Читать книгу Tarnished Amongst the Ton - Louise Allen - Страница 9

3 March 1816—the Pool of London

‘It is grey, just as everyone said it would be.’ Ashe Herriard leaned on the ship’s rail and contemplated the wide stretch of the River Thames before him through narrowed eyes. It was jammed with craft from tiny skiffs and rowing boats to those that dwarfed even their four-masted East Indiaman. ‘More shades of grey than I had realised existed. And brown and beige and green. But mostly grey.’

He had expected to hate London, to find it alien, but it looked old and prosperous and strangely familiar, even though every bone in his body wanted to resent it and all it represented.

‘But it is not raining and Mrs Mackenzie said it rains all the time in England.’ Sara stood beside him, huddled in a heavy cloak. She sounded cheerful and excited although her teeth were chattering. ‘It is like the Garden Reach in Calcutta, only far busier. And much colder.’ She pointed. ‘There is even a fort. See?’

‘That’s the Tower of London.’ Ashe grinned, unwilling to infect his sister with his own brooding mood. ‘You see, I have remembered my reading.’

‘I am very impressed, brother dear,’ she agreed with a twinkle that faded as she glanced further along the rail. ‘Mata is being very brave.’

Ashe followed her gaze. ‘Smiling brightly, you mean? They are both being brave, I suspect.’ His father had his arm around his mother and was holding her tight to his side. That was not unusual—they were unfashionably demonstrative, even by the standards of Calcutta’s easy-going European society, but he could read his father and knew what the calm expression combined with a set jaw meant. The Marquess of Eldonstone was braced for a fight.

The fact that it was a fight against his own memories of a country that he had left over forty years ago did not make it any less real, Ashe knew. Estranged from his own father, married to a half-Indian wife who was appalled when she discovered her husband was heir to an English title and would one day have to return, Colonel Nicholas Herriard had held out until the last possible moment before leaving India. But marquesses did not hold posts as military diplomats in the East India Company. And he had known it was inevitable that one day he would inherit the title and have to return to England and do his duty.

And so did his own son, Ashe thought as he walked to his father’s side. He was damned if he was going to let it defeat them and he’d be damned, too, if he couldn’t take some of the burden off their shoulders even if that meant turning himself into that alien species, the perfect English aristocrat. ‘I’ll take Perrott, go ashore and make certain Tompkins is here to meet us.’

‘Thank you. I don’t want your mother and sister standing around on the dockside.’ The marquess pointed. ‘Signal from there if he’s arrived with a carriage.’

‘Sir.’ Ashe strode off in search of a sailor and a rowing boat and to set foot on dry land. A new country, a new destiny. A new world, he told himself, a new fight. New worlds were there to conquer, after all. Already memories of the heat and the colour and the vivid life of the palace of Kalatwah were becoming like a dream, slipping though his fingers when he would have grasped and held them. All of them, even the pain and the guilt. Reshmi, he thought and pushed away the memory with an almost physical effort. Nothing, not even love, could bring back the dead.

There must be reliable, conscientious, thoughtful men somewhere in creation. Phyllida stood back from the entrance to the narrow alleyway and scanned the bustling Customs House quay. Unfortunately my dear brother is not one of them. Which should be no surprise as their sire had not had a reliable, conscientious bone in his body and, his undutiful daughter strongly suspected, not many thoughts in his head either beyond gaming, whoring and spending money.

And now Gregory had been gone for twenty-four hours with the rent money and, according to his friends, had found a new hell somewhere between the Tower and London Bridge.

Something tugged at the laces of her half-boots. Expecting a cat, Phyllida looked down to find herself staring into the black boot-button eyes of the biggest crow she had ever seen. Or perhaps it was a raven escaped from the Tower? But it had a strange greyish head and neck, which set off a massive beak. Not a raven, then. It shot her an insolent look and went back to tugging at her bootlaces.

‘Go away!’ Phyllida jerked back her foot and it let go with a squawk and went for the other foot.

‘Lucifer, put the lady down.’ The bird made a harsh noise, flapped up and settled on the shoulder of the tall, bare-headed man standing in front of her. ‘I do apologise. He is fascinated by laces, string, anything long and thin. Unfortunately, he is a complete coward with snakes.’

She found her voice. ‘That is unlikely to be a handicap in London.’ Where had this beautiful, exotic man with his devilish familiar materialised from? Phyllida took in thick dark brown hair, green eyes, a straight nose—down which he was currently studying her—and golden skin. Tanned skin in March? No, it was his natural colour. She would not have been surprised to smell a hint of brimstone.

‘So I understand.’ He reached up and tossed the bird into the air. ‘Go and find Sara, you feathered menace. He swears if he’s confined to a cage,’ he added as it flew off towards the ships at anchor in mid-stream. ‘But I suppose I will have to do it or he’ll be seducing the ravens in the Tower into all kinds of wickedness. Unless they are merely a legend?’

‘No, they are real.’ Definitely foreign, then. He was well-dressed in a manner that was subtly un-English. A heavy black cloak with a lining that was two shades darker than his eyes, a dark coat, heavy silk brocade waistcoat, snowy white linen—no, the shirt was silk, too. ‘Sir!’

He had dropped to one knee on the appalling cobblestones and was tying her bootlaces, allowing her to see that his hair was long—an unfashionable shoulder-length, she guessed—and tied back at the nape of his neck. ‘Is something wrong?’ He looked up, face serious and questioning, green eyes amused. He knew perfectly well what was wrong, the wretch.

‘You are touching my foot, sir!’

The gentleman finished the bow with a brisk tug and stood up. ‘Difficult to tie a shoelace without, I’m afraid. Now, where are you going? I assure you, neither I nor Lucifer have any further designs upon your footwear.’ His smile suggested there might be other things in danger.

Phyllida took another step back, but not away from assaults on her ankles or her equilibrium. Harry Buck was swaggering along the quayside towards them, one of his bullies a pace behind. Her stomach lurched as she looked around for somewhere to hide from Wapping’s most notorious low-life. Nausea almost overcame her. If, somehow, he remembered her from nine years ago…

‘That man.’ She ducked her head in Buck’s direction. ‘I do not want to be seen by him.’ The breath caught in her throat. ‘And he is coming this way.’ Running was out of the question. To run would be like dragging a ball of wool in front of a cat and Buck would chase out of sheer instinct. She hadn’t even got a bonnet with a decent, concealing brim on it, just a simple flat straw tied on top of a net with her hair bundled up. Stupid, stupid to have just walked into his territory like this, undisguised and unprepared.

‘In that case we should become better acquainted.’ The exotic stranger took a step forwards, pressed her against the wall, raised one cloak-draped arm to shield her from the dockside and bent his head.

‘What are you doing—?’

‘Kissing you,’ he said. And did. His free hand gathered her efficiently against his long, hard body, the impudent green eyes laughed down into hers and his mouth sealed her gasp of outrage.

Behind them there was the sound of heavy footsteps, the light was suddenly reduced as big bodies filled the entrance to the alleyway and a coarse voice said, ‘You’re on my patch, mate, so that’ll be one of my doxies and you owe me.’ One of my doxies. Oh God. I can’t be ill, not now, not like this.

The man lifted his head, his hand pressing her face into the soft silk of his shirt. ‘I brought this one with me. I don’t share. And I don’t pay men for sex.’ Phyllida heard Buck’s bully give a snort of laughter. Her protector sounded confident, amused and about as meek and mild as a pit bull.

There was a moment’s silence, then Buck laughed, the remembered hoarse chuckle that still surfaced sometimes in her worst dreams. ‘I like your style. Come and find my place if you want to play deep. Or find a willing girl. Ask anyone in Wapping for Harry Buck’s.’ And the feet thudded off down the alleyway, faded away.

Phyllida wriggled, furious with the one man she could vent her feelings on. ‘Let me go.’

‘Hmm?’ His nose was buried in the angle of her neck, apparently sniffing. It tickled. So did his lips a moment later, a lingering, almost tender caress. ‘Jasmine. Very nice.’ He released her and stepped back, although not far enough for her peace of mind.

She usually hated being kissed, it was revolting. It led to other things even worse. But that had been… surprising. And not at all revolting. It must depend on the man doing the kissing, even if one was not in love with him, which was all Phyllida had ever imagined would make it tolerable.

She took a deep breath and realised that far from being tinged with brimstone he actually smelled very pleasant. ‘Sandalwood,’ she said out loud rather than any of the other things that were jostling to be uttered like, Insolent opportunist, outrageous rake. Who are you? Even the words she thought would never enter her head—Kiss me again.

‘Yes, and spikenard, just a touch. You know about scents?’ He was still far too close, his arm penning her against the wall.

‘I do not want to stand here discussing perfumery! Thank you for hiding me from Buck just now, but I wish you would leave now. Really, sir, you cannot go about kissing strange women as you please.’ She ducked under his arm and out onto the quayside.

He turned and smiled and something inside her did a little flip. He had made no move to detain her and yet she could feel his hand on her as though it was a physical reality. No one would ever hold her against her will, ever again, and yet she had felt no fear of him. Foolish. Just because he has charm it does not make him less dangerous.

‘Are you strange?’ he asked, throwing her words back to her.

There were a range of answers to that question, none of them ladylike. ‘The only strange thing about me is that I did not box your ears just now,’ Phyllida said. And why she had not, once Buck had gone, she had no idea. ‘Good day, sir,’ she threw over her shoulder as she walked away. He was smiling, a lazy, heavy-lidded smile. Phyllida resisted the urge to take to her heels and run.

She had tasted of vanilla, coffee and woman and she had smelt like a summer evening in the raja’s garden. Ashe ran his tongue over his lower lip in appreciative recollection as he looked around for his father’s English lawyer.

I will send the family coach for you, my lord, Tompkins had written in that last letter that had been delivered to the marquess along with an English lady’s maid for Mata and Sara, a valet for his father and himself. The most useful delivery of all was Perrott, a confidential clerk armed with every fact, figure and detail of the Eldonstone affairs and estates.

Given that your father’s rapid decline and unfortunate death have taken us by surprise, I felt it advisable to waste no time in further correspondence but to send you English staff and my most able assistant.

His father had moved fast on receiving the inevitable, unwelcome news. Ashe was recalled from the Principality of Kalatwah where he had been acting as aide-de-camp to his great-uncle, the Raja Kirat Jaswan; possessions were sold, given away or packed and the four of them, along with their retinue, had embarked on the next East Indiaman bound for England.

‘My lord, the coach is just along here. I have signalled to his lordship and sent the skiff back.’

‘The end of your responsibilities, Perrott,’ Ashe said with a grin as he strode along the quayside beside the earnest, red-headed clerk. ‘After seventeen weeks of being cooped up on board attempting to teach us everything from tenancy law to entails by way of investments and the more obscure byways of the family tree, you must be delighted to be home again.’

‘It is, of course, gratifying to be back in England, my lord, and my mother will be glad to see me. However, it has been a privilege and a pleasure to assist the marquess and yourself.’

And the poor man has a hopeless tendre for Sara, so it will probably be a relief for both to have some distance between them. It was the only foolish thing Ashe had discovered about Thomas Perrott. Falling in love was for servants, romantics, poets and women. And fools, which he was not. Not any longer.

His father had done it and had recklessly married for love, which was fortunate or he, Ashe, wouldn’t be here now. But then his father was a law unto himself. In any case, a soldier of fortune, which is what he had been at the time, could do what he liked. His son—the Viscount Clere, he reminded himself with an inward wince—must marry for entirely different reasons.

‘My lord.’ Perrott stopped beside a fine black coach with the crest on the side that had become familiar from numerous legal documents and the imposing family tree. It was on the heavy seal ring his father now wore.

Liveried grooms climbed down from the back to stand at attention and two plainer coaches were waiting in line behind. ‘For your staff and the small baggage, my lord. The hold luggage will come by carrier as soon as it is unloaded. I trust that is satisfactory?’

‘No bullock carts and a distinct absence of elephants,’ Ashe observed with a grin. ‘We should move with unaccustomed speed.’

‘The fodder bills must be smaller, certainly,’ Perrott countered, straight-faced, and they walked back to the steps to await the skiff.

‘There you are!’ Phyllida dumped her hat and reticule on the table and confronted the sprawled figure of her brother, who occupied the sofa like a puppet with its strings cut.

‘Here I am,’ Gregory agreed, dragging open one eye. ‘With the very devil of a thick head, sister dear, so kindly do not nag me.’

‘I will do more than nag,’ she promised as she tossed her pelisse onto a chair. ‘Where is the rent money?’

‘Ah. You missed it.’ He heaved himself into a sitting position and began to rummage in his pockets. Bank notes spilled out in a crumpled heap on the floor. ‘There you are.’

‘Gregory! Where on earth did this all come from?’ Phyllida dropped to her knees and gathered them up, smoothing and counting. ‘Why, there is upwards of three hundred pounds here.’

‘Hazard,’ he said concisely, sinking back.

‘You always lose at hazard.’

‘I know. But you have been nagging me about the need for prudence and economy and I took your words to heart. You were quite right, Phyll, and I haven’t been much help to you, have I? I even call your common sense nagging. But behold my cunning—I went to a new hell and they always want you to win at first, don’t they?’

‘So I have heard.’ It was just that she hadn’t believed that he would ever work that sort of thing out for himself.

‘Therefore they saw to it that I did win and then when they smiled, all pleasant and shark-like, and proposed a double-or-nothing throw, I decided to hold my hand for the night.’ He looked positively smug.

‘And they let you out with no problem?’ The memory of Harry Buck sent shivers down her spine. He would never let a winner escape unscathed from one of his hells. Nor a virgin, either. She blanked the thought as though slamming a lid on a mental box.

‘Oh, yes. Told them I’d be back tomorrow with friends to continue my run of luck.’

‘But they’ll fleece you the second time.’

Gregory closed his eyes again with a sigh that held more weariness than a simple hangover caused. ‘I lied to them. Told you, I’m turning over a new leaf, Phyll. I took a long hard look in the mirror yesterday morning and I’m not getting any younger. Made me think about the things you’ve been saying and I knew you were right. I’m sick of scrimping for every penny and knowing you are working so hard. We need me to attach a rich wife and I won’t find one of those in a Wapping hell. And we need to save the readies to finance a courtship, just as you planned.’

‘You are a saint amongst brothers.’ Which was an outrageous untruth, and this attack of virtue might only last so long, but she did love him despite everything. Perhaps he really had matured as she said. ‘You promised me we could go to the Richmonds’ ball tomorrow night, don’t forget.’

‘Not the most exclusive of events, the Richmonds’ ball,’ Gregory observed, sitting up and taking notice.

‘It would hardly answer our purpose if it was,’ Phyllida retorted. ‘Fenella Richmond enjoys being toadied to, which means she invites those who will do that, as well as the cream of society. We may be sure of finding her rooms supplied with any number of parents looking to buy a titled husband in return for their guineas.’

‘Merchants. Mill owners. Manufacturers.’ He sounded thoughtful, not critical, but even so, she felt defensive.

‘Your sister is a shopkeeper, if the ton did but know it. But, yes, they will all be there and all set on insinuating themselves into society. If they think that Lady Richmond is wonderful, just imagine how they are going to enjoy meeting a handsome, single earl with a country house and a large estate. So be your most charming self, brother dear.’

Gregory snorted. ‘I am always charming. That I have no trouble with. It is being good and responsible that is the challenge. Where have you been all day, Phyll?’

Best not to reveal that she had been looking for him. ‘I was in Wapping, too, buying fans from the crew of an Indiaman just in from China.’ And being attacked by a weird crow and kissed by a beautiful man. As she had all afternoon she resisted the urge to touch her mouth. ‘I’ll go and put this money in the safe and let Peggy know we’re both in for dinner.’

Phyllida scooped up her things and retied her hat strings as she ran downstairs into the basement. ‘Peggy?’

‘Aye, Miss Phyllida?’ Their cook-housekeeper emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands. ‘His lordship’s home with a hangover, I see. Drink is a snare and an abomination.’

‘We will both be in for dinner, if you please.’ Phyllida was used to Peggy’s dire pronouncements upon almost any form of enjoyment. ‘And Gregory has brought both the rent and the wages home with him.’ She counted money out onto the scrubbed pine table. ‘There. That’s yours for last month and this month and Jane’s, too. I’ll pay Anna myself.’ Jane was the skinny maid of all work, Anna was Phyllida’s abigail.

‘Praise be,’ Peggy pronounced as she counted coins into piles. ‘Thank you, Miss Phyllida. And you’ll be putting the rest of it away safe, I’m hoping.’

‘I will. I’m just going to the shop, I’ll be back in half an hour.’

‘Rabbit stew,’ Peggy called after her as she ran back upstairs. ‘And cheesecakes.’

The day that had started so badly was turning out surprisingly well, she decided as she closed the front door, turned left along Great Ryder Street, diagonally across Duke Street and into Mason’s Yard. The rent and the wages were paid, Gregory was finally behaving himself over the campaign to find him a rich wife and there were cheesecakes for dinner.

No one was around as she unlocked the back door of the shop, secured it behind her and made her way through into the front. The shutters were closed and the interior of the shop in shadow, but she could see the flicker of movement as carriages and horses passed along Jermyn Street. She would open tomorrow, Phyllida decided as she knelt before the cupboard, moved a stack of wrapping paper and lifted the false bottom. The safe was concealed beneath it, secure from intruders and her brother’s ‘borrowings’ alike, and the roll of notes made a welcome addition to the savings that she secretly thought of as the Marriage Fund.

Gregory’s marriage, not hers, of course. Phyllida secured the cupboard and, on a sudden impulse, opened a drawer and drew out a package. Indian incense sticks rolled out, each small bundle labelled in a script she could not read, along with a pencilled scribble in English.

Rose, patchouli, lily, white musk, champa, frankincense… jasmine and sandalwood. She pulled one of the sticks from the bundle and held it to her nose with a little shiver of recollection. It smelled clean and woody and exotic, just as he had. Dangerous and unsettling, for some inexplicable reason. Or perhaps that had been the scent of his skin, that beautiful golden skin.

It was nonsense, of course. He had kissed her, protected her—while taking his own amusement from the situation—and that was enough to unsettle anyone. There was no mystery to it.

Phyllida let herself out, locked up and hurried home.

It was not until she was changing in her bedchamber that she realised she had slipped the incense stick into her reticule.

It was a while since she had bought the bundle, so it was as well to test the quality of them, she supposed. The coating spluttered, then began to smoulder as she touched the tip of the stick to the flame and she wedged it into the wax at the base of the candle to hold it steady. Then she sat and resolutely did not think of amused green eyes while Anna, her maid, brushed out her hair.

She would act the shopkeeper tomorrow and then become someone else entirely for a few hours at Lady Richmond’s ball. She was looking forward to it, even if she would spend the evening assessing débutantes and dowries and not dancing. Dancing, like dreams of green-eyed lovers and fantasies of marriage, were for other women, not her. Coils of sandalwood-scented smoke drifted upwards, taking her dreams with them.