Читать книгу The Complete Regency Surrender Collection - Энни Берроуз, Louise Allen - Страница 54

Chapter Twenty-One

‘Lord Fanworth.’ Mrs Sims poked her head into the salon, where Stephen was reading. Her normally placid expression was replaced with worry. ‘A girl is here, from the shop. There has been some sort of trouble.’

He set aside his book with a smile. ‘What sort of trouble? Has someone lost an earring?’ His smile faded, when he saw the girl, a petite brunette, her starched de Bryun’s pinafore rumpled and her face stained with tears.

‘Tell me all.’

But the girl, Susan, could barely get out a sentence around her tears. ‘A madman came into the shop. Everything is broken.’

Stephen seized her arm. ‘Lady Fanworth. Was she hurt?’

‘I do not think so.’

The girl was useless, if she could not reassure him. ‘The carriage. How soon can it be ready, Mrs Sims?’ Any delay would be too long. It took him only a moment to decide that the girl should wait for it and guide it back, with the driver and two stout grooms. He would set out on foot.

Without the bother of a vehicle, it took only a few minutes to cross the Circus and run down George Street to Milsom. But when he reached the shop, he found the shades pulled, the sign turned to ‘Closed’ and the door tightly locked against him.

Damn it to hell. Why had he not asked her for a key? At a moment such as this, he should not have to be left pounding on the doorframe.

The door opened a crack and a girl who he had not seen before whispered, ‘We are closed, sir.’

‘Not for me.’ Had it really been so long since he had been here that the staff did not know him? He forced his boot into the crack in the door before she could shut it again.

‘Lord Fanworth.’ The ginger with the ears appeared from behind her and opened hurriedly. ‘Of course. Come in.’

‘Where is my wife?’

‘Safe, my lord. But shaken.’

The room was in chaos, the floor littered with broken glass and scattered jewellery. It was silent other than the clank and tinkle of the cleaning in progress and the quiet weeping of one of the younger shop girls. The boy led him through the midst of it, to the private salon where Margot sat on the white-velvet couch, twisting a handkerchief in her hands.

‘What has happened here?’

‘Nothing,’ Margot stared towards the wrecked front room, dry eyed and impassive.

‘A robbery?’ If that was the case, he should never have allowed this to continue. Or at least he could have posted a man to keep her safe.

She was shaking her head. ‘An accident. Nothing more.’

‘An accident.’ It looked as if a whirlwind had got in through the front door and jumbled the contents of the room.

‘Nothing of importance,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But we will be closing the shop after all. If I must replace all of this...’ She swept her hand about the room and gave a light and very false smile. ‘It hardly seems worth the bother.’

‘Closing?’ Had they not just agreed that closing was not necessary? He turned his attention to the new manager, hovering at his wife’s side. ‘Enough of this. What really happened?’

Jasper, the ginger, wet his lips for a moment, as though weighing the punishment he might get for speaking against the one he was sure to get if he did not. And then, he said, ‘His Grace the Duke of Larchmont wishes the shop closed immediately.’ He glanced around him. ‘He was most adamant.’

‘Thank you for your honesty.’

He turned back to his poor, shattered wife and sat down beside her on the soft white velvet of the sofa. ‘This was not the first visit, was it?’

She shook her head.

‘The night you came home with the cut finger.’

‘He cracked the glass of the showcase with his cane.’

‘And why did you not tell me, then?’

‘I thought you agreed with him,’ she said. ‘And then I did not want to make more trouble between the two of you. After what happened when I met your brother...I wanted to do better this time.’

‘My father is not like Arthur,’ he replied. But she had learned that through bitter experience. ‘And you do not need to be better. None of this was your fault.’ It was his. He had known what his family was like. He should have protected her.

‘I thought our plan for a manager and leaving at the end of the season would be a reasonable compromise. I assumed, when I told him... I was wrong,’ she said, looking at the mess around her. ‘Perhaps if I had not provoked him...’

How often had he thought that when growing up? It would do no good to explain to her that she provoked him by her very existence, much as Stephen did, himself. ‘You did not provoke him. There was nothing you could have done,’ he said.

‘Perhaps the shop was a mistake, after all. I should have known better. Everyone told me not to take this job upon myself. But I was so sure I could manage. And now, look at it.’ Her voice was almost too calm, as though she still did not, could not, truly understand what had just happened.

He remained calm as well. It would not do to frighten her again, while she was still recovering from Larchmont. But inside, his blood boiled at the years of injustice. He had felt as she did now, when faced with his father’s random displays of temper. He’d choked on the fear and anger, letting it muzzle him.

No longer.

‘It is over,’ he agreed. ‘You will never be treated this way again. Wait for me here. I will return shortly, with the carriage.’

He strode into the main room, glaring at the frightened clerks. Jasper, the ginger, had opened the cash box and was paying off the staff before releasing them. ‘Do not dare!’ he barked.

Jasper slammed the box shut and jumped away from it, as though afraid that Larchmont’s violence ran in the family.

‘Clean up the mess. Find someone to repair the mirrors. We will open tomorrow, as usual. Nothing has changed.’ He added a second glare to show that it hadn’t. ‘And find Lady Fanworth a cup of tea.’ Then he unlocked the door and went out into the street.

* * *

When in Bath, the Duke of Larchmont always let the same house in the Royal Crescent. Woe be unto any who dared take it ahead of him. The landlord would gladly put another tenant out into the street to avoid angering the peer. It was just one more example of the duke’s disregard for the needs of others and the terror he evoked in those that had to deal with him.

And today it would end.

Stephen rapped once upon the door, then opened it himself, not waiting for the startled servant reaching for the handle on the other side.

‘I wish to see Larchmont.’ The footman quailed in front of him, clearly used to the tempers of the family.

Without waiting for an escort, Stephen walked down the hall to the small salon and paced in front of the fireplace. It would not do to lose a single drop of the rage he carried.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ His father stood in the doorway.

‘You know damn well,’ Stephen said.

‘Do not use that language with me, whelp.’

Larchmont hated blasphemy almost as much as stuttering. Stephen grinned. ‘I bloody well will. Now, let us discuss your damned visit to my wife.’

His father was smiling. Stephen had come to dread that expression as a warning of disasters to come. ‘You do not wish me to become acquainted with my new daughter?’

‘Until you can behave like a bloody gentleman and not some drunkard, I forbid you from visiting her.’

There was actually a pause before he could respond to this, as Larchmont tried to decide which made him angrier, the insult or the command. Then, he laughed. ‘You? Forbid me? You have no authority over the family, boy. And less than none over me. It is clear you cannot control your tongue, or your wife. Someone must step in and protect our honour.’

‘My wife needs no controlling.’

‘In my opinion...’ his father began to speak, brandishing his cane.

‘No one has asked for it, you lick-fingered old fool.’ Stephen reached out and snatched the stick from the old man’s hand.

There was a moment of absolute silence. And then his father staggered from the loss of the stick. ‘How dare you.’

Stephen sneered back at him. ‘Do not think to feign weakness where none bloody well exists.’

‘I have the gout,’ his father shouted back at him.

‘Damn your gouty leg to hell and back. You can stand well enough when you are using this to strike people and break things, you miserable bugger.’

The older man watched the stick in his hands as though waiting for the blow that had been years in the making. When it did not come, he smiled again, still thinking he could regain control of the situation. ‘I am strong enough to deal with that fishwife you married. And you. You are a full-grown man and still quail before me.’

‘Do not confuse silence with fear,’ Stephen said.

For a moment, Larchmont himself was silent, as if he had finally recognised the threat right in front of him. Then he said, ‘What I did was necessary, for the good of the family—’

‘Not my family,’ Stephen interrupted.

‘Something had to be done,’ Larchmont argued. ‘The future Duchess of Larchmont cannot be allowed to associate with half the people that come into that place, much less wait upon them like a menial.’

‘The only one she cannot associate with is you,’ Stephen said, looking at the stick in his hands.

Larchmont watched it as well and smiled. ‘Since you do not have the nerve to strike me, I fail to see how you will stop me.’

Stephen twirled the stick in his hand. ‘I will damned well tell Bellston that you are as mad as King George. When he hears that you threatened a member of his family...’

‘A distant link, at best,’ Larchmont argued.

‘He is closer to her than to you,’ Stephen replied.

‘We sit together in Parliament.’

‘Because he is forced to,’ Stephen said. ‘There is not a man in England who would sit with you by choice, you miserable cod.’

Larchmont scoffed. ‘I do not need friends.’

‘It is better to have them than enemies,’ Stephen said. ‘And you have one of those, right here in the damned room.’

‘You are not allowed to say such things. You are my son.’

‘D-D-Did I not speak clearly, you old tyrant?’ For once, Stephen enjoyed his stutter. ‘I am your enemy. What in bloody hell did you think I would become when you raised a hand against the woman I love?’

‘Her useless shop, only,’ his father corrected. And for the first time in his life, Stephen felt the man give ground in an argument.

‘Her shop is as much a part of her as her head or her heart. Threaten it again and I will walk the streets of Bath in a coronet, selling snuff boxes.’

‘It is a blot on the family.’

‘Not as sodding big as the mess I will make, if you annoy me,’ Stephen said, smiling his father’s smile back at him. ‘I will introduce Margot to the Regent. Have you seen her? One look, and he won’t give a tinker’s curse who her father was. She will tell the story of your irrational violence...’ Stephen smiled, imagining the scene. ‘Prinny’s had experience with difficult fathers. He’ll bleeding sympathise.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Should I go to the tattle sheets instead?’ The thought made him grin. He spread his hands in the air to picture the words, ‘Mad Larchmont runs amuck in Bath!’

‘I am not mad!’

‘You cannot prove it by your behaviour, you bum-legged Bedlamite.’

‘If you try such a thing, I will...I will...’ Without even realising it, Larchmont was searching for the cane Stephen still held.

He held it out towards his father, giving him the barest moment of hope before snatching it back and snapping it over his knee. Then he tossed the pieces in the fireplace. ‘Now what will you do? I think you are too old to hit me with your bare hands. But if you wish to try, I will defend myself.’ The words were sweet, like honey, and he had no trouble speaking them.

‘You would strike an old man?’ Suddenly his father was doing his best to look feeble.

‘If the only way to get through your thick skull is to crack it,’ Stephen said. What he felt was not exactly pity. But it was different from the anger he’d felt so long when thinking of Larchmont. ‘Or I will humiliate you, just as you always said I would. You fear for the family reputation? I will happily destroy it, if you force me to.’

‘You have done that already, by marrying that...that woman with her infernal shop.’

‘If that is all it takes to ruin us, then I fault you for creating such a fragile honour.’

Perhaps he did not have to strike the man. Showing him his faults had caused an expression as shocked as a slap.

It was enough. For now, at least. He bowed. ‘And now, your Grace, I must go. Back to Milsom Street. I suspect they still need help with the cleaning up.’