Читать книгу Regency Collection 2013 Part 1 - Хелен Диксон, Louise Allen, Хелен Диксон - Страница 19

They were playing for love and she had won. The cards lay in wild disarray all over the baize table cover; the scores, totalled in Max’s rather sprawling hand, showed a clear victory: hers. So she could claim all the love that she wanted, everything she desired, Max was hers …

‘Bree! Wake up.’

‘Wha—?’ She jerked into consciousness and found she was curled up in her chair and Max was looking down at her with an amused expression on his face. The cards were strewn over the table, her own hand all higgledy-piggeldy where she had dropped it. ‘Who won?’

‘I did.’ Max began to gather up the pasteboard rectangles. ‘If you mean who stayed awake longest. I think your uncle is home. I heard wheels on the gravel just now.’

‘Oh, goodness.’ Bree got to her feet, found that her left foot had gone to sleep, and hopped painfully to peer in the spotted mirror. She patted her hair back into something like order and smoothed down her skirts. Max was looking perfectly composed. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

He glanced at the clock. ‘About an hour. It’s half past one.’

There were sounds from the front hall. Bree hurried to open the door. ‘Uncle George!’

‘Bree? Well, bless my heart, what are you doing here, child?’ Her uncle turned from the foot of the stairs and came towards her, a candle in his hand. With relief she saw he looked much as usual, although perhaps his face was a trifle thinner, his hair a little whiter. ‘Are you well? Is something amiss?’

‘That’s what I came to ask you.’ Bree reached up a hand to his shoulder and kissed his cheek, cold from the night air. His breath smelt of brandy. ‘You wrote such a strange letter, we were worried about you.’

‘I did?’ He frowned in puzzlement, but followed her as she turned back into the room. ‘I don’t recall that.’

‘Here.’ Bree took it out of her reticule and offered it. Her uncle took it, started to read, then coloured.

‘That nonsense? I was in my cups, started scribbling some maudlin stuff—I thought I had burned it. That old fool Betsy must have posted it instead.’ A movement arrested his attention. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Lord Penrith, Uncle. Max, this is my uncle, Mr George Mallory.’ In his cups? But Uncle George hardly touches a drop of liquor.

The men shook hands, George frowning. ‘You two are not married, are you?’

‘No!’ they both chorused again, with such emphasis that Uncle George looked startled. It was really embarrassing the way this household took one look at the pair of them and jumped to that conclusion. Max must be mortified to deny it so vehemently.

‘I am a friend of Miss Mallory and her brother,’ he said, collecting himself. ‘When I discovered Miss Mallory was intending to make this journey by stage with no escort, I offered to accompany her.’

‘I see.’ George Mallory looked at the cards scattered on the table, then glanced away again. He seemed unsettled, but not, apparently, by his niece’s behaviour in sitting up half the night, unchaperoned, with an earl. ‘You should be in bed, child. Look at the hour.’

‘I came because I was anxious about you, Uncle. If everything was well, I intended to leave again on the morning coach, so there would be no time to speak then.’ Bree took his hand. ‘I am sorry, I have worried you, arriving like this.’

‘There is nothing wrong.’ Her uncle fixed her with a direct stare from under beetling grey brows. ‘Nothing at all. I can’t have you rushing about the place every time I do something foolish. Now, off to your bed with you if you’re to be up first thing tomorrow. I’m expecting you and Piers to stay in a few weeks, aren’t I? How is the boy?’

‘Much better, Uncle. He sends his love.’

‘Better from what?’ he demanded.

‘From the pneumonia.’ Bree regarded him anxiously. ‘Don’t you recall? I wrote to say he had to come home from Harrow to recuperate.’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw Max beginning to edge tactfully towards the door and shook her head at him. He stopped.

‘Oh, yes, so you did.’ Her uncle seemed to pull himself together, becoming, in the flickering candle- and firelight, someone closer to the vigorous man she had left after her last visit. ‘Nothing the matter with me, child. No need for you to stay.’

‘Betsy—’

‘What’s she been saying?’

‘Just that you had made some new friends.’

‘Aye, so I have. And what of it?’

‘Nothing. I am glad.’ Bree bit her lip. He seemed fine, if slightly forgetful and somewhat irascible. But perhaps that was simply to be expected with advancing years. ‘I will stay if you would like me to, Uncle.’

‘No, I thank you. You be off back to London in the morning and keep an eye on that young whippersnapper of a nephew of mine.’ He swung round and regarded Max. ‘Don’t expect I’ll see you again, my lord. I thank you for your escort for my niece. Goodnight to you both. I’m off to bed.’

Bree stared at the door as he closed it behind him. ‘Well,’ she said blankly. ‘What did you think?’

Max shrugged. He had walked to the table and was gathering up the cards. ‘I don’t know him. The cards appeared to worry him, don’t you think? Far more than my presence. In his shoes I’d be demanding what the devil was going on with my niece.’

‘And he’d been drinking, although he was far from drunk. Perhaps his rheumatism is troubling him. I suppose I had better do as he says and go back to London and Piers and I will take our holiday a little earlier this year.’ She broke off and yawned hugely. ‘Oh, excuse me! I really must be off to bed.’

Max held the door open for her. ‘What do you think, truly?’ she asked as he followed her into the hall.

‘That he is hiding something. But unless you intend to move in and interrogate him, I am not sure what you can do about it.’ Max lit a branch of candles from the one he held. ‘My great-aunt became very secretive as she got older. That is probably all it is.’

‘Of course. Thank you, Max.’ For a moment she thought he was going to say something, then he bent and kissed her, lightly, on the cheek.

‘Goodnight, Bree. Sleep tight.’

‘There you are! How is he?’ Piers demanded as she arrived home half way through the next afternoon, tired, stiff and hungry.

‘Is Mr Mallory well?’ Rosa set aside a piece of sewing and got to her feet. ‘I collect he must be, as you are back so soon.’ She tugged the bell pull. ‘You look in need of a nice luncheon and a lie down.’

‘Oh, yes, indeed I am,’ Bree agreed, tugging off her gloves and tossing them and her hat onto the sofa. ‘Uncle seems in good health, but, Piers, he had been out, visiting new friends and drinking brandy, which is not like him at all. And he seemed very happy to send me on my way the next morning.’ She sat down with a sigh and put up her feet, most improperly, on the fender. ‘He says he wrote the letter in a maudlin moment and meant to burn it, but Betsy must have posted it. Max agrees with me that Uncle is hiding something, but goodness knows what.’

‘Max? You mean Dysart was with you?’ Piers demanded.

‘Lord Penrith to you,’ Bree corrected. ‘He saw me catching the stage and insisted on escorting me. It did his shoulder no good at all, so I felt I had to invite him back to the house.’

Piers, to her relief, appeared to find nothing odd about this, but Bree could feel Rosa’s eyes boring into her. She turned and raised one eyebrow with what she hoped was a cool assumption of indifference.

Her companion merely picked up her sewing again and remarked, ‘How very gallant of his lordship.’

Braced for criticism or comment, Bree felt curiously deflated. She wanted to talk about Max, she realised. She could hardly tell Rosa that she was falling in love with the man, but she had at least expected exclamations and discussion, something to give her the opportunity to speak his name. She jumped to her feet. ‘I will go and wash and change. That stage was decidedly grubby.’

‘Yes, dear,’ Rosa said cheerfully. ‘That’s a good idea.’ Maddening!

Max sat back in his deep armchair in the book room at the Nonesuch, tapping the folded letter he had just received from Ryder against his knee. It had been short, and couched in the code they had agreed upon. The originators of the work of art you have lost have moved away. I believe they may have gone to Winchester and I am following that trail. The painting itself has not been seen at its place of origin since it left in your possession.

Max stuffed the letter into a breast pocket and tried to control his impatience. After all this time it was not to be expected that Ryder would come upon the definite proof he sought in a day or two. He weighed up strolling along to Watier’s to eat, as against staying here where the food was less refined, but the company more likely to distract him.

‘Dysart, there you are.’ It was Brice Latymer.

Max nodded. ‘Latymer.’ His dislike of the man was instinctive, but he habitually suppressed it, unwilling to create bad blood amongst club members. Latymer was a poor sport, and had an unpleasantly jealous streak, but it was simpler just to ignore him.

‘You were going to give me the direction of that Irish breeder you recommended for heavy hunters.’ Latymer dropped elegantly into the chair opposite.

‘So I was.’ Max fished his pocket book out. ‘I have it here, I think—but what’s your interest? I imagine you ride too light to be after one yourself.’

‘My uncle—the rich, unmarried, one—rides sixteen stone. I thought I’d put myself in his good books with a recommendation. He must be due to remake his will about now. He does it every year.’

‘Yes, here it is.’ With an inward wince at the blatant greed, Max found the page and made to pass it over.

Latymer stretched out a hand and then hesitated. ‘Jot it down for me, there’s a good fellow. I don’t have a notebook on me.’

Repressing a sigh, Max got to his feet and walked across to one of the writing tables set in alcoves around the wall. By the time he had found a pen with a good nib, scrawled the address and sanded the sheet, Latymer was on his feet studying the portrait hanging over the mantel.

‘Prosy old bore that one looks,’ he remarked. ‘Thanks very much.’ He made to go, then half-turned. ‘I’m looking forward to that outing you’ve arranged with Miss Mallory and her stagecoach. Very dashing young lady that, admire her no end.’ With a flash of white teeth he was gone, leaving Max glaring after him.

Dashing young lady indeed. He should say something to Bree about Latymer. He turned back to his chair, wrestling with the problem of warning a young lady about a fellow club member when one had no basis for the warning and no standing with the lady. He was trying, damn it, to keep his relationship with Miss Mallory on a very sensible footing for both their sakes, and wanting to punch on the nose any man who mentioned her name was not conducive to that.

Something crackled under his right foot and Max stooped to pick it up. It was Ryder’s letter. It must have come out when he pulled out his pocket book. Max jammed it back and strode out of the room. Watier’s be damned, he was going to Pickering Place to bet deep in one of the hells over a bottle or two of claret.

‘So do you actually drive a stagecoach, Miss Mallory?’ Bree’s hand jerked reflexively with the shock, sending a glass of champagne splashing all over a towering arrangement of dried flowers in Lady Lemington’s salon.

‘What?’ she demanded, making Miss Holland, the wide-eyed young lady who had blurted out the question, squeak in surprise.

Lady Lucas had persuaded Bree to come along to the evening reception on the grounds that she would make many new acquaintances who also knew James and his betrothed. As she was determined to do her best to present a conventional front and not embarrass her half-brother, she had to agree it was a good idea.

What she had not expected was to be pounced on by a gaggle of young ladies, very newly out, who had obviously decided that she was dashingly different and that it would be great fun to talk to her. Bree felt rather like a hound she had once observed in the stables being mobbed by a boisterous group of spaniel puppies, all bounce and wagging tails. Like the hound, she was too good natured to snap at them—until Miss Holland’s question.

‘Only Mr Mallory was telling us all about the stagecoaches and how he can drive.’ Miss Holland, and several of the girls, cast lingering glances at Piers, who was deep in conversation with several of the Nonesuch Whips and blissfully unaware that his profile was attracting the attention of susceptible young women. ‘And we’ve seen you driving in the park, you do it ever so well, and it seems so dashing to drive a stagecoach …’

Bree could feel herself becoming flustered, and struggled for composure. It was the effect of a guilty conscience, she knew full well. If it had not been for that scandalous drive, which had so nearly ended in disaster at Hounslow, she would probably have been quite happy to admit that she had taken the reins once or twice, in a purely private setting. Now she felt so self-conscious about it that she could hardly choke out the denial.

‘Of course I do not. That would be a most scandalous thing to do,’ she began, aware, even as she spoke, that she was protesting too vehemently.

‘No lady would do such a thing,’ a smooth, faintly amused voice added at her elbow. Brice Latymer fixed the gaggle of girls with a smile that was half-reproof, half-flirtation and which reduced them all to simpering giggles. ‘You have quite put poor Miss Mallory to the blush. Run along and bat your eyelashes at Mr Mallory and no doubt he’ll tell you exciting tales of highwaymen.’

They fluttered away, too bashful, Bree was glad to see, to go to talk to Piers. ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’ She turned to him with a heartfelt sigh. ‘It would be such a trial for my half-brother if that sort of rumour got about, and it is so difficult to deny without sounding over-emphatic’

Mr Latymer tucked her hand under his elbow and steered her in the direction of the refreshment room. ‘Of course it is,’ he agreed, holding out a chair for her and snapping his fingers at the waiter. ‘Champagne. And lobster patties, I think, unless you would care for a sweetmeat?’

‘No, lobster would be delightful.’ Bree began to ply her fan.

‘Of course, it is particularly difficult to deny when it is the truth,’ Brice Latymer said so smoothly that for a second his words did not penetrate.

‘I … you … whatever do you mean, sir?’ She hoped she was sounding suitably outraged and feared she was managing only to be guiltily flustered.

‘I mean no criticism, Miss Mallory. You drive a pair with exceptional skill for a lady. The way you take up the ribbons and the way you attack turns and gateways makes me think you have experience driving something much bigger—and you do have the vehicle to hand, as it were.’ He tipped his head on one side and regarded her with a twinkle. ‘Not that I would dream of making that observation to anyone else, I assure you.’

‘I …’ Bree made a decision. ‘My father taught me to drive four in hand, privately, on our land. My brother Viscount Farleigh would be horrified if it were known, and it would make me seem so fast.’

‘It will remain our secret, and you need have no fear that I will tease you about it.’ He let his hand rest lightly on hers as it lay open on the table and Bree felt a flood of relief wash through her. Reflexively she let her fingers curl into his; he squeezed and released hers. ‘Now, let us talk of other, safer matters until those delightful roses in your cheeks fade a little.

‘How is your uncle, the one you were so concerned about the other day?’

‘I went to visit him, and it seemed to us …’ She hesitated, aware of the slip, then decided he would assume she had gone with Piers. ‘It seemed that there is something strange about him. But there is nothing I can put my finger on. We will go and stay for several days in a few weeks’ time. That will give us a better chance to observe him.’

Their refreshments came, and after a glass of champagne, and a delicious patty, all accompanied by Mr Latymer’s sprightly commentary on their fellow guests, Bree felt decidedly better. He might be a little waspish, and she suspected he was probably not safe company for very young ladies, but she found Mr Latymer refreshing.

‘I gather our picnic expedition to Greenwich Park on Saturday has been confirmed,’ he observed, raising a finger to the waiter who was passing with a tray of delectable sweetmeats and nodding encouragement to Bree as she took one.

‘Yes. Our spare coach is free that day, and I have a new team I am rather pleased with.’ They just happened to be chestnuts, by happy coincidence rather than deliberate planning, and she smiled to herself at the thought of Max’s ridiculous slogan. Champing Chestnuts indeed!

The day itself had been arranged by dint of the exchange of exceedingly formal and impersonal notes. Lord Penrith presents his compliments to Miss Mallory and begs to enquire if she and Mr Mallory are able to join the Nonesuch Whips with one of their equipages on Saturday 10th September for a picnic expedition to Greenwich Park. If it is not convenient to use one of their own conveyances, he begs the pleasure of their company as his guests …

If it had not been for the invitation, Bree would have concluded that Max was avoiding her again after that strangely intense journey into Buckinghamshire. At least, for her it had been intense—for him, she had no idea. Max’s thoughts about her, his motives, remained a mystery.

‘Miss Mallory, Latymer.’ Max. She had conjured him up just by thinking about him. Bree suppressed the foolish, superstitious thought and managed to plaster a polite smile on her lips.

‘My lord. I had no idea you were here this evening.’ Or else I would have spent the entire day in a foolish state of dither over what to wear, how to do my hair, what I would say to you. She was aware of Mr Latymer’s cool gaze upon her and strove for composure. ‘May I recommend the lobster patties?’

‘I find I have little appetite this evening, Miss Mallory,’ he rejoined politely and she realised that his eyes were not on her, but were clashing with Mr Latymer’s.

‘I am looking forward to the picnic on Saturday,’ she said brightly. The atmosphere had changed; if she had not known that the sky outside was clear and the stars twinkling she would have thought thunder and lightning were imminent, her skin prickled so.

‘As am I, Miss Mallory. May I hope you will do me the favour of travelling in my drag?’

‘I had just invited Miss Mallory to travel in mine,’ Latymer interjected. Had he? Did he ask me while I was daydreaming about Max?

‘I will travel out with Mr Latymer and home with Lord Penrith,’ she declared brightly, then realised she had succeeded in satisfying neither man. She ought to feel flattered that they were bristling over her—rather, she felt a stab of something not far removed from fear. Their antagonism was real, not the joshing rivalry of friends.

‘I was first in this matter,’ Mr Latymer said tightly. ‘You do not like to yield point, do you, Dysart?’

‘I never yield what is mine,’ Max said tightly. ‘Miss Mallory, until Saturday.’

‘My lord.’ She nodded politely, her stomach tightening with tension. What is his? Just what does that mean?