Читать книгу The Notorious Countess - Liz Tyner - Страница 8

Chapter One

Andrew Robson felt a burning urge to smash in his cousin Foxworthy’s nose. One more story about Lady So-and-So’s eyes or Lady This-and-That’s breasts or Lady Whoever’s whatever and he would punch Fox right in that ugly face of his that women swooned over.

Brandy in hand, Fox leaned sideways, catching his balance to keep from falling off the desk. ‘You’re a virgin.’ He sloshed liquid on his frock coat, but it hardly showed against the dark wool.

Andrew gripped the ledger. If it had been any other book, Fox would have felt the weight of the volume right between the eyes. ‘My life is not your concern.’

‘How many times have I invited you along on my encounters and you have declined?’ Fox finished his brandy and then stared at the empty glass, yawning. ‘I’m thirsty,’ he grumbled, and reached for the pull to summon a servant. He missed and almost lost his balance again.

‘Reach the decanter yourself,’ Andrew snapped.

Fox yawned, refilled his glass and pinned a glance on Andrew. ‘Who have you done?’

Andrew picked up his brandy, swirled the liquid and downed it. ‘A gentleman doesn’t speak of such things to another man.’

‘Neither does a virgin. And I’ve told you of every skirt I’ve lifted since I discovered what I had behind my buttons.’

‘I suppose less than half of those tales are true and less than half of those occurred as you recounted them.’

Fox grimaced, patting the stopper on the decanter. ‘I do not do numbers, my friend. Quality—not quantity—always my rule.’ Fox frowned. ‘You’re my cousin. My blood. And you’ve no notion of the true pleasures of life. You stand there so—’ He twirled his finger. ‘Sombre, dressed like a man in mourning... Or dressed like the man already buried. And you’ve reason to look grim, I suppose. No woman to put a smile on your face.’

‘I have to hide you from enough husbands and beaus that I don’t relish doing it for myself.’ That was the only thing he truly hated about Fox. His cousin did not understand how his actions could affect others.

‘I told you,’ Fox murmured. ‘They jump to conclusions. Because I am such a stallion, a man cannot bear to see me even talking with his wife without assuming I have ulterior motives.’

‘You do.’

‘But you do not. You ever tup that Hannah woman you spoke so poetic about?’

‘Most certainly not. She was quality. An innocent. One does not despoil innocents.’

‘She wasn’t when she was in my bed last summer.’

Fury pumped into Andrew’s body. ‘You did not defile Hannah.’ He slapped a palm on to the book on his desk. ‘Even you could not have taken an innocent.’

Fox shrugged and held up the glass. ‘We were in love. You should try it.’ He gave the lopsided grin which made skirts flutter. ‘You’d be a lot happier if you’d just drop your trousers more.’

Andrew’s hand clenched the book. He stepped towards his cousin, the tome held firm. He might not throw the book at him, but he could use it to knock him to the ground. ‘You dared ruin an innocent? Unforgivable!’

Fox saw something in Andrew’s eyes, because he stepped quickly behind the desk. ‘She really wasn’t a loss, Andrew. Trust me. Just another butterfly for my nectar.’

‘I will kill you.’

‘Andrew.’ Fox put the glass on the table and held up both hands, backing away. ‘Innocent cousin. You only feel this way because you have not been able to put your little sceptre in the proper hands.’

‘You are going to die—’ Andrew slammed the book down, almost hitting the inkwell, and knocking a vase of roses to the carpet. He skirted around the desk. Fox sidestepped.

‘My funeral,’ Fox muttered, head high, ‘will be attended by many distraught ladies.’

‘—a slow death. A particularly slow death.’ Andrew stepped forward, crunching glass and crushing a bloom under his foot, bringing the scent of roses into the fray.

‘And move into eternity with a smile on my face for ever.’ Fox’s words wavered into a chuckle.

Andrew realised Fox was sliding closer to the door. Andrew dived across the corner of the desk, grabbing Fox’s coat-tails, pulling him back and slamming them both to the floor. Fox grunted as Andrew landed on his cousin’s back.

Fox scrambled, trying to crawl from Andrew’s grasp. The cur would take his punishment. He would learn respect for women.

Andrew secured Fox’s wrist, stopping his escape, but Fox kicked out, delivering a bruising blow to the shin. Andrew shifted forward, grabbing the neck of Fox’s coat and digging his fingers into the back of the cravat, pulling it tight.

Fox coughed and sputtered.

Andrew gave another lunge, pinning his cousin to the floor. The cravat worked to hold the bounder still.

‘I’ll forgive you for killing me, but do not hurt my face,’ Fox growled. ‘I’ll get you a woman. Let me go. The passions you do not release are turning you into a savage.’

Andrew gave a twist of the cloth. ‘If you dare ruin another woman, you will not live to regret it.’

‘You’re...choking me...’ Fox’s voice wavered.

Andrew applied more pressure and then let up slightly. ‘You will propose to Hannah.’

‘I cannot,’ Fox said, arms flailing. ‘She is in love with Lord Arvin. I allowed her to call me by his name and we were both pleased.’

Andrew paused. ‘I find that more than a little odd.’ He released the cravat, twisted his body up and slapped his hand across the back of Fox’s head with a satisfying pop. Fox’s hair briefly splayed before falling back into a tousled look Andrew could not even accomplish with a valet’s help.

Andrew perched back so Fox could rise.

‘You would,’ Fox said, sitting and arranging his cravat. ‘You do not have the first notion of passion. You need someone like Sophia Swift to teach you’

Andrew stood and dusted his knees. ‘I will not get within a furlong of that crazed woman.’ He straightened his lapel and spoke softly. ‘She bit me.’

Fox stilled. ‘Women sometimes bite. It’s all in play.’ He took in hearty breaths and pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll explain once I have another drink.’

Moving quickly, Andrew pulled off his coat and slung the garment on the desk. Then he undid the buttons of his waistcoat and dropped the silk to the floor. He pulled his white linen shirt from his trousers and raised the garment from his skin. He pointed to the scar on his chest.

‘She. Bit. Me.’ His teeth clamped on the last word.

Fox leaned forward, staring, eyes wide. ‘Made a lasting mark.’ He peered closer for a few seconds. ‘She does have well-spaced teeth.’

‘I am sure she will be happy to bite you. I will even suggest it to her. But I cannot remain enthusiastic when a woman draws blood and it is smeared on her cheek. I cannot.’

That had been in his sixteenth year. His father had suggested that Andrew must partake of a woman’s favours or he would never be able to use good judgement in finding a wife. He gave Andrew instructions he said he wished his own father had given him. He’d even made sure Andrew could stay the whole night at Mrs Smith’s establishment.

Sophia was only a few years older than Andrew and she’d promised to show him all he would ever need to know. They’d had a grand time initially, but that had not lasted long past the first kiss. She was all he could have wanted—and then her passion had overcome her.

‘Hellish.’ Fox stared at the skin. His voice rose. ‘And she was willing?’

‘She was. I was not—any longer.’ Andrew threw down the tail of his shirt. ‘Some day a wife will see these marks.’

Fox straightened. He squinted and said, ‘Do not concern yourself. While saving a lady—an invalid grandmother—from a cutpurse, the thief bit you. He was taken to Newgate and sentenced to death.’ Then his eyes twinkled. ‘Or maybe just tell the truth.’ His voice turned poetic, he took in a breath and put a palm to his chest. ‘A woman driven mad by passion.’

‘She is just mad.’ Andrew shook his head. ‘Fingernails like talons and...three mirrors.’ The sight of the dishevelled woman begging his pardon from three angles had been rather like a bad dream.

‘I might take you up on the offer to meet her.’ Fox looked the ceiling. ‘To see if you tell the truth.’

‘Oh, by all means, please do. The two of you should get on quite well together.’ He shook his head. That night he’d felt he’d been in a room with a marauding animal. In the beginning, Sophia’s vigour had grown with his own, but then he’d had to calm her when she’d realised what she’d done to him. He’d spent an hour reassuring her that it did not hurt—all the while it did hurt. He’d not wanted a repeat of such an encounter. The one time he had let himself be swept away by passion, it had turned on him. His father had been right that the encounter with Sophia would make Andrew a man. He’d felt one from that night forward, though perhaps not in the way his father had intended.

‘You really must learn to experience life.’ Foxworthy’s throat rumbled with a fluttery burst of smug disapproval.

‘Ha,’ Andrew grumbled, pulling his coat from the desktop and hooking a hand over the back of a chair. He slid the seat to the front of the desk. He sat, and both hands gripped his coat, but he didn’t don it. ‘I see you dancing on clouds one moment. The next you are wallowing on the floor in a drunken heap because of the fickle nature of your heart. You think to be in love and say she is the one for you for ever, and then she falls into your arms and you can’t bear her. Next you distance yourself and hurt her. Or she returns to her husband and forgets you—in which case you cannot get her name off your lips.’

‘It’s all worth it.’ Fox sniffed.

Andrew snorted. ‘The next time you are knocking on my door at midnight wanting to hide due to a jealous husband or you’re gasping tears of despair because this month’s one and only true love has not fallen at your feet, I will remind you, But it’s all worth it, and kick you out on your arse.’

Fox straightened tall, his chin up. ‘I visit your house because I wish to play cards with you. Sometimes I am a bit melancholy due to the fickleness of women. Or sometimes I may have had a misadventure. But I am not hiding.’

‘You wish to sleep without worry of someone bursting into your house to kill you. You learned nothing from your father.’

Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘And you learned nothing from yours.’

A cannon blast of thoughts plunged into Andrew’s head and mixed with a powder keg of emotion. Andrew clenched his fist, tightened his stance and locked eyes with Fox. Neither moved.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Fox said, raising hands, palms out. ‘You know I meant nothing by that.’

Slowly, with the precision of climbing backwards from a cliff edge, Andrew calmed himself. He would not let anger overtake him. Even when he had throttled Fox, Andrew knew he’d not really been in a fury, but acting in the only manner Fox listened to.

Andrew squelched the emotion and controlled himself. Fox did not consider his actions or his speech before doing either. His cousin never saw the rashness of any behaviour. He likely would have been killed long before if not for Andrew’s intervention.

‘Fox. Tread softly.’ Andrew spoke in a controlled voice.

Fox examined Andrew’s eyes, and then stepped back, raising a palm. ‘I meant nothing by it. You know that. So your father had one little misstep in life.’ He shrugged. ‘He was better to us than my father ever was. I did not mean to speak ill of him. I have mourned him more than I would my own father.’

The familiar pang of grief touched Andrew’s chest, but anger tempered it. He wasn’t furious at his father any longer, but Fox was another matter. He continued to cause disruption in other people’s lives by acting on his desires. Constantly, Fox either broke someone’s heart or his own, and he always landed on Andrew’s doorstep. But within a few days, his cousin’s melancholy would fade and he’d be in love again, for what it was worth.

Fox sighed, but then his eyes sparked and his lips turned up. ‘It saddens me to see you dying on the vine.’

Andrew blinked. ‘Dying on the vine? No. If I need to see the rightness of my actions I only have to look at you. You’re the one landing in an overripe mess on the ground.’

‘Sadly, I think you may have a point.’ Fox turned his back. ‘I may have erred. Caused irretrievable damage to a young woman.’

‘You’ve done that countless times.’

‘But this time...’ His shoulders heaved from the breath he took. ‘I fear she was of too gentle a nature. Too delicate. And I worry that she will not recover.’ Fox turned to Andrew. ‘I have received a post from her friend telling me of the woman’s deep sadness. I fear... I fear she might take her life.’

‘You cannot be serious.’

‘I am, very.’

‘Then you must inform her family so they can take care she is not overwrought too extremely.’ He moved forward. He would make sure Fox did not shirk his duty.

‘I can’t. She does not live with them. She’s a pathetic little thing. Companion. Survives in her lady’s shadow. Never gets to go about. The other women jest about her. Call her a spinster. I thought to show her some compassion and make her realise how beautiful she is on the inside. Instead, she became quite infatuated with me. When I told her I did not love her, I thought she understood. But it’s said she is quite despondent. I fear seeing her again. It will only increase her misery.’

‘Seeing you does increase mine. But you must make sure she does not do something even more foolish than she already has.’

‘If I promise—’ Fox put a hand across his heart ‘—that I will take more care in the future, will you please check on her to see that she is recovering? Ascertain she will get over me. Just give her one of those same talks you give me about what a disaster I am.’

‘I cannot visit a lady’s residence in such a way. It is unthinkable.’

Fox regained his easy posture. ‘You can with Tilly. She’s a companion and her mistress will be away tonight. I can send her a note asking her to be at the servants’ entrance for a private message from me. She will do it.’

Andrew shook his head. ‘I cannot let the poor woman expect someone she loves and then tell her you will not be there.’

‘If anyone can convince her that I am a waste of her tears, it is you. You’ve recited the words to me so many times that you should certainly be able to recall them again.’

‘You must do this yourself.’

‘No. It will only increase her agony,’ he pleaded. ‘She will believe someone else telling her that I am not the one to lose her heart over. I have tried. She did not listen. And you can make certain she will not do something foolish like take her own life.’

‘We will find someone else to do it.’

‘You are the only one. There is no one else. If word were to get out and her reputation tarnished while she is so fragile, it would be too much. You must help me this one time. And I promise, I will mend my ways.’

* * *

Beatrice moved from the carriage on to the town house steps, then to the threshold. The door opened before her and she glided inside—until her dress stopped moving, jerking her to a stop. Turning, she snapped the silken hem of her skirt loose from the edge of the open door and heard the rip.

‘I would have corrected that for you,’ her brother’s butler intoned with a voice that could have rasped from a long-dead ghost. If one looked closer, most of Arthur’s appearance would have done well on a spirit, except for his height and posture.

‘I cannot wait all day,’ Beatrice grumbled to Arthur, but she stayed at the doorway, and dared him with her face.

‘I must beg pardon. It’s my age, you see. I’m slow.’ His face revealed no expression. ‘Forgetful. It is hard to remember how a person should act.’

‘Nonsense,’ she muttered. Then she appraised him. ‘How old are you?’

‘One hundred and three—in butler years.’

The maid stopped behind them, carrying Beatrice’s reticule, her book and her favourite woollen wrap that she only used in the carriage, because it was quite tattered, but so comforting.

‘And what is that in people years?’ Beatrice asked the butler.

‘I cannot remember.’

‘Arthur—’

‘It’s Arturo.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

He raised his nose, and spoke with the same air as King George. ‘I am quite sure, madam. I was there.’

‘It’s Arthur.’ Arthur’s father had been the old duke’s butler, and to lessen the confusion when both men were servants in the same household, Arthur had been called by his given name.

He gave a rumble from behind closed lips and then spoke. ‘Whatever Lady Riverton wishes. But Lady Riverton could take better care of her garments. Mrs Standen complains when you’re careless and she has to do extra mending.’

Beatrice smiled. ‘Listening to a wife is a husband’s duty, Arthur.’

‘Arturo.’

‘Arthur,’ she commanded. Shaking her head, she moved to the front door, using both hands to lift the dress so the torn hem didn’t drag. She stopped at the base of the stairs, turning back to see the butler’s eyes on her.

She gave him her best snarl, and even though his eyes were focused on nothing his lip edged into a smile.

She moved up the stairs and the maid followed along.

‘Dash it,’ Beatrice grumbled to herself, examining her feet. ‘I do not know what I was thinking when I chose these slippers to wear to Aunt’s house.’

Taking painful steps, Beatrice scrambled upwards, pleased to be spending time at her brother’s London town house instead of her country estate. ‘Go to the kitchen and have Cook prepare something delicious,’ she instructed her maid.

When Beatrice reached her room, she sailed past and moved on, stopping at her companion’s door. Without knocking, she pushed it open, speaking as she entered. ‘Tilly. I could not believe...’ She paused, staring at her companion. Tilly dropped the comb in her hand.

Tilly wore the amethysts. The amethysts Riverton had given her before they married. And—she gasped—Beatrice’s own dress. She’d recognise the capped sleeves with lace hearts anywhere. And the bodice. Fortunately, Tilly didn’t fill it out quite as well as Beatrice. She needed a few stitches to take in the gaping top.

True, Tilly was a cousin and deserved some leeway, but not the dress.

‘Cousin, dearest...’ Beatrice kept her voice sweet—overly kind ‘...when you took ill and couldn’t go with me to your mother’s, I understood. Now I wonder what kind of illness requires amethysts.’ She walked closer, examining Tilly, noting the redness of her face. ‘In case you hadn’t guessed, I didn’t stay at your mother’s as long as planned. Returned early to make sure you were feeling better.’ She frowned, taking a step closer, noting again the colour of Tilly’s face and not all of it belonged to emotions. Beatrice sensed a hint of rouge on her companion’s lips and some face powder. ‘I believe your megrim has quite faded. Am I right, Tilly?’

‘Yes,’ Tilly mumbled, eyes not quite subservient.

‘Tilly.’ Beatrice stopped. ‘You will personally launder the dress this moment and return it to my room. You know full well it is The Terrible Dress.’

‘Yes.’ Tilly dropped her head. ‘I know you never wear it, so I thought—’

‘I never wear it because it is the one I had made for— And I had it on the day that...’ She crossed her arms.

‘But he’s dead now.’ Tilly’s chin jutted. ‘Died in another woman’s arms, I heard.’

‘Fine, Tilly.’ Beatrice took a step forward. ‘You may have the dress. Keep it. I will have your things sent after you. Go tell the groom you’ll be leaving as soon as they’ve eaten. Tell them to take you to my house to work with the housekeeper.’

‘I refuse. I am sick of the smell of your paints and I am sick of not going to soirées and I am mostly sick of you.’ Tilly reached behind her neck and unclasped the amethysts, and thrust the necklace into Beatrice’s hand. ‘You truly are a beast.’ She pulled at the pearl earrings, removing them, and putting them in Beatrice’s grasp as well. ‘But thank you for the dress. I look better in it than you anyway.’

Tilly reached into the wardrobe and took out a satchel, and thrust a few folded things into it. Then, leaving the wardrobe door open, she sauntered to the dressing table. She placed her brushes and scents into her case. ‘Do send my things to my mother’s house.’ She strolled across the room, Beatrice’s imported lavender perfume wafting behind her. The special blend.

Looking over her shoulder, Tilly stopped at the door. ‘And by the way, the night you threw the vase at your husband...’ her voice lowered to a throaty whisper ‘...I made it all better for him on the library sofa.’ The door clicked shut.

Beatrice shut her eyes. Riverton. The piece of tripe had been dead over two years and she still didn’t have him properly buried. He kept laughing at her from the grave.

She’d moved from the house and stayed with her brother to get Riverton’s memory to fade, but nothing worked.

Love. The biggest jest on earth. Marriage. A spiderweb of gigantic proportions to trap hearts and suck them dry.

She kept the jewellery in her left hand, then went to the wardrobe and looked inside. A stack of linens. She picked up a pair of gloves she remembered purchasing, but wasn’t certain she’d given Tilly. She slammed them back into the wardrobe. Tilly could have them with good wishes.

Beatrice shuffled through more things belonging to her companion, then she sat on Tilly’s bed. Looking around the room, she noticed the faded curtains. Those had once been in the sitting room and they’d been cut down. And the counterpane on the bed, it had once belonged— She supposed it had been on her bed, then later someone had altered it to make it smaller.

So Tilly thought she had a right to the discards—even Beatrice’s husband. She held up the amethysts. But these were not tossed out. She doubted she’d ever wear them again. She’d visit the jewellers and see if he might reset them into something more cheerful.

A tepid knock sounded at the door.

She supposed it was Tilly, wanting to beg for forgiveness—or a chance at the pearl earrings.

‘Enter.’

The maid opened the door, then took a step back. ‘My apologies, Lady Riverton. I came to tell Miss Tilly a note had arrived.’

Beatrice clenched the jewellery in one hand, and then held out the other, unfurling it forward, palm up.

The maid’s eyes showed her realisation that she had no choice. Slowly, she put the paper in Beatrice’s hand.

Beatrice gave a light nod, both thanking and dismissing the servant.

When the door closed, Beatrice sat alone with the amethysts, the memories, and the note. She’d worn the lace-sleeved dress on her wedding trip. She’d also worn it the day she’d pried Riverton from the screaming maid. Then she’d had to grasp scissors from his shaving kit to keep him from her own throat. It was a wonder he didn’t get blood on the cloth, but she’d only grazed him.

The nickname she’d received had infuriated her brother, the architect. Enraged him. No one dared mention it around him and he insisted she repair it. Although in truth, he was more likely to snap someone in two than she ever was.

The irony of it did not escape her. She was called the Beast and yet he was the one with the temper.

Her brother had hated Riverton’s indiscretions more than she had. Wilson had raged, feeling the need to protect his sister. She’d not wanted even more scandal, so she’d worked hard at keeping a happy, uncaring facade. She suspected her brother had thought of having Riverton killed, but neither of them had wanted to risk such tales getting about. She didn’t mind the stories about her family, as long as they were adventure-filled and showed her relatives in a dashing light. Except, she hadn’t done so well in keeping the on dits adventurous with the scissor incident. Memories of that day returned. Her husband would have strangled the servant—and the girl’s crime had been in not realising he was at home and taking the cleaned bedclothes into the room. He’d thought the maid some kind of burglar.

Riverton. Might he rest in pieces. Small ones. With jagged edges.

She opened the note.

Tilly,

I have procured the amethyst earrings you so desire. They can be in your hands on the morrow if you can convince Lord Andrew you are a retiring sort and deeply distressed because I have tossed you aside. But mostly you must be able to get him to console you and overcome his reluctance to enjoy all the treasures a man can have at his fingertips. Sadly, he has refrained from such joys in the past.

He will arrive at the servants’ entrance as the clock strikes midnight. If he stays until morning and you put a smile on his face, I’ll have the amethysts to you by next nightfall.

Sincerely,

F.