult. Why did—?

Willett had already thrown open the library door. And, as Angel reached it, the gentleman standing by the huge stone fireplace turned round to greet her.

‘Oh—’ Angel stopped on the threshold, transfixed. The man before her was certainly no newly discovered uncle. This man was probably no older than Angel herself.

But he was, without doubt, the handsomest man she had ever beheld.