Читать книгу Innocent Courtesan to Adventurer's Bride - Louise Allen - Страница 12

Lina stared up at the enigmatically smiling portrait, stunned. Sanctuary and money beyond her wildest dreams, enough for an independent start whenever she chose to take it, the last generous gift from an old man who had the imagination and compassion to reach out to a total stranger and the generosity to commemorate an old friendship—or an old love. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘Can this be broken?’ Quinn Ashley’s voice was utterly devoid of any amusement now. ‘I have no intention of retaining this house and estate any longer than it takes me to pack up the books and papers and place it on the market.’

‘No, my lord, it cannot be broken,’ the lawyer said with the firmness of a man who had confronted many an angry heir in the course of his career. ‘The late Lord Dreycott consulted me most carefully to ensure that was the case, as he anticipated your objections. I should further point out that, as the lady has the option to remain here for six months, you will be unable to place this estate on the market until she chooses to leave, whatever your wishes to the contrary.

‘Now, if I might ask for the use of a room to interview each of the beneficiaries, I can settle most of the practical issues during the course of the day, my lord.’

‘Use the study,’ Ashley said. ‘I will discuss this further with you there now, if you would be so good.’ Despite the distance between them Lina could see that he had his face completely under control, but he could not keep the anger out of his eyes. He met her scrutiny and she felt as though she had just turned the key to imprison a tiger in a cage. The horizontal bars of the chair-back dug into her spine as she pressed herself against them in instinctive retreat.

Then self-preservation took over from her worries about what Lord Dreycott might think of her now. She had to face the lawyer and he would want her name. Her heart pounding, Lina got up, ducked through the service door at the back of the dining room and hurried to the stairs.

‘What the hell was the old devil thinking of?’ Quinn demanded as the study door closed behind them.

‘Ensuring that his memoirs are published, my lord,’ Mr Havers said. ‘I believe your great-uncle felt they might be overlooked for some years if you were at liberty to fit them in with your doubtless demanding programme of travels and your own writing.’ He shuffled the papers into various piles on the long table against the wall, obviously indifferent to the fact that his news had set Quinn’s plans for half the year on their head.

‘And what is this nonsense with the girl? Is she the reason the estate cannot be sold for six months?’ Quinn asked. ‘Is she his natural daughter? She has no look of him.’

‘I think it unlikely. I believe this is a quite genuine gesture in memory of his past attachment to her aunt. What is the young lady’s name? Lord Dreycott was curiously reluctant to give it to me.’

‘Haddon.’

Havers made a note. ‘I am sorry, my lord. But I am afraid you are encumbered with this estate, and Miss Haddon, for the term of six months at a minimum, or you forfeit the library.’

Quinn placed his hands flat on the desk and leaned on them, staring down at the worn red morocco leather surface. He had intended selling up the estate, moving everything he wanted to retain to his town house and settling down to establish himself in London. There was pleasurable anticipation in combining a sensible business move with the prospect of a long-awaited revenge on polite society.

He had perfectly respectable reasons to transfer his centre of operations from Constantinople to London—respectable motives to do with trade and scholarship. Now he would have to divide his attention between this easterly parish on the shore, his uncle’s memoirs and his real focus in London.

It was infuriating, but he knew when to yield to superior force. Great-Uncle Simon’s tactics were, as always, masterly. There was no benefit exhausting himself and his temper in an attempt to get around the will; he was stuck with Dreycott Park until the autumn. And he was stuck with the responsibility for a nervous, flirtatious and puzzling young woman as well. He supposed he could just leave her here to keep the place in order for six months.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Quinn said once he had his frustration under control. An outburst of temper would do no good. ‘Feel free to use the desk, Havers. Who do you want first?’

‘Miss Haddon, I think. Thank you, my lord.’

Celina was sitting on one of the hard chairs in the empty hall, her hands in her lap, her back straight. The apron had gone and she had enveloped her blonde hair in a thick black snood. She looked even more like an occupant of a nunnery than before.

She stood up when she saw him, her expression wary. As well it might be, he thought. What am I going to do with you? The option of simply leaving her here to run the house lost savour. His body stirred; it knew exactly what it wanted to do.

‘Havers will see you first, Celina.’

‘I am very sorry, my lord,’ she said as though he had not spoken.

‘For what?’ He was in no mood to be conciliatory.

‘For the fact that you cannot carry out your intentions, for the burden of my presence and for the diminution of your inheritance by the legacy to me.’

That sounded like a prepared speech. ‘The money is in no way an issue, Celina. It was my uncle’s to do with as he pleased and your presence in the household is no burden. If I appear less than pleased with my uncle’s dispositions, it is because of the disruption to my plans.’ And the unaccustomed experience of having my own will thwarted, if truth be told, he added mentally.

It was salutary, after years of doing what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, to find himself constrained in this way just when he had resolved on a course of action. It was almost as though the old devil had second-guessed him and set out to throw a barrier in his path. Old Simon had been too cynical, and too unconventional, to worry about his own reputation and he would not have wanted Quinn thinking to avenge the slight on his good name.

‘Thank you. It is generous of you to reassure me,’ she said, her voice colourless. ‘It will be uncomfortable for you here, if your neighbours will not call.’ She was flushed now, her eyes, as usual, cast down. ‘Trimble told me about the scandal. It is very shocking that a young man could be treated in such a way.’

‘You believe me the innocent party, then?’ Quinn found himself irritated that her answer mattered.

‘Of course.’ She sounded almost sure, he thought grimly. Not certain, though. How very wise of her. ‘Trimble would not lie about something like that.’ But she thinks I might? ‘It was very honourable of you not to reveal the true parentage of her child.’

He shrugged. It had been romantic wrong-headedness and a wounded heart more than any loftier motive, he suspected, looking back now at his young self. ‘That must have been a source of pride to you,’ she added, laying one hand on his sleeve as though trying to offer comfort

‘I was a romantic young idiot,’ Quinn said. The shuttered gaze lifted a fraction and he knew she was watching him sidelong from beneath her lids. ‘That did not last long. Do not delude yourself that I am some sort of saint, Celina. The high-flown moral stance persisted just as long as it took me to discover the delights of the flesh well away from English double standards.’

Her pale hand was still on his forearm. He looked down at her bent head, the sweep of dark lashes against her cheek, the faint quiver of her fingers, the tender skin below her ear. The scent she wore, subtle and sophisticated and unexpected, teased his nostrils and his pulse kicked in recognition of her unconscious allure.

Or was it unconscious? he wondered. She had the grooming, the elegance, the little mannerisms of a woman used to pleasing men for a living. And yet, there was the apprehension in her eyes when she did permit them to meet his fleetingly, her lack of sophistication with wine, her retreats into shy propriety. A mystery, and Quinn enjoyed a mystery. And one involving contact with a pretty woman was even more enticing. He had six months to tease the truth out of her. As he thought it, he realised that he was not going to just take himself off to London and abandon her here. He wanted her.

He lifted her hand from his arm and raised it to his lips, just touching the tips of her fingers, letting his breath caress her. She stiffened and gave a little gasp, but he kept his attention on the pampered hand, the carefully manicured and buffed nails, the faint smell of expensive hand lotion. Celina cared for her skin like a courtesan, not a housekeeper.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked abruptly. But she did not pull her hand away.

‘You will hear some torrid tales from our respectable neighbours, I have no doubt. I thought it better that I warn you.’

‘I see,’ Celina said. ‘I do trust you, Ashley.’

That was like a jab in the stomach. He did not intend for her to trust him, he wanted to tease and intrigue her for sport, but if she truly trusted him then he should honour that. And perhaps he would—she was under his roof, under his protection. She might even be the innocent virgin she would have him believe.

‘I did not say you should trust me,’ he said, wanting to unsettle her, to pay her back for unsettling him. Her head came up and those wide blue eyes looked into his as though she was inspecting the inside of his soul—always assuming she could find it. ‘I simply wanted to set the record straight over that piece of history.’

‘Of course.’ The intense scrutiny dropped. ‘As always, it is for the woman to take care and it is upon the woman that the shame devolves if she is not vigilant enough of her honour. Excuse me, my lord. Mr Havers will be waiting.’

The brush of her silk skirts across his legs as she turned had Quinn gritting his teeth as a sudden stab of lust took him unawares. He pulled open the front door and strode off to the stables, more angry with himself for even troubling about Celina than he was at her plain speaking.

Lina had been watching his profile: the flexible mouth, the strong, straight nose that was almost too long, the thin scar that was visible now the stubble was gone, the hooded green eyes, the elegant whorl of one ear. He had seemed relaxed, as though he was telling her the plot of some novel, not his own story of disillusion, disgrace and sin. She did not believe in his detachment. Quinn Ashley was an excellent actor, but he had to be deeply frustrated by what had just happened—any man would be.

Then he had kissed her fingertips and the scent of him, sandalwood and angry, tense male, had filled her nostrils and she had been unable to snatch her hand away. A more experienced woman would have known how to extricate herself, but she had been left there, gauche and enraptured. When Quinn turned back to face her and she saw the look in his eyes she could see he was not relaxed. Not at all.

I did not say you should trust me. The smile had reached his eyes with those words. A smile and something else, something assessing and male and dangerous. In letting him take her hand, in confessing her trust, she had yielded to him and that had stirred some animal instinct in him.

Idiot, she scolded herself as she tapped on the study door and let herself in. He attracted and fascinated her and that was lethally dangerous. One brush of his lips on her hand and she was disorientated, disconcerted and breathless. It was worse than the wine.

‘Miss Haddon.’ The lawyer rose to his feet. ‘Please, be seated. This should not take long.’

Lina sat down and folded her hands in her lap, trying her best to look like a meek young lady and not a fugitive courtesan. With her hair invisible, her eyebrows and lashes, which were naturally darker, gave the impression that she was a brunette. Surely there would be nothing to spark Mr Havers’s suspicions, even if he had read her description in the newspapers?

‘Now, if I may have your first names.’

‘Lina,’ she said, watching him write Lina Haddon in careful script across a document.

‘And which bank would you wish the money deposited in, Miss Haddon?’

‘I do not have a bank account.’ Was it against the law to open one in a false name? Perhaps she would need papers to prove who she was. But surely in six months her name would be cleared. Or she would be hanged.

Lina repressed the shudder. ‘I must organise something. Might I have an advance of cash?’ It would need to be enough to make good her escape if they found her, but not so much that Mr Havers would think it strange. ‘Twenty-five pounds would be excellent.’

‘I am afraid that the money only becomes available at the end of six months, Miss Haddon.’ He made another note. ‘But all your costs will be met and that would include a reasonable clothing allowance and pin money.’

‘Oh.’ But she could not leave and find herself a new hiding place without cash in her hand. If she had a thousand pounds, she could hire an investigator, an agent to contact her aunt, a lawyer, flee abroad if necessary; but now, with no money, she must stay here or her aunt would not know where to find her.

And she needed to help Aunt Clara fight Makepeace, she could not just run away and abandon her. ‘Of course. I did not quite understand.’ She would have to stay here under the protection of a man who might turn out to be no protection at all, but thoroughly dangerous himself. ‘Thank you, Mr Havers.’

‘Thank you, Miss Haddon. Would you be so good as to ask Trimble to come in next?’

Lina delivered the message, then found herself staring rather blankly at the front door, at a loss what to do next. Cook would prepare luncheon and needed no further instruction, the house was as orderly as any that closely resembled a chaotic museum could be, and the thought of hemming yet another worn sheet was intolerable.

On impulse she ran upstairs, changed into stout shoes, found her cloak and told Michael, ‘If anyone wants me, I have gone for a walk up to Flagstaff Hill.’

‘His lordship says we’re to have a guest bedchamber made up for Mr Gregor,’ the footman said. ‘I’m confused about him, I must confess, Miss Haddon. I thought he was a servant to start with, but he sits down to dinner like a gentleman.’

‘I think he likes to tease us,’ Lina said, ‘to confound our expectations. Give him the red bedchamber.’

‘But that’s—’

‘The one where we put all the worst examples of the taxidermist’s art, including the crocodile. Exactly. It is about time that Mr Gregor realises he is not the only person in this household with a sense of humour.’

It seemed a very long time since she had laughed out loud, not since before Simon Ashley had been found cold in his bed. He had kept her in a ripple of amusement with his dry wit and scurrilous anecdotes, the wicked old man.

She was still smiling when she passed the archway into the stable yard and glanced through it at the sound of voices. Gregor was holding the head of the grey horse she had glimpsed when the men had arrived and Quinn Ashley was walking round it, running his hands down its legs, lifting each hoof in turn. Lina knew nothing about horses, but she knew beauty when she saw it and this animal with its slightly dished face, big dark eyes, long white tail and mane and air of disciplined power was beautiful.

Ashley and Gregor must be checking the animals after their long ride, she supposed, seeing an equally handsome black tied up at the rear of the courtyard with a sturdy bay beside it. She drew back against the arch and watched. The men were talking easily together, dropping a word here and there, hardly troubling to complete their sentences. Lina could remember when it had been like that with her sisters, Bella and Meg. They had been so close that one or two words, a phrase or a smile was enough to share thoughts and feelings.

Where are you? she asked in a silent plea for an answer that never came. Be safe, please be safe and happy. If she ever got out of this mess, she would devote her legacy to finding her sisters, she swore, hurrying away from the arch and the sight of the men and their easy, unthinking friendship.

She ran, paused only to open the simple iron gate into the park, then slowed as she followed the overgrown track that climbed up the side of the ridge that separated the park from the sea, sheltering the house within its wooded slopes.

Once carriages would have carried houseguests along this route up to the gazebo on the top where they could survey the sweep of coastline in one direction or the fine parkland in the other. But it had been many years since old Lord Dreycott had entertained houseguests who enjoyed picnics and flirtations in the coppices and the track had dwindled almost to a footpath.

Lina climbed on, only half-aware of the alarmed call of jackdaws and crows, the flash of colour as a jay flew across the path. If—no, when—she was cleared of this charge of theft, then what should she do? Aunt Clara had been so good to her it seemed like treachery to think of leaving The Blue Door, but she could hardly spend the rest of her life in a brothel.

Perhaps Clara imagined she would take over and run it one day. Lina could not suppress a wry smile at the thought of a virgin as abbess of a select nunnery. She had heard many of the names for houses of ill repute—school of Venus, vaulting school, smuggling ken, house of civil reception—but nunnery was the one that had startled her the most. As well as being an ironic name, it seemed that nuns were a popular male fantasy and The Blue Door had enough habits hanging in its bizarre wardrobe room to equip a small convent.

But she must acknowledge the fact that, however much she loved her aunt and liked the girls, that could never be her life, only a temporary sanctuary, one that could ruin her permanently by association.

Panting slightly, she reached the top of the hill. Set on stout wooden pillars right in front of her was the gazebo, built to add another twenty feet to the vantage point for anyone with enough breath still to climb. Lina lifted her skirts in one hand, took a firm grip on the rickety handrail with the other and mounted the steps.

At the top she went to the seaward side and leaned her elbows on the rail. The wind was fresh up here, bringing the scent of the ocean with it, and she pulled off her snood and hairpins, shaking her hair free so it blew out behind her in the breeze.

No, she could not live in a brothel for ever, nor run one, not with her lack of experience. And she had no intention of acquiring the practical knowledge, not after that hideous experience with Sir Humphrey Tolhurst. The thought of a man paying to touch her, of having to feign pleasure at the act, do whatever he wanted when she did not like or desire him, made her feel sick.

Now, if she could only come out of hiding, she had the resources to find herself a little cottage somewhere while she searched for her sisters. But she would not forget her aunt or the girls at The Blue Door, or look down on them for making the choices that they had. They had been forced into it, just as she had, but unlike her, or even Mama, they would find no escape. She would—

‘Why, I have found the little nun at last and she has cast off her wimple.’ He moves like a cat, Lina thought, spinning round on the platform to confront Quinn Ashley as he reached the top of the steps.

Then what he had said penetrated. ‘How dare you! How dare you call me a nun!’ But she had stood still while this man had kissed her fingertips, stood still and quivered with terrified pleasure. The thought of her own perverse weakness only fuelled her anger. Her loose hair settled round her shoulders in a cloud, partly obscuring her sight, and she pushed it back. ‘You…libertine, you…’

He took two strides across the platform and caught her wrists in his hands before she could strike him. ‘Do you seek to insult me, Celina? You will have to do rather better than that. I will willingly admit to libertine. Rake as well, for I can see that word forming on those very pretty lips of yours. Come then, let me give you stimulus for your vocabulary.’ And he pulled her to him, bent his head and kissed her.