Читать книгу My Lady Angel - Joanna Maitland - Страница 8

‘H ave you seen my thimble, Angel? I seem to have mislaid it and I cannot possibly go to London without my canvas work.’

Angel sighed. Aunt Charlotte had been getting worse and worse since Pierre’s visit. For days, she had talked almost non-stop about how she planned to help Pierre to oust Cousin Frederick. Only Angel’s announcement that they were leaving for London, no matter what the weather, had served to divert the old lady’s mind. Now the subject of her endless lectures was London Society and the need for her niece to make her mark there. Angel had become heartily tired of hearing about modistes, and fripperies, and Almack’s.

‘It is probably at the bottom of your workbag, Aunt. I am sure your woman will be able to find it for you.’ She rose from her desk and crossed to the library door to give her aunt an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘Forgive me, dear Aunt, but I must finish these letters or we shall never be able to leave. I will join you for a nuncheon in an hour or so.’ She patted Lady Charlotte’s hand and turned back to her desk, forcing herself to give all her attention to the paper before her.

Angel waited, trying to read, until at last she heard the click of the door. Aunt Charlotte had gone. She began to write swiftly then. Her instructions must be quite clear or—

A sudden cramp bent her almost double. Oh, no! Not again. It was not even three weeks since the last time. She threw down her pen and put both hands to her belly, kneading her flesh in an attempt to allay the pain. The spasm receded. But she knew it would soon come again. She would have to go upstairs to her abigail. Benton was as bad—worse—than Aunt Charlotte. She meant well, but she would go on and on about Angel’s erratic courses even though they both knew that there was no remedy to be had.

Angel shuddered at the sudden memory invading her mind. She tried to push it away but it was too vivid—the midwife’s filthy hands forcing her legs apart, probing into the most secret recesses of her body, ignoring her screams of pain. And the doctor’s sneering voice in the background, bidding her to be silent. She shuddered again. She could almost feel those freezing fingers tearing at her body.

Another spasm racked her. Dear God, why was she so cursed? It made no sense to have to suffer so. For years they had said she was barren. Everyone had told her so, the doctors, the cackling midwife, her husband, the Honourable John Frederick Worthington, and even her father—

No. Her father had never used that word. He was infinitely sad that she did not conceive, but he had never used that word. Not to her face, at least. Perhaps Papa had simply thought she was a slow breeder, like most of the Rosevales. He himself had had only one child in two long marriages. And Aunt Charlotte had none.

But the doctors had been so sure. And her husband had been so very angry, so insistent that she try every possible cure. John Frederick had forced her to give up her riding and almost all other kinds of exercise, and shut her up at home under the watchful eye of that tipsy midwife. He had given her disgusting food to eat and stood over her to make sure she swallowed every last bite. And he had come to her bed at every opportunity, insisting that she do her duty as his wife. ‘You are mine,’ he would always say. ‘Mine!’ There had been times when she had even been glad of the untimely arrival of her courses, in spite of the unbearable pain.

Except for that last time.

Her courses had been more than seven weeks late. Her body had felt…different. She had dared to hope…and made the fatal mistake of telling John Frederick of those hopes.

Too soon. Within a fortnight, she had lost the babe.

Ignoring Angel’s terrible distress, the hovering midwife had immediately declared that she would never be able to carry a child to term. Worse, the woman had told her husband, too.

John Frederick was coldly furious. He said not a single word. He simply ordered the servants out of the room and then laid into Angel’s pain-filled body with his riding crop. She thought he was going to kill her.

But some vestige of humanity must have remained, for he threw down the crop and stalked off to the stables in the pouring rain, to vent his rage by galloping full tilt to the furthest reaches of the estate.

The resulting chill was probably inevitable. It went to his lungs. And in the end, it had killed him.

Angel had buried the grief for her child deep within her heart. She had said nothing to anyone about her loss or about what her husband had done, though she knew that her abigail suspected. There was no point in distressing Papa, who knew Angel too well to think that she was happy with the man he had chosen for her. If he noticed that her mourning was less than sincere, he never said so. And, crucially, he told her that there was no need for her to rush to take another husband.

I shall continue to follow his advice, Angel resolved, waiting for the pain to subside so that she could rise from her chair. I shall not allow Aunt Charlotte, or anyone else, to push me into marriage, for what would it bring me but pain and even more grief? The chances of my bearing an heir must be very slim indeed. I should be trading my new-found independence for—for what? At best, companionship. At worst…at worst, yet another enslavement of body and soul.

No. It is out of the question. I shall never marry again. Never.

‘My lady…’

Angel struggled to open her eyes. How long had she been asleep?

‘My lady, the Earl is here. He insists on seeing you. Says he will not leave unless you come down.’

Angel shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. What on earth was the abigail talking about? ‘Earl, Benton? I do not understand.’

‘The Earl of Penrose. Your ladyship’s cousin.’

Angel sat bolt upright, moving so fast that for a moment she was quite dizzy. She put a hand on the back of the chaise-longue for support. ‘I… The Earl of Penrose? Here? What can he possibly want with me?’

‘Willett told him your ladyship was indisposed, but he still refused to leave. Said as how he’d come up here to see you in your bedchamber if you would not go down to him.’

Angel swung her legs round and put her feet on to the floor. Yes, that was better; she was steadier now. Thank goodness she had not taken the laudanum that Benton had been pressing on her. She took a deep breath, waiting for the return of the pain. It seemed to have gone. Aunt Charlotte’s tisane had worked, for once.

‘Does my aunt know that the Earl is here?’

‘I am not sure, m’lady. Willett offered to fetch her, seeing as you was asleep, but the Earl said—’ Benton blushed rosily. ‘The Earl said that his business was with your ladyship, and that no one else would do.’

Angel frowned. It was clear that the Earl’s choice of words had been somewhat less circumspect than the abigail’s version. Whatever Cousin Frederick’s errand, he was in no friendly mood. She stood up and straightened her shoulders. She would go and meet this unknown cousin. And she would make it clear that, as head of the Rosevale family, she was not to be browbeaten by anyone, even a belted earl.

‘You had best fetch me a fresh gown and tidy my hair, Benton. I would not have his lordship think that I have been dragged through a hedge.’

Benton smiled uncertainly, but did as she was bid. ‘Shall I ask her ladyship to join you?’ she said as she patted the last silver curl into place.

‘No. Yes…’ Angel thought back to Aunt Charlotte’s uncharitable opinion of Cousin Frederick and her rash enthusiasm for Pierre’s claim. The old lady was quite capable of saying more than she ought, especially when she found herself face to face with a man she believed to be an enemy. ‘No,’ she said with determination. ‘If his lordship wishes to discuss a matter of business with me, I shall meet him alone. I am the head of the family. I am perfectly capable of handling my own affairs.’

She headed for the door, throwing a sideways glance at the glass to ensure her gown was presentable. She was no longer in mourning but, for this encounter, the dove-grey gown felt exactly right—demure and quietly elegant, as befitted a widow and a lady of rank.

Max had been pacing up and down in the drawing room for fully half an hour. The delay was doing nothing for his temper. Trust a woman to pretend to be indisposed in order to avoid an unwelcome visitor. She would learn that he was not so easily gulled. He would force her to receive him, even if he had to pace this room for a week.

He only hoped that she would come alone, when she did finally arrive, for he was not sure that he would be able to curb his temper if she brought her aunt. The old hag had encouraged the Marquis’s unforgivable insults to Aunt Mary. And now she had produced a French pretender, like a rabbit from a hat. Did she really think she could succeed with such an obvious deception? She had probably helped her niece to start all these confounded rumours, too. No doubt these two harpies thought that it would improve their protégé’s chances if all London was buzzing with gossip about the long-lost heir.

Long-lost impostor, more like! If the Frenchman—

The double doors opened. For a second, a tall stately lady dressed in half-mourning stood framed within the opening. Then she nodded slightly and took a pace forward, allowing the butler to close the doors at her back.

She did not speak, nor did she offer her hand. She was assessing him, just as he was assessing her. He would not have called her beautiful—her expression was much too severe for beauty—but her colouring was striking. She had hair like spun silver. He recognised it as the famous Rosevale hair, inherited from the first Baroness, centuries before, but not found in anyone on his side of the family. Would she think him a changeling, with his dark locks?

No. She would not give a thought to such a detail. A warrior entering the lists did not concern himself with his opponent’s colouring, but with his ability to fight. The woman who was coolly appraising him had the look of a doughty adversary. He would do well to be on his guard.

He bowed from the neck, not lowering his eyes. It was important to watch every move she made.

She dropped him a quick curtsy, the very minimum demanded by good manners. ‘I understand you wished to see me, Cousin Frederick?’

Her voice was low, with a hard edge that was not pleasing to the ear. Had she deliberately chosen the mode of address that he most hated? Only his father and his grandfather had ever called him Frederick. He had despised them both; and he detested the name they had bestowed on him.

‘I am obliged, ma’am, that you have felt able to rise from your sickbed to receive me. I trust you are quite recovered?’ He saw a flash of anger in her eyes. A hit! Excellent. It was important to keep her on the defensive.

‘You are too kind, sir. I understand you have important business you wished to discuss with me? Business that could not be delayed?’

‘Indeed, ma’am.’ Max waited for her to invite him to sit, but she did not. She simply stood there, glaring at him. It seemed he had caught her on the raw. So, that was to be the way of it. If she wanted a bout with the buttons off, he would happily oblige her. ‘I must ask you for an explanation of this disreputable imposture you are promoting. You—’

‘I am promoting nothing of the sort,’ she snapped. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing?’

‘Do not think to play me for a fool, Cousin,’ Max replied. ‘I am perfectly well aware that you and your aunt are behind the rumours that are circulating in London. I am only surprised that you have not arrived in town already, with your French puppet in tow. I warn you now, I will not tolerate any attempt to undermine my position. Even from a woman.’ The last few words came out in a hard, rasping voice that he barely recognised. He stopped abruptly, conscious that he was allowing his temper to get the better of him after all. What was it about this woman? He prided himself on his self-control with the female sex, but with her…

She lifted her chin and stared at him, with astonishingly dark blue eyes that were alight with fury. Her skin seemed to have grown paler; or perhaps it was the contrast with the spots of anger now burning on her cheeks. She took a step forward as though she might like to strike him, but her arms were held rigidly at her sides. She was controlling herself with difficulty. ‘I take it you have proof of your outrageous allegations?’ she said.

‘Do I need proof? The fact that you do not need to ask for details of them is proof enough for me, Cousin.’ Confound the woman, she was as bad as he had expected. Worse, perhaps. Why had he bothered to make this journey? He should have known better. He was struck by the irony of it all. ‘Like father, like daughter,’ he said acidly. ‘It is perhaps as well that one title, at least, is no longer the preserve of the more dubious side of the Rosevale family.’

She gasped and turned completely white.

He had never felt such searing anger. He had gone much too far, and he knew it. By attacking her dishonourable behaviour in such terms, he had sunk to her level. He should apologise. But his throat was so constricted that, for a moment, he could not utter a word.

She had reached out a hand to clutch the back of a chair. A spasm crossed her face. It looked almost like pain. Then she straightened again and said, with an obvious effort, ‘This discussion is now at an end, sir. I will thank you to leave. My aunt and I plan to travel to London next week. If you have anything more to say to me, you may say it there. And you may be sure that I shall take the greatest of pleasure in introducing you to my cousin, the rightful Earl of Penrose.’ She spun on her heel and started to move to the door without giving him any chance to reply.

‘Not so fast, Cousin.’ Max strode forward and grasped her wrist, forcing her to stop in her tracks. ‘We have not finished this interview yet.’

‘Release me this instant.’ Her voice was a furious hiss. She kept her head turned towards the door as if she could not bear to look at him.

Max took a long slow breath and then deliberately reached round to grasp her other wrist. Her bones felt tiny and fragile. He had no intention of injuring her, but he was determined that she would hear him out. For several seconds, they both stood motionless. Then Max exerted just enough pressure to turn her back to face him.

She did not try to pull herself free. She simply stood there, refusing to look at him. Her extraordinary silver hair was on a level with his chin.

‘So, madam, you have decided to pit your French impostor against me, have you? Are you sure that is wise?’

‘I am sure that the rightful Earl of Penrose is a gentleman, sir,’ she replied evenly, gazing fixedly at her trapped wrists, ‘which you are not.’

Max had recovered just enough control over his temper to recognise that she was deliberately trying to provoke him. He resisted the immediate temptation to let her go. ‘Clever,’ he said softly. ‘But also rash. If you are so sure I am no gentleman, ma’am, why did you consent to this private interview?’

He paused. She did not reply.

‘Quite. However, I am gentleman enough to remember that you are a lady, in spite of this fraud you are intent upon. I ask you, as a lady, to abandon it, for your own sake. It will do you, and the Rosevale family, nothing but harm.’

She looked up then. For a moment, Max thought he saw real pain in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by black anger. ‘My position is unassailable, sir,’ she retorted. ‘Yours, on the other hand, is somewhat precarious. I will thank you to release me and leave my house. We have nothing more to say to each other.’

The woman was impossible! Why had he ever thought to reason with her? It was a waste of words!

‘You are foolish, madam,’ he said, dropping her wrists abruptly. ‘Your family already has enemies enough. You cannot afford more. But, I promise you, you have added another today.’

He stalked to the door and wrenched it open. Then he turned and bowed mockingly. ‘Good day to you, Cousin. Be sure that we shall continue this discussion at a later date.’

Then he walked smartly down the stairs to the entrance hall to retrieve his coat and hat. The butler was waiting for him, with a look of alarm on his face. It was almost as if he expected Max to strike him!

Max caught the reflection of a black-browed man with a face like thunder in the glass near the bottom of the stairs. Good God! It was himself! No wonder the old butler was quaking in his boots.

Taking a long deep breath, Max willed his heart to slow. It had been pounding fit to burst, as if he were about to charge the enemy. That silver-haired woman must be a witch to have affected him so.

The butler silently helped Max into his coat. Then he held out Max’s hat and gloves, without raising his eyes from them, as if he could not trust himself to look Max in the face.

Max was not about to enter into an altercation with a mere servant. He took his things with a brief nod of thanks and hurried out into the gathering gloom where Ramsey was waiting with his carriage.

‘Drive back to Speenhamland, Ramsey. There is nothing more for us here.’ He flung himself inside and threw his hat and gloves into the furthest corner, the moment the carriage began to move down the driveway.

What on earth had come over him?

He stared unseeingly ahead. He must have run stark mad to allow his temper to rule him in such a way. With a lady, too. What had happened to his manners? Dear God, if Aunt Mary could have heard him…

Aunt Mary. Yes. There was something about the Baroness that reminded him of Aunt Mary. The two were totally unlike in looks, to be sure, but still there was something in their manner… Perhaps that had been the spark? The contrast between Aunt Mary’s honesty and the Baroness’s flagrant disregard for it had been too much. His temper had gone off like a rocket. In all those years as a soldier, Max had never lost his temper with anyone weaker than himself but, faced with a single silver-haired Jezebel, he had forgotten every vestige of how a gentleman should behave.

He should be ashamed. It did not matter what she had done. Or what she might still do. He owed it to himself—to his own honour—to behave like a gentleman.

He would have to apologise.

He let his shoulders droop and let out a long sigh. Yes, he would apologise. Eventually. But certainly not today. He could not face her again today.

Besides, she was ill…

He sat up sharply, his senses all on the alert. No. He had not imagined it. There had been pain in her face.

She really was ill.

And he had forced her to meet him, forced her to listen to his insults, forced her to remain when she wished only to flee from him.

His behaviour had been totally unforgivable.

Angel stood rigid until the door closed behind him, and then she collapsed into the nearest chair, moaning softly. She was in too much pain to move.

But she was just lucid enough to curse her cousin. He was even worse than Aunt Charlotte had suggested. He was the devil!

‘My lady—’

Angel looked up to see the butler standing in the doorway, aghast.

‘I’ll fetch Benton at once, m’lady,’ he said, almost slamming the door behind him in his haste.

Angel closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against the cool damask of the chair. That was a little better. Her head ached so.

‘My lady, let me help you to your chamber.’

Angel breathed a sigh of relief at the welcome sound of Benton’s voice. She could not have faced Aunt Charlotte’s incessant questions. Not now. Benton would keep Aunt Charlotte at bay. In a very short space of time, Angel was upstairs and in her own bed, and Benton was gently cooling her brow with a cloth soaked in lavender water.

Angel opened her eyes a fraction. The curtains were closed and the room was dim, lit only by the fire. It was blissfully peaceful.

‘Have the pains returned, m’lady?’

‘Yes. And I have the headache now, too.’

‘Shall I fetch you a little laudanum?’

‘No, Benton. You know how I hate it. Sleep is all I need.’ Angel smiled weakly at her faithful abigail. ‘You may ask my aunt to prepare one of her tisanes. It will make her feel useful.’

Benton rose obediently.

‘You need not tell her whether or not I drink it,’ Angel added softly, snuggling down into the welcoming softness. She really ought to stop to consider what Cousin Frederick had said, but her head ached so much that she could not begin to order her thoughts. She would just close her eyes for a space. In a moment or two, her mind would be clearer, and then she could…

Angel woke with a start. She lay for a moment, listening.

There was no sound at all. The house was totally silent. Everyone must be abed. The faint glow from the dying fire showed that she must have been asleep for hours. And the pain was gone.

She lay back on her pillows and gazed up at the silken canopy. In the gloom, it seemed to be floating.

So that was Cousin Frederick.

She closed her eyes, trying to picture him in her mind. She could not. She ought to be able to do so, surely? It was very strange. But Cousin Frederick’s character was so overpowering that she had only the vaguest memory of his face. She could remember little more than his fierce anger. That, and his voice—taut as a tempered steel sword blade, whipping at her skin. No, she would not soon forget that hard, merciless voice.

For the rest, he was tall and strong—strong enough to master a mere woman, at least—and he had dark hair. In fact, from what little she could remember, he had not looked like a Rosevale at all. Why, Pierre was more a Rosevale than Frederick!

Was he? The question hit Angel like a blow.

She turned on her side and fixed her gaze on the fireplace as she strove to remember Cousin Frederick’s exact words. He had said… He had accused her— Good God, he already knew about Pierre! But how…?

Aunt Charlotte. Of course. Who else?

It did not matter that Angel had counselled caution. Pierre had promised to do, and say, nothing, but Aunt Charlotte had given no such undertaking. She would probably have broken it, even if she had. No doubt she had written to only her dearest friends, and in strictest confidence. No wonder the rumours were flying all over London.

And what of Pierre? Had he heard? Angel did not know which circles he now moved in. Perhaps he had been spared the covert looks and sly whispers. She must see him as soon as possible, warn him of the dangers of speaking out of turn.

She must warn Aunt Charlotte, too. And take her to task for her lack of discretion. That would not be easy. Since her father’s death, Angel had gradually learned to take on the responsibilities of her new status, but it was incredibly difficult to play the part of the stern head of the family with an old lady who had been like a mother to her for years.

None the less, it must be done. Tomorrow.

And the moment Angel was well enough to travel, they must set out for London, in hopes of saving Pierre from Cousin Frederick’s wrath.